#Does Scylla have to watch people be idiots | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tallycraven · 3 years

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fic title: coffin song

puvoohighiuhfgkjhjk vampire au w/ human raelle.

scylla’s a vampire. not young, but not as old and cranky as all her superiors.

no, she’s barely one hundred years old. she’s seen her share of war, famine, pestilence, death, yadda yadda yadda.

it all means nothing to her in the grand scheme of immortality.

her sire, anacostia, thinks she’s selfish.

she’s right, of course, not that scylla would ever admit it.

she gets in trouble with her coven for nearly draining some boy completely one night and gets put on a house arrest of sorts. no going out alone, no feeding from unverified sources, and absolutely-under-any-and-all-circumstances no day-walking.

scylla’s half convinced they’re just jealous that she’s still young enough to be able to walk in the sun (albeit with limited powers).

but she listens. because house arrest is still better than getting sent to some hellish sect of their coven up in the arctic circle.

she makes friends with another young vampire by the name of tally.

younger, newly transferred from their sister coven in california so that she could study telepathy under anacostia.

scylla does admit, though, that for someone who was turned at the start of the cold war, tally seems to have the wisdom of those much older than either of them.

they spend most of their time reading and doing things in the large mansion to pass time.

there are only so many books and chess games you can play before even your undead brain turns to rotted pulp, though.

scylla convinces tally to sneak out with her once.

“we don’t even have to do anything! i just want to see people and maybe glamour some idiot into buying me a drink!”

“i don’t know, scylla.”

“just, tell anacostia you’ll watch me and we can go out for a walk.”

“scylla...”

“one walk!”

“.... fine.”

anacostia gives them strict rules that all boil down to: no fun allowed.

she also makes scylla swear on her fangs that she will not come within contact of any mortal, especially young humans.

tally seems satisfied with that, because she just grabs scylla’s wrist and drags her out before she can complain.

it’s not much, but scylla enjoys being able to stretch her legs somewhere other than the mansion grounds-- there’s more life out here in the town square.

even tally seems to be enjoying the change in scenery, smiling and waving to the dogs that are being walked.

“if you think about it, the dogs are kind of walking the humans.”

“what?”

“who’s deriving more joy out of it, the dog or the human?”

“what?”

tally doesn’t give scylla a real explanation and scylla gives up on the second try.

they don’t have to eat or drink, but both of them agree that those fun frosted treats at the coffee shop taste leaps and bounds better than blood.

so they stop by a place to grab something, but scylla is ordered to stay outside.

the idea of being told what to do by someone half a century younger than her is upsetting, but scylla obeys because she really wants to be able to go for walks outside again after this.

tally strolls inside with her order and scylla plops down onto a bench, legs crossed and fingers tapping on the centuries-old medallion that she wears around her neck when she sees her.

or.. smells, rather.

a lithe blonde, barely taller than herself, dressed down in black pants, a white shirt, and a baggy jacket that looks like it was handed down.

she smells like pine and firewood with something uniquely citrusy at the bottom of it all-- it’s oddly entrancing. scylla finds that she can’t look away.

she’s crossing the street alone, attention too focused on the phone in her hand to see the car charging down the street in her direction with no signs of stopping.

time slows and scylla is presented with a choice.

she’s seen multiple humans die of careless mistakes like this, has never felt the need to step in to stop them.

she doesn’t know why her legs move before she even consciously makes the decision, but before she knows it, she’s stood up with supernatural speed and has tackled the other girl out of the way, skidding to a stop on the hard concrete sidewalk.

“ow.” says the body beneath her. “what the fuck are you made of? marble?”

scylla finds herself speechless for the first time in a long time. caught between regret for breaking anacostia’s rules and fascination with the stranger pinned under her.

scylla doesn’t get much chance to explain her way out of the situation, because before she knows it, she’s being pulled off the girl by a panicked and angry tally and dragged away.

and despite her age, her self-proclaimed wisdom, her maturity and wit.

the last thing she says to the stranger is, “nice to meet you!”

raelle’s head hurts. it’d been hurting all day, but it hurts extra hard now that she was just tackled to the ground by a gorgeous stranger.

she sits up, rubbing her temple and trying to see where her savior is getting dragged off to, but is barely able to get two words out before she rounds a corner and disappears.

she feels something in her lap and looks down at the object that the other person must’ve dropped when she saved raelle.

it’s an old, weird looking medallion on a leather cord. heavy and worn enough that raelle’s pretty sure it’s not just some cool prop from hot topic.

“come back!” she shouts in the direction the girl disappeared. “you forgot your... super weird cult necklace.”

#¯\_(ツ)_/¯#!ficideas #asks #Anonymous

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letmewritemylife · 4 years

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Not the Only One (Part 2)

When they all come crashing down mid flight, you know you're not the only one. - Evanescence (The Only One)

A/N These two are babies and you can't change my mind

TRIGGER WARNINGS Mentions of domestic violence

A heartbreaking cry fills his ears as his father presses his face harder against his chest. "I'm sorry, little one, I'm so sorry," he whispers between tears as he holds him, the two sitting on the bed.

Jonathan hugs him tighter, trying in vain to silent his inconsolable parent before his mother hears him. He has always been taught crying is for the weak and he must never be weak, but it seems like no one ever told it to his father.

The man finally parts from him and wipes away his tears before muttering a weak thank you to his son, who just smiles softly.

Then they hear footsteps and Sandra, or how Jonathan used to call her, "Scylla", enters the room with rage written all over her face. "You're still crying over that baby!" She screams pointing her finger at her husband. "I'll give you a reason to cry," she mutters.

She fiercely steps towards him and everyone in the room knows what is about to happen. Abraham is already feeling the taste of blood in his mouth, when Jonathan throws his arms forward to stop his mother.

"It wasn't him, it was me!"

The woman moves her deadly gaze from her husband to her son and, without a second thought, slaps him hard enough to make him fall with his side on the bed. He doesn't even have the time to sit up before another hit comes to his face, followed by countless ones.

Abraham doesn't do anything, he just watches as the blankets are soaked in blood, his five-year-old son's blood. He is used to it. He's not strong enough to stop it.

Jonathan jumps up in a sitting position on the iron table he was sleeping on, his breathing erratic and sweat pearls dripping down his forehead. After throwing a glance around him, he lays back down and lets out a deep breath, trying to calm down. He closes his eyes for a moment, but immediately opens them again: he can feel his heart beating in his head.

With a sigh he sits up, crossing his legs on the cold metal, and looks at the woman with mahogany coloured hair in the nearby cell. She's still sleeping tight, even though the light coming through the small windows makes him think it's already late in the morning.

He moves a hand through his hair and his mind runs to his father. Is he alright? Has his mother already killed him? What you're feeling right now is your own conscience. "Yes, it is and it hurts, it f*cking hurts," he thinks.

He leans the side of his head against the wall and gets lost in his thoughts for the hundredth time since he got arrested. Why does he feel so bad? It's not just the knowledge his father could die any minute and there would be no one to protect him, there's something else too.

Then he freezes as realization hits him like a truck. Is he… is he sad for his sister? "No, I'm not. No, I'm not. No, I'm- Yes, yes, I am." He covers his face with his hands and collapses down on the bed in resignation. Yes, he is. He is sad. He is sorry. He is an idiot. "Nothing I didn't already know."

Footsteps down the hallway give him a sparkle of newfound hope. He rushes to the glass in front of the wall and looks right and left, searching the origin of those sounds. When his eyes meet the sight of Captain America accompanying a guy in a nearby cell, he sighs and steps back.

"No, wait! He knows her!" He rushes back to the glass and notices the man is heading right in his direction. The perks of having your cell near the exit door...

"Hey Miss America!" Jonathan shouts, drawing not only Rogers' attention, but also that of a sleepy mugger covered in tattoos a few cells away from him.

Rogers sighs and stops, turning slowly towards him. "What do you want, Houghton?" He asks, clearly annoyed.

Jonathan leans with an arm on the glass. "I need you to do me a favour."

"And why should I?"

He smirks. "Because I'm not going to stop bothering you until you do." Rogers sighs again, this time louder, and is about to leave when Jonathan launches his arm forward as to stop him. "It's not hard, just please tell your brunette friend I need to talk with her."

The other one turns again to face him and eyes him annoyed. "Do you have a vague idea of how many brunettes there are?"

Jonathan sighs. "Come on, you know who I'm talking about!" No he doesn't. Apparently being clever isn't an important requirement to become a super soldier. "Fine," he says, "the one who head-butted me."

Without answering, Rogers turns around and heads to the door. Jonathan presses his face harder against the glass. "Is that a yes?" The door slams before he receives an answer.

Letting out a breath, he lays back on the metallic table and moves a hand over his face. All he can do is hope the patriotic guy has enough pity in his body full of steroids to help him. And yes, calling him Miss America was absolutely necessary and worth the risk to be ignored.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he hears someone knocking on the glass. He immediately gets up, the woman he was waiting for standing there in front of him. "Hi," he mutters as he steps closer.

Lara adjusts her leather jacket before setting her eyes right on his face. "Let's end this thing quickly. What do you need?"

The coldness in her voice makes him feel even worse than before, like those little shards of glass you never seem to be able to take out of your skin after you've broken a window, but still hurt like all hell.

"I… I wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday…" he says, trying to steady his voice, but God... that lethal gaze has nothing to envy Sandra's. Maybe it's even worse. "You know, I may have been a little too emotionally driven."

She breathes out a laugh but instantly sets her eyes back on him, her expression not changing in the slightest. "You literally blamed your father's depression on a newborn."

He stutters, trying to form a coherent thought. For a second he thinks he can even hear his neighbour muffling a laugh. "Okay, maybe I was very emotionally driven, but… you have to understand me-"

"I understand you, I really do. I perfectly understand you were raised this way but… I can't, I can't ignore what your parents have done to me, what your organisation has done to me, what I've done for it," she interrupts him, her eyes still set on him. Yes, her gaze is way worse than Sandra's. She has pain written in her irises.

She takes a breath and goes on, her voice trembling. "If there's something I know, it's that not everyone deserves a second chance. Yet here I am. And… and you have no idea how dumb people think I am for still being here talking with you, but…"

"No please, please don't break my heart again."

Lara sighs and looks down at the floor for a second, before her eyes meet his again and he can feel his heart shattering in a thousand pieces. "But sometimes it's easier trusting a scrap of paper written by a stranger than the person you've seen every day for years."

She crosses her arms, forcing Jonathan to fight the urge to apologise for everything, even the things he has never done. "So if you're trying in some sick and perverted way to make me join your… your bunch of terrorists, I'm sorry but you'll fail."

He tries to find the words to say what is going in his mind, parting his lips but saying nothing. Finally he sighs and focuses on her eyes, ignoring the pain in his chest. "And this is where you're wrong. I'm not trying to make you join anything."

Lara's curious look relieves his suffering a little bit. "You know," he continues, "my whole life I've been living as a barrier between my mother and my father. I… I was the only thing that could keep my mother from finally getting rid of her husband."

He crosses his arms tightly on his chest, as to protect himself from a kick coming his way. Maybe she is protecting herself from a kick too.

"So I stayed, I always stayed," he says. "And every single part of me knew teaching a ten-year-old child how to slit someone's throat is wrong in any way, that kicking a child in the face so many times to make him stronger is wrong, but… but I stayed."

He inches closer to the glass and notices the change in Lara's eyes. No more pain, no more sorrow, now there's only pity. "But now, it doesn't matter how many punches I've spared my father. I'll die anyway. Even if I say nothing, even if I cling onto those last pieces of loyalty left in me. If they find me, if she finds me, I'll die, because blood ties don't matter when compared to power." As he says this last sentence, his voice shakes. His mother is way better at saying it.

He steps back and swallows heavily, knots in his throat and an ache in his chest. "You have every right to hate me, not to trust me, but if you ever need to know anything… I'll do my best to help you." He's done it. He's signed his death penalty, but he couldn't care less. He then whispers a few last words, a last stab in Lara's heart. "You deserve a second chance."

In that moment, Lara feels her heart shattering to pieces and her fingers getting cut as she tries to put them back together. She bites her bottom lip and tugs her jacket, then swallows heavily. "Thank you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

A guitar riff starts playing from her phone, followed by a few lines sung by Corey Taylor. She looks down at the screen, fast to mute it while Jonathan stares curiously at her. "Sorry, my boss," she says with a hint of a smile, hoping Stephen won't hate her if she calls him later. "I have to go."

He nods, then stops her. "Wait!" She immediately turns to him and he smiles. "Even though it's kinda cool, I don't think I can go on asking Miss America to talk with the brunette who head-butted me."

She breathes out a laugh. "I'm Lara Johnson."

He leans with a forearm on the glass. "I'm Jonathan, but I think you already knew that."

For the next couple of weeks, Lara and Jonathan meet almost every day. At first their conversations are strictly about "work," but as time goes on the two begin to trust each other more and more. Sometimes Lara drops by his cell just to see how things are going. Even though being an almost Avenger's brother doesn't really bring him particular benefits, Jonathan isn't suffering her presence anymore.

This fact seems quite unbelievable to someone, as most of their conversations are still made of playful banter and sarcastic comments, but what were you expecting from two people whose first interaction was one choking the other?

After two months, Jonathan is offered conditional freedom as long as he wears a tracking device that also has an option to control his powers. Walking beside Lara as he leaves jail, he smirks and moves a finger around the button at the base of his neck. "Your friend Stark must love this shape for his devices."

Lara surpasses him and opens the door of her car, throwing her bag on the back seats. "Partially correct, but not completely. It was not Stark to make that toy of yours." As she plays with her keys, her gaze follows Jonathan around the car.

He crosses his arms on the roof and smirks. "And who made it, if I can ask?" He moves a hand through his hair. "Or is it another one of those questions I can't ask without getting kicked in the stomach?"

She smiles and turns to him, hair moving around her neck. "I'm only gonna kick you if you make jokes about my height." She turns to the car and then back to Jonathan. "Or if you say anything about me living on takeaway food."

Entering the car, Jonathan adjusts on his seat and places a foot on the airbag. "What's your answer then, sis?"

Lara huffs as she puts on the belt. "First of all," she says, counting with her fingers, "don't call me sis. Second of all, put down that foot before I cut it off your leg." She moves a stroke of hair behind her ear. "And last but not least, it was me."

Jonathan furrows his brows and slowly puts his foot down. "When the heck did you learn to make tracking devices?"

Lara adjusts the rearview mirror and turns on the car. "I've worked for a while at the Stark Industries and I now have a lot of free time." She turns to him and concludes. "And insomnia."

He nods and leans back, crossing his arms on his chest. "Good for you. Anyway, where are we going?" He looks out of the window and then back to Lara. "No wait, I know it. We're going to that place you live in with your friends cultists."

She smiles as she turns left and stops at the traffic light. "Exactly, but I wouldn't say it directly to them unless you want to be thrown into some very unpleasant dimension." She bites her bottom lip as an annoying rider cuts her way. "I'm speaking from experience."

When Jonathan steps out of the car, he looks puzzled at the Sanctum. "Hey sis, are you sure your friends won't sacrifice me to satan?"

Lara huffs as she exits the vehicle and heads to the door. "Plan B was leaving you to sleep on a bench at the train station. Furthermore," she adds, turning to him, "they're not satanists, just bastards."

As soon as she opens the door, Lara is welcomed by a rather excited Cloak of Levitation. Scratching its collar as if it were a dog, she tilts her head to the side and looks at her brother. "The Cloak of Levitation, also known as the only intelligent form of life here."

"You know I can hear you, right?" Stephen comments, arms crossed as he steps towards the two. He's wearing his full sorcerer attire, but Lara had never doubted he would use the occasion to show off.

She raises an eyebrow at him and smirks, her hand not leaving the relic. "Oh I hope so. It would be a shame to become deaf at your age." She then turns to her brother, who is busy studying the sorcerer. "Jonathan, this is Stephen." Her gaze moves back to the other man and she damns whoever decided to put her among so many tall people, condemning her neck to be constantly in pain. "Stephen, my brother Jonathan."

Stephen nods. "Nice to meet you," he mumbles, then he turns back to Lara. "I'll be meditating, don't let him set anything on fire."

The other man stares shocked at him. "I'm right here, you know?"

He doesn't flinch. "Unfortunately..."

And then everything falls to pieces.

#lara johnson #agata varano #scar #marvel #mcu #oc #writing #original character #mcu fiction #oc fiction #not the only one #stephen strange x original character

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heartslogos · 6 years

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seas who could sing so deep and strong [40]

“Wait, so are you two — are you friends now?” Judge asks, incredulous as he looks between Kore, who’s dragging Punk behind her by the back of his neck.

“No,” Is Kore’s immediate and predictable response

“No,” is Punk’s slightly unexpected and solemn answer.

Judge turns to Chic. Chic shrugs as she helps Kore shove Punk into the extraction pod.

“We’re best friends,” Punk says. “We bonded over Kuva.”

“Disgusting, I bet you have kuva stains all over your suit again,” Chic sneers, as she steps into her unit, her extraction pod slowly rotating and detaching. “I’m not washing that.”

“Did you know Kore looks a lot like your warframes? It’s like someone made a little person out of your warframe, Chic,” Punk continues as his follows suit.

Judge turns to stare at Kore as she calmly steps into her own extraction unit and switches to their private channel, “You came out to Punk?”

“We bonded over kuva,” Kore says with a note of finality. Unfortunately, Judge doesn’t think he’s going to be able to hold himself in line over this one.

“I thought you were going to murder me when I first saw you? You just - explain it to me.”

“I think Punk explained it very succinctly,” Kore says. He can hear the visible raise of her eyebrow. “We bonded over kuva. He thinks it tastes peppery. I don’t know what pepper is. It tastes like fizz-cola that’s gone lukewarm and flat. I don’t like the taste.”

“You ate kuva?”

“Drank. It’s a liquid.”

“You drank kuva? Why? Who - who does that? Why would you put that inside of you?”

“Hades, are you going to stand here in the middle of this ship that we just set on fire to talk about kuva or can we take this to a ship that isn’t on fire?”

“I - no - I mean - yes, we’re talking about it and you aren’t going to distract me,” Judge says, quickly fastening his Mag to his extraction pod. He feels Mag’s limbs get locked into place and he quickly releases himself from her, coming to in the transference chamber of his own ship. Scylla switches the com’s audio to the ship’s system.

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Persephone, you have excellent taste,” Chic is saying, “Your frames? Always so spot on. Now I know why Hades’ frames are a disaster but his actual suit is tolerable.”

Kore still speaks through a random synthesizer around Chic and Punk - random, just to make sure they don’t catch on and isolate her voice through some sort of scrambler. Judge is fairly sure neither tenno is that invested in figuring out Kore’s real voice, but Kore’s mind works in strange ways.

“He’s spent so much credits and platinum and ducats on the worst visual choices,” Kore says, “And somehow everyone thinks he’s the brain between us.”

“It’s probably because no one ever sees you do anything other than hack and slash at stuff,” Judge says.

“As opposed to you? Fool who rushes in and ruins every single one of my shots?”

“Ooooh, lover’s tiff,” Punk laughs.

“You’re one to talk,” Chic huffs, “How many times have I had to abandon an objective because I had to run back and save your useless ass?”

“But you like my useless ass.”

“It’s shapely,” Chic says. “Useless, but shapely and it costs me credits.”

“It’s very high maintenance.”

“Is anyone going to explain to me how you became friends?” Judge interrupts before things can get too far off track.

“Jealous I’m gonna steal your girl?”

Chic bursts out into loud, speaker-crackling laughter, “Stars, Punk, you little idiot. If anything, Persephone is going to steal your girl.”

Punk gasps, “You’re leaving me? For her?”

And then he pauses, “No, wait. That’s fair. I’d leave me for her.

“No one is leaving anyone for anyone else,” Judge says, “You two are friends?”

“We drank kuva,” Kore says, “That’s hardly a prerequisite for friendship.”

“We argued over flavor.”

“He’s probably been concussed multiple times, I think it broke his flavor palate,” Kore says.

“But you don’t know what a pepper is, so you can’t say it isn’t peppery.”

“I know what flat fizz-cola is, and kuva tastes like it.”

“Have either of you two considered that it tastes different to different people?”

“Why would you even drink it?” That’s the part right after Punk and Kore are friends that’s really getting him. “That stuff is - it’s like - incredibly dangerous? Possibly sentient on its own?”

“Well, what else are you supposed to do with it?” Punk asks, “Throw it away? Cause environmental damage? Possibly poison some poor animal?”

“So your solution was to poison yourself?!”

“You do whatever you want with your kuva,” Kore says, “And I’ll do whatever I want with mine.”

“I thought you threw yours out!”

“You thought, but you never asked.”

“Why would I ask you if you drank the poison?”

“Well don’t just assume I didn’t and get weird about it when you’re wrong,” Kore says. “I drank it. Not my problem if you just assumed I didn’t. I mean, you weren’t there. Why would you know?”

“Because I know you and I know that you’d never put yourself as beholden to anything? And drinking kuva is pretty much that?”

“Not if you control it,” Punk and Kore say at the same time.

“Don’t get started on this,” Chic says, “Trust me. Just - just don’t.”

“But — “

“Don’t. We’ll be here forever and I have credits to earn and parts to trade,” Chic says. “Just let them drink their garbage juice.”

“Garbage juice…that made them friends.”

“We aren’t friends.”

“We’re best - “

“No.”

“Mean.”

Kore clicks out of the com’s with an unnecessary and audible static feedback.

“Now that’s just petty,” Punk says. “I love it. She’s just like you, but like - pastel.”

“I love it,” Chic agrees, “But stop baiting her because she’ll shred you and I’ll just watch because you earned it.”

“Again, petty. I love it.”

#heartsfic #warframe #otp: space kids

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