#you know that one shot where you can see his oblong forehead | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

heli0s-writes · 5 years

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I. What's in a name (that which we call a Bucky)

Summary: What kind of name is BUCKY? Your dog's name is BUCKEYE. Much better. Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N: A more humorous work... be alert: everyone in this fic is a lil shit. Dog-lover reader. Enemies to friends to lovers and strap in kiddos, we’re going to Ohio!

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

It’s past midnight when the bell on your doorknob titters. A high-pitched whine follows the noise and you drop the book in your hand before emitting a loud groan of annoyance. As a response to your complaint, footsteps quickly pad back towards the computer room you sit in.

“God damn it,” you scold towards the door, “I just took you out like an hour ago.”

It’s half-serious, half-playful as you point a finger towards the 50-pound mass of pure muscle now pitifully cocking his head to the side. Your dog, Buckeye, lovingly named after your alma-mater’s mascot whines pathetically as he falls forward onto his two front paws and gives you the saddest look he can muster. The slate-grey skin between his eyes bends upwards in crinkly folds as he continues to peer at your perched figure on the swivel chair.

You shuffle your desk space around, placing the heavy tome from your hand over the mountain of other paperbacks scattered about. Taking one final look over the paper you’d been working on for the last two weeks, you hit save, making sure it uploads itself to the online drive before stepping away.

The clock on the lower right-hand corner of your monitor reads 2:30. Fuck. Way more than past midnight. You had been so focused on writing you didn’t even realize how late it was. Sending an apologetic look to your dog, you rub his ear before heading down the hallway and grabbing the leash by the door. Poor guy, you hadn’t taken him out in almost four hours.

He’s striding towards you, tail wagging back and forth at the sight of your hand on the leash. His tongue flops out stupidly and you giggle at how dumb he looks. Before clipping the leash to his collar, you give him a big kiss on the head and push your face affectionately. He’d come such a long way in the past five months.

“Okay, big baby. Let’s go.”

The training bell hanging from the knob flails against the door as you step outside, closing it shut.

You and Buckeye head downstairs, your slippers squishing against the wet grass as he leads you over to his favorite sniffing grounds. Under the lamp, you scroll on your phone distractedly, making sure you’d replied to all the e-mails you had received earlier in the day. Eyeing him from time to time to make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to, you tap out a quick response to a group message from some classmates. They’re probably awake at this time anyway, you muse bitterly, graduate school can be a real bitch like that. Tucking the phone into your back pocket, you fiddle a doggy bag from its container strapped to the leash and maneuver it over your hand.

“No sniffing that poo.” You command Buckeye, and he gazes back over his shoulder at you for a single brief second, as if truly contemplating your authority before giving it a quick whiff anyway. You scoff before tugging him from the pile and further back into the grass. “C’mon, Buck. Dude, I gotta get back in. Please poop. The bag’s ready for you.”

You wave it around helplessly as he traipses on, keeping close, but really pushing your patience. Ten minutes later, you decide you’ve had it with him and start tugging him back towards the sidewalk. He resists at first and you have to use your “mom” voice a couple of times before he follows your lead and drags himself back to your side.

This was the usual routine of your life: wake up, go to campus, work on campus, work from home, find time to eat, work some more, go to bed. In-between all of those activities was of course, take Buckeye outside to jog, pee, shit, and socialize… when he was up for it.

You “adopted” the big lug from the shelter six months ago, falling head over heels for that stupid white oblong patch (you called it his Penis Patch because c’mon… it looked like one) and that wrinkly-ass forehead of his. He had been abused as a puppy and then abandoned in an alleyway with a handful of other pit bulls. By the time he got to the animal shelter, he was massively underweight and terrified of being near humans. He was only two months old. It took a lot of work on your end to get him back to a normal weight and as much as people loved to praise how you “saved” him- it was honestly the opposite that happened.

Yes. It was cheesy and gross as fuck to admit out loud, but that dumb animal actually saved you.

If you hadn’t adopted him and decided he was going to be your tether to this fuck-ass world, you were cock-sure you’d have tied yourself a noose out of bedsheets already. It’s what you told your therapist because it was just the damn truth.

The spring air of Manhattan whips over your face as you make your way towards the stairs of your unit, taking glances here and there to make sure nothing scary was happening. Your location was relatively safe, but honestly, you never know with people. You had seen your fair share of frightening and inexplicable things from your time in New York.

As if you were summoning the bad luck to your doorstep, gunshots ring out from a few blocks away. At least you hope it is, because the echo throughout your apartment unit suggests that it’s much closer. Buckeye starts twitching, darting left and right at the sound. You’re steeling your body as he begins to pull and snap at him with your fingers, calling his name. He heads quickly towards the apartment. Another shot resonates between the buildings.

On your right, Buckeye lets out a high-pitched yelp and jumps as rapid footsteps approach behind you. You barely make it two steps out of the way before a heavy body barrels into you and knocks you onto the sidewalk. Both your knees hit the concrete hard and you immediately roll to your side and fumble to find the leash that fell from hand. Your dog is losing it, and frankly, you are about to as well.

He starts to take off towards the darkness of the grass and you’re screaming his name, trying to scramble up to catch the plastic handle of the retractable leash that’s dragging against the ground. His tongue is loose and panting as he whips his head back and forth between you and the darkness, unsure of where to go.

“Come here! Come!”

You ignore the searing in your kneecaps and reach out as you take a step. Before you can make it much farther, an arm swings itself over your neck and strangles the rest of your words.

A single shot fires off at your dog. Buckeye is outta there. He’s yelping the whole way and you cannot stop yourself from shrieking.

“Don’t fucking speak.” A voice growls behind you. The body it belongs to is distinctly masculine as they knee you in the back and prop you up to stand beside them. The cold barrel of a gun presses itself against your temple and you freeze, hands quivering at your sides. Your heart has either imploded or is about to because you can’t tell if it’s beating or not anymore. There is ringing in your ears from the gun being fired in such close quarters, your eyes struggle to focus.

You have so many questions, but your mind is currently a squirrel in traffic running between the front axle of two tires labelled: “Is this where I fucking die?” and “Is my dog okay?”. Getting splattered to bits by either one was dealer’s choice, and your dealer didn’t seem too choosy.

In the distance, footsteps approach and you see two large frames enter your blurry field of vision, lit up under the streetlamp. There are two glimmering silver shapes reflecting that flickering light, one in the shape of a … dinner plate? And the other… another dick. What the hell? Oh god, you think automatically about your dick-spot-shaped dog. Where is he?

“Let her go!” the dinner plate yells. The barrel presses further into your head.

“Drop your weapons!” your assailant calls back, “Or she dies!”

You’re in a bad procedural cop show or something, you swear. Or Ashton Kutcher is 50 years old and he is laughing his ass off in a van right now, filming a new season of Punk’d. You squeeze your eyes shut when the gun clicks against your head, which is generally right after it goes off, according to the movies. There’s a warm sensation against your back and you hope to god that it isn’t you pissing yourself. When you smell the coppery scent rising, you realize it’s the man’s blood. When he sways a little and your body droops with him, you are positive it’s his blood.

The funny silver California/dick shape in the distance moves and becomes a small circle, with a dark spot in the middle. Is that a fucking gun? You blink a couple of times to see the shadowy outlines of the two people stepping closer. There’s aggravated whispering from both of them and your attacker begins to yell about something before a deafening blast cracks past your eyes.

Warm blood sprays on your face when the man falls backwards, heavy limb taking you down with him. You get some of it in your mouth and you scramble to fuck off as far as you can from this now dead body. The two shapes are running towards you, one of them gripping you hard by the arm and pulling you up.

“Buckeye! That is not protocol!”

You dizzily shake your head at the sound of your dog’s name and find your balance on the sidewalk, toes pressing against your slipper to have it back on your foot correctly. In front of you were two enormous men, and you recognize them immediately: Captain America and Winter Soldier.

“You know I don’t miss.” The Soldier retorts, bottom half of his face obscured by his signature black latex mask. It muffles his voice, but you can clearly hear the agitation. Captain America looks over your dripping red knees. “You okay, ma’am?”

You ignore him. As far as you are concerned at this point, they’re both just as dead to you as this other fucker on the ground. You want to find your dog.

“Buck?” You call into the patch of darkness as you carefully tread into the grass, wincing when your knees sting with every step. You don’t see the two Avengers looking at each other in confusion.

“BUCK!” You scream again, panic returning to your chest as you think about your dog scurrying around in the dark, dragging his damn leash, and spiraling back into the hot mess he was six months ago. Damn it, it had taken you so long to train him out of being skittish, and now he was going to be right back in it. You look around the dark, turning the flashlight on your phone and follow what looks like to be a trail of blood. It’s not yours, so you correctly deduce it’s Buckeye.

You start to hyperventilate, shaking with every step.

“Oh, Buck, you piece of shit you, I swear to god, if you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”

“…Ma’am?”

You whip around and glare at Captain America, “What!” He takes a step back, hands coming up as if to deflect your outcry. His partner next to him places his gun back in the holster at his hip with a quiet click, eyeing you suspiciously. Captain America looks around, like he’s surprised you’ve yelled, because he probably doesn’t get yelled at very often by people he saves.

“…Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Th’ broad’s mental.” The Soldier scoffs, heading back towards the limp body on the ground. He digs his hands into every pocket of the corpse, even opening the mouth to peer inside. “We need to move this body.” He pulls out a tiny USB from a sewn-on pocket inside the vest and puts it in a pouch on his belt.

“I’m looking for my damn dog.” You hurl, “I’m looking for my fucked-up rescue dog, who was doing very well and on his way to being a proper good boy, before you fucks came along and shot him!”

You hear yourself being more and more hysterical with every syllable. Your pitch is increasing with your heart rate, and the part of you that fears retribution from super soldiers is raising its hand up to be called on by your dominant lizard-brain. Your lizard-brain is soaked in fear and refuses the hand.

“That guy shot your dog.” The Soldier nudges the body with a steel-toed boot.

“You scared him! He’s afraid of loud noises and you were shooting up the place, you trigger-happy motherfucker,” you point a finger to the offending Avenger, “You could have shot me, you bag of limp dicks.”

Winter Soldier lets your insults slide; you’re definitely off your meds, he thinks. “Like I said, I don’t miss.”

Captain America finally snaps his shield back onto his back and runs a hand through his hair. You’re half surprised he’s not wearing that dorky-ass helmet he’s usually sporting but turn around regardless and start walking faster, ignoring the muddier ground the further you go in. From the position next to the soon-to-be chalk outline, the two Avengers argue quietly before one of them groans and they both fall silent. You figure they’ve kissed and made up.

Grass is shuffling behind you as Captain America effortlessly catches up to your uneven steps.

“I can track your dog. Let me help.”

You say nothing because you’re so preoccupied with being pissed off that this happened in the first place and because you honestly couldn’t refuse the help regardless of how overinflated your pride was. You couldn’t see for shit in the dark and you’d rather have Buckeye back than any amount of satisfaction flinging insults could bring. Stepping back, you let Brown-Beard take the lead and follow him through the mud and into the back of a unit now five buildings away.

When you slip on a particularly wet patch, he’s quick to grab your elbow and support you. He also takes it as an opening to make conversation.

“What’s type of dog is…”

“Buckeye.” You say, pulling your elbow away and falling back into step. He turns around and raises a single eyebrow.

“Buck…eye?” The second syllable is dropped low- as if he’s unsure that it’s the right thing to say.

“….Yes. Buckeye.” You hiss back.

“Buck…eye.” He repeats again, moving the sounds around in his mouth carefully. You pull a face but say nothing. Boy they sure like to make ‘em big and dumb, don’t they?

“He’s a pit bull. He’s gray with a white patch on his chest. He’s not fucking lethal or anything- like people think he’s just… damaged. He’s not even full-grown; just an oversized ball of anxiety and post-traumatic stress.” Your voice becomes distressed the more you talk about your good boy, and you decide to shut up before you can burst into tears.

“We’ll find him, promise.” Captain tries to send you a smile, but it gets misplaced in the thick of his beard and you’re not even looking anyway, pretending to follow the trail so he doesn’t see your eyes well up. You’re thankful for his help. But fuck him still; he scared your dog.

“There’s no more blood, which is good,” He says, “Steps are getting closer together, so he’s not running anymore. There’s a funny… thing- though. What’s he dragging?”

“His leash.” You mutter.

“Ah.” There’s a pause, “You know, that’s actually a good thing- it’ll slow him down.”

It’s at least another twenty minutes of walking in silence as you follow Captain Star Spangled Banner out of your apartment complex and down three completely decrepit alleyways, at least one littered with broken glass. Upon entering the fourth one, you swear you hear clattering in the back and pick up your speed, calling out.

“Buck? Buckeye? Is that you?” Your voice is quivering in the dark. Your companion has stilled beside you, not letting his footsteps drown out your voice. “Buckeye, come here.” You’re as careful as can be as you quietly step forward, a tiny bit closer to the slow shadow in the corner.

When a car drives by on the main road, the shine of headlights reflects two glowing blue pearls that you’d recognize anywhere. His tail is wagging happily against the pavement of the alleyway, and it breaks your heart to see he’s battered in blood.

You put both your arms around him to settle him from possibly scurrying away at the sight of Captain’s figure, who hangs in the back, but is still so large that it disturbs Buckeye. “My big guy,” You sob into his stupid, dirty neck, “You’re all muddy... Oh Buck, you big idiot… you dummy.”

You find the handle on the leash again, but Buckeye is tentative to follow, stumbling when he stands up on all four feet. When you lean over to examine him, he’s all cut up on his paws and you see it now, the big streak of open flesh on his upper thigh that’s crusted over into a brown stripe. The shiny fur that’s beneath it is matted with more dried blood and it’s so large that you break out into tears all over again. You don’t think he’s able to walk anymore, which might have worked out in your favor; it did stop him from running.

Captain slowly makes his way toward the two of you and reach both hands out, kneeling and laying one gently underneath Buckeye’s snout to scratch him. Your dog inspects the hand nervously before giving it a quick lick. He pants happily at the scratch to his chin and you can’t help but snort at his simplicity. Captain offers to pick him up for you and you let him, surprised that Buck’s letting someone other than you be so close. You’re glad for it, though, since you would not have been able to pick him up out of the alleyway on your own.

“I’ve been compared to a Golden Retriever before,” Captain says amiably as he easily holds Buckeye in his arms, leading you out of the dark path. He’s got a glint in his eye like he’s real proud of himself for that quip. “I definitely think of myself as a dog person.”

You scoff and save your retort for another time, pointing him in the direction of your local pet emergency hospital instead.

It must have been a sight for them, Steve ponders as he sits in the waiting chair of the hospital, giving away smiles at the receptionists and nurses who occasionally gather to stare at him. When the automatic doors slid open, they probably weren’t expecting Captain America in full tactical gear to walk in with a dog in his arms. Not to mention the young woman who followed, looking in not much better shape than the dog.

He glances over to you as you lean back in the plastic chair resembling more of a bucket than anything comfortable. Both your knees are completely skinned raw and the trail of blood reached your feet, caked in mud. The woman at the front desk offered you some bandages and antiseptic, which you’d haphazardly sloshed all over yourself before resigning to let it be. Your eyes have slipped closed as you wait for the nurse to come talk to you about your dog; it is late, after all—nearly four in the morning, and Steve lets you rest when he hears your breathing slow.

He begins to check his phone, punching in a text to Bucky with updates, barely able to hold back the giddy energy inside of him. Bucky was going to flip when Steve cracks open the can of worms that is the dog’s name. And it’s going to completely boil his noodle when he hears that your description of your dog almost perfectly matched Steve’s own description of Bucky. He swears right now, under these old fluorescent lights and with God’s blessing that he would never, ever, let Bucky live this down.

“You… use…a … flip… phone?” Your disbelieving voice is so quiet that Steve thinks a ghost is making fun of him.

“Well, it does flip, and it is a phone.” He retorts, face completely blank for a couple of seconds before breaking out into a smirk.

Your sit up in the chair, looking over to Steve incredulously. “Who are you, my dad?” Your features twist into a disgusted sneer, but he catches the amusement in your eyes.

He chuckles in response. It’s not the first time Steve’s been told that his jokes were corny, at this point in his life, he’s decided to just go with it.

“Don’t you have someplace to be? Maybe more Avenging in another quiet neighborhood?” The snark comes out sharper than you intend it, but between the two hours of sleep last night and probable zero hours of sleep you’ll get tonight, you’re on autopilot.

“It’s being taken care of.” He stares straight ahead. Your comment implies that you’d rather him leave, but he feels in part responsible and obligated to stay. Besides, you’ll need a ride home and someone to carry your pet to the door. “I’m sorry about your dog.”

“He’s not fucking dead,” You huff, “If he was, you and Bicentennial Man would be fucked. You won’t believe how many knives I can carry in my mouth alone.”

Steve almost gives himself whiplash as he does a double-take on your completely placid and unfazed profile view. He thinks it’s better not to ask about the capacity of knives your mouth can hold or about how you know that very specific fact about yourself. However, he can’t help from letting out a wheeze of a laugh because the feral image frankly reminds him more and more of Bucky; Steve has definitely seen Bucky with a knife in his mouth.

Another fifteen minutes pass of drifting in and out of sleep before the nurse peeks her head out and calls you into the treatment room. She stares open-mouthed when Steve followed dutifully behind and closes the door with a quiet click.

Buckeye is lying in a lethargic daze on the table with a plastic cone around his neck. The large gash on his leg has been stitched and carefully covered by gauze and his paws are bandaged up as well. At the sight of the two of you, his tail begins to pat slowly against the smooth surface of the table in quick taps before trailing off and starting back up again. He is looking into your eyes, but Steve can see his gaze wander around the room in a medicated stupor from time to time.

His stomach tightens when you begin to sniffle and draw lazy circles on Buckeye’s head with your thumb. The nurse runs over the health diagnostic for your pup and all seems pretty well, considering the doleful state he’s in.

“He might not eat for the first day, but you’ll have to try to make him...” The nurse hands you a large zip-loc full of bandages, ointments, pills, and paper. “Keep the cone on for at least two weeks and stick to the dosage schedule… Do you have any questions?”

You shake your head, rifling through the various items in the bag before zipping it back up.

“Okay. Well, he’s doing really good, and I think he’ll make a speedy recovery soon.” The nurse offers you a smile and you reply kindly, thanking her for everything before sighing at Buckeye. Steve steps forward in the silent moment and scoops your dog’s tired body into his arms before thanking the nurse as well. She goes white as a sheet when you open the door to let him out. Steve hopes there won’t be any tweets later about Captain America saving puppies.

At the front desk, Steve watches you shuffle side to side when the receptionist rings up each cost. Dressed in an oversized Ohio shirt and pajama shorts, it’s obvious you are not prepared for this. You were probably just a college student, and since he didn’t see you make any phone calls to your parents or family members who might foot the bill, he assumes you’re on your own. Before the receptionist can hand you anything, Steve shifts and tilts his right leg forward.

“Can you reach into this pocket?” He asks, startling everyone in the vicinity: you, the receptionist, and your dog. You stare at him dumbly for a minute, grimacing at the leg pointed in your direction and the back-and-forth Captain America’s eyes keep sending you. It goes from your face to his pocket and every time it returns to your face your frown drops more.

“What?”

“For my wallet.”

“Fuck no!”

“C’mon… I don’t think you have any other options,” the sentence hangs on a truth you don’t need spoken. You pale and begrudgingly reach for the snap closure on his thigh, widening grimace now making your face look like a melted Dali painting. The receptionists’ eyebrows go higher and higher the closer your shaking hand gets. Captain America bounces his leg to shake the leather case loose as your hand digs inside and gets stuck between fabric and muscle. Buckeye grumbles in his arms at the jostling and his holder whispers a quiet apology before nuzzling him with his nose.

He doesn’t notice you staring. The receptionist does.

When the wallet is finally pried free (why are his pants so tight, anyway? This bitch is dummy thicc, too, you think) he motions for you to pull out a black card with a surprising bit of heft to it. You nervously hand it over and avoid eye contact with him as the transaction finishes, stuffing the damn thing back in and snapping it shut in one swift motion. You can feel your face stuck in a rigid expression of bewilderment the entire time.

“I-- uh... thanks... for that.”

He motions you with his head to go outside and when you follow him through the automatic doors, a black car is parked in front. The Winter Soldier is in the driver seat and reaches over to open the door. He’s taken his mask off and looks over at the Captain with your dog in his arms. He’s all stubbly and homeless-looking, you think, the complete opposite of Golden Boy Rogers in front of you.

An exhausted look passes over his dark features as he glances from Captain to Buckeye to your fucked-up knees. “...Just... get in.”

The ride is silent save for the sound of Buckeye’s soft whimpers in the fit of a nightmare. You hush him with soft pets and coo his name in his ears. “It’s okay, Buck. I’m here, Bucky.”

The Soldier snaps his gaze up to you from the rearview mirror. Captain America smirks. You catch neither of their expressions, transfixed on your dog who resembles Frankenweenie more than himself. Stupid fucking bad guy. Stupid Avengers.

“What did you just say?” Winter Soldier slowly asks, and you glare at him in the rearview mirror.

“What?” You snap back. What the fuck was his problem? “Mind your fucking business, I’m talking to my goddamn dog.” Buckeye whimpers again and you pat him lightly to soothe his crying. Captain America begins to chuckle quietly from the passenger seat the longer Winter Soldier stares at you. “Eyes on the fucking road.” You hiss when you catch his glare.

He’s probably going to shoot your ass, you think. Your dog begins to whimper again, a broken string of yowling erupting from him before he stills. The taped gauze on his side has started to turn a slight pink. “It’s gonna be okay, Buck.” You sigh.

“Jesus, what the fuck are you saying?” Winter Soldier nearly shrieks as he pulls sharply into a parking space in front of your building. His volume startles your dog and he shoots up with a loud whine, hitting the plastic cone on the back of the driver’s side. You quickly place both hands on his back to settle him down. “Buckeye, it’s okay.”

Captain America is in a full-on giggle fit now, having to hold his sides to stop himself from seizing. He briefly pauses to apologize and puts a hand on your dog’s head, quieting him with a lazy pet.

“It’s her dog, Buck!” “Yeah I know it’s my dog, Buck.” You snarl, confused as to why this is even a topic of discussion.

Red, white, and shit-for-brains starts up again with the laughing. “Th-the dog’s name--” He wheezes. “Is Buckeye.” There’s a flash of recognition that sweeps over the driver’s reflection in the rearview before it turns into one of annoyance. Then it turns into disdain.

“What kind of a fucking name is that?” He spits before smacking his hand into Captain America’s chest.

“Hey! Shut the hell up! That’s my alma mater you uneducated dickbag!” You point to your red Ohio State shirt with the big “O” right in the middle. It’s so worn and old that the red has faded, and the white print of the O is all cracked, but anyone with two braincells knows exactly what that means. You start bellowing the Ohio State Fight Song proudly and halfway through the second note Buckeye starts to howl weakly beside you.

Captain America bursts into another fit of laughter and pounds on the dashboard with his fists.

The Soldier whips around and slams his metal hand against your mouth, pushing your entire head back against the cushion. “Will you shut up!” To spite him, you continue humming to the best of your ability, even with your lip smushed up against your teeth and his cold palm. You raise your middle finger up between his eyes before holding the last note out particularly long.

Buckeye yowls and yips at your side, punctuating the tune with a quiet whine at the end. He lazily reaches up and licks the elbow joint between the front seat, leaving a slobber trail. He notices his reflection in it temporarily before getting distracted by Captain’s chuckle and lying back down.

Winter Soldier finally pulls his arm away and you take the opportunity to spitefully lick a similar stripe onto his palm, leaving it dripping with the spit you’ve accumulated in your mouth.

He crossly slumps in his seat. “I fucking hate this girl.” He mutters.

“It’s mutual, princess.” You retort, rubbing your stiff jaw and running your fingers against your lips. “What’s your problem with my dog’s name?” You’re a bit suspicious because he doesn’t seem like a college sports guy since he was non-responsive to your shirt but he sure as hell is not a fan of your dog.

“Do you know our names?” Captain America asks you, eyes alight. You shrug, because like, not really. World War II was interesting when you were in the sixth grade and morbid as fuck but it totally went in one ear and out the other for your entire college career. Even more boring was the Captain America propaganda, Super Soldier serum, humanity’s hubris bullshit. You were one of the few people you know who was not losing their mind when Tony Stark toured your university. More than anything, he annoyed you; he caused a huge traffic jam on campus and it ruined your route home. They just weren’t your thing—the Avengers.

“I mean, Stevie Ro… Rober—“ you gauge his reaction carefully, “Ronald— Ro— Ross? Rogers!” You breathe a sigh of relief as he memory of Emily Booth in fourth period doodling “Rogers” inside a million hearts appears in your mind. Then you turn to The Soldier and shrug. Plain as day, you could not recall his name whatsoever. You just called him the Dead Commando in that fourth period American History II final paper.

You got a passing grade, so “Dead Commando” stuck.

“It’s James Buchanan Barnes.” He grits out between clenched teeth.

“That’s fancy.” You deadpan, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Bucky. For short.”

“Buck, for even shorter.” Rogers pipes up, still all twinkly in the eyes, waiting for you to put two and two together. Yeah. You do. It makes you want to die a little.

“Ugh.” Is all you can manage.

He shows up the next morning in civvies: white T-shirt, navy blue bomber jacket, and well-worn dark jeans. You stare dumbly at him as he leans against your doorframe, almost as wide as the entrance itself. You’re half-asleep and dressed in the clothes you had on last night: crumpled red Ohio shirt, mismatched pinstriped blue and white pajama shorts.

Your phone had been misplaced amidst the ruckus of the search party, so you just planned on missing your meeting today. It wasn’t like you could properly function anyway, barely getting to bed at 5:30 and waking up at the asscrack of dawn with Captain Underpants at your door.

Even his knocks sounded patriotic. Big, strong thumping blows that rattled all the way into your bedroom.

“Rough night?” Steve Rogers asks as you try your best to smooth the flyaways of your bedhead. Stupid, perfect, blonde and blue-eyed giant man.

“Am I being haunted? What are you doing here?” Your voice sounds like gravel in a blender as you rub the sleep from your eyes.

He shrugs, looking down at his shoes and smiling secretively, like he’s got another corny joke up his sleeve. “Just wanted to see how Buck’s doing.”

“Don’t you have your own Buck to babysit? From what I remember, he needs a leash more than mine does.”

You let him in anyway, and your dog is waiting patiently by the couch, tail slapping the carpet as he remembers his savior from last night. Steve starts to coo as he scratches Buckeye’s chin and head, careful not to rile him up too much. He looks in complete ecstasy when Steve picks at a particularly good spot.

You shift awkwardly as you stand by the kitchen bar, leaning against a stool. How does one man still manage to look like his superhero moniker in civilian clothing? You bet yourself that his closet hung the same monochromatic color pallet—as if costume director dressed him, just in case he forgot he was Captain America.

“Well...” you begin, moving to the kitchen to brew yourself some coffee. Halfway to the single-serving French press, you trade it out for the larger one and add extra water in the kettle. You’re not sure what to say, so you shut up and groan inwardly as you grind the beans. You dip into the restroom and return with your toothbrush, scrubbing quietly as you watch Steve get on the floor to rub your dog’s pink tummy.

“If you pet him with your foot he won’t know the difference. Save ya knees, man.”

“This good boy deserves a real tummy rub, doesn’t he?” Captain America is using baby talk on your dog. It makes you feel... all funny.

Steve Rogers stands up and beams at you from across the counter. You frown because his perfect white smile is brighter than the sunlight streaming in through your window. You spit and rinse your toothbrush in the sink to avoid the shine, but he’s still there when you return. Great. Not a dream. Maybe a nightmare.

You take the kettle off the stovetop when it starts to squeak and blurt out another snarky comment just because you really hate silences and love being awkward. “Buckeye’s gonna get neutered soon. Wanna take yours too?”

Captain America chuckles and shakes his head, blue eyes twinkling at the hand on your hip. “You know, that smart mouth o’ yours is gonna get you into trouble one day.” You gulp as you pour the water suddenly aware that there is a real, live, broad-as-hell man standing in your living room and looking at you like you’re somebody... and he called your mouth smart.

You’re also suddenly aware that you look like shit and your hand shakes a little when you place the filter over the top of the floating coffee grinds.

“Fuck, I think I’m already in trouble.” You mutter into your shoulder as you turn.

Steve doesn’t catch the comment and digs his hand into his back pocket, producing the phone you’ve been missing since last night. You sigh in relief when you see it- as good as it was before, partially cracked screen, but still working. It’s warm when he puts it in your hand and you automatically pull a face.

“Butt heat. I mean--- hot! Hot ass!—Oh, damn it.”

You shut your eyes and the world feels like it’s stopped spinning altogether. Please god, you think, please let him be gone when you look again because you don’t think you can stand another minute on this Earth. Damn your stupid no-filter smart mouth.

He’s still there, though, because life is so stupid and whatever creator that exist hates you. His left eyebrow is raised, and he’s crossed his arms over his chest, smirking.

“You need to brush up on your compliments.”

“Not a compliment!” You hiss, “Don’t put people’s phones in your back pocket! You’re too fucking big to be sitting on them. But thank you for giving it back.”

Steve laughs as you push the filter down on the French press. He’s saying something about how Bucky wanted to put his hand through the device, but your ears are ringing too loudly to hear him. You feel relieved anyway, because you think that you’ve reached your quip-quota for the day.

You pour yourself a cup and he puts his hands up to stop you, excusing himself-- somewhere to be, some old lady to save, he says. You fumble around a bottom cabinet for a second before pulling out a thermos and dumping the rest of the press’ coffee into it.

“Since you did hand-deliver my phone to me, it’s the least I can do. It’s blue, too. Complements your eyes.”

He smiles and takes the thermos from you. “That was a good compliment.” He says, all twinkly again.

“Complement, not compliment.” You correct bluntly.

He takes two steps to the door before turning, “No, the compliment was that you noticed my eyes at all.” He laughs when your face scrunches up, miffed. Captain America was a real … sonuvabitch. “By the way... I left you a number for a dogsitter, just in case you need one.” You rotate the flat rectangle of your phone against your chest as he yanks the door open. “It’s a good service. Reliable. And they text, too.”

And just like that, he’s gone. You stare at Buckeye, who whines pathetically at the door.

You cock your head, looking at the time on the splintered screen. Might as well, you think, reading 7:15 flashing back at you. You could make it to campus by 9.

The meeting drags on with your advisor, and it’s almost noon before you realize that you’re going to get hauled into another one of those pop-up seminars the faculty has been putting on all year. You’ve managed to avoid two because there’s just no fucking time to go! How are they expecting you to finish your thesis, go to class, grade a hundred stupid student papers, hold office hours, respond to a thousand e-mails a day, and keep your sanity?

It’s something you’re eager to complain to your therapist about any time she starts asking about your personal life. Which, you’ve been dodging re-scheduling recently. Shit.

You calculate the hours you’ll be away as you sip room-temperature coffee from a fuzzy paper cup. It’ll be another four hours before you can make it home and Buckeye really needs to go outside and have his bandages changed before then. Shit.

Your thumbprint opens the home screen and you scroll through your contacts, searching for that aforementioned “reliable” dogsitter. You hope to hell they’re also immediately available as you part a crowd of undergraduates to exit the building. Tapping the message bubble button, you open up a new thread.

You: Hello. I was referred to your services by a friend. Are you available today by any chance?

Your phone almost immediately vibrates back and you sigh in relief.

Dogsitter: That was fast.

You’re confused, but another response pops up again.

Dogsitter: What time do you need me to come by? And for how long?

You: ASAP? If that’s okay? Um. My dog is really fine on his own, but he’s been in an accident and I need him to have his bandages changed and given medicine. Also, he needs to be taken for a potty-break.

Dogsitter: Potty break, medicine, bandages. Got it…. And what about your key?

You: Yeah, I’ll send you my location for my key. What are your rates by the way?

You open up your map and set the pin to your location before sharing it with the dogsitter. It feels way too good to be true, but you’re a little crunched for time and even if he’s a crazy serial killer, you’ve got a pit bull and nothing of value in your apartment. You feel pretty secure.

The attempt to share your coordinates is rejected and you close the notification. Your phone buzzes in your hand again.

Dogsitter: My rates really depend on the dog… and shouldn’t you be asking for my name, or some identifying marker to recognize me by before I show up and take your [1/2]

You stare blankly at the green speech cloud. What the hell… even twitter updated its character count to 280… who the hell is living so far in the past… before you can finish your thought, the following green balloon appears.

Dogsitter: house key? Stranger danger, ma’am. [2/2]

All the right gears start clicking in your brain and suddenly two perfect pieces of the puzzle fits together. The mystifying black shadow on the other end of the line begins to come into view.

You: ….Steve... Roberts?

Dogsitter: Rogers!

The sound that erupts from your mouth is inhumanly pathetic, a mixture of a groan and a whine. Who did you piss off in your last life to be this cursed?

Next Chapter

#marvel #mcu #Steve x Reader x Bucky #fanfiction #self insert #stucky x reader #FiMS #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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ruthoakenshield · 4 years

Text

The Lady in the Black Leather (Ch 21)

Catch up here [chapter 20]

Aiden x Scarlett, Graham McTavish, Reader

You, Aiden & Scarlett visit for a while, then Graham shows up with a pretty bouquet of brightly colored daisies and mums with a big sunflower in the middle of it, and a tray with two coffee cups and a brown paper bag in the other hand. He had a ‘get well’ balloon also for you, which was tied to the vase of flowers.

You giggle and thank him for them. He grins and sets the flowers and balloon down on the windowsill next to the ones from Aiden and Scarlett.

He comes and gives you a little hug and kisses your forehead. “How’s my girl doin?” he asks.

You grin, “Don’t let Rich hear you say that!” you tease.

He grins, “Well, me and Gwen laid claim to ya before Rich did, so he’ll have to just deal with it.” He says cheekily, making you giggle. “So, how are ya doin?” he asks.

You shrug. “Tired, my leg hurts, and I’m hungry.” you reply and grin when he sets a bag on the table and hands you a french vanilla cappuccino from the tray.

“Well, breakfast is here now, so at least ya won’t be hungry anymore.” He chuckles. “Don’t they have ya on pain meds?” he asks you.

“Yeah, but I told the nurse I didn’t want them till I had some breakfast in me. I’ll get them in a bit.” You tell Graham.

Grinning, you dig into the bag, seeing pastries like what Todd has delivered each morning. You look up at Graham. “Where did you get these from? They look like the ones Todd has delivered each morning at the shop!” you ask.

He grins. “I got them from the pastry shop that he gets his from. They asked why his shop was closed and then saw the note Rich left on the door this morning. They said to tell ye and Todd that they wish ye both a speedy recovery!” he says with a smile

You grin and take a bite of a strawberry scone and let out a happy little groan. “I love these ones! These and the doughnuts with the icing and the strawberry or cherry fillings! OOOooohhh they are the BEST!” you giggle.

There’s a knock at the door and a young lady is standing at the door with two big bouquets of flowers. “Excuse me Miss, but are you Harley?” she asks.

You nod. “Yes.”

She comes in and tells you, “These are for you. Where would you like them?” She asks.

Your jaw drops. One bouquet is two dozen red and pink roses with baby’s breath and purple lavender filler. The other is a bouquet of 6 yellow roses, brightly colored fuji mums and daisies that were colored brightly with food coloring.

Scarlett gets up and takes the bouquet of red and pink roses. She sets it down on the table and looks for a card. “Aaahhh! Here it is!” she says and hands you the card.

You open it up and see it’s from Richard. “For the love of my life. You mean the world to me, Sweetheart. I hope these brighten your day. I’m thinking about you & know I love you more than anything in the universe! Xoxo – Rich”

You grin and show it to Graham, Aiden & Scarlett. They all smile, and Scarlett puts the card back on the plastic stand and Graham takes the bouquet and puts it on the windowsill next to the other ones.

The delivery gal hands Scarlett the other big bouquet and then heads out to do more deliveries after you thank her for bringing them up.

Scarlett digs around in the bouquet and finds another card. She hands it to you, and you open it up to see it is from the Police Department that Alex, Todd and Jack worked for. It said, “Heard what happened, wishing you a speedy recovery! Our thoughts and prayers are with you! – Inspector Kathleen Walsh & your friends at the NYPD 19th Precinct.”

You look at Graham and Scarlett in surprise. “The police department sent me flowers?” Graham chuckles. “Apparently so Sweetheart!”

You shake your head in disbelief. “Well, that was nice!” you state.

They all nod. Graham takes the flowers and puts them on the windowsill as well. “You’re getting quite the collection, Sweetie!” Scarlett teases you.

You grin. “They’re making my room smell nice, that’s for sure!” you say, grinning.

Your doctor knocks on the door casing and then steps in. He talks with you for a bit and checks the wounds on your leg after shooing everyone out into the hall.

He asks you about all the scars on your legs and you explain they go all the way up onto your crotch. You tell him that the ones on your legs were from your last three boyfriends you had before meeting Richard. And you tell him the ones on your crotch were from the ex-boyfriend, Ben, who shot you. You ask him to make a note of you telling him that to put in your medical file. That you don’t want anyone thinking it was Richard who gave you them. You explain you never had reported the abuse from your ex boyfriends because of fear since the ex-boyfriends had all threatened you that if you told they’d go after you and your family. He nods in understanding and makes a note of it in your file.

He tells you that he doesn’t want you walking on the leg for a few days, and that you may use the crutches ONLY to get from your bed to the restroom in your room and then back to your bed for now. You nod. He asks if you need any stronger pain meds and you shake your head.

“I’m due for them when the nurse comes back with them. I told her I wanted to wait to take them till I had some breakfast in me first.” You reply.

He nods and tells you he will check in with you tomorrow morning then and tells you to have a good day.

Your friends come back in after the Doctor leaves and they have another two bouquets. You roll your eyes and giggle. “Now who are these from?” you ask.

Graham sets a small oblong flowerpot on the table with Hyacinths, tulips, daffodils and crocuses on the table in front of you. You grin and take a deep breath. “Oooohhh! Those smell wonderful!!!” you pull the card off the flower pick and read it. It’s from Captain Angel L. Figueroa Jr. & the NYPD 1st precinct and says: “Wishing you a speedy recovery, Harley! Our thoughts and prayers are with you as you recover!”

“Awwww! That’s sweet!” you say and put the card back on the flower pick.

Scarlett takes the planter and puts in on the shelf by the sink so you can smell them when people open the door to enter and exit.

The other bouquet is pink and white stargazer lilies and hot pink roses and lighter pink carnations with some greens. You look at the card and see it’s from Lee Pace. It reads: “Wishing you a speedy recovery and hope you and Phantom are doing well.”

“Oh! Those smell lovely too! It’s gonna smell like a flower shop in here!’ you giggle.

Graham and Aiden chuckle and Graham adds the flowers to your collection on the windowsill.

Scarlett looks at the time and nudges Aiden, who glances up at the clock and sees they need to get going to the studios. “We gotta get going, Harley. I gotta film some scenes this afternoon, and Scarlett’s gonna go check on the shop for you and Todd.” He tells you.

They both give you a hug and tell you they will see you later on. You wave goodbye and they head out.

The nurse comes in with your pain meds. “Are you ready for your meds, Harley?”

You nod and she gives them to you. You down them with your water and she makes a note in your chart on the hospital’s computer. Then she heads out after seeing if you needed anything.

You look at Graham and say, “Now what do we do?”

He chuckles. “Well, what would you like to do?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Graham, can you tell me about your family? I don’t even know their names, you said your wife told you to tell me ‘welcome to the family’.” You said. “You must’ve been telling her about me.”

He chuckled. “Aye, Lass, I told her ‘bout you. How I met you, and how I was tryin’ to hook ya up with Rich. She wanted to see what ya looked like, so I sent her the pics I took.” He explained. “Didn’t want her worrying if the Papparazzi snuck photos of us when we all do stuff together.

Scarlet told me your parents died a few years ago and I mentioned it to Gwen… It was her idea, actually, to ‘adopt’ you, so to speak.” He giggled. Gwen is my wife. Our two daughters are Hope and Honor.” He tells you, “Honor was born in 2006 and Hope was born in 2012.” He says beaming with pride. “I’ll show you pics of them later.” He says. “They live in New Zealand where we have a house.” He tells you.

You look at him surprised. “I thought you were from Scotland, though?” you ask.

He chuckles. “I am, Lass, but I’ve lived all over the world. We decided to settle in New Zealand, though, after living there while we filmed The Hobbit.” He explained.

“Oh! I saw a lot of the bonus features on my Extended Edition DVD’s of the Hobbit. It looks absolutely wonderful! It’s on my bucket list of places to visit someday.” You tell him with a big grin.

He chuckles, “Well, Lass. I’m sure Rich wouldn’t bat an eye taking you to come visit us there. He loved it there as much as we did and considered buying property there, but he’s so busy with filming and such, he said he’d rather wait till he got older and started to slow down with work.” Graham tells you.

“Graham?” you ask.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” he replies.

“I want to do something special for Rich, but I don’t know what to do. He doesn’t like to talk about himself, so trying to find out what kinds of things he likes, I’m finding is rather difficult. Do you think you could help me?” you ask. “I know he likes chocolate ice cream, wine, legos and reading. But that’s about it.”

Graham chuckles. “Yeah, he is an introvert and shy, so whenever people ask him personal questions, he tends to shy away from them.” He tells you. He gives you a few ideas of things Richard would like and suggests to just be observant, “You’ll learn more about him from just observing and listening, than from anything else, Lass.

He’s moody and grumpy sometimes, but don’t let it get to you. It’s just how he gets into characters he portrays. He’ll often take them home with him and struggle to let ‘em go. Maybe having you around will help ‘im with that, Lass.” Graham tells you.

“There’s so much I don’t know about the film industry.” You sigh. “I’ve never seen how one is made from start to finish. He asked if I’d come with him when he travels for the promotional stuff for the film too. I’ve never traveled very much tho. He said something about finding out the details for taking Phantom with too, so I’d feel safe.” You tell Graham.

Graham grins. “It would be nice for him to have ye with, Lass. I know I’d enjoy having you with us. My wife and kids don’t travel much with me. It’s such a long flight from New Zealand to the US and Europe that they don’t make it very often to join me for premieres. It’s a whirlwind of a time, and is exhausting, but it’s a lot of fun too. You get to meet a lot of people and just sit back, relax and talk about the film with interviewers. If you do come with, we’ll be sure ya are well taken care of.” He tells you.

You giggle and grin. “Graham, did you get my dress from Aiden’s? Don’t let Rich know anything about the dress. I don’t want him to see it or see me in it until he picks me up for the event! I want it to be a surprise!” you tell him.

He gives you a positively evil smirk and says, “Your wish, is my command, Sweetie. And yes, I picked it up from Aiden’s last night before I headed home. It’s in my closet in my bedroom, which he won’t dare go into. Scarlett said I should hang it up so it wouldn’t crease the velvet.” He tells you. “I’ll take ye to go have it altered to fit ye when they let ye outta here.” He says.

You grin and happily clap your hands. “I can’t wait!

Graham chuckles and rubs his beard, thinking.

“Graham, do you ever do Skype or Zoom or FaceTime your family? You’re always saying I remind you of your daughters.” You tell him. “I thought it would be nice to say hi to them and talk with them and your wife, if it was okay with you. I don’t know how the time differences work between there and here though.” You mention to him.

He glances up at the clock and you can see him working out the time differences in his head.

“Well, Lass, it’s about 1am there right now. Well, if ya can wait till around 3 or 4 pm our time this afternoon which should be able to give them time to get up and get ready, then we can give them a zoom call, we’ll say “Hi” and I’ll introduce ya to them!” he tells you.

“For now, though, what do ya want to do?” he asks. Phantom comes over and sniffs all the flowers on the windowsill and ‘wuffs’ at them.

“What? Don’t you like all my pretty flowers, Phantom?” you ask. He chuffs and comes walking over to your bedside. Graham smiles and gives him a good scratch. “Do ya need to go outside, Boy?” he asks.

Phantom gives a short yip and Graham stands up. “I’ll go take him out to do his business, then we’ll be right back, Sweetheart. Did someone take him out last night or this morning?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe the officer had one of the nurses take Phantom out. You’d have to ask him.” You tell Graham.

He nods and clips the leash on Phantom after he adjusts the service jacket. They head out and Graham stops to talk with the officer. The officer tells him he had one of the nurses take Phantom outside when he needed to go to the bathroom, and she brought him right back up. He did say they played with the rope toy for a bit having a tug of war.

Graham chuckled. “All right. Well, we’ll be back in a bit.” He tells the officer.

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chaoskirin · 4 years

Text

The Seven Seas--Chapter One

Fandom: Queen Genre: Sci-Fi/Gen Rating: PG Chapter 1 Word Count: 2379

I haven’t written any Queen fanfic in a while, but I’ve had this one in mind for about a year. Figured now was a good time to give it a go!

---

The morning started like any other: At quarter past noon, and with beer and potato chips for breakfast.

"Fred, I want to go home," Brian said, hand on his forehead, leaning back in his chair. Roger stretched his leg out and attempted to tip the chair over; the back collided with the wall and Brian shot him a grumbly look.

"No. We're staying right here 'til we're done," Freddie replied. "And I would say we've been productive thus far--except for all the complaining."

They wouldn't be done until Freddie said they were, which could be today, or tomorrow, or three weeks into the future. With his Mercurial temperament, he'd named himself well. That's something none of the four would ever argue over.

John, typically, said nothing.

Roger flipped over in his chair, reclining upside-down with his bleached hair splashed across the dusty floor. Out of all of them, Rog felt the crushing boredom the worst as they sat and sat and sat and thought about lyrics for a good chunk of the day. He just had a different way of dealing with it; while Brian complained and John entertained himself within the recesses of his own mind, Roger caused Trouble.

"Oh, Roger," Freddie said. "Do sit up."

"I'm gettin' the blood to my brain," he replied. "So I can think of your stupid songs."

"If they're stupid, we're not using them," Freddie said.

"You let the car song through," John muttered under his breath, after which Roger grabbed a handful of wood chips and attempted to launch them--while still upside-down--across the room. He performed an unintentional backflip out of the chair and crashed to the floor.

Where he remained for some reason.

"Entertaining," Brian observed. "I still want to go home. I've got things to do. My thesis--"

"Oh, your bloody thesis. You're a rock star now, Brian!" Freddie exclaimed. He stood, paced across the barn, stepped over Roger, flailed his hands for effect, then paced back. "You don't need a doctorate if you're a rock star!"

"I thought we were to be rock gods," Roger provided, insinuating that a god was somehow superior to a star.

Freddie supposed he had a point. "Yes, yes, we're getting there. Patience!"

Asking this lot to have patience was like asking an elephant to fly. Like asking a fire to burn cold. Like asking a monkey to type the full works of Shakespeare with both hands tied behind its back. All possible, when one considered how very exciting and unpredictable the universe was... But still vastly implausible.

Something very small and very loud crashed through the barn's roof, landing mere centimetres from Roger's outstretched arm. Roger jumped to his feet with the alacrity of a twelve-year-old non-smoker and stumbled away, knocking over stools, a bandstand, a whole table, and a random chicken as he went.

The chicken, perturbed, scuttled from the barn.

John sat up, his face perfectly passive as Freddie asked, "What the fuck was that?"

Brian stood, creeping toward the shimmering object. It appeared frictionless with all its sparkling silver splendor, and as aerodynamic as the most advanced American war devices. Oblong and saucer-shaped, it sat off-kilter within the barn's floor, its leading edge plunged clear through the rotting wood and stuck soundly within the dirt. It wiggled a bit as if to free itself, then seemed to deflate in defeat as if sighing.

It was no larger than a standard record.

"Aliens, probably," John said.

"Oh, aliens!" Freddie poo-pooed, swatting him with the back of his hand. "It's clearly a toy. A frisbee or somesuch. Roger, go outside and see if--"

The frisbee whirred and hissed, a door opening and consummately vanishing as it did so. A bright green light shone from within as steam and fog poured out of it like water.

"Is Spielberg here?" Roger said. "Is he having us on? He's making a movie, you know. Offered me a part--"

"Oh, he did not," Freddie said. "Hello in there? Hello? Is it aliens?"

"Well, they wouldn't be aliens to themselves," Brian griped. "We'd be the aliens to them."

"Bother your semantics," Freddie said, kneeling next to the oblong contraption. When he poked it (as he could think of nothing better to do with it), his finger slid off the surface as if it were made of particularly slippery ice.

"Well don't piss 'em off," Roger said, kneeling next to Freddie and poking the thing as well. "Whoa. I can't touch it."

Indeed, it was covered in some sort of shield, which reflected all attempts at poking, no matter how vehement. Whenever one of them thought to touch it, it shimmered with a glowing rainbow of energy before repelling the contact entirely. It was neither cold, nor warm, nor anything at all. However, Roger could make the shield wiggle with a sort of frustration if he touched it in two places, and when Freddie added his fingers to the mix, the whole saucer seemed to burble in scandalized protest.

"I can't help thinking that's a terrible idea," John said.

"We should kick it," Roger suggested.

"That's exactly what I meant," John replied.

As Roger stood and drew back his leg to give the thing a good kick, Brian said, "It's not a football."

Defeated, Roger stomped the ground with the very foot that had been just about to launch the thing back into the sky. "Then what's it doing in our barn?"

Brian opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes dulled with the abject inability to answer Roger's inane inquiry. "What kind of question is that? Do footballs inherently belong in barns where you're from? If something enters a barn, does it become a football?"

"Well... Kinda? If it can be kicked?"

Meanwhile, the little door on the saucer-object remained open. Freddie wondered how much more mist could pour out of the thing before it was empty. Or perhaps it contained its own mist generator and it would continue to spew forth a cloud of noxious green gas until evicted from the barn. "I actually think Roger may have the right of it," Freddie said, detecting the faintest hint of ozone. "Exciting as all this is, I don't want to be poisoned."

Roger reeled his foot back again.

Fortunately, the occupants of the saucer picked that moment to show themselves. A single moment later, and they might have been stepping out into earth's atmosphere, tumbling end over end in the worst result of first contact ever written about in any science fiction in history.

Thwarted again, Roger collapsed into his chair and crossed his arms.

The aliens--for that's the way Freddie had begun to think of them--appeared as silhouettes against the burning green light from inside the saucer. Unsurprisingly, they were tiny, each barely the size of a paperclip or perhaps even smaller. A walkway extended in front of them as they squirmed out into the barn's dim light; the creatures meandered down it, leaving a trail of slime behind them. Vaguely slug-like, they were nevertheless adorned with at least half a dozen tentacles each, which were in turn adorned by an incredibly ridiculous amount of jewelry. Enough to rile Freddie's jealousy at any rate. If only he had more places to put shiny things, he could be a much happier man!

There were three of them. The tallest one spoke:

"ARE YOU THE QUEEN?"

Freddie blinked. The alien repeated: "ARE YOU! THE QUEEN?"

"We're... Queen?" Freddie tried. "The band. Queen."

"HAIL QUEEN BAND. THROUGH THE RADIO CHATTER OF YOUR ILLUSTRIOUS PLANET, WE HAVE DETERMINED YOUR LOCATION AND SEEK AN AUDIENCE."

John muttered, "I'm sure this is going to go well."

"I'm not sure you understand," Brian said. "We're not the queen. Or any queen, really. We're just--"

The aliens seemed undeterred. The tallest one interrupted: "NONSENSE. YOU HAVE PRODUCED MORE RADIO CHATTER THAN ANY OTHER ENTITY CALLING THEMSELF A QUEEN ON THIS PLANET. WE DEEM YOU THE SUPERIOR OF ALL OF THEM. YOU WILL NEGOTIATE ON BEHALF OF YOUR PLANET."

One of the smaller ones, who seemed to be wearing glasses on his protuberating eyes, asked, "WHAT IS YOUR PLANET CALLED?"

"They've been listening to our radio chatter," John began, "and they don't know what the planet is called?"

"Er... This is earth," Brian supplied.

"OF COURSE IT IS EARTH," the smaller alien said. "ALL TERRESTRIAL OCCUPIED PLANETS ARE MADE OF EARTH. WHAT DO YOU CALL YOUR PLANET? WHAT NAME?" He pulled out a very tiny, very adorable starmap from one of the flaps in his skin. Freddie didn't know whether to be awed or disgusted.

"That's--" Brian tried. Puzzled again, he scratched his head, as if the aliens had made a perfectly reasonable point.

In the silence, Roger clarified. "The planet is called earth."

The three beings conferred with each other for some time, their slimy tails wriggling behind them like rain-saturated worms. Occasionally, their stalk-eyes would flick around to fix the quartet with a glare--at least, Freddie thought it was a glare. It was hard to tell when one didn't understand the intricacies of alien expression.

Finally, the visitors turned. The one holding the starmap said, "EARTH IS A TERRIBLE NAME FOR A PLANET. WE DEMAND TO KNOW WHICH IDIOT NAMED IT."

Never mind that none of this made any sense whatsoever... Brian still engaged in a heated argument with the aliens about the virtues of a planet named earth, and how no one had ever actually named it. That's just what it was called. Roger found that hard to believe, since the idea had to have come from somewhere--and after all, the people of earth hadn't always known there were other planets, which meant they had to discover earth was a planet at some point, which meant they would have had to name it. When asked why, Roger shrugged and said that if humans were presented with something to name, they would inject their opinion onto it without questioning whether or not they should.

Brian supposed that was logical, then he further supposed that the person who named earth would certainly be dead by now, which the aliens thought was probably better for everyone.

"And just what is your planet called?" Roger asked, once the argument exhausted itself. Freddie thought the whole point of the alien visit probably wasn't to discuss the names of their respective planets, but here they were.

The other shorter being stood up just a bit taller. He was wearing different colors than the other two, although those colors were so random and chaotic that no one in their right mind could describe them. He seemed for all intents and purposes to be a diplomat of sorts. After a wiggle of importance, he said, "DENMARK, OF COURSE."

No one said anything for quite a while, then everyone started speaking at once. Except for John, who was quite content to smile at the absurdity of it.

"You're just from Denmark?" Roger asked. "How are you so short? And slimy?"

"I'm sure it's lost in translation," Brian observed.

"They've come billions of kilometers all to tell us them come from a place called Denmark!" Freddie exclaimed.

"NO, NO, NO," the alien said. "IT'S WHAT ALL CIVILIZED ENTITIES CALL THEIR HOME PLANET ON A MAP! SHOW THEM, WOULD YOU?"

The other short alien--the one with the glasses--lay its starmap out on the floor and opened it to a rather obscene size. It shouldn't have been possible for so much paper to fit inside one pamphlet-sized document, but the creature continued to unfold it and unfold it and unfold it until it covered an enormous portion of the dirty floor. Moreover, the stars elevated themselves just above the paper in a spectacularly impossible three-dimensional layout. Freddie couldn't help an awed "Oooh," of admiration.

John, sarcastically, added "Ahhh!"

"YOU SEE?" the tallest alien said, pointing to an X on the map. As it poked the location with a tentacle, it lit up with a vast trove of information--exact location, atmosphere type, composition of the rocky surface, current radio traffic, and climate. Probably. Freddie didn't actually know, as he couldn't read their language.

"Okay, what's it really called?" Roger asked.

"OH, YOU COULDN'T POSSIBLY PRONOUNCE IT," the diplomat said.

"Don't tell me what I can't pronounce," Roger insisted.

The aliens conferred again, this time for quite a while. When they turned, the diplomat cleared his throat and announced something that no human would ever be able to pronounce: a cacophony of squeals and thisksks and clicks and sub-sonic whistles and grunts and whoops and probably a boat horn or two.

Roger narrowed his eyes, considered for a moment, then opened his mouth and screamed.

"IMPRESSIVELY CLOSE," the diplomat said, as one would comfort a toddler who also happened to be a horse.

"IN ANY CASE," the leader said, his eyes spiraling around in what might have been an eyeroll, "WE CANNOT EXCHANGE PLEASANTRIES WITH A PLANET NAMED EARTH. IT IS SIMPLY PREPOSTEROUS. WE DEMAND YOU RENAME IT."

"But as we've said before--" Brian tried, but the leader held up a remarkable number of tentacles to halt him.

"YOU ARE QUEEN BAND," the leader said. "CLEARLY IT IS YOUR RIGHT TO NAME THIS PLANET."

Freddie, rather half-asleep from the long day they'd already suffered (at his whim), imagined it would be easier to give the visitors a name now, then sort things out later. After all, nothing political could come about as a result of this visit. The aliens were far too tiny to be any sort of threat. And if he just gave them a name, he could get back to writing lyrics with the others and no harm would be done.

Without any sense of impending doom despite his foreshadowy thoughts, Freddie searched around the barn until his eyes fell upon an open, half-stale loaf of bread. "The planet is now called Rhye," he said, adding the H in his mind since it sounded more dignified. "Yes, Rhye. Has a nice ring to it, I think."

"The moon's called Chicken Shit," John said.

Brian elbowed him.

"THEN ON BEHALF OF DENMARK," the leader said, "WE DEMAND THE UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER OF RHYE AND ALL ITS INHABITANTS! IMMEDIATELY!"

#queen #queen band #fanfic #freddie mercury #roger taylor #brian may #john deacon #ck writes #not bestiary

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dungeons-and-dragons-and-whump · 5 years

Text

more d&d based fic, takes place before the last one I posted.

CONTAINS: blood, stabbing, whumping of a minor (only barely, he’s 17, but still), mentions of more violent torture, underage consumption of alcohol.

please read and enjoy while i contemplate existence

Setting/characters -

Matthias/Tor: 17 year old king, whumpee, Matthias is a fake name (that i got way too used to)

Augustus: Tor’s mentor, who raised him. Whumper. Red hair and short beard.

Erik: An old friend of Augustus’.

Garlen (mentioned): Elf bard. Like an older brother to Matthias.

______________________________________________________________________

“Tor.” The voice woke him up. The young king frowned, then rolled over, opening his eyes. His room was dark. What time was it?

“Garlen?” He mumbled, lifting his head. Instead of Garlen, it was Augustus standing beside his bed. Of course. Garlen didn’t call him Tor. “Augustus. Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly, no.” Augustus replied. His voice was flat.

“Are you sure?” Matthias sat up. “What time is it?”

“Late.” Was his mentor’s response.

“What’s going on?”

“Just a change of management.”

“A change of - ?”

Something hard struck him in the back of the head, and he gasped as pain exploded through his skull. His vision wavered, but he whirled around, and a hand grabbed his throat, thumb pressing against his windpipe. Immediately, he tried to wrench away, but whoever it was held fast to him. Instead of fighting back, he clutched at the amulet hung around his neck - only to find it gone. Why didn’t Augustus help - ?!

He passed out.

______________________

“Tor.” Again, he was woken by a voice. But this time, he wasn’t curled up in his bed. He leaned awkwardly against something thin and stiff, and his arms were held above his head.

His eyes shot open, his head jerking up. He was in a stone room, tied to a pole. Immediately, a spike of panic hit him - what happened?? His head hurt, he’d been knocked out, who took him??

He turned and saw Augustus standing behind him. His heart thudded with relief. Augustus was here, he’d saved him before anything bad had happened.

And then he noticed that Augustus wasn’t moving. That his arms were crossed. His eyes were cold, and he was smiling.

“Augustus?” He managed. “What happened? Where are we?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“What do you mean? What’s happening??” That sweet relief was quickly turning back into panic. Why wouldn’t he answer?? Augustus had a knife in one hand. What was he-

“You’re not Augustus.” He spat. “Who are you?!” ‘Augustus’ blinked, then chuckled.

“Tch, starting off strong, I see. So quick to accuse.”

“You’re not. You can’t be. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, I’ve known Augustus my entire life and-” The knife pressed against his throat shut him up.

“Yes.” ‘Augustus’ smiled, now kneeling in front of him, his face an inch away. “I’m aware.” Matthias studied his face. It was definitely Augustus’s. However, he’d met enough shapeshifters to not be easily fooled.

“Go on, kill me.” He snapped. “I don’t know what you want from me, but-”

“Oh, I don’t actually need you for anything.” Augustus interrupted, releasing some of the pressure on the knife. “With you locked down here, I can do as I please regardless of your physical state. I only kept you alive as a source of amusement.”

“What- what are you talking about?” Matthias stammered. “Where is ‘here’??”

“Below your very castle, of course. Locked away in the farthest corner, and none of your precious friends even realize you’re gone.”

“Who are you?!” The boy snapped, but his face, taut with anger, stiffened as the knife was pressed against his neck once more.

“My name,” the man said gently. “Is Augustus Edgar. I raised you for 17 years, waiting every moment for this day.”

Augustus leaned back, and thrust the knife into Matthias’ arm.

“Traako!!” Matthias swore, jerking away as far as his bound wrists would allow as burning tears sprung to his eyes.

“Such language.” Augustus tsked, standing up. “Wherever did you learn that?”

“You’re lying to me.” Matthias ground out, ignoring him. “Augustus would never-“

“So optimistic.” The man turned away, and Matthias focused on the knife in his upper arm. That hurt. Not as bad as the last time he got stabbed, but it still hurt.

Augustus began to hum, and Matthias froze. That song. The lullaby that Augustus would sing to him when he was a small child.

He looked up at Augustus once more, cold fear running through his veins, and Augustus lifted an eyebrow as he turned.

“Ah, much better. Now we can begin.”

___________________

“...well?” He stayed silent. “Anything to say?” … “Very well.” He heard footsteps as Augustus backed away. “Take him to a cell. Make sure he’s comfortable.” Matthias let his head fall to the side as rough hands untied his wrists and let him sink to the ground. The same hands lifted him up, threw him over a shoulder and started to walk.

His body ached. His shoulder wasn’t bleeding - Augustus had been so kind as to heal it for him - but it still hurt, and he was bruised from where Augustus had kicked and hit him. He was angry, and scared, and so confused, but he knew the others would see he was missing, and they would scour the castle until they found him. He knew they would.

A door’s hinges creaked, and he was dropped onto cold cobblestone. Against his will, he let out a cry as his forehead cracked against the floor. In the moments of stunned dizziness that followed, both of his wrists were crammed into shackles and locked in place, and the door slammed shut before he could get his bearings.

He let out a slow breath as he lifted his throbbing head. It was okay. This was uncomfortable, but he’d live. It would only be a couple days at most before Garlen found him, he’d get him out, and they’d figure out what was going on with Augustus. Just a couple days.

Right?

_________________

Matthias grunted as an elbow slammed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side as he fell. He tried to catch himself - even a little bit would help - but he hit the wall and slid down. He crossed his arms in front of his face and tucked his chin into his chest. He didn’t try to fight back anymore. He knew Augustus was perfectly capable of harming him with magic as well as physical blows.

“This would be a lot less painful…” Augustus purred, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking his head up to face him. “If you would just… tell me what I want to know.”

“I’d rather be dead.” Matthias rasped. His throat was so dry.

“Then I have good news for you.” Augustus gave him a friendly, unassuming smile.

Then his body exploded in pain.

Matthias let out a choked scream as his heart began to rot inside him. He jerked back, and Augustus let him go to curl up against the pain. The horrible agony only lasted a couple of moments, but when it was over he felt like vomiting. He wasn’t dead, not yet, but he almost wished he was.

Augustus was getting to his feet, and the boy braced himself for a kick, but instead he stepped back, reaching towards the table and lifting up a brown, oblong shape. He tossed it towards him, and Matthias focused on it, finally realizing it was a waterskin.

Immediately, he snatched it up, before Augustus could change his mind, his shaking fingers fumbling with the fastening before he could get it open. Pushing himself up, he lifted it to his lips.

-only to choke on it when, instead of water, a horrible, bitter liquid poured into his mouth.

Augustus laughed as he coughed, one hand grabbing his throat. “Such a lightweight.” He mocked. Matthias shot him a venomous glare, then turned his attention back to the waterskin. It was… alcohol, maybe? Regardless, it was better than nothing, and his throat was so dry…

So he choked it down. Augustus left for a while - locked him in, he knew because he tried the door just in case. He was starting to feel dizzy by the time he finished it, maybe drunk? Not a good state to be in, but nothing about this was good.

It was alright, though. The others would find him soon.

_________________

Matthias trembled as he heard footsteps echoing down the hallway outside his cell. The shaking lessened a bit as they passed by, but still he shivered, from the cold if nothing else. His shirt was ripped up from various stab wounds, all healed afterwards of course so he wouldn’t bleed out. He didn’t know how long it had been. Maybe a week? He didn’t know why the others hadn’t come yet. Maybe Augustus was lying about him being in his own dungeon.

He heard footsteps again, and the violent shaking resumed. This time, his fears were confirmed as the door opened in front of him, a tall silhouette standing in the doorway. Erik, maybe.

He heard quiet voices, then his shackles were unlocked and his arms fell to the floor.

“Get up.” A stern voice ordered. “I know you’re awake.” Slowly, painstakingly, Matthias obeyed, his aching body protesting violently as he forced himself to get to his feet. No real point in resisting anymore. It would only bring about more pain.

Hands grabbed both his arms, and he was pulled, stumbling, out of the cell. He was half lead, half carried down the hall, then shoved into Augustus’ torture chamber, where he managed two steps on his own before sinking to the ground.

He took a deep breath as the door was closed and locked behind him. He didn’t hear anyone else in the room, he was alone for now. Taking advantage of the fact, he dragged himself into a corner and curled up there, tucking his arms into his chest. Far more comfortable than the position he was typically forced to sleep in.

After dozing for maybe twenty minutes, the door opened, and he blinked his eyes open to see, as expected, Augustus entering the room.

“Good morning, Tor..” His former mentor greeted him cheerfully. “How was your night?” Matthias chose not to answer. “Ah, I was afraid of that.” He had a whip, Matthias realized, and his shoulders slumped. That was one of the worse tortures.

“I suppose you might be wondering why you haven’t been rescued yet.” Augustus said offhandedly. He- yes, he had. “Would you like to hear a secret?” Suspiciously, Matthias raised his eyes in what was hopefully enough of a gesture to be a clear response. “Let me show you something.” Setting the whip on the small table, Augustus stepped closer, kneeling in front of him. Gently, he took Matthias’ chin in his hand, lifting his bruised face so that their eyes met.

Then he shapeshifted.

Matthias jerked back in shock as he stared into his own face, but Augustus tightened his grip on his chin, fingernails digging into his flesh. “They don’t even know you’re gone.” His own voice told him gently. “They have no idea.” No, they had to know, they had so many precautions for this exact situation, how could he- “Sandworm.” Augustus interrupted. “That’s the code word, isn’t it? That one was not replaced?” Matthias’ mind raced. How did he know?! “I don’t think you understand yet what I can do.” Augustus leaned closer, his mouth nearly touching Matthias’ ear. “Listen… closely.”

That’s when he felt the magic, like a set of claws, tearing through his thoughts and memories.

He let out a cry, trying to jerk away, but still Augustus wouldn’t let him go. He could see the memories as Augustus dredged them from the darkest recesses of his mind, of his parents’ deaths, of learning to fight, of leaving to find Neveah, of Garlen’s father stabbing him in the heart, leaving him to die as-

Abruptly, the claws retreated, and Augustus finally let him go. Shaking, he curled up in a ball, head clamped between his hands. A single whimper escaped him.

“Do you understand now?” He did. “Good.” Augustus stood, grabbing his arm and dragging him over to the pole on the other side of the room. He tied his wrists to the top, exposing his back, but Matthias didn’t resist. He didn’t want to give Augustus any reason to do that again. “They’re not coming.” The older man informed him, shifting back into his own form. Matthias leaned his forehead against the pole and closed his eyes, cold dread seeping up from his heart and pooling in his eyes. They couldn’t just leave him here.

“They don’t exactly have any say in the matter.” Augustus commented, and Matthias finally realized he was still in his head. He must have been all along. Why did he try and get information out of him if he could just - ?!

Augustus didn’t answer him this time, stepping away to retrieve the whip on the table. As he approached once more, Matthias felt warm tears slip from his eyes.

He was going to die down here.

#whump #matthias #augustus #writing #whump fic #is it a fic if the canon is my story? I dont know

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draculalive · 5 years

Text

Jonathan Harker's Journal

4 October, morning. -- Once again during the night I was wakened by Mina. This time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the coming dawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was like a speck rather than a disc of light. She said to me hurriedly:---

"Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at once."

"Why?" I asked.

"I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured without my knowing it. He must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then I shall be able to speak. Go quick, dearest; the time is getting close." I went to the door. Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and, seeing me, he sprang to his feet.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked, in alarm.

"No," I replied; "but Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once."

"I will go," he said, and hurried into the Professor's room.

In two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his dressing-gown, and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at the door asking questions. When the Professor saw Mina a smile -- a positive smile ousted the anxiety of his face; he rubbed his hands as he said:---

"Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a change. See! friend Jonathan, we have got our dear Madam Mina, as of old, back to us to-day!" Then turning to her, he said, cheerfully: "And what am I do for you? For at this hour you do not want me for nothings."

"I want you to hypnotise me!" she said. "Do it before the dawn, for I feel that then I can speak, and speak freely. Be quick, for the time is short!" Without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed.

Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her, from over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn. Mina gazed at him fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat like a trip hammer, for I felt that some crisis was at hand. Gradually her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle heaving of her bosom could one know that she was alive. The Professor made a few more passes and then stopped, and I could see that his forehead was covered with great beads of perspiration. Mina opened her eyes; but she did not seem the same woman. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me. Raising his hand to impose silence, the Professor motioned to me to bring the others in. They came on tip-toe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the foot of the bed, looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The stillness was broken by Van Helsing's voice speaking in a low level tone which would not break the current of her thoughts:---

"Where are you?" The answer came in a neutral way:---

"I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own." For several minutes there was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood staring at her fixedly; the rest of us hardly dared to breathe. The room was growing lighter; without taking his eyes from Mina's face, Dr. Van Helsing motioned me to pull up the blind. I did so, and the day seemed just upon us. A red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse itself through the room. On the instant the Professor spoke again:---

"Where are you now?" The answer came dreamily, but with intention; it were as though she were interpreting something. I have heard her use the same tone when reading her shorthand notes.

"I do not know. It is all strange to me!"

"What do you see?"

"I can see nothing; it is all dark."

"What do you hear?" I could detect the strain in the Professor's patient voice.

"The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves leap. I can hear them on the outside."

"Then you are on a ship?" We all looked at each other, trying to glean something each from the other. We were afraid to think. The answer came quick:---

"Oh, yes!"

"What else do you hear?"

"The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. There is the creaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan falls into the rachet."

"What are you doing?"

"I am still -- oh, so still. It is like death!" The voice faded away into a deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.

By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of day. Dr. Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina's shoulders, and laid her head down softly on her pillow. She lay like a sleeping child for a few moments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see us all around her. "Have I been talking in my sleep?" was all she said. She seemed, however, to know the situation without telling, though she was eager to know what she had told. The Professor repeated the conversation, and she said:---

"Then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too late!" Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor's calm voice called them back:---

"Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor whilst she spoke. There are many ships weighing anchor at the moment in your so great Port of London. Which of them is it that you seek? God be thanked that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead us we know not. We have been blind somewhat; blind after the manner of men, since when we can look back we see what we might have seen looking forward if we had been able to see what we might have seen! Alas, but that sentence is a puddle; is it not? We can know now what was in the Count's mind, when he seize that money, though Jonathan's so fierce knife put him in the danger that even he dread. He meant escape. Hear me, ESCAPE! He saw that with but one earth-box left, and a pack of men following like dogs after a fox, this London was no place for him. He have take his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He think to escape, but no! we follow him. Tally Ho! as friend Arthur would say when he put on his red frock! Our old fox is wily; oh! so wily, and we must follow with wile. I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a little while. In meantime we may rest and in peace, for there are waters between us which he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he would -- unless the ship were to touch the land, and then only at full or slack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is to us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need, and which we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with us." Mina looked at him appealingly as she asked:---

"But why need we seek him further, when he is gone away from us?" He took her hand and patted it as he replied:---

"Ask me nothings as yet. When we have breakfast, then I answer all questions." He would say no more, and we separated to dress.

After breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at her gravely for a minute and then said sorrowfully:---

"Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever must we find him even if we have to follow him to the jaws of Hell!" She grew paler as she asked faintly:---

"Why?"

"Because," he answered solemnly, "he can live for centuries, and you are but mortal woman. Time is now to be dreaded -- since once he put that mark upon your throat."

I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.

#vampires #dracula #draculalive

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inyri · 6 years

Text

Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter Thirty-five- Blackmail, White Lies

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic

Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan

Rating: E (this chapter: M)

Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction Dot Net

***

Blackmail, White Lies

Sleep is overrated.

They’d planned on a few hours’ rest between packing up and heading out to the shuttle- it wouldn’t be enough but they were used to running on fumes and triple-strength caf these days- but never quite managed it. The bath had gone cool when they finally left it and even then she’d barely closed her fingers around a towel before he’d lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom.

When the alarm went off they hadn’t slept at all, the pillow beneath her head a sodden mess from her hair and a few new bruises on both of their bodies, and they took a frantic few minutes for a quick application of kolto (more for her than for Theron- he never minded if she marked him so long as they were hidden, but she’s got to fight in an hour and her shoulder still aches, never mind her wrists and the side of her throat and her back where the edge of the bath-

Well.)

Kolto first. Then two stims, one in each thigh, and then her armor, her still-damp hair pulled back and pinned up as Theron shoves the rest of their belongings into their duffel bags. It doesn’t really matter what goes where since they’ll travel together back to Odessen, the two of them and Lana and Miot in the shuttle, and there isn’t anything in her bag that she minds if he sees. After Taris, after her seizure and how he’d had to clean her up afterward, her body holds few secrets from him; if his new trousers end up mixed in with her knickers she doubts very much that Theron would care.

As he tugs the zipper shut on his bag she gestures, catching his attention, and flips a stim toward him.

“Last one’s yours,” she says over the sudden sounds of grinding and hissing steam from the kitchen as the maintenance droid starts on the caf. Oh, she’d missed that droid. Too bad its protocols were program-locked to the apartment- that wretched Cee-Two unit would be on the scrap heap otherwise. “I think it’d be better if you’re awake to talk us through.”

Theron catches the stim one-handed and flips the cap back, injecting into his opposite arm. “That’d probably help, yeah. I-” he winces as the needle bites in- “I should have let you sleep-”

“If I’d wanted you to stop, I’d have pushed you off the bed.”

He grins and reaches for his jacket. “Hard to push me without your hands free.”

“You underestimate my ability to work around restraints.” Only her boots remain; she pulls one on, then the other. “Though if that’s what I get when you’re trying to get me to change my mind-”

“I know you won’t.” She’d meant it as a tease but they weren’t so far past it as that, apparently, and Theron’s voice turns suddenly serious. Nudging both bags toward the door, he slides down off the edge of the bed to check beneath it one last time. “And I know you’re right, Nine. I just- don’t tell me what happens. I don’t think I want to know.”

“How about this? I’ll only tell you if he won’t call off the mark.” She crouches down beside him as he settles back onto his heels, empty-handed. Turning to look at her, he mouths another silent apology and reaches for her collar to flip it up against her neck. “Because if that’s the case, we’re going to need a game plan assuming not everyone in SIS black ops is a complete incompetent.”

(They aren’t. She knows that well enough, fought and killed enough of them in the time before her years in carbonite to know precisely what they’re capable of. None of them stood a chance against her- it’s not a boast and she isn’t proud of it, all the blood on her hands- but the SIS had its knives in the dark, too.

And for Theron some of them would have been friends, once upon a time. He’s not naive and in the abstract he knows as well as her that old friendships don’t mean anything when orders come down, but a moment’s hesitation would be all it would take. He’d be-

He’d be-

It could happen in a thousand different ways. Before she can push Valkorion out of her thoughts, in the few seconds she needs to gather focus and put up her wall and ignore the voice saying useless girl, stupid girl, you can’t shut out what’s inside your head- he shows her twenty.)

She misses Theron’s reply beneath the whine that slips out of her mouth from between her clenched teeth, not quite choking back the noise because her head hurts, oh stars it hurts so badly and she keeps seeing him die, again and again and again, and that hurts so much more. He holds her face between his hands, his thumb wiping away the blood trickling from her nose just as she realizes that it’s there.

“Don’t tell me,” he says again, a whisper, his forehead resting against hers, rocking slowly back and forth with her until the pain recedes and she can hold onto him too. “I don’t think I want to know.”

Three quick knocks rattle against the bedroom door and they both look toward it when the handle turns. “Nine? Theron?” Lana calls out softly, her face a shadow in the space between door and frame. “We’ve got ten minutes. Are you almost ready to-”

When she sees them beside the bed Lana stops, lip twitching and eyes narrowed, and then pulls off her gloves. The armor plates clatter against the floor on impact but Lana’s already across the room beside them by the time the echo fades; she presses two fingers to the bridge of Nine’s nose.

“Valkorion?”

Theron nods. “I think so. We’re all packed up and then it just-” He shifts his hand but doesn’t let go of her as he adjusts around Lana.

“I’m fine.” It would probably have sounded more convincing if she didn’t have to hang on to Theron to keep herself upright, if her hands weren’t trembling, if she hadn’t had to swallow between words to clear the blood from her throat. “Another damned nosebleed, that’s all.”

“Did anyone ever tell you-” Lana’s hand is warm against her face, energy prickling against her skin. Is that what the Force would feel like all the time, she wonders, if she wasn’t blind to it?- “that you’re an awful liar?”

She closes her eyes. “No. Never.”

***

They descend, one leftward bend after another- even Zakuul’s architecture ran contrary to the Empire’s- in a layout they know by heart now. All the Star Fortresses are the same, built to template just like the machine-made soldiers they contain. It makes it too easy to be lulled into complacency.

They run into the first of the cloaked skytroopers on the fourth level down and she can see how Lana missed it last night. The Zakuulan stealth tech’s strange, too, shimmering mirage-like at the margins; in the heat around the shield generator it would have looked like thermal bleed. When she points Lana’s on the scout like a hunting nexu, springing from their hiding place with lightsaber blazing, and takes the thing’s head off at the shoulders before its shield even drops.

“Much better,” Lana growls as the skytrooper falls. Its companions advance and her rifle shot takes the second through the chest as a neatly aimed lightning bolt knocks the third over the railing and down into the energy core below. “If I’d seen it yesterday-”

She clicks her tongue in disagreement and crouches down besides its head, reaching in around the sparking wires. “Don’t second-guess. You did well, and this thing’s-” she closes her fingers around an oblong metal piece she doesn’t remember from their previous skytrooper dissections; that must be the stealth module- “fucking weird. You saw it this time, though?”

“Yes.” Lana picks off a fourth and fifth droid with a wave of her hand, sending them flying. “But-”

The piece comes free when she yanks. She shoves it into a pouch for later study, hiding the subtle tremor creeping into her hand- too many fucking stims again. She should know better. “We’ll take this back to the lab and let Oggurobb poke over it. But I need you on your game right now. Yesterday was difficult for all of us and we’ll talk about it later, but after this morning I-”

With a sigh, Lana reaches up to mute her earpiece. “Yes, I’d noticed. What were you two arguing about last night?”

The last wave of skytroopers clears the corner of the ramp and she almost misses her first shot, pulling wide before she can rein herself back in. Their conversations hadn’t been anywhere close to loud enough to be overheard, not with Lana in the far bedroom when they’d come in, which only means-

She switches her comm to receive-only. Theron’s been quiet on the channel- with no complications to speak of so he hasn’t had to talk them through beyond slicing the security system and the turrets- and she doesn’t think he’ll notice if she goes silent for a minute or two. “Lana, I didn’t think I needed to ask you to stay out of my head.”

“I wasn’t- I wouldn’t. You should know me better than that. You just-” Lana frowns. A maintenance tech’s half-hidden at the back of the pack, tucked in behind a crate; fist clenched, she lifts the woman into the air and throws her hard down the ramp until her body thuds against the durasteel wall and goes limp. “I can’t explain it in a way you’d understand, but you both feel very loudly. Theron especially.”

“And volume somehow implies permission to eavesdrop?” They need to keep moving. Every minute they linger here’s another minute that the shuttle’s vulnerable and so they keep pushing on and down past the droids and the now-still technician, down one last empty corridor until the final door glows golden and she can feel the Sun Generator beyond, searing heat licking at her face.

Lana stops a few paces behind her, turning back to check again for any stragglers on their tail, then clips her saber to her belt. “Of course not. I only thought that you might want to talk about it. I seem to recall you saying something once along the lines of it’s better to have it all out in the open.”

“And how is Koth, then?”

Eyes narrowed, teeth gritted, Lana just looks at her, then sighs and wipes her face with the tail of her scarf. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“Did you listen in on all that, too? No, I didn’t, but I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. And don’t be vulgar- you just like to pick fights,” Lana mutters, “when you’re tired.”

“I do not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Over the roar of the miniature star, she can just barely hear a single, very irritated snort.

“All right.” Lana’s right, of course. That was never one of her more admirable traits- after two straight caf-fueled days of data analysis on Rishi she’d once threatened to shave stripes into Jakarro’s fur after he criticised her decryption technique. In fairness, he’d also been right. His shortcut would have saved her an hour, at least. Theron had still offered to help her hold him down. “Maybe I do. But that has nothing to do with anything.”

Stepping forward to draw back even with her, just at the edge of the platform, Lana rests one hand on her shoulder- a gentle gesture on its surface but her armored glove is heavy, her grip firm and her voice half concern and half warning. “Let me finish.”

(She forgets sometimes what hides beneath Lana’s calm, seeing it as a bright-polished mirror, smooth and shatterproof, instead of what it really is: a pool, dark and deep as a Kaasi lake and hiding just as many deadly things beneath its surface. Challenging a Sith is never wise. She learned that lesson long ago, and while she knows Lana wouldn’t dare bring her to heel with that particular chain-

Void knows there must be times where she’s tempted.)

“If it gives Valkorion more ways to hurt you it has everything to do with everything.” Lana looks across to the far side of the chamber, head tilted. The Exarch must be coming. “All I meant to say was that it’s hard for me to filter things when I’m meditating. When I leave myself open to the Force, sometimes-” She holds up her other hand before Nine can even start to protest. “Yes, I know you can’t sense it, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t present in it.”

She nods slowly. “And we were... feeling loudly. In the Force.”

“Screaming at each other, metaphysically speaking. Enough that I almost got up to check on you two before I realized you’d, ah-” Lana clears her throat- “apparently sorted things out. What happened last night after Kaliyo and I left the meeting-place?”

That’s-

She wipes the beading sweat from her forehead, considering. That question goes far too deep to even begin to answer without Theron as a part of the conversation. After a long night’s discussion after he’d fled Coruscant they’d agreed on an abridged version of events that left Jace’s name out entirely; he hadn’t been ready for that to come to light, not yet- he couldn’t go back to Coruscant for the foreseeable future and the inner circle needed to know that, if only for operation planning. But what his father had said was a wound that hadn’t healed, then or now, and Theron wasn’t ready to bare it to the world.

She understood that, of course. She understood that far better than even he knows.

So they’d lied. It was a small lie compared to thousands of others she’s told over the span of her career. An inconsequential lie. An omission, really, hurting no one.

They were going to have to tell Lana eventually. Whether Trant backs down or not, it’s going to burn every bridge they might have had to the SIS except maybe for Jonas if they’re lucky; if he won’t back down it might mean war.

(Trant will cave. He has to. The SIS hasn’t got the manpower for a war of attrition any more than the Alliance does.

Do they? Void, she hopes not. If he thinks she’s bluffing it might kill them all.)

They were going to have to tell Lana eventually.

She takes a deep breath. In that moment the Exarch’s personal guard. for once a welcome distraction, burst through the door of the nearest monitoring chamber, and she opens her transmitter back up. “Here they come. Let’s move.”

“Nine, please-”

She raises the grapple and lets it fly.

“There you are,” Theron says over the channel as she hits the ground on the far side of the gap. “I was just about to check the channel. You both went quiet for a minute there.”

She draws her rifle as Lana arcs through the air behind her. “You didn’t miss anything, don’t worry. Starting generator overload now.”

***

Ten minutes later the Exarch staggers on the edge of the high platform, dropping to one knee. She levels for the killshot, lines it up-

The gash along his upper chest stops bleeding, ragged flesh beneath armor sliced away by Lana’s ferocious attacks suddenly knitting itself back together before her eyes. Zakuulans don’t use Force healing, she’d thought; Senya had said as much on the Gravestone. None of the other Exarchs she’d fought ever had. But this one stands back up, grip tightening around the handle of his lightsaber, and throws half a shattered console straight at her with a wave of one hand.

Shit, shit, shit-

She ought to have dodged. Instead she steadies herself and takes the shot; it glances off his blade and ricochets to one side, shattering one of the glass panels ringing the platform. With the radiation already at dangerous levels the heat’s unbearable with the shielding gone and she’s got to move but she can’t go left and she can’t go back and so she tries to roll beneath the console before it hits her.

Ducking down, diving forward, she fires off one more round. It hits the Exarch in the throat, in the gap between helmet and chestplate, and he falls like a stone to the floor and all the floating debris around them falls too, straight down out of the air. Lana, somewhere behind her, shouts a warning she halfway hears as a gust of wind rushes past her, carrying most of the metal scrap and shards of glass away-

Most.

The console must have been too heavy- it half-spins but keeps falling and with her rifle still in hand and her momentum carrying her forward she can’t adjust her own trajectory fast enough to avoid it completely. It plummets down toward the platform and slams into the back of her head, knocking her off-balance and pinning her left arm flat against the floor, its base coming down just where her bracer meets her glove.

She screams as she feels her wrist shatter.

She can’t get free. Rolling onto her side awkwardly, she pushes at the machine with her other hand but it doesn’t budge- maybe if she curls up tighter she can get both feet on it, kick it free- no. That means she’d need to turn her arm and she can’t- oh, it hurts-

Her vision swims.

“Nine? Nine, what- Lana, is she okay?” Theron’s voice goes up half an octave. “The core’s destabilized. I don’t think I can-”

As Theron keeps talking Lana’s running from the far side of the platform, footsteps ringing on the metal floor. She skids to a stop beside her, dropping to her knees, hand on her forehead keeping her still. “I know,” Lana says. “I know. I’ve got her.”

“I want to hear it from her. Nine, talk to me.”

She sinks her teeth hard into her lower lip, redirecting the pain somewhere she can manage it. “I’m fine.” It probably sounds about as convincing as it did this morning, she thinks. Possibly less. “Broken wrist. I just-” motherfuck- “get it off of me, damn it-”

“Lana-”

“I know,” Lana snarls, reaching across to the pouch on her belt that holds the autoinjectors. She pulls one free, snaps the cap back. “Painkiller first. Don’t move.”

“Not-” one hand on her forehead again, turning her face away and exposing her throat and then the needle sinks home with a soft hiss that mimics the noise she makes. This, at least, is a familiar kind of pain- “funny.”

And then Lana stands again and she could swear in that moment the whole platform gets ten degrees colder when, with her gesture, the console lifts three meters into the air and launches itself straight into the molten core of the ever-enlarging Sun Generator. The blood flows back into her fingers. The world blurs, red-tinged agony at its edges, then restabilizes.

“Three minutes to shield collapse. Tell me you’re moving.”

She gets herself up to her knees, arm clutched against her chest, panting. “We’re moving. Tell me you’re-” one foot beneath her, then the other, as Lana bends over the fallen Exarch, ripping the seal from his belt- “at the extraction point.”

“Ramp down, engines running.” Is he pacing? Theron sounds as out of breath as she feels. “Should I call Nightshrike? If you need the medbay-”

“Let’s just start,” she says- Lana wraps her arm around her shoulders to keep her upright as they start toward the exit, a quiet reassurance with every step; I’ve got you, Lana murmurs, we’re nearly there, I’m sorry- “by getting out of here.”

***

She only half-remembers the rendezvous.

She remembers the cot on the shuttle, Lana unfastening her bracer and Theron ever so gently pulling off her glove as Miot pilots them away from the exploding orbital station and she tries very very hard not to scream. Her hand and wrist are swollen already- when the glove finally comes free her first three fingers are puffy, tips tingling- and he presses, careful, to check her pulses and makes a face and ah -

-she opens her eyes and turns her head and she’s sleepy, so sleepy, sedative dancing through her bloodstream and lulling her back into unconsciousness and Theron’s hand stroking her hair and Lana talking, somewhere she can’t see. She needs the medbay. Doctor Lokin thinks that by the time we get to Odessen it might-

-it’s okay, sweetheart, he says softly into her ear, here, and she reaches up to push the needle away because she’s slept too long and there’s too much to be done and she doesn’t want more drugs, she can handle a little pain and she must have said all of that out loud because Theron sighs and puts the syringe down-

-half an hour to Daalang, Miot calls back. Miss Djannis just sent the landing coordinates. It should be secure. She wants to laugh- no one ever called ‘liyo Miss - but it hurts to make noise-

-dizzy. Dizzy, dizzy, the shuttle spinning when she tries to stand and Theron picks her up, her good arm around his neck and the other in its sling, heavy in a makeshift splint. When the ramp opens the light hurts her eyes; she buries her face in his chest, whining, as they cross the clearing. What the fuck happened up there? Kaliyo snaps-

-the kolto fills her mouth, her throat, her lungs, and it always feels like drowning right up until the moment when she remembers to keep breathing. The scanner screen across the room’s still lit up like a Life Day tree, indicators flashing. Concussion. Distal radial fracture. Radioulnar ligament tear, partial. Median nerve- she blinks; she tries to fight the tank every time but it always wins- compression. Radial arte-

(-you’re going to say no, Watcher X says- or the illusion of Watcher X, too many damned people in her head nowadays and it’s gotten hard to keep track- his voice a prickle like electricity up the length of her spine and into her arm. So I am going to do this regardless. Thank me later.)

***

Nine breathes, spits out a mouthful of kolto, and then breathes again. As the tank drains down below her waist she wiggles her fingers experimentally. Her hand feels-

Good, actually.

Too good. She can’t have been in there more than a few hours but the throbbing ache’s gone out of her hand and her head, her wrist barely protesting when she flexes it. By Cipher standards she’d usually been lucky as injuries go; still. she’s no stranger to head injuries or broken bones and she knows how long her body takes to heal. If Watcher X did something- if Watcher X is capable of doing something-

The glass surround of the tank slides open and Lana uncurls from a chair tucked into the corner, a datapad sliding down into her lap from its balanced perch on her knees. “You look better. How are you feeling?”

“Better enough.” The display above the door reads half past ten, later than she’d thought, but- wait. “The chrono needs resyncing, though. It says it’s the twelfth.”

Lana glances down at her screen. “No, that’s right. On our current course we’ll reach Odessen on the fourteenth.”

“You’re serious?”

“I can’t exactly change the flow of time.”

She frowns. “You’re telling me you left me in the tank for-” it takes a moment to do the math, her brain slow to shake off the kolto, and she holds on carefully to the side of the tank to keep her balance- “three days? We can’t afford that kind of downtime. Whose brilliant idea was that?” A set of clean undergarments and neatly folded training clothes lay on the examination table just out of reach; she steps over the lip of the tank as Lana gets up abruptly and the datapad hits the ground.

“Everyone’s. We sent your scans on to Odessen and the consensus was-”

She pulls on her underwear and that’s what finally sets her wrist off so she gets them up the rest of the way one-handed, swearing, the waistband askew on her hips. “You realize Oggurobb’s not actually a medical doctor, correct? And since when does the Alliance consensus not include me?” The bra’s an impossibility. Pushing it aside after a half a minute’s fumbling, she slips the shirt over her head.

“The orders came from Doctor Lokin.” When her head clears the shirt Lana’s beside her, holding the trousers out ready for her to step into them. “Oggurobb agreed with him, but I’m well aware that he’s the only one of us you’ll actually listen to when it comes to your health.”

“And he told you to tank me for half a week.” Force help her, she needs to call Ioana back and get the Eclipse Squad files from SCORPIO and half a dozen other urgent messages she’d meant to reply to on the way back and- oh, what were they thinking?

“A full week, actually. The kolto needs changing, so you get a brief reprieve.”

The minute her trousers are on- she swats Lana away and does up the drawstring herself, badly- she starts toward the door to the main room. “Absolutely not. I’ve got work to do. I’ll spend a few hours in it tomorrow if I must, but-”

Lana’s faster than her, reflexes undulled, and ducks into the doorframe to bar her way with arms folded across her chest. “No. Theron and I- and Kaliyo, if necessary- can split your workload. This isn’t up for debate.”

“Get out of my way, Lana. I’m fine. Where’s Theron?”

When Lana frowns she can almost feel it, energy bleeding into the metal edging around the door like a primed shock trap, and she takes a step back out of reflex. “Theron is finally sleeping, and no,” Lana says again, “you aren’t fine. I couldn’t keep that thing from landing on you but I won’t sit by and risk you crippling yourself through sheer stubborn idiocy.”

She holds up her hand, moving her fingers- carefully, still, but they all move just as they ought to. Hardly crippled. “A bump on the head and a broken wrist? I’ve had worse. I’ll be in fighting trim in a week or two at most.”

“Your nerves were damaged. Crushed. Look at the report yourself if you won’t take my word for it-” Lana gestures toward the scanner, readout still scrolling across its screen in bold text- “but Lokin felt the safest course was to keep you in suspension as much as possible until he could examine you properly. If the bone moved too much-”

She reads the report through once and then again as Lana trails off into silence. It’s all there on the screen, yes, everything Lana said, but that’s- that can’t be right. That can’t possibly be right.

(Corellia had hurt. The bruises healed first. A few days after that the cuts and burns started to fade and, more slowly, the broken bones mended. Her nerves healed slowest of all, months of pain, months of tripping over her own feet and clumsy fumbling over her console even with their full arsenal of stims and infusions and therapies and nights lost to the oblivion of the kolto tank. Three days in kolto was about two days and twenty-three hours longer than she could spare. But looking at the report, following the scrolling words with a finger that should be numb and unmoving if she believes the words on the screen, she knows three days shouldn’t have been anywhere close to long enough.

That might have pleased her, once, as a limitation overcome. She might have believed the scan was wrong, once. Now she only wonders. She knows who- or what- is it a what, not quite alive?- and she thinks she knows how. But she is afraid to ask the price.)

She rests her forehead against the machine.

She should tell her. She should tell both of them.

“All right,” she says instead, turning to look at Lana. “All right. I’ll go back in the fucking tank on two conditions.”

Lana nods and takes a step toward her and then another, reaching out cautiously until her hand just brushes her shoulder. “No promises,” she murmurs, “but go ahead.”

“First, I need the secure holotable. It won’t take long-” she can see her already formulating an objection and so she tilts her head to one side, her cheek against the back of Lana’s hand in a silent reassurance. In the first days on Zakuul she used to to do that, in the days when she could barely speak from carbonite sickness. I’m okay, the gesture meant. Don’t worry about me- “but there are a few things too sensitive for ‘net messages that I can’t delegate.”

“And the second?”

“Put a pot of caf on before I go wake Theron.” She closes her eyes. “The three of us need to talk.”

***

The projection of SCORPIO blinks, inscrutable as always, when she asks for the Eclipse Squad recordings.

(Of course she still had them. She suspects that even the things she ordered SCORPIO to purge from memory entirely were still somewhere inside that metal shell.)

Of course, Commander. A subtle pause, a moment’s recalibration. Access code?

She rattles off the sequence, a jumble of letters and numbers long ago committed to memory.

Access granted. The droid’s eyes flash crimson, then back to yellow. Black level clearance. Additional verification required.

That’s a code she’ll never forget. “Black level clearance requested. Passcode-” she swallows hard, digs her nails into her palms and her wrist screams protest even in the splint Lana made her wear. She needs the kolto after all, it seems. “Passcode: onomatophobia.”

Clearance granted. Transferring files now.

***

"Don’t take this badly, darling,” Ioana Rist says, “but you look awful.”

She’s getting dizzy again. Pulling out one of the chairs ringing the conference table, she sits down carefully. “A few scratches. You know how Nar Shaddaa can be.”

“So that was you.” Io must have been getting ready for bed when she called, hair pulled back and a grey-brown layer of what looks like Alderaanian clay covering her face above the green silk of her robe. “I’d wondered. Those dreadful satellites do look rather better on fire, don’t they?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mm-hm.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table. “Apropos of nothing, you don’t happen to know of any poisons that interfere with healing, by any chance?” None of her usual ones had made a difference against that Exarch. If anyone would know, a Rist would, and Io knew her arsenal better than most.

“The usual sort of healing, or-” a wiggle of fingers, the old Intelligence shorthand for Sith shit- “something extra?”

She returns the gesture.

“Hm. The Tears, of course, but Mother’d murder me in my sleep if I let that one outside the House. I’m sure I could cobble something together that’d do in a pinch." The clay mask cracks across her forehead as Io considers. “You’ve got a chemist?”

“Some of my old team.”

“I’ll experiment tomorrow and see what I can come up with. We caught a Zakuulan patrol on the grounds last week, so I might even have a test subject or two.”

Now that’s a lovely thought. (Theron would have frowned, would shake his head in disapproval, but Theron is a better person than she is.) “I’d appreciate it. But back to why I called- you said you had news for me?”

“I do. As it turns out, that estate isn’t technically Rist property any longer.”

She sighs. Of course it isn’t- that would have been far too easy, wouldn’t it? If it fell to the Ulgos, or- Void, not the Organas, that’ll never work in a thousand years-

“If you’d let me finish, you grump-” Io rolls her eyes and the mask cracks a little more- “I was about to explain. It used to belong to Mother’s second cousin Asenath. She and her husband died during a family squabble and everything went to their children, but then they both died as well. I only half-remember the story. I was just a schoolgirl then.”

“But wouldn’t it default back to the main House in that case?”

“Not quite. Her daughter’d married an Imperial and unlike dear cousin Asenath, she kept her paperwork tidy. Every last credit, the house in town and the entire hilltop estate ended up with her widower.” She’s scrolling through a datapad now, looking through a file as she keeps talking. “I don’t know him well- he was a liaison to Imperial Intelligence but our paths rarely crossed during my contract time, and he only comes to family parties once or twice a year. But he’s-”

(She hadn’t known about the hilltop house.

But she knew the rest of it. He’d told her, two months in, when she’d finally been bold enough to ask how he managed it- the parties, the apartment, the pretty trinkets he’d give her to keep when she’d done especially well, all the trappings of keeping up the carefully crafted front he hid behind- on a military pension and an Intelligence stipend. She’d half-expected him to say he was skimming off the discretionary fund.

My wife, he’d said. All the money was hers.)

It might have been easier, she thinks, if it had been the Ulgos after all. “Ruana. Major Galen Ruana. His wife’s name was Amalia.”

Io blinks. “It’s Colonel Ruana, now- do you know him? I didn’t realize you worked with military intelligence, Cipher. That never seemed quite your style.”

“It wasn’t.” It wasn’t his, either, but that’s a secret she swore long ago she’d keep. “He was my patron during my last year of training.”

One eyebrow raised, another subtle crack in the clay. “He… oh. Well, then. You shouldn’t have too difficult a time asking for a favor, hm?” The subtext lingers past the words; everyone all knew what patron had meant in those days: favor bought, favor sold. Suddenly a chime sounds in the background and, shaking her head, Io stands. “I’ve got to go, darling, or this mask’s going to take my skin off with it. Promise me you’ll visit when you come to Alderaan.”

“Cross my heart. I owe you brandy, don’t I, since it seems I’ll be headed to Dromund Kaas in any case.” She forces a smile, tone light, but- that’s going to be a problem. The whole damned thing’s going to be a problem.

“Excellent memory as always, but you didn’t let me finish earlier. The Rist Gala’s next month- perfect for business deals and he’s already marked as attending. I’ll furnish the invitations. Just bring your party dress -” Io winks- “and my brandy, and I’ll get working on your poison project in the morning. Talk soon?”

“Talk soon.”

The projection fades; she rests her head in her hands. There must be something he’d want. Something besides-

Two knocks on the War Room door.

Theron. Lana always knocks three times.

“Come in.” She doesn’t look up at the sound of the door sliding open and he slips in behind her chair, arms wrapping close around her shoulders and his face nuzzled into the side of her neck.

“You should be resting,” Theron says. “Your scans-”

She sighs. “I know. I will.”

“This doesn’t look like resting.”

“I had work to do.” She turns her head to kiss his temple. “You should be resting, too. Lana said you were sleeping.”

“I tried.” He holds her tighter. “I kept hearing you calling out. I mean- rationally I know you were in kolto, but- hold on. Tell me you didn’t already-”

Shaking her head seems unwise, as likely to make her dizzy again as to get her point across, so she stays still instead. “No. There are a few contingencies we need to put into place beforehand, but if I’m going back into the tank I need you and Lana to help me with that. And that means Lana needs to know what’s going on, and that means-”

“We need to talk about Coruscant.”

“Yes.”

#inyri writes #equivalent exchange #swtor fanfiction #imperial agent #nine #nine/theron #lana beniko #subtitle: we're all having a bad month

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littlemissheartfilia · 5 years

Text

Son of the Don Ch 2

Part(s): [1] [2]

Pairing(s): Stingue, eventual yukinerva and orfus, possible gajevy or nalu

Setting: New York City by Long Island 1935.

Summary: With a rise in murder cases, poverty, drunken brawls, and thievery Sting Eucliffe is watching his city go up in flames. The Great War killed everyone else he knew. The stock market crash destroyed any hope America had left. In such difficult times Sting struggles to fight off the past and to find a hope that’ll keep him going.

After ten years in a foreign country Rogue Cheney finds himself at the bottom of the world’s pit of despair. Yet he can’t seem to find the emotion to care. Even if he could it would serve the future Don of the Cheney Clan no good. His father has a business to run. And he has a lot to learn.

September 2, 1935

Sting stared down the pale, dark haired man in front of him. It was probably rude of him to just insert himself in the other man’s space when he so clearly didn’t want to be bothered. But Sting took one look at the sneer on his face and couldn’t help but to smile wider.

Distance and distrust attracted him for whatever stupid reason he could never fathom. If Sting was honest with himself, he figured it was really because that kind of emotion never led to anything but sex just for the hell of it. There were no complicated feelings involved, no worries about doing anything more than just providing a service and getting one in return. And there was no risk that Sting could grow attached just to watch them leave. Or worse.

The other man however didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. Still, Sting was sure he got the hint of what exactly it was Sting wanted from him. And his first impression was that this man was someone like him-someone who could do rough no feelings attached sex. Sometimes Sting was too good at picking out the fucked up ones. The ones so alike to him that he could get them to agree to whatever he wanted.

“Vaffanculo. I don’t agree with your kind of filth,” he said and Sting sucked in a breath to feign being hurt. The other man’s voice was soft, a little rough around the edges, but still pleasant. He also had a hint of an Italian accent, one that seemed to be faded with years but came out guttural and vehement when he spoke his native tongue. Sting was intrigued.

“Ah, see that’s what you wanna say because you don’t want anyone seein’ what we do here. Well, don’t worry, man-buns, I don’t kiss and tell,” Sting said, eyeballing the man’s luscious black hair that was falling over one half of his face perfectly. It brought even more attention to his already gaunt cheeks.

His target stopped looking at Sting but his white knuckles seemed to relax as he turned his glass of bourbon in his hand. Sting licked his lips and pushed the shot glass closer to his target. He had filled it to the brim with the same gin he had watched the bartender pour for the man. So he knew it wasn’t out of the man’s taste.

Sting leaned in as he slid the cup closer. “I told you my name, you could grace me with yours over another drink?”

The other man laughed dryly. “Sting is not a name. This it’s a pour imitation of an alias. Makes you sound like a-” he paused searching for the word. “Twit,” he said. Sting couldn’t tell if he paused for effect or because he couldn’t remember the word but both options had an extremely weighted impact on his chest that he wasn’t expecting. Sting took the challenge, and without a word, sat down on the barstool beside him. “Ah, I have not even accepted your drink yet. Why are you sitt-”

“Because I want to hear more about this mysterious man who just insulted me,” Sting interrupted. He quirked an eyebrow and pointed again to the shot of gin. “To be frank, though, I’m going to keep that for myself if you don’t want it?”

They shared a moment looking into each others eyes. Then his mystery man grabbed the gin and downed it in one gulp. When he slammed the shot glass back down on the table he looked Sting in the eye and said, “Since we are sharing fake names, you may call me Rogue.”

Sting let a laugh escape him. Victory number one. “Who said that wasn’t my real name, huh?”

Rogue signed to the bartender that he wanted two more drinks before he turned to Sting and said, “I see a lot more names than you do, I can spot a fake identity from a mile away.”

For a moment Sting let his smile falter. Half of his tactic when flirting required some sort of fake childhood or career identity. People just didn’t seem too fond of the truth, Sting included. But he wasn’t one to give up. And if he could wrangle this one it could be his greatest catch to date.

Slyly, Sting grabbed his shot of gin as the bartender slid one towards them both. Raising one eyebrow he said, “Hm, you’ll have to show me sometime. How you do that trick with the fake identity.”

To his surprise Rogue almost smiled. Just before the corners of his mouth could curl up, however, he looked away and seemed to force a frown. “Listen, whatever you want from this I’m not interested. You seem like nice man, Sting. There must be other men you can harass here, no?”

Sting let his inhibitions go, throwing out a hearty one syllable laugh. “You’d be surprised. I’d like to say I’m rather good at picking out the dicky ones but everyone’s so damn stoic these days.”

Rogue scoffed. “Are you saying I’m not?”

Sting shrugged, putting his hands together as he leaned on the counter and began bouncing his leg on the step of the stool. “Oh no, you’re the most hard to read man in this joint. But I like a good gamble every now and then.”

There was a long moment where Rogue stared into Stings eyes, each pupil flicking swiftly back and forth. Sting felt a funny feeling in that moment. He knew Rogue was attractive from afar but up close Sting was getting goosebumps. More because of the way Rogues hazel eyes seemed to glow red under the orange fluorescents.

With such unrestricted access into Rogues complexion Sting could see the almost youthful glow of his skin that tried to show through his oblong face. But those eyes. They sparkled and dimmed at the same time. Like someone had placed a glass cover across a long emptied space, in an attempt to illusion that life still existed in those hazel irises.

Finally Rogue took a sip of his bourbon and gave him a smirk. “You took a pretty big gamble. What if I told you I was heir to a crime syndicate?” Sting’s grin faded so quickly that Rogue flinched. Before he could respond Rogue spoke up again. “I’m joking, don’t look so stiff, ah?”

Sting found his voice again and managed a dry, nervous chuckle. “Sorry. Not so smooth to admit, but I have a bad history with members of crime syndicates.”

Rogue scoffed, “I’m not here to share sob stories. Are we going to do this or not?” Rogue said and downed the last of his drink.

Stings eyes shot wide open. “What?”

Rogue turned in his chair and honestly looked annoyed as he said, “First you are persistent, then you are oblivious? If I wanted sex I could pay someone to do it better.”

It took all of Stings self control not to flush right then and there. After downing his last shot he hopped off his stool and offered Rogue a wink, saying, “No need, man-buns. Meet me behind the bar in five.” Sting fished a dollar bill from his pocket and flashed the tip at the bartender who took it without even looking. Then he strut away from Rogue, making sure his head of blonde hair was bouncing with every step he took.

The back alley was dark, it took a while for Sting’s eyes to adjust. When they did he was aware of two things. One, the cracked pavement was still damp from the days rain hours prior; and two, he was beginning to feel happy, like he was floating on cloud nine. The alcohol was doing its job.

He smoked one cigarette while he waited for Rogue to join him. It was better they were both seen leaving separately. Attracted less eyes. While he inhaled the bitter smoke he couldn’t stop smiling. For some reason this catch of the day was a good one. Sting just hoped he fucked as good as he looked.

When Rogue finally joined him he flicked the cigarette into a puddle and turned to him. Sting opened his mouth and was halfway into saying “So, how do you like it?” when Rogue pushed him against a wall and clashed their mouths together.

Rough? Sting thought. He could do rough. Rogue’s breathing was raspy and hot against his mouth. He parted his lips wide to suck on the whole of Sting’s mouth. He was earned with Sting’s tongue sliding fluidly against his.

Sting allowed himself one small moan, he didn’t want to seem too into it but he wanted Rogue to know that he wanted more. Rogue’s hands traveled around Sting’s shoulders slipping under the neckline of his button up. With one hand he unbuttoned Sting’s shirt and with the other he forcefully yanked Sting’s collar down over his shoulder.

Sting never took his mouth away from Rogue’s, they both breathed heavily into each other like rabid animals. Sting’s fingers wandered to Rogue’s waistline where they fiddled with his belt buckle, already slipping inside and getting a touch of the soft, silky skin underneath.

At the same time that Rogue had Sting’s shirt unbuttoned and hanging off his arms, Sting had flung his belt buckle to the side, grabbed the waistline of his slacks, and yanked him closer.

There was a moment where Rogue stopped kissing to rest his forehead on Sting’s. Those piercing brown eyes still sparkled with red specks in the outside light and this time Sting felt them boring a hole into his skull. Some say a look that harsh means someone’s undressing you with their eyes. But to Sting it felt like Rogue was peeling him. Scraping back every layer of broken, scarred skin to see the gelatinous mess that pulsed in his heart. Though he hated that it did, it took Sting’s breath away.

While he stared intensely Rogue’s hands roamed their way down Sting’s back side, now rubbing into his newly exposed skin. His hands met with Sting’s ass and he squeezed without warning. Sting gave him a sudden smirk while he grabbed his collar and undid Rogue's button up shirt.

With a flourish Rogue shrugged both his open jacket and his collared shirt to the ground, uncaring that they landed in a puddle. Sting let his hands roam the milky expanse of Rogue’s backside, still playing with the hem of his pants.

Rogue grabbed his hair and pulled, while Sting unzipped his pants. He smirked as his hand reached under the cotton underwear and began to rub against Rogue’s cock. His smirk grew when he felt Rogue’s hard on coming through.

Suddenly Rogue pushed him once more against the wall. He ignored the pain that shot through his shoulder as he collided with the brick. Rogue gave him a glare as he stepped closer to breathe heavily into his face.

“No,” he said, his accent coming back thickly. Rogue shifted on his feet just to be closer to Sting although their bare chests were already pressed together. Rogue glared at him with his hand on the back of his waist and those eyes that tore him apart.

“I don’t get fucked,” Rogue continued, nipping at Sting’s bottom lip with his teeth.

Sting let out a dry laugh. He reached to grab at Rogue’s exposed penis, earning a slight gasp from him. Rogue seemed to raise higher until he towered over Sting.

“Don’t you, man-buns?” Sting played, enjoying the pressure of Rogue’s cock as it rose into his hand and against his thigh.

“Turn around,” Rogue demanded, his eyes never breaking contact. “I will fuck you properly.”

Sting couldn’t help the rush of exhilaration that washed over him when Rogue’s Italian accent drawled on those words. He was used to rough sex. He was used to one night stands. What he wasn’t used to was actually feeling something more than just the hot rush of desire. Still Sting blamed it on the heat of the moment. There was no way a complete stranger could make him actually feel something like this.

But the more Rogue’s hands roamed his body, the harsher they groped him. Their tongues intertwined again but this time Rogue’s mouth kissed its way down Sting’s neck. He bent his head back and leaned into Rogue only to have the other turn him around and push him into the wet bricks.

Rogue leaned into him, pressing his throbbing member into Sting’s back and began massaging the skin around his cock until finally, finally his fingers wrapped around Sting’s manhood. “Fuck-” Sting let out on a breathy moan.

Rogue nibbled a bit at his ear, his hot breath leaving a fog next to his cheek that sent chills down his spine. “Let’s get this over with,” he whispered in a husky voice that was surprisingly sexy. “I hope you’re stretched today.”

“Just fuck me,” Sting said over his shoulder. Rogue took his liberties as he smirked kisses into the back of Sting’s neck. He reached his hands around the waistline of Sting’s pants and ripped them down to expose his ass.

Rogue braced a hand on the wet brick of the building but that was about as much warning as Sting got before Rogue was pressing inside him. An overwhelming feeling of excitement swept through him and Sting rocked back into him, moaning when his cock roamed deeper inside. A hot wave of pleasure made Sting’s toes curl as he hit his prostate. Sting’s back arched, Rogue grabbed at his hair, keeping him bent in euphoria. With Rogue’s other hand on Sting’s cock he rubbed the skin and kept Sting pressed against him.

A grunt escaped Rogue’s lips as he thrust once...twice, Sting’s body pulsing with the rhythm.

They were one for those minutes of ecstasy. their bodies moved in sync, thrusting together, flushing hot with pleasure. With each push Rogue was getting rougher, tugging on Sting’s hair, keeping his body pinned to the brick.

They were so close to climax when Sting looked over his shoulder and gave Rogue’s arm a playful bite, sucking his lips on the sweaty skin. Rogue growled, a gurgling sound that escaped from the back of his throat. He pushed harder into Sting this time, causing him to gasp as pain split up his rear.

Rogue was hurting him now, tugging so hard on his hair that clumps of blonde locks pulled free and Sting was feeling overwhelming pleasure mixed strangely with worsening pain. Sting sucked in a breath, his stimulated prostate was still making his vision swim. Rogue’s head was right next to him. Sting turned and moaned into his ear, trying to sloppily nibble on the lobe.

But Rogue pulled away too soon. Too suddenly. He yelled in frustration, then pulled out roughly and shoved Sting away from him.

Sting was left panting, his rear throbbing from the pain and his lips swollen and dry. By the time he turned around Rogue was already shrugging on his jacket and shirt, turned away from him.

Sting flashed him a smirk while he pulled his pants up and fished a cigarette out of the pocket of his torn off shirt. “Maybe, next time I’ll have to show you the other way,” he said smiling around the stick.

Rogue didn’t even spare him a glance as he buttoned up only his jacket, enough to look presentable, and began walking away. “Don’t hold your breath,” he said, his footsteps fading away down the alley.

Sting watched him walk, cigarette burning. Rogue had a very distinct gait. He walked with confidence; head held high, with hands in his pockets, as if each step was another step into glory.

Something inside Sting’s gut twisted. He hadn’t expected that out of tonight. It was supposed to be nothing but a quick hook up. Yet still, he couldn’t stop this sinking feeling from whirling his insides together. He had felt something during that. Something more than just sex but maybe that was just him.

Sting briefly allowed himself to wonder why Rogue had ended it so quickly. He was angry...Sting had felt the emotion radiate off him before he pulled out. He looked away when Rogue rounded the corner. He took one more drag of his cigarette, and blowing out the smoke he let all his inhibitions go with it.

September 3, 1935

“Well you look particularly happier today?” a cheery voice said as Sting walked into the station. He looked around the precinct. The sun through the blinded windows came through and shone golden on the mahogany desks. The usual morning crowd was shuffling around but it wasn’t Yukino who had greeted him. Sitting at the desk next to Yukino’s was the busty blonde who had been a new hire at the precinct for about a week, Lucy Heartfillia.

Sting hadn’t really paid much attention to her before but she seemed to be able to integrate herself among the male officers well enough. Sting silently admired that about her. Not enough to actually try and get to know her though. But it seemed Lucy was capable of doing that herself.

Sting looked at her with a raised eyebrow as he took a bite from his morning sandwich. “O’ yea?” he asked. “How do you know that, bunny blonde?” Sting joked with the nickname she had gotten the first day on the job. The good news about her embarrassment that day was that Sting was reminded to never let anyone sew bunny rabbits into his underwear then lose a contact on the floor for thirty minutes.

Lucy pouted a bit at the nickname but by now Sting was sure she was getting the idea that she wouldn’t shake it. “Every guy I’ve met carries that same face after he’s had a good night.” She gave Sting a little wink and he inhaled so quickly he nearly choked on the bread.

Suddenly someone’s hand whacked his back hard as he tried to control his coughing. He could hear Lucy snickering under the racket that the station had become. “If you let every girl get to you like that, Sting, your nighttime is gonna end up real messy.” One of his co-workers, a police officer, Natsu Dragneel said in a loud voice.

Sting groaned as he managed to stop choking. The thing about Natsu was that nothing was subtle. And everything he did was loud. It made him an outspoken person which was sometimes a good thing for keeping his morals in line. But not right now.

Sting pounded a fist on his chest. “Fuc-fuck off, Dragneel,” he croaked out. Which sent Natsu's head back in laughter. Meanwhile Sting took his leave amidst his chuckling co-workers, saving himself from further embarrassment. He was about to walk into his office to start the day when Lucy called to him again.

“Oh, Detective Eucliffe?” she called, rushing up to Sting where he stood with the door open. Sting turned and raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak. “I was looking into those files-the ones about the murders-”

Sting narrowed his eyes. “Who let you see those?” he demanded nearly making the poor secretary flinch. “Those are sensitive cases. Only office-” Sting stopped himself short. Because a certain pink haired someone had suddenly disappeared from the room. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Lucy scuffed the toe of her heels into the linoleum floor. “Natsu?” he asked.

Lucy nodded slightly, sheepishly. “He was just asking for my advice trying to solve the case but Detective I think I may have figured something out.”

Sting looked around the office, some of the morning workforce was still shuffling in. Sting spoke quickly, “Get in my office. We don’t discuss sensitive cases out in the open.”

Lucy beamed at him as he held the door open and she rushed inside. He closed it with finality, moving next to the blinds by the door and completely blocking off the rest of the precinct so they could talk in private.

Sting whirled around but before he could speak Lucy began rambling. “I knew it was weird that there were so little leads on these cases and especially with the new one-about that little girl? So I started asking around-“

“Lucy, you what?” Sting burst out. Lucy looked like she’d just been slapped as she stared at him. Before she could try defending herself Sting spoke again. “First of all, asking around about murder cases is a sure fire way to get yourself killed. If you attract even one wrong ear your life could be in danger. These aren’t petty thieves, Heartfilia. They could kill you.”

Lucy seemed to huff at his words but she crossed her arms and continued in a steady voice. “I know how to keep myself safe, Detective. A case this empty can’t be solved alone and there’s a few people who owe me favors.”

Sting widened his eyes. He walked around Lucy until he was bracing his hands on his desk and said, “I don’t want to know what ‘owe you favors’ means. Just tell me what you got.”

A smile that shouldn’t have been there appeared on Lucy’s face. She practically bounced on her heels as she rushed to take a seat on the other side of Stings desk.

“Damien Rogers, remember him?”

Sting already felt his patience wearing thin. “The informant from the case and a suspect for arrest, yes of course I remember him, what’s your point?”

Lucy shifted in her seat and seemed to take Stings harsh tone in stride. “Well, not many people knew him but he had a family apparently, his wife and a kid-little boy I think. I got a tip early this morning that someone who was a friend of the family didn’t see any of them return home last night.”

Sting intertwined his fingers together and sat back in his chair, letting it squeak harshly as he put his whole pressure on it. Lucy paused for a moment but soon she kept talking at a mile a minute. “I found that odd, that our one informant mysteriously vanishes before we can question him-“

Sting sighed. “Heartfillia, Damien Rogers was already skipping town. If you had read the case files you would have known-”

“No, Detective, he wasn’t.” Lucy corrected and Sting forced himself to hold his tongue. “Damien told everyone he was out of town to throw our scent off him, but he was here, in New York the entire time. That friend of the family told me Damien was in hiding.”

“From the police?”

Lucy made a strange face. “Not exactly. Apparently before Damien vanished-” she put quotes around the word. “-he let slip that some dangerous people were after him.”

“Dangerous people?” Sting pried.

Lucy just nodded. “He didn’t say exactly who but it sounded like an organized crime unit.”

Sting thought for a moment. He had almost been expecting organized crime to pop into this case at some point. However he hesitated to accept that as the truth. The reality of it was never that simple, and Sting hardly even knew Lucy. How could he know her intel was backed and not just the fancy tales of a dreamer?

Sting sat forward, grabbing a pen from the holder on his desk and flipped open a drawer so he could fetch a pad of writing paper. “What’s the name of your informant?”

Lucy cocked her head a bit. “You don’t trust my word?”

Sting gave her a long look before replying. “Heartfillia, I don’t trust anyone. If every government operative trusted the word of any Tom, Dick or Stanley that passed his way there wouldn’t be any truth to the world. Why don’t you give me the name of your informant and I can question them myself.”

Lucy shook her head then. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.”

Sting flicked the pen back and forth in his hand aggressively. “See, that makes me trust you even less. Chief may just fire us all if he’s hounded anymore about this case. I need names and people.”

Lucy was stubborn, Sting would give her that. But he needed to do well on this case. Whether or not Chief would take his anger out on the precinct was debatable, but Sting was certain that he would be the first one to go.

Lucy sighed as she crossed her arms and legs, a representation of her obstinacy. “I can’t give you that name. But I can help you find someone else who could chase Rogers down?”

Sting sighed, “Alright fine, give me a name.”

Lucy shook her head once more. “Again, I can’t give you that. I’ll take you to them instead.”

Sting slammed his pen back down on the desk, finally having enough. “Dammit, Heartfillia, we don’t have time for this-”

Lucy stood up, ready to face Sting’s impatience. “Listen to me, Detective. My informants-” She closed her eyes for a moment to collect herself. “-the people I know, are some pretty powerful people who know even more powerful people. They have to be careful who they talk to.”

“This all sounds way too cloak and dagger to be legal, what the fuck are you in on, Heartfillia?”

“I’m not in on anything-Listen, I’m trying to help you and this case!”

Sting suppressed a groan and had to compose himself before he replied. “If you end up getting us killed, know that it’ll be your fault.”

Lucy smirked at him. “A woman has her own ways of handling things, Detective. You won’t be disappointed.”

Sting sneered. “I’ll be the judge of that, get back to work Heartfillia. We’ll talk after the day is done.”

Without another word Lucy made her way out of his office. As soon as the door closed Sting let out another sigh and walked over to the whiskey on his table. I’m going to need something stronger to get through today, he thought.

Rogue Cheney sat in the cold leather of his father’s office chair. The upholstery was pulled so tightly over the plush lining that Rogue’s nails left indents when his hands gripped the arms a little too harshly. He sat as straight as he could in the presence of his father. The fireplace was flickering brightly in the early morning light. It was starting to get darker by the day and that almost unnerved Rogue, as if the sun itself didn’t want to wake up in the morning.

“And you thought bringing a boy here was a good idea?” Skiadrum murmured. Pacing as he spoke, not once looking over at Rogue as he sat, stiff as a board, in the only office chair here.

“He didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Rogue countered.

“That’s what orphanages are for, idiota! We have contacts in place to handle such things.” Skiadrum shouted, flinging his hands in the air in exasperation. “What are we supposed to do with a- a- bambino, huh?”

Rogue hid away the little bit of anger that was bubbling underneath him. His father was right, he knew that. Rogue shouldn’t have brought the child here. Usually he wouldn’t have hesitated to drop useless cargo off on whoever else was willing to handle it. But Rogue didn’t do that and for the life of him he still couldn’t figure out why?

“I will take care of him, padre.”

“Faresti meglio, or else I find an alternative.” Skiadrum said, finally turning to Rogue and clasping his hands behind his back with a firm stance.

Rogue swallowed despite his stoic nature. He knew what a horrible alternative his father could provide. And somehow the thought displeased him. “Of course, cappo.”

Italian:

Vaffanculo - Fuck off

Idiota - Idiot

Bambino - Child

Faresti meglio - You’d better

Cappo - Boss

Padre - father

#fairy tail #stingue #sotd #stingue fanfic #ft fanfiction

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marshmallowmalfoy · 6 years

Text

Bumps and Bruises // Draco Malfoy

Type: Fluff X Slytherin Reader

A/N: Cardi B got me feeling bad ass but since I can’t fight anybody I can write it.

Summary: You’re being suspicious, constantly covered in bruises. Draco and Pansy decide to figure our whats going on.

Warnings: Physical and verbal fights. Swearing.

Lmk if you want a part 2?

Draco’s POV:

There she was again. There she was, bruised... again. I leaned back into my seat as she approached, her cheek bruised.

“Hey Malfoy.” She plopped down on the couch next to him, splaying her legs over mine. I raised an eyebrow.

“Where were you last night?” I gestured to her cheek. She just shook her head, chuckling a little.

“I ran into my dorm room door.” She rolled her eyes, “I’m an idiot.” She chuckled again as she tucked her hands into her pockets. Pansy came and joined us, Y/N lifted her head so Pansy could sit there, when she sat, Y/N rested her head back on Pansy’s legs.

“What happened Bubbles?” Pansy poked her cheek, using her nickname. She just laughed.

“I’m fine.” She cracked that charming Y/L/N smile. I couldn’t look away, but I also couldn’t help but worry. She constantly came into the common room after disappearing for hours on end in the evenings, lip cut or face bruised, always blaming it on your clumsiness. “I’m exhausted.” She spoke, raising from where she laid, “I’m gonna go sleep.” She stood up, placing a loving kiss on Pansy’s forehead and tussled my hair. I watched her leave the room, holding her side subtly.

“She’s lying.” Pansy said when Y/N was out of sight. “I know she is.” I nodded.

“I know.” I spoke softly. “But what can we do about it?” I laid back farther into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. There was silence for a moment.

“We could follow her.” The suggestion seemed preposterous and I told her so. But as she reasoned with me, telling me how she’s a friend and if she’s getting herself into trouble that we need to be there for her. I nodded, finally agreeing to her plan. Then we worked out the details.

Y/N’s POV:

I did what I did every night or so. I threw me gear into my school bag, and took off through the motionless hallways. My pace was fast, as though I was hurrying off to be somewhere I was late to. No one stops a girl in a hurry.

I get to the fireplace in the great hall. I scoop up a bit of floo powder from its hiding place between two stones in the fire place’s structure.

“Diagon Ally.” I exclaimed, throwing it to my feet. I appeared right where I needed to be.

I walked across the main alley, off into a back alley. Left, right, right left. I appeared in front of the back door to the illegal establishment, twisting my key and stepping through the door.

I could hear them all. It made my blood rush. Their shouts and cheers. I wrapped my hands, chalked them up, changed into my gear, and started warming up.

Pansy’s POV:

“The door is locked Draco!” I exclaimed as Malfoy tugged at the door Y/N had just disappeared into. “There has to be another way in.” I began walking around the oblong building. Just around the far corner was a large man standing before a ramshackle door. “Draco!” I hissed catching his attention. He walked over and peered around the corner too.

“Follow my lead.” He stepped out, and walked over shoulders back, chin high. He attempted to walk past the large man, but a hand was placed on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“No one underage can view.” The man’s voice was low, he removed his hand from Draco’s shoulder, stroking it down his long beard. Draco sighed, I watched carefully, stepping father behind Malfoy, the way the bouncer was eyeing me made me uncomfortable. The boy pulled a small sack out of his pocket, dangling it for the bouncer. The older man snatched it from him, examining what it contained. Galleons, no doubt. “I didn’t see you.” He grumbled, pushing the door open for us.

Past the door, the cheers and shouts erupted in my ears. Mens voices, chanting and hollering. Draco held my head as he pushed his way through the crowd.

“400 Galleons on Fire Cracker.” A man shouted at a man behind a tellers booth. There was a long list of names on the wall behind the man accepting money, though none of them sounded like birth names. I exchanged a glance with Draco, holding onto his arm.

“And now,” A bellowing voice came from across the room. Draco dragged me towards the voice. We encountered a fenced off pit before we saw the source of the voice. A well dressed, plump man with a top hat had his wand to his neck, amplifying his voice. “The Skull Crusher!” The man exclaimed, gesturing down into the ring, where a curtain parted, and a man stepped through. He was brutish, and his head was shaved down so close I questioned if he even had hair in the first place. He let out a battle cry as he turned around, showing off to all the men in the crowd. He must have been in his 30′s. His torso was bare, and he wore white pants that tightened around the calfs.

“Draco?” I caught his attention, “What is going on?” He looked at me concern and just shook his head. He was as clueless as I was.

“Up against,” The man announced, “Fiiireeeee Craaackkkkerrr!” He elongated the name. The other curtains parted and it was like the world was moving in slow motion. She had no shoes on, only wrapped in white cloth. She wore tight black shorts, and a sports bra. Her knuckles were wrapped in that same white cloth, and her hair was pulled back in french braids. She had a mouth guard in, and she looked angry as ever.

“Y/N.” I heard my best friends name fall out of Draco’s mouth as no more than a whisper. Any color he held in his skin had drained, and his eyes suddenly seemed sunken in his head. The man announcing exclaimed one word that made my heart hit the floor.

“Fight!”

Draco’s POV:

I watched her as she dodged the large man’s attack, using his body weight against him and shoving his into the wall with her shoulder, never taking her hands from their defensive position.

“You little cunt!” He shouted angrily, turning back to face her. She was bouncing on her toes, staying moving. She flashed him a mouth-guard clad smile. He circled around her, but she didn’t seem scared at all. She continued like this for a while, dodging out of the way and dancing around the brutish man. Fire cracker. Rang through my head. Why that name? I learned soon enough. The room went quiet when he got a solid hit on her jaw. Even he stopped when he realized what he had done. She touched her jaw, and it was so quiet everyone in the room heard her scoff.

“You fucked up.” She mumbled, still audible through the silence. The large man began backing up. She rolled her shoulders, walking towards the man, hands at her side. He took another swing at her, but she dodged to the side, grabbing his fisted hand, twisting it effortlessly in a way it shouldn’t go. The crowd started shouting again. He fell to his knees for a moment before trying to get out. He turned his back to her, and she ran up behind him, jumping up on the wall, pushing off it and wrapping her arms around his neck. From there, I watched in awe as she pulled a front flip, taking the large man with her.

He landed hard on his side and hurriedly tried crawling away as she dusted off her hands. She walked over him. She stood on his back, placing one foot on his neck, pinning him to the ground. She looked up at the announcer, who nodded at her. With that she walked out the way she came out.

“Come on.” I grabbed a horrified Pansy’s arm, and dragged her back to Hogwarts, to the Slytherin common room.

“I’ve heard of illegal dueling...” Pansy spoke, “But I’ve never head of anything like that.” She shook her head, trying to get the image out of her head.

Y/N’s POV:

I walked back towards the Slytherin dorms, happy at how significantly much more my bag weighed compared to on my way there. I get 30% of the galleons that people wager against me, and 10% of the galleons from the people that bet for me. I pushed into the Slytherin common room, it being nearly 2 in the morning, I was surprised to see Draco sitting awake and in silence as I walked in. Upon noticing my entrance, Draco shot up from his seat.

“Where have you been?” His voice was resinating with anger. I smiled.

“I fell asleep studying in the library.” I walked over to him, hoping the loose galleons in my bag weren’t jingling. His expression was pure anger. There was no other word to explain it. He cocked an eyebrow.

“What’s that then?” He went to touch my jaw. I flinched away.

“A book fell down... It hit me. It was my fault.” I shrugged, walking over to the fire, which blazed a beautiful green.

“Oh bullshit!” He shouted. I turned around, shocked by his reaction. He was looking at me sternly. His hands were dug into his suit pockets and the fire light flickered over his face. God. He’s beautiful. I thought to myself. No. Stop. He’s your best friend.

“What?” I falsified a shocked look. My heart was pounding, worrying about what he knew.

“I know. Y/N. I. FUCKING. KNOW.” He shouted at me, taking steps towards me, pointing his finger at the ground with each word. I sighed, and sat down in a chair just by the fire. He came and sat in the chair across from me. I leaned back into my chair, and he leaned forward onto his elbows. “Why.” It wasn’t a question. I sighed and let my bag fall to the ground, it jingled.

“I’m pureblood Malfoy, just like you.” I leaned father back into my chair, “But not all pureblood families have as much money as yours does.” I stared into the fire, not bringing myself to look at him. “My father is gone. He left. My mother fell sick. She can’t work.” I choked down my pride and looked at him. “This is the fastest money I can make without disgracing myself. It disappears just as fast as I can send it. The healers are doing all they can but it’s galleons on galleons going into nothing. She’s not getting better Malfoy.” I tossed my bag at him, it slammed into his chest. He opened it and looked inside.

“Y/N.” He sighed, letting the messenger bag fall to the ground. “This isn’t the way t-”

“It’s the best way. It’s the only option I have!” I stood up, raising my voice. “There is nothing else I can do!” He stood up too, his face angry again.

“You are getting yourself hurt!” He shouted back at me. “I could have helped you!” Taking a step closer.

“And be in debt to the Malfoy’s until I die? No thanks!” I exclaimed back, “What do you care anyway!?”

“Because I fucking love you Y/N!” We both fell silent, realizing what just happened. There was only inches between us. My breath was shaky, my heart was fluttering and beating so quickly. He stared at me, waiting. I connected our lips.

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writevswrong · 7 years

Text

FANFIC * NESSIAN * PART NINE

Nessian Part Nine by L.J. LaFleur

The sun did not rise, the moon did not set. I stared out the window letting all color drain from this world. He feared me, I could see it in those beautiful pools of hazel. He feared me, but not as much as I fear myself. The monster I’ve become. I burned him. I marked him.

I ignored several knocks, unsure of who was on the other side of the door. My sisters, maybe? It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t answer. More knocks, but I didn’t care. Faintly I heard their voices, their pleas. Drowning, it was like a wall of water blocking them out. I was drained from last night, tired from lack of sleep but too scared to close my eyes. Who else would I hurt? Who was next?

“Nesta,” he pounded on the door, his voice breaking through the thunder clouds that stained my mind.

I ignored him.

Cassian huffed, “Nesta…let me in. It’s been two days and you haven’t eaten.”

Two days? I haven’t slept for two days?

Another knock on the door, “C’mon Nes…let me in.”

I dropped my head into my fragile palms, “go away, Cassian.”

“Nes…” He murmured, scratching at the door with his thumbnail.

“Please. Go. Away.” My hushed voice cracked at the end. Burning tears leaked out of me, “please,” I could only whisper. Quickly I wiped away the fiery tears, retreating within myself like I had for the others.

The door crashed open, splintering into pieces as Cassian stormed into the room. A large metal tray balanced on one hand, filled with delicious looking cakes and scones. Desserts from foreign lands and fruit that looked like dragon eggs. My growling stomach gave me away. Damn, him.

“Must you always kick my door in? I asked you to go away,” I jutted my chin outwards. I braced myself against the window frame, feeling nauseous from the lack of food in my system.

“I don’t care.” He declared, setting the tray on the leaf patterned bed spread. “Eat.” Cassian pointed to the platter, his hands completely healed. His forehead creased as his scowl grew.

“Leave me,” I shot back, straightening my spine. Although he was healed, I could still see the melted flesh from before. Bile rose to the back of my throat as I shuddered.

“Eat,” he ordered, his demanding eyes darkened as he watched every move.

I clenched my jaw before clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Who made this?” I sniffed displaying a displeasing face as if it were poison. When really, it smelled absolutely delectable. I eased closer, mouthwatering instantly.

Cassian’s tone didn’t soften, nor did his facial expression of angst. “It doesn’t matter. Eat, Nes.” His muscular arms crossed against his rust colored tunic. Raven leather cords fell down his chest, unveiling a portion of his tattooed collarbone. The hazel traps for eyes caught mine, “unless you have another appetite that needs feeding first,” his bewitching voice suggested. Cassian’s left brow rose, as he licked his lower lip. A growing smirk made my knees weak momentarily.

I moved away from the bed, invading the space between us. “Stop calling me Nes,” I snapped, shoving him backwards into the emerald wall.

He let out a soft grunt as his back slammed into it, an inkling of a smile rising on his lips. “You cruel beautiful creature,” he taunted, running his fingers through that luscious dark hair. The corners of his lips edging upwards.

“Don’t call me that,” I growled alongside my stomach. The dragon egg fruit, I would start with that one. I turned my back to him, scanning the items on the tray once again.

An unfamiliar sensation glided against my lips as I took in the spread. All the colors of a rainbow—except for red. How obvious I must be for the kitchen staff to have caught on so quickly. I dipped my bony finger into a fluffy white substance before licking it off.

Cassian’s stare lingered on my finger. “It isn’t Nes. Now cruel beautiful creature won’t do? I said beautiful.” He waited as I dug into the fruit, “Fine. How about malevolent monster? That better?”

I dropped the juicy oblong fruit, suddenly losing my appetite. “Monsters are made, not born,” I whispered to myself. “Monsters are…”

“What did I do now?” Cassian asked exasperated, uncrossing his arms to wrap a hand around the post of the bed. He gripped it so tightly that the wood groaned in response to his touch.

The gray in my eyes retreated, leaving only the lonely darkness behind. “You could never love someone so selfish, so spiteful.” I repeated his words, unable to look at him for verification.

Cassian’s jaw dropped slightly, he reached for my elbow with his free hand, “let me explain.” His muscles tightened as I rejected him with my palm.

I finally faced him, feeling the blood drain out of me. “You said it,” I sneered, now unable to look away from him. The hurt, anger…the mix of emotions swirling inside of him that no one could see but me, filtered to his eyes.

“Yes, but…” Cassian started, reaching out his arms of steel towards me as I backed away from him.

“As selfish, as spiteful as I was—am.” I paused, waiting for my voice to thicken, “at least my heart won’t be shattered by a bastard.” I made my mark.

Cassian’s siphons flared, along with the fire within him. “Is bastard all you have? Or should I wait for a better insult?” he waited only to receive silence. “Finish eating,” he nearly barked.

“Bite me,” I muttered.

A saucy grin developed on his luscious lips, “you’ll enjoy it when I do.” His left eye squinted slightly, his tongue gliding against his lower lip again. I could feel my nipples perk outwards, cold chills racing down my neck. I wanted his lips, I wanted him all…

“Leave,” I snarled, interrupting the seductive inner thoughts that drummed through me.

“I think I’ve done that enough,” he replied coolly, stepping forward, not making a sound.

He was using the same tactic as me. Winding me up, invading my space. “Get out, Cassian,” I pushed him again, this time he stood firmly. The rising heat between our skin amplified.

“No. Eat.” Cassian whispered, his lips nearing mine. I wasn’t sure if he was commanding me to eat the tray of food he brought up—or him.

I didn’t realize my body had already reacted, lifting myself towards him. “Will you leave if I do?” I questioned, nearly shuddering as his hand slid up my arm—grazing my skin until bumps arose.

He leaned in further, closing in towards my mouth. Our lips hadn’t been this close since…I couldn’t think of the day. I didn’t want to remember him almost dying...yet again.

“Nope. I’ll still be here,” he lifted my chin with his calloused fist, his scent enrapturing me. “You can bet your ass that I will stay by your side,” his husky voice whispered my name, “Nesta.”

The way I sounded on his tongue, I could feel the earth shake beneath me. “I’m not the one who needs protection.” The intensity between us continued as I glared directly into my weakness. Crumbling before him, his rough thumb circled against my chin.

“I won’t leave you,” Cassian breathed heavily, “get that through your head, woman.”

“You’re merely a winged beast.” I paused, debating the next attack. I searched into him, diving into his soul. Deeper and deeper, I looked into him—seeing only that he spoke of the truth. And I can’t let that be true.

I took a deep breath, releasing the arrow from my tongue. “And one that failed at protecting not only me but my sister too.” I could have sworn the hurt within him unraveled as he released me. If I said this enough, would he go? Would he be safe—far, far away from me? Would he realize that I’m unworthy of his love? Unworthy of him?

“Your insults are the most exciting thing about my day.” Whether he was being honest or not, I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell being this close to him—it was distracting. Cassian tilted his head, studying me. “Do you sit here all day practicing them?”

“Leave,” I replied calmly, while the bones within me twisted with longing.

Cassian tipped his head towards mine, “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine. I won’t stop you then,” I slammed my fist into his abdomen.

Cassian groaned as he backed away from me, holding his gut. “Playing hard to get, are we?”

I retreated to the bathing room, “no. It’s called stay the hell away from me.” Forcing my already laid out clothes on. A shade of dirty cream for pants and an azure hued tunic, trimmed with golden swirls similar to the traditional Illyrian tattoos. I stared at the boots he gave me, wanting to wear them desperately but knowing all too well that I couldn’t. I shook my head as I strapped on a different pair.

“I already told you…” Cassian began but before he could finish, I felt the flames wrap around my wrists, burning into the decorated sleeves.

The anger within me rising. “Fine!” I yelled back, not wanting to hear him risk his life anymore. I patted the flames, flustered, I rolled up my sleeves.

“Good! It’s gotten through your stubborn head.” He paused, waiting for me to return to the bedroom.

I walked out of the bathing room to see Cassian lazily laying across the mattress, taking up the majority of it as his wings stretched out. I had never seen such mammoth wings before. He flexed his muscles beneath that rusty tunic, a flutter of his wings as he adjusted to make room for me. The almighty bulge in his onyx trousers caught my attention next. I ignored his taunting gaze, retreating towards the bed, only to silently dismiss him as I sat down.

“Where are you going?” He asked cautiously, sitting upright. Cassian’s lips nearly grazed my shoulder, the heat of his breath stunned me like lightening.

“To see Az.” I commented, a curt smile bracing itself against my full lips as I watched him transform.

A low, throaty snarl escaped his lips as he shifted on the bed.

“Training,” I replied, grabbing the plate of scones. Cursing as I walked away, I threw one at his head, hitting my target. Cassian’s low laughter rang in my ears—pissing me off even more. “Feral beast,” I muttered as I scarfed down the blueberry scones.

“You’re late,” Azriel commented as he adjusted his leather cuffs. He waited on the roof top, overlooking the busy city. Darkness coiling around his armored shoulders. I wasn’t sure why he continued to wear his battle gear and I really didn’t want to know. Handling my own demons is difficult enough, throwing in the entire Night Court’s problems too—I wasn’t sure how well I could handle it.

“Cassian.” I replied, stuffing the last buttery scone into my mouth.

“Ah,” he raised his wings, stretching them to their full length. Absolutely majestic, but nothing like Cassian’s.

I nodded with my full mouth, setting the empty plate on the outdoor table.

Azriel moved through the shadows to stand beside me. “Ready?” he reached out his scarred hand, beckoning me towards him.

“As I will ever be,” I answered with a hard swallow.

Azriel gently layered his arms around me, “hold on and don’t forget to breathe.”

We disappeared in a sea of black, swallowed whole by whispering darkness. I could hear them. Closing in around me, they sang my name. “Nesta Archeon, The Cauldron Thief.”

“Breathe,” Azriel whispered into my sharply tipped ear, a slight squeeze around my waist for reassurance that he still held me. That I was still alive.

“Come back to us, Cauldron Thief.” The voices snickered.

I shifted in Azriel’s shoulder, daring a peak. Nothing.

“You swam among us. You walked through darkness. You danced in the deep. Until you found, your way to victory. Come play with us,” the voices echoed before a cold breath entered my ear, “come play with me,” a single hollow voice sung to me.

Light blinded us as we entered the House of Wind. I nearly fell to my knees before Azriel caught me. Out of breath, I sucked in as much air as I possibly could.

He held my shoulders, leaning down as he peered into my unsteady eyes. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” I responded standing upright, adjusting my tunic for a distraction.

In case you missed the previous parts...

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

PART EIGHT

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ephemera · 6 years

Text

Fort Totten at World’s End

By Sylvester Joseph

The thing about oblong relationships is that no matter what happens, they almost always become awkward. It’s a risk you run with relationships with even amounts of people, especially more than two, but when it came to odd numbers, it was almost always the number of people that did the relationship in. The best you can pray for—which is almost always the result, is that someone appears or disappears and the even number manages to endure.

Back in the day, when I was a junior in High School, I suffered in such a relationship. Me, Iris and Hakeem were a unit. I grew up with Hakeem and most of junior year we were in the same school. Iris was a family friend of Hakeem’s and she used to come around on weekends, so we all grew up together in a sense. Junior year it became different, because Iris wasn’t just the girl with the pigtails, she hit puberty and grew a couple of inches and got meat in places that made her appealing.

And more than anything, that scared me, the kid who hadn’t even kissed a girl.

She stopped coming around Hakeem’s house on the weekend, instead, on Fridays, we would ride the bus from school to Fort Totten and ride out to Silver Spring where she would meet us and we’d hang out and all go see a movie or something. She went to Blair, so it was only a bus ride away from Downtown Silver Spring and we didn’t mind hopping a bus and a train to hang out (at least Hakeem didn’t) and Iris was a cool girl, anyway.

We were an odd group, though. No one would point it out, but we were. Hakeem was the type of guy that you’d call a thug, not because he was particularly large or threatening or did anything of that sort (when he was with us, at least), but because he was loud and obnoxious and black. There’s nothing worse that you could be in this world than obnoxious, confident and black and DC had those types in abundance. He’d always wear his North Face rain jacket and a pair of skinny jeans and on his feet a pair of Nike Foamposites or the occasional Timberland work boot. The top of his hair was knotted in short dreads, while the sides of his head was shaved in a close fade.

Iris was older than us by months, she was quiet and reserved, whenever we hung out she usually just watched Hakeem and I banter back and forth and laugh. When she spoke, the both of us shut up and listened. Not only was she older than us by a few months, she was slightly taller than me and a bit taller than Hakeem, her hair was long and cascaded down her back in a subtle red color that she’d dyed it at the beginning of junior year. She wore these square frame glasses that looked kind of like those reading glasses that you could pick up at any pharmacy, but they clearly were designer frames by some European dude (I can’t remember his name, sue me).

She was fashionable in a different way than Hakeem, on Fridays after class she’d be in her school uniform, but if we hung out on a Saturday or Sunday, she would come in something much flashier. I always wondered how such a subtle person was so loud in what they wore, during the winter she wore tight turtlenecks and matching jeans with heeled boots, usually entirely in black, with large, gold hoop earrings and a dark shade of lipstick. When I first saw her in an outfit like that I was kind of shocked, mostly because I dressed like a hobo during those colder months. When it got warmer, she moved to crop tops and daisy dukes and Chuck Taylor sneakers and skirts.

My wardrobe wasn’t much to look at, especially during junior year. I wore ripped jeans and t-shirts and beanies. I had this big down coat that I would wear whenever it was cold. Hakeem was my exact opposite, some often said. While Hakeem was loud and rambunctious, I was more quiet and subdued.

Those days were the best days, even with the awkwardness between us. They became even fonder when I moved from the neighborhood and found myself in PG County, just across the border of Northeast DC in Hyattsville. We made a conscious decision that we would definitely see each other on the weekends now that we were all separated, but the meeting place changed since we couldn’t just ride to Fort Totten on the bus and meet her at Silver Spring.

Well, we could, but it was her idea that we just change it to meet at Fort Totten instead.

My school, Northwestern, wasn’t far from the Green Line and I was only two stops away from Fort Totten. Hakeem was still only a bus ride away, and Iris hopped on the bus from Blair and rode two stops down to Fort Totten. It would take us a while for us all to get together, but once we were all there, it was always the best. I guess, somehow, my moving away from Hakeem made us try and gel closure together.

You see, and now that we were meeting at Fort Totten, we could go anywhere in DC. Other than L’Enfant Plaza, Fort Totten was the line that had the most lines run through it. The Yellow Line to Huntington, Virginia started at Fort Totten on the lower platform along with the Green Line going north to Greenbelt and South to Branch Avenue and the Red Line, which ran from Glenmont to Shady Grove in Montgomery County. With these three lines all the best places in DC and outside of DC was accessible to them, Fort Totten was a literal hub for transferring from line to line.

We could go anywhere as long as we had the fare, and we almost always had the fare. Iris had a hefty allowance, Hakeem made enough money selling pot and I was working mowing lawns after school. At twenty bucks a lawn, I’d knock out about four lawns in two days and by the end of the week have enough spending money just to hang out and buy myself some nice stuff.

The awkwardness, though. The thing that began plaguing our relationship that spring was what I was talking about. It wasn’t about how different we were or our chemistry, it was about how I came to realize the three of us had secret rules. If one of us backed out, another one of us backed out, and it was always the same one. If I told them I couldn’t make it, Hakeem would concur and say he couldn’t make it. If Hakeem had something to do, either Iris or I would find an excuse not to hang out with one another. It was uncommon, but one week out of the month one of us would try to back out and find that we just wouldn’t hang out.

We became wise to it, as well. Not as a unit, but separately.

There was a point that the awkwardness between us shot to an all-time high that summer. We didn’t have school so we hung out whenever we could, but the more we hung out, it seemed the more it became strained between us. The rules became that much more obvious, as well. Now that we tried to get together at least three times a week, we confirmed separately that if it wasn’t the three of us, we never hung out, and that was it.

“Ay man, do you like Iris?” Hakeem asked one day while we were sitting at Fort Totten, on the Red Line platform. I’d had a long day, having promised one of my neighbors that I would finish their lawn in the morning, so my arms were a bit sore from doing that then hurrying to hop a bus and a train to get here. The sun was high and hot and there was a film of sweat that formed on my forehead, making me a bit dizzy. I hadn’t eaten, either.

“Yeah, I like her. Why?”

“Nah, I mean, are you tryin’ to fuck?” Hakeem had put it so eloquently. I had a crush on her, something I couldn’t admit to myself back then, but in retrospect I definitely wanted to do dumb shit like hold her hand and get closer to her.

“No. What the fuck?”

“I think she want to.” Hakeem said.

“With you?”

“Nah, with you, man.” He smirked.

“You’re crazy.” I laughed as the Red Line toward Glenmont rolled in, the cars screeched to a halt behind us and we both sat there. I was slouched with my hands in my pocket and my feet out in front of me and he was sitting next to me with his phone in his hand. I thought about it and didn’t see what he saw, we didn’t have a relationship outside of Hakeem, we had one another’s numbers but we didn’t really talk, at all. We were friends on Facebook but we didn’t really message one another. We had each other Twitter handles but we never mentioned one another, we’d retweet each other sometimes, but that was it. In my head, she never looked at me that way, and that was fine, because I never planned on letting her know I looked at her that way.

Not then, at least.

It’s strange, because when he asked me that question while sitting on the bench waiting for her to show up, it felt like the world began shifting. Not immediately, but gradually, I first noticed that evening when we were on our way back from Dupont Circle on a crowded car. She was sitting in the priority seating toward the middle of the car, she looked tired, her eyes a bit sunken and her brilliant red hair pressed against the hard plastic. I was standing in front of her, and sitting adjacent to her was Hakeem and we weren’t saying much to one another.

“If the world ends,” she suddenly started, opening her eyes slowly and staring blankly at my shirt.

“We should meet at Fort Totten.” Me and Hakeem traded a glance, then looked to her, a bit confused. Hakeem ran with it, though.

“If the world ends I’m going to be busy getting as much cheeks as I can.” Hakeem had a way with words, if you couldn’t tell.

“I’m serious.” She glared at Hakeem.

“If the world ends, we’ll meet at Fort Totten. All of us.” I agreed.

“What if Metro stop runnin’? Then what?” Hakeem asked, poking his nose up, his lip jutting to one side questioningly. “I ain’t got no whip. Y’all niggas not gonna’ come scoop me. If the world end—I’m getting cheeks, y’all can go to Fort Totten all y’all want.”

We laughed then, but it wasn’t funny looking back. That was the last time the three of us were together, all of us, happy, despite how bittersweet it was in the moment. The following week Hakeem got shot, and I remember hearing about it on Facebook before hearing about it from his momma. I remember the comments, how people who didn’t really know him outside of his drug dealing and party going said it was probably over some stupid shit. Rumor was that it was over his shoes, then there was a rumor that he didn’t pay his supplier, but ultimately when the investigation was over it came out that Hakeem was shot because he put himself between the bullet and a thirteen year old kid after a party.

The first time I talked to Iris in two weeks was at the funeral. I was sure we would drift apart, but she looked at me and smiled and told me that we should hang out soon. And we did, that weekend after his funeral, and while it was hard at first, we bonded over the grief we felt. Not that we hadn’t bonded before, but we weren’t as close as we were after Hakeem was killed. Our relationship changed, it had to, especially ours that depended so heavily on Hakeem.

We met once a week toward the end of summer, and it took a couple of weeks. She sometimes cried while we hung out, and we talked a few times about bringing new people in, but it was while we were sitting in a McDonalds in the city that we decided against it.

“I think three people—a group of people being friends is weird.” She told me, then gauged my puzzled expression that clearly said ‘we were a group of people being friends.’ She tilted her shake sideways, looked down at the table as if she were finding the words she wanted to say. “I think we were weird but not in the same way as three or five people trying to be friends is. I think we were special. It was a rare thing, you know?”

“I feel you.” I said, somewhat understanding.

“If one of us wasn’t one of us, if Hakeem happened to be like—Bob or you happened to be Jim or I would have been Jessica, it wouldn’t have been the same. Especially because there’s two guys and a girl.” She said with a slightly pained expression.

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone else would have started dating and one of us would have been a third wheel…maybe that would have been bad but—“ She stopped and took a pause. Then looked up at me, her brown eyes seemed to ensnare me and keep my wandering mind anchored to the here and now.

“We didn’t do any of that because it was us. Does that make sense?”

“You’re saying none of us ever dated because it was us. That if we were anyone else the entire formula would have been fucked up. I get it.” I told her, pushing a fry in my mouth and chewing thoughtfully. I was thinking of what Hakeem told me about a month ago, about how Iris wanted to sleep with me and my head went fuzzy thinking about how she was talking about any of us dating. Was she coyly referencing a possible romance? I wondered. “Maybe it’s because we’ve known each other since we were kids. That’s why none of us looked at each other that way.”

“That wasn’t it.” She said bluntly with no elaboration, I didn’t seek any further elaboration, either. I kind of took it as a confirmation that she shared the feelings that I had, that maybe this girl was as into me as I was into her. What was stopping us? For me, it was fear. A fear of rejection, a fear of losing a piece of Hakeem in Iris. I think the ghost of Hakeem was the biggest reason not to try to get together, but talking with her I could see his smirk out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the Red Line platform waiting for her to arrive.

That evening, as we pulled in to Fort Totten on the Yellow Line having come from Chinatown, I walked with her up to the Red Line platform which was above the mezzanine.

“You don’t have to come up with me. Your train is about to come in like two minutes.” She smiled a subtle smile with the edge of her lips as we ascended the long escalator. She leaned against the side and looked down upon me, the lights that lined the awning of the platform above washed over her in a way that made her look like a goddess to my sixteen year old brain. With my hands tucked away in my jeans, I shrugged my shoulders and smiled.

“I don’t mind. It seems like the right thing to do, anyway.”

We moved to the end of the Red Line platform to the usual spot and sat on the bench at the very end. The next train wasn’t coming for twenty minutes due to track work on the Red Line, and she kept urging me to go back downstairs and catch my train home, but I told her it was fine.

“You don’t have to wait with me.”

“Why are you trying so hard to get rid of me?” I asked, and she smiled, but I knew it was the wrong question. It was bad wording, a bad sentiment so soon after we’d lost our closest friend. Hakeem was like a splint that held us together, and that splint was gone, and now the wound was felt. I don’t remember what we talked about for those twenty minutes or what we talked about that entire day, I just remember the periods of silence between us that came in the outline of Hakeem. He couldn’t stand silences, it’s why he was always talking in his cool voice in his obnoxious tone.

As her train rolled in, we stood at the edge of the platform, the wind whisked her hair around and I remember the way she winced her eyes and pushed the locks from her face. It was like a Polaroid in my mind that played over and over, I had quite a few. Some of my dad before he went to prison, some of my sister before she went to college, but most of them were before something big happened. The train was coming to a halt and she grabbed me and threw her arms around me and hugged me close. It was the first time I was so close to her in all my years knowing her. We never hugged before, maybe as kids, but that was different.

I put my arms around her and held her close and she sobbed softly in my ear.

The doors to the train opened and she hadn’t pulled away, then they closed. The train pulled off and we were still there, holding one another underneath the marmalade sky, and by the time she was ready to go, the sky was dark and the moon was high. That moment was a turning point, it was as if she had opened her heart to me in a different way, and I took the opportunity to try and open mine, as well.

“I’ll text you when I get home.” She said, and that was another first.

“Yeah?” I asked with a smirk as her train rolled in. She was facing away from it, so her hair blew into her face and she didn’t bother to beat it back this, time.

“To let you know I got home okay.” She chuckled. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I smiled.

“Okay.”

This time, when the doors opened, she stepped onto the train and waited by the doors. I waved and she waved back, and the train pulled off into the dark night toward Takoma.

#literature #lit #short story #spilled ink #this is the version that actually got published sorry for reblogging the old unedited version

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saintheartwing · 5 years

Text

Starlight and Sans

This is one of my more popular stories, and it helped to set up a BIG collaboration between a friend of mine and I. Enjoy!

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The sun shone softly upon Cloudsdale as a faintly purplish-furred Unicorn laid in wait, sitting on a cloud, nonchalantly looking over a watch she had magic'd up. Her hair was a deep purple with bangs at the front and a blue streak flittering through it, and odd, wispy tattoo on her flank. This "cutie mark" was a symbol of her unique abilities of magic, and indeed, Starlight Glimmer was INCREDIBLY powerful and INCREDIBLY skilled when it came to magic. So skilled that she'd been able to improve on a time travel spell that only the greatest magician in all history had been able to craft.

Star Swirl the Bearded's magical spell had been a thing of incredible power. Designed only as kind of last resort. But Starlight Glimmer had decided to use it for a selfish, selfish reason. To keep Twilight Sparkle, the Princess of Friendship, from ever meeting her friends. How? Going to Cloudsdale, home of Rainbow Dash, and keeping her from accomplishing her "Sonic Rainboom". A breaking of the sound barrier that acted as a catalyst, which helped kick off all of her friend's special talents. Dash had gotten her cutie mark from winning a race as a child, Fluttershy, her fellow Pegasi, had then learned of her love of animals, Rarity had discovered her love of creating beautiful things, it all was connected. All of it went back to that Rainboom.

And so Starlight wanted to stop it. Because if the "Mane Six", as they were commonly called, had never gotten their cutie marks, they never would have interfered with her town of Equality, a place where nobody had nor needed cutie marks. At least, that was how she viewed it. She viewed what she'd done as making sure everyone was equal and on the exact same level, that nobody was lesser or greater than anyone. But in reality, she had pretty much forced that on the inhabitants. She'd never given them a chance to find out if they were GOOD at anything, and that had been wrong.

Not that she could see that. All she could feel was that she was in the right. And she didn't care how many times Twilight Sparkle tried to stop her, or how many times her stupid-

Wait a minute. Starlight Glimmer's eyes narrowed intensely as a figure calmly popped out of a shimmering, aquamarine portal before her, landing on the fluffy cloud ground some distance away as he glanced about. "welp." He remarked, holding a hand up to his forehead, squinting a bit. "so THAT'S what the sun looks like." He muttered, then peering over and looking down, down at the land of Equestria below. "now I know why they tell you "don't look down". didn't USE to be afraid of heights." He wryly remarked, his voice low and slightly sarcastic as he chuckled a bit, shaking his bony head.

Bony...head. A bony head, bony hands, a living skeleton that was distinctly NOT ponylike. It had a gaping nose slit, a big grinning smile, a rather tubby and short form with a blue jacket and blue slippers on his feet. He chuckled as he looked Starlight Glimmer over, pulling out what appeared to be some kind of food. "so! want a 'dog?"

"...a...whuh...?" Starlight Glimmer mumbled in confusion as she looked this...this STRANGE, STRANGE being over, glancing about as others who were in Cloudsdale glanced in his direction as well before wisely inching far, far away. "What's that?"

"an apostrophe dog. a hot dog. c'mon." He said, tossing it to her as she caught it, blinking before staring down at it.

"This is no "dog", it's a member of the species "Typha"! A group of wetland flowering plants with brown, oblong seedpods. Better known as a "water sausage"." She remarked. "...still, I DO like water sausages." She admitted, popping it into her mouth and chewing, enjoying the delightful, tangy, yet robust flavor as the skeleton shrugged and closed his eyes, grin widening some more.

"well, I'm a considerate guy. you sure have been busy, huh? so can I ask you a little question? if you don't mind."

Starlight munched on the "hot dog" some more before swallowing it down, looking the skeleton over. "...what kind of question?" She asked. "I mean, who are you anyhow?"

"the name's Sans. sans the skeleton. so I wanted to ask you this." Sans took in a deep breath. "do ya think anybody can be good, if they just TRY?"

"Huh?" Starlight muttered, scratching her head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"you...are a dirty little hacker of time and space. you've been messing with things you ain't s'posed to. so I'll ask again. do you think anybody can be a good person?"

Starlight suddenly realized the skeleton's tone had shifted. It was now lower...darker. Colder.

Crueler.

"Are you trying to threaten me?" She asked, her eyes turning to dark slits as she stood up, her horn glittering with shimmering aquamarine light as she shook her head back and forth. "I don't have much patience for fools."

"lemme answer your question with another." Sans said as his closed eyes shot wide open, revealing nothing but dark, empty abysses for sockets, an empty expanse that stretched on and on, as if looking into her very soul. Or rather, what he viewed as a lack thereof. "DO YOU WANNA HAVE A BAD TIME?" He intoned, his voice like crawling maggots on her back as she shuddered.

"What's this all about?" She growled. "Why are you interfering with me?!" She demanded to know.

Sans snapped his fingers. Suddenly all of time and space went dark, as if the light of the universe itself had been put out, and she saw something hovering right in front of her chest. It was, unmistakably, a heart. A heart the color of light blue...which was soon turned into dark blue as she felt herself lifted up not by her own power, but the power of Sans. His left eye glittered with an almost unnatural blue glow, burning like a fire as she was dragged through the air, into the portal behind him...

As she found herself in what was nothing but an endless abyss of dusty ground. Tumbleweeds rolled by, the skies red and brown and ugly as the Earth upon which they stood, a foul wind that smelled like rotting corpses stinging her nostrils as Sans snapped his bony fingers again and she flopped to the ground, Sans gesturing about her.

"THIS. is what will happen to Equestria if I let you go on with your little revenge. this is what happens cuz you try to fiddle with my friends. in a few weeks after Twilight gives her speech to those students, they were supposed to finally meet me and my buddies. our two worlds would have moved forward into a bright new future. but that could only happen if Twilight was still Princess, if Pinkie was still her crazy yet lovable self." Sans remarked, looking off to the side. "...but all of that faded away. my buddies couldn't even remember them. but I'm used to time travel. my memories, they...they stick. so I could hitch a ride on your spell...and I could try and talk some sense into you."

"You expect me to buy that?!" Starlight Glimmer snapped, now hovering in the air on her OWN accord, her body glowing with light blue light as she aimed her horn squarely at Sans. "You expect me to buy that those stupid ponies are just soooooo important to the world that if they don't get their cutie marks, everything and everyone dies?! You expect me to BELIEVE that?"

"ain't just about the little tattoos you got on ya. its called the "butterfly effect"." Sans said, shaking his bony head back and forth. "the tiniest change in one place can cause a monsoon of change elsewhere. if just the right string gets pulled on a blanket, the whole thing can fall apart."

"Don't you lie to me!" Starlight Glimmer roared out, firing off a pulsating beam at Sans as he nonchalantly stepped to the side, wagging a disapproving finger at her.

"ah-ah-ah. ya think I'm just gonna stand here and let you hit me?" Sans remarked, Starlight firing off another beam at him as he calmly stepped to the side again and again. He ducked and dipped, easily sliding left and right, avoiding her assault.

"That is IT!" She roared out, as twin beams of light coalesced around her horn and Sans sighed.

"welp. guess I gotta bring out the big guns." he intoned, snapping his fingers. And just as Starlight aimed her horn and fired at him...

An instant nightmare struck. A horrible, gastly, bony face that faintly resembled some kind of mandibled beast popped up in midair right in front of Sans. It opened its mouth wide as a beam of pure, horrible, light blue energy pulsated forth like a burning star, and Starlight's attack was nothing before its fury. Her own twin beams of light dissolved in the swatch of horrific skeleton power that bathed over her, and it felt like she was struck by a freight train as she was sent spiralling through the air, skidding across the ground as Sans approached her, hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes soulless and cold.

"turn around kid. it'd be a crime. if I had to go to far and step over that line. so unless you wanna have a bad time-"

"If you're going to INSULT me, don't you do it in rhyme!" Starlight groaned out, smoke wafting off her body as she struggled to get to her feet, panting and heaving as she shook her head back and forth, burn marks all over her.

"you're no fun." Sans said, pouting a bit as he flexed his arms, Starlight seeing the heart manifest before her. "that right there? that's your SOUL. the cultivation of your being. and let me be the first to tell you this. YOU'RE BONED." he remarked, Starlight being bounced up and down and all around as Sans swept his arms about, tossing her like a rag doll.

"OW-OW-OW-OW! You expect me to buy that six stupid pony's friendships are so important that the world will fall apart without them?! How egocent-OWOWOWOWWOWOW!" Her monologue got stopped in mid-sentence as he bounced her about like a basketball before finally letting her flop to the ground, Starlight shooting back up as her eyes glowered darkly. "The ego on you and your friends is amazing!"

"it ain't ego to speak the truth. sometimes people ARE just that important. sometimes all it takes is one person to change everything." Sans said.

"PROVE it." Starlight demanded, rushing forward at him, a swirling, glimmering dark barrier around her as Sans sighed, eyes closed before he suddenly popped right behind her, and a portal opened up, Starlight falling through, down, down, down into a dark abyss before...

FWOP. She landed in a large pile of snow, shuddering as she wrapped her arms around herself, Sans carefullly taking off his jacket as he approached from behind, putting it around her as he pointed. "look there." He said, pointing at a figure who was sitting on a tree stump, surrounded by icy trees on all sides as an odd, bird-like, almost draconic figure with a faintly snowflake-esque head cleared its throat, holding a light blue wing up to its face.

"Ah-hem. What is my favorite Queen song? IIIIICLE! IIIIICLE! Icicle, icicle, icicle, iciclllle-RACE!" He proclaimed, the brown-haired young lad in a blue and red-striped long sleeve shirt laughing at this, covering their face with their hands. "Wow! Real laughs! Dad was wrong!"

"Who's...that?" Starlight Glimmer wanted to know as Sans sat down next to her.

"his name's Frisk, and he's a human. he ended up in the Underground, my home. the land of Monsters ain't really friendly to humans cuz their race trapped us down here eons ago. we'd been trying to get seven human souls to break the magical barrier that keeps us here, but instead of taking his, we found out something. we...we really liked him."

Sans escorted her through the forest as Frisk then looked over at a cube of ice, patting it on its "head". "Aw, c'mon. Cheer up!"

"...I can't. My hat is gone."

"You don't need clothing to define you. You can just be you."

"...you...you think so?" The ice cube quietly asked, Frisk nodding in agreement. "You know what? You're right! I'd rather be a HATER than a HATTER"! The Ice Cube proclaimed.

"one by one, he made friends with every monster he came across. he found a way to connect." Sans said as he put a bony hand on Starlight's shoulder, and she found herself whisked away to a large, lava-filled cavernous space, an ice cream man with blue fur selling the last of his stock to armored guards as Frisk cheerily smiled at the two.

"You two having fun?"

"Thanks for finally helping me to open up about my feelings." The rabbit guard remarked, nodding back at Frisk. "You're right, it's much better to be honest."

"...thanks." The second one said, as the two began to take their helmets off, Frisk heading up some nearby stairs as Sans and Starlight followed, Frisk handing over some gold to a cat and a crocodile in an alleway.

"Oh, WOW, you're actually willing to buy this garbage?" The cat-like monster asked, nervously blushing as Frisk looked over the cowboy hat, putting it on his head.

"Oh, I dunno, I think it looks good!"

"No, really, it's garbage. We got it at the dump. I mean, I even found this gun in a dumpster." The crocodile woman remarked, Frisk shrugging.

"It looks fine to me. And you guys need this more than I do."

"Ohhh, you are, like, so totally sweeeet! Isn't he, Bratty?"

"Oh, definitely, Catty. You are like, SOOOO nice."

"the kid had a quality about him that drew us all together. he was just so nice and kind, and he didn't ever give up on anyone." Sans said as he wistfully sighed. "we all grew to love him. and its because of him that we got out of the barrier. his friendship with another soul allowed the barrier to come down because he united all of us. sometimes that really is all it takes. just one really good, caring friend to change everything."

Starlight felt his shoulder again, and suddenly, everyone was together on the surface, all standing by Frisk as he rested his head on a large, goat-lady's shoulder.

"I could look at this for hours too." He said, Starlight glancing all about at the many, many monsters that were gazing with awe at the sunrise that stretched out before the valley she now stood high over with Sans.

"All because of this one human?" She asked Sans.

"yeeeep." Sans said with a smile, Starlight hanging her head as he took her shoulder again, and this time, she was back in Cloudsdale, sitting on a cloud with him as they looked over at a racing little Pegasus with rainbow hair. "so, you wanna talk?"

"...I lost my only friend when his parents took him away to Canterlot. All because he was so talented. All because of his cutie mark. I'd never learned how to make any other friends because I spent all my childhood with just him, and I thought it'd be us together. That we'd get our marks at the same time. I had to struggle and scrape just to get my mark, and everyone else seemed to get their talents found so easily, and..." She hung her head. "...it didn't seem fair. If there wasn't some magical mark that made everything easy for you..."

"it ain't always fair. but it ain't always unfair. you just do the best ya can with what ya got. but c'mon. you look down, and I think ol' Uncle Sans can cheer you up."

"How?"

Another pat on the shoulder, and suddenly, she was right in front of a brown-haired Asian American who had his arms stretched out as a goat-like, VERY nicely-smelling child stood nearby, the Asian kid grinning in delight.

"I'm gonna hug the HELL outta you." Frisk announced, Asriel calmly approaching with his own wide arms as Sans grinned.

He had a good feeling about this.

#starlight glimmer #Sans #undertale sans #fanfiction #fanfic #My Little Pony #undertale

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romantic-anti-hero-blog · 6 years

Text

“I’m sorry, but there’s not much I can do for you. If you’ll all return to your vehicles, the matter will be resolved soon,” the soldier said, and waved his free hand toward the line of cars. He was on the smaller side, looked just shy of 21, but his sharp tone of voice and dutiful eyes projected confidence. A Private First Class patch velcroed on his sternum; ‘Lars’ on his right breast; a flashlight in his left hand. Three other soldiers stood nearby. Two were on either dark curb of the road keeping watch, tightly gripping the M4 carbines draped around their torsos. The other, standing behind a large metal roadblock spanning the width of the road, paced back and forth as he spoke quietly into a radio on his shoulder.

In front of the guardsmen stood a crowd of fifteen or more, all backlit against their headlights, and unanimous in their frustration. “If it’s not dangerous, why can’t we get through?” a young mother asked, a toddler in her arms. “There’s got to be another way around,” a burly flannel-wearing man said. A kid with a wisp of a goatee asked, “What aren’t you telling us?”

“What exactly’s going on?” Max asked. Frank stood next to him, and Jan beside his father. Elias stood behind the whole crowd, tapping away at his phone and lightly kicking at gravel by the side of the road.

A woman standing nearby leaned in. “He said a tanker-truck with chemicals crashed,” she said. Her arms were crossed around her waist, swaddling herself in a brown cardigan.

“Like I’ve told you,” Private Lars said above the crowd, and pointed a beam of light just to the right of further down the road. “A chemical spill, about a klick that way. There’s a team of environmental specialists investigating the site and severity of the spill.”

Jan unlocked his phone and found a map of the area on barely a bar. It was a choppy and frustrating ordeal navigating around, flexing in and out on nearby roads and paths.

“Alright, do you know how much longer it might be until we’re allowed pass through?” Max said.

“Sir, do you know what spilled exactly?” Frank said.

“We’re not sure yet, but they’ve confirmed it’s not airborne, and poses no immediate threat to human life,” Lars said. “The report now is we should be getting all you folks on your way within an hour or two.”

“Well how long has it been?” a man in the back asked.

“My family’s been parked here for two hours already,” a woman said.

“Jeez, and there isn’t a detour, just to get around it?” Max asked.

Jan turned to Frank. “An hour and a bit isn’t too long to wait,” he whispered. “But there’s a dirt road a half-mile back that takes us around and to the left of here.” Frank nodded.

“Okay- thank you, Private Lars,” Frank said, and began to usher his gang back down the line of cars. Lars gave a nod to Frank, and turned his shields up against the remaining complaining group.

Frank put them a couple of steps away from the crowd and guardsmen. “Jan found a route around,” he said as they walked.

“Good man,” Max said, and gave Jan a first bump.

The crowd behind them suddenly paused their commotion; the only sound remaining was the soldier on the radio who began yelling to his team. Something “unknown” at “high-speed.”

Jan noticed a low humming in the distance, faint but growing. His pocket vibrated.

“Guys,” Elias said, still on his phone, confusion in his voice. “Lia texted. Something in the sky.”

The group all turned their heads upward and scanned the airspace. Nothing but a field of stars on black. The ominous humming grew and grew, But where is it? Jan thought, his eyes darting around.

The soldier again, calling: “Eyes up - find cover.” Then Private Lars: “Everyone, back to your cars, now!” he shouted.

“Dad!” called Lia from the end of the line of cars. Sierra stood beside her, yelled, “Guys, here, now!”

Then Jan spotted it. “There!” he said, and pointed a finger up in the sky, right of the road. A purple pulsating glow - no, six of them, sticking together in tight formation - streaking through the night sky, miles away. They seemed to move slowly, only because of the distance. A moment of staring revealed their incredible speed.

The crowd roared up - “What’s happening?” “What’s going on?” “What is it?” “Oh my God!” “What the fuck?” - as the four soldiers crouched down against the metal barricade and on either side of the street, and raised their weapons toward the purple glowing engines. Closer and closer they flew before three of the ships broke off in the direction of the chemical spill - the other three stayed their course.

All at once, the screaming crowd turned and charged for their cars. “Come on, back to the van!” Max said and led the sprint. As Frank took off, he put his palms against Jan and Elias’ backs and began pushing; the boys’ legs quickly switched into double-time. They only managed to run a few feet before the ships were upon them.

At the moment they were overhead the ships all split apart - the outer two, slightly smaller than the middle, forked to their left and right - and braked 50 feet above the ground; they spun, drifting mid air, rear engines burning against their forward momentum, quickly bringing them to a near stop. Floodlights on their noses burst open, blinding everyone beneath. Gently they sank through the air and set down on the left side of the road.

A panicking few ran off the road and into the dark rural farmland. Most took shelter behind their cars and cautiously took in the sight.

The ships were a deep black; they’d be invisible in the night sky, if their reverberating neon engines didn’t light their backsides up as though they were propelled by purple shooting stars. They had curving slender pyramidal forms: long and flattish on top and back, narrowing toward the bottom and the front; 20 feet tall, and a wingspan of 50. A slit ran across their noses where cockpits likely lay. On either side of their swooping hulls were prominent red and black triangular symbols thinly bordered in white.

The larger ship was much thicker toward the bottom, with a circular hatch under its nose - the hatch shot open from either side. Four figures stepped out.

Max, Frank, Jan, and Elias all ducked behind a Ford F150 for cover. Sierra and Lia, both crouched, ran and joined them.

“What are you doing here?” Max whisper-yelled at Sierra. “What’s she doing here?”

“Why aren’t you getting back to the van?” Sierra whisper-yelled back.

“Shhh!” Elias whisper-yelled.

Peering over the truck bed, they watched the team of four soldiers, guns trained on the aliens, attempt at handling the situation. “Don’t move!” one of them cracked. “Fucking freeze!” another yelled, his voice wavering.

The aliens marched forward in intricate grey armor over their blue skin. Long sleek helmets framed their reptile-like yellow eyes. The one in front, leading the others, wore a set of two red and silver bands around its wrists, and a silver pair of outward-pointing chevrons etched into the forehead of its helmet. The three followers carried with them oblong chrome devices in both hands.

The alien leader said something unintelligible in a high pitch - “Hrrantsss mmie ‘taat.” - and pressed at a small spot on the inside of its wrist.

“Stop, or we will shoot you! We will fucking shoot you!” Private Lars screamed.

The leader spoke in its high-pitched tone. “Frank Hale,” it said. It turned to face Frank and dispassionately fixed its eyes on him. “Pleasse comme quietly.” Everyone hiding along the long line of cars turned to the named man.

Jan’s stomach dropped through the crust of the earth. Elias’ whole body convulsed. Not Uncle Frank, Lia thought, and dug fingernails into the back of her left hand. Max and Sierra’s eyes shot open. We fucked up, they both thought.

Me? Frank asked. Me. It wants me. He felt himself try to think a way out, but nothing came. He was stuck, frozen, his eyes locked with those of A blue alien who came here for me, he thought. Frank stood up.

“Dad, no,” Jan said. He grabbed his dad’s plaid shirt and tried to pull him back down.

Elias grabbed his dad’s arm, pulled down too. “Dad, get back down,” he whispered.

“Frank, stop it,” Sierra told her brother.

The soldiers briefly turned their attention to see Frank standing, his eyes fixed with the alien leader’s.

What else can I do? Frank thought. Any other choice defies the aliens who could probably kill anyone they like. He fought off his sons’ strength and began walking forward.

The leader gave a nod. “Thannk you, ssir,” it said.

“No!” Jan yelled. “Stop!” Lars ordered. “Lay down your arms or we will open fire!” Another soldier shouted.

A third soldier: “Mr. Hale, sir, stay right where you are!” he yelled, and turned his weapon on Frank - the other soldiers kept their sights on the aliens. “Mr. Hale, if you step any further, I will have to shoot you!” Frank froze mid-stride.

Lia felt the back of her hand grow warm and wet. Elias’ eyes shot back and forth - from his dad, to the corporal, to the aliens - not sure what to do. Max felt the incredible urge to grab his wife and daughter and run. Sierra couldn’t leave her brother behind.

The aliens all turned to the soldiers; the three armed ones aimed their silver guns toward them. “Corrporral, you annd yourr mmenn will nnot ssurvive a connfrronntationn wit uss,” the leader said.

“I am not allowing you to take this man,” the corporal said.

Jan sensed a change in the leader’s demeanor at the corporal’s ultimatum.

“Sso be it,” the leader said, followed by, “K’wal.” The three subordinate aliens discharged their guns with crackling thin beams of vibrant orange light - shot through the soldiers before they could let off a single shot - leaving gushing perfect holes from the soldiers’ chests through to their backs. Onlookers started screaming. Frank got down low to the ground for shelter, raised his hands up to show his lack of threat.

Private Lars, last of his team standing, rolled back and to his left, and took cover behind a blue minivan before the aliens could fire on him. Lars looked up to see a husband and wife cowering next to him. The aliens continued firing, ripping into the body and engine block of the minivan. The husband and wife took off running, into the tall dark grass by the side of the road.

They’re still shooting at me! Lars thought, listening to the rapid barrage of gunfire behind him. I can’t surrender faster than they’ll kill me! He dropped his gun, got to his feet, and began sprinting down the line of cars, making sure to keep his head and body low. Vollies of energy kept blasting toward him. If they mean to take that Frank Hale alive, they might not risk his death; he may be my only chance! Lars dashed toward Frank; metal and glass exploding just above him; people making themselves into as small targets as possible as they screamed for dear life.

Frank turned to see the young private charging at him from behind a car ten feet off. Now, as close as he could get while still behind the cars’ cover, Lars swerved between two vehicles and launched himself at a spot just behind Frank. The energy blasts didn’t let up, but Lars’ leap added to his speed. For a moment he was totally exposed, but he was too fast for the aliens to keep their aim on him.

The leader saw what his troops didn’t. “Tinn k’wal!” it ordered. Lars slid, the sleeves of his fatigues grazing asphalt, and came to a stop right behind Frank. The aliens obeyed the command; as they ceased fire, a final energy blast cracked out, and sliced through Frank and Lars. The two men were dead instantly.

Gasps and shrieks rang out from the crowd.

“Dad!” Jan and Elias screamed. They both charged forward.

Max tried to grab them but they were out of reach.

“Frank!” Sierra cried. “No!”

Max put an arm around his sobbing wife and held her tight, keeping her from running forward.

Lia grabbed at the back of her dad’s shirt, coiled the cloth in her hands tightly, and pulled herself in; she’d have buried her head, but she couldn’t take her eyes off her murdered uncle.

As Jan reached Frank’s body, his eyes spotted a sidearm strapped to Lars’ right hip. His head beat to the rhythm of a jackhammer. Swelled with anger, he ripped off the velcro release strap, found the gun’s grip, and, letting out a hateful guttural howl, raised it on the one who killed his dad. The team of aliens raised their guns- but not before Elias threw himself into Jan’s back. A single gunshot slapped the air but found no target. The brothers landed hard. Jan felt a fresh cut above his right eye where his head hit the ground. Elias smashed an elbow into Jan’s pistol-gripping hand. Jan felt a snap and released the gun. “Stay down,” Elias whispered, tears beginning to blur his vision. “Please stay down.”

“Tinn, tinn ssek!” the leader shouted and raised a hand. The aliens lowered their guns.

Jan’s felt an odd throbbing in his brain. The pain of his cut and his hand began fading away. “Murder-er..,” he said before wooziness took hold of his mind and consciousness slipped away.

The leader ordered its troops in their alien tongue: **Take the boys. The rest of them will be interned and processed once phase two begins.**

The one who killed Frank Hale would be dealt with later.

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