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wkemeup · 4 years

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By Any Other Name (16)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.1k warnings: torture, gun violence, kidnapping, arson, a whole shit show and a wild ride from start to finish i am so very sorry a/n: to anyone who listens to the series playlist, a reminder that Slow Mover has been on there from the start and the second half of the chorus was a direct warning for this chapter 😅 🌹series masterlist 🌹

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

You paced along the small length of a cold, dark office in the back of an old textile factory Brock used to manufacture Cerberus. Heels long forgotten to the top of the table, your bare feet touched on concrete, over small rocks embedded in the ground and the cracks of the floor. They poked and prodded at your skin, weight sinking puncture marks to the balls of your feet. It was something, at least, because with the rushing race of your heartbeat, it was hard to feel much of anything else.

You didn’t know where you were or what happened to James in the blackout. You assumed he was arrested like he was supposed to be, that they made a show of it for the Hydra crewmen in the effort to protect his identity for when this was over. You hoped, anyway.

But if you knew James - and you knew him well - you didn’t suspect he would comply to much of anything when you were missing and in the company of your husband.

“How in the hell did this happen?!” Brock roared, storming into the office with several men on his heels; Zola, the scientist in a white lab coat with subtle red discoloration along the sleeves, and the two men who held James down in the basement that night as Brock nearly beat him to death, Kohl and Sanzetti.

“I don’t know, sir,” the blonde one, Kohl, replied, to which Brock answered by throwing a right jab straight to his jawline. He staggered backwards, into the filing cabinets as Brock growled at him, almost feral.

“Then why the fuck are you talking!?”

You froze at the corner of the room, watching as your husband cleared the desk of its supplies, aggressively throwing papers and coffee mugs and the computer monitor itself to the floor. You winced as the screen cracked and paper slowly drifted down through the air to land delicately amongst the mess.

Brock was panting, red in the face, as he leaned against the edge of the desk, gripping at the corners until his knuckles were sheet white.

You’d never seen him like this before; panicked in a corner and lashing out. You would have felt some kind of satisfaction if you weren’t within the crosshairs of his rage.

“I may have some answers for you,” Zola’s mousey voice spoke from the doorway. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as Brock shot him a kind of glare that could have killed a man. “If you allow me one moment?”

With that, he disappeared back into the warehouse.

“Fucking hell,” Rumlow grumbled, shaking his head. “You’re all fucking useless.”

Kohl and Sanzetti were talking quietly amongst themselves, eyeing Brock suspiciously; low, murmured voices of men with loyalties to the highest bidder, the man with the most power, and suddenly, Brock didn’t hold that position.

You watched as your husband started to finger at the weapon strapped to his waist, touching over cold metal like it was a comfort, like he it was an extension of himself, violence at the palm of his hand.

You had to get out of there.

“Brock,” you called, voice dry in your throat, arms folded over your chest protectively as he glared at you for daring to interrupt his brooding. “Maybe I could step outside for a moment? It’s a little cramped in here and—”

“No fuckin’ way, baby,” he shot back, waving his hand at you dismissively. “There could be feds casing this place! You’re not going anywhere. I want you right where I can see you. How else am I supposed to protect you?”

He spat it at you like a threat.

You clenched your jaw until it ached, nodding enough for Brock to divert his attention. He wore a forced smile, a dead kind of look in his eyes that slowly fell away to a cold, hard, nothingness as he stared down at the desk again. He didn’t care to protect you from anything. He was a selfish man at his very core and even with you feeding into his ego, he would throw you to the wolves it meant saving himself.

“You know what I don’t understand? How the hell did the FBI got access to our shipping logs?”

Your lungs burned, like fire had lit a match deep within your chest. Had you stopped breathing?

“That shit’s been under lock and key for decades,” Brock continued as he straightened his back, cracking his neck to the side, “ain’t that right, Sanzetti?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brock gritted his teeth, a sharp exhale from his nose. “So, logically, the only way that information could have been leaked was if the feds had an inside man.”

Sanzetti exchanged a nervous glance with Kohl before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

Brock’s hands suddenly slammed down to the table in a fit of rage, the sharp echo of it startling straight to your chest and skipping over a beat.

“Someone better start talking!”

“I believe I can assist with that, sir.”

Zola appeared in the doorway again, a proud smirk on his face and you took a step forward, cold pavement under bare feet. Zola waved at someone beyond the door and he slid into the room, taking his place at Brock’s side and waited patiently. He glanced up at Brock like he was a man to be admired. It made you sick.

“This better be good, Zola, or a I’m going to—”

A body was thrown to the floor at Brock’s feet, heavy and lifeless, with a black canvas over his head and ropes tied at his wrists. Blood trailed down his neck and onto the concrete.

You stared at the body, heart in your throat, breaths like fire to your lungs. You swallowed back the scream before it passed your lips.

“What the fuck is this?” Brock snapped, nudging the body with the toe of his wingtips.

“This,” Zola replied, bending down to remove the canvas, “is the man behind Hydra’s undoing.”

The canvas was ripped away, tossed to the far corner of the room and you bit down hard on your cheek. Thick coppery liquid pooled in your mouth as you stared down at the mess of blood matted through dark brown hair, ocean blue eyes shut, unconscious as your husband pushed himself from the desk.

James.

Zola pulled a water bottle from his bag and slowly began unscrewing the lid. He gestured for Kohl and Sanzetti to keep James secure, even amongst the bindings, and he dumped the water onto James’ face.

You dug your nails into your palms, your forearms, your thighs, leaving behind puncture marks you couldn’t feel, even with the red staining to your fingertips. The anticipation was torture, watching the water fall to James’ face, washing away the blood and soaking his hair, until he woke suddenly, coughing violently and flinching away from the stream of water obstructing his breathing.

“Ah, he wakes!” Zola jeered.

James wrestled to his knees, though he didn’t get much further, not with Kohl and Sanzetti holding him down. Wide, panicked eyes shot around the room, catching his bearings, until they landed on you. There was a moment of stillness, a slight relief only long enough to confirm your safety, before he thrashed against his bindings.

There were no more pretenses. There was no cover to protect. It was only survival now.

“What the hell are you going on about Zola?” Brock groaned, watching as James fought against his men, shoving shoulders to knees and grunting in the strained effort. He was unfazed – curious, maybe – at his own right hand bound at his feet, the mark of a traitor branded to his name.

Zola stepped forward, handing Brock a series of photographs. He eyed the short, rounded scientist suspiciously before he snatched the stack of photos from his hands.

From behind your husband, all you could see was the way he tensed upon a single glance down to the evidence in his hands, shoulders melding to stone as he flipped through the pages, a fire in his breath. When the scorch of red touched his ears, a low growl in his chest and a tight clench of his fists along the photographs, you knew this could only end violent and bloody. Brock held little capacity for honor or mercy. He’s killed men for far lesser offenses than this.

Brock tossed the photos to the desk as if they had burned him. Some scattered along the floor, others laid upon the surface. Taken from a distance with an often blurry figure at the center, set in varying locations ranging from the cherry blossoms around D.C. to the streets lined with brownstones in Brooklyn; always the same man in focus.

James.

You stepped forward, touching the image of James in a black suit, a man different than the one before you; shorter hair pushed back away from his eyes, a brightened smile on his face, a youthful glow in his stance. But what drew your attention wasn’t the lightness in his demeanor, the laugh so clearly present on his lips, or the lush of greenery in the background, but instead, the shiny gold badge draped on a thin metal chain around his neck, sitting at the buttons of his jacket.

Oh God.

“Meet Special Agent James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your knees would have buckled out from under you if it wasn’t for your grip against the desk. Heart stammering, hands shaking, panic running course through your veins, you stared at James from the far end of the room, though he kept his gaze on Brock, hardened features and stone-cold expression. He didn’t bother to deny it.

“FBI, huh?” Brock questioned and Zola nodded slowly.

“He’s been feeding them information from the start,” Zola confirmed, placing a series of small metal wirings into Brock’s hand. “We swept the house shortly after word of the raid began. He had bugs planted everywhere. Didn’t take long to weed him out as the culprit once I started looking into his history. He was a ghost before taking this job. He didn’t exist two years ago and that... intrigued me. So I tapped into the security footage records from Quantico and well... seems as though he fooled all of us, sir.”

Brock chuckled, low, humorless as he examined the small listening devices in his hand, pushing them around with his finger until he closed his hand to a fist, crushing the bugs and dropping their broken pieces to the floor. He wiped his hand along his thighs as if ridding dirt from his skin.

“I never took you for a traitor,” Brock sneered, slowly pacing along the room, cracking his knuckles out in front of him, making a show of it as he stretched his hands with every click. “I have to say I’m surprised… and well, a little disappointed. We could have done great things together, Karpov – oh, sorry, Barnes.” Brock chuckled to himself. “You were damn good, too. So eager. So willing to do what needed to get done for the glory of Hydra. What a goddamn shame...”

James just stared up at him, allowing the unkept disdain to rise straight to the surface. Jaw clenched, hands to fists though they were tied at the base of his back, skin red and raw under the cut of ropes. He barely even flinched as Brock barreled a closed fist straight to his left cheekbone.

You gasped, hand clamped over your mouth, tears brimming in your eyes from the terror coursing through you, but James was calm, so impossibly still as he slowly turned back up to face Brock.

“Nothing to say for yourself, Agent?”

James spat a glob of thick, crimson blood to the floor, some of it dripping from his lips to his chin. “Go to hell, asshole.”

“Oh, so he can speak!” Brock laughed, though he jumped back abruptly as James grappled against his bindings, lunging towards him only to be pulled back gruffly by the collar of his shirt. He narrowly clamped his teeth around Brock’s hand. “Fuckin’ hell!”

Brock raised a hand, fist clenched and rings reflecting in the dim lighting of the room, and you quickly turned your head before you saw him take the swing. The sound of knuckles to bone was enough; it warped in your stomach, pushed bile up your throat and clamping your jaw was no longer enough.

The adrenaline was seeping through the cracks, tears burning in your eyes, lump throbbing at your throat. You opened your eyes again to see James swaying unsteady on his knees, held by the front of his shirt by your husband as he punched him again and again while his men stood back and watched, while they laughed.

Blood dripped from James’ lips, sliding down his chin, his neck, pooling at the concrete beneath him. You couldn’t watch this again.

You had to do something.

You had to stop this.

“Brock?”

“I’m a little busy, baby,” he grunted, throwing another hit to James’ cheekbone, reopening the long, jagged wound that had healed in the weeks since the basement. The ring on Brock’s middle finger broke through skin and James cried out, shouting as he hunched over, pressing his cheek to his shoulder to stop the bleeding but it only soaked into his shirt. Pools of red in its wake.

“Brock, just—wait!” you tried again, voice shaken.

“Why? You want a turn?”

Wide eyes bore into his as he paused for a moment, looking back at you earnestly, and – dear God – he was serious. Your gaze flashed to his closed fist, staring at the red coating his broken knuckles and dripping down his wrist.

“We should get out of here,” you gasped, desperately avoiding the panic the quickly surged through James’ face, though he kept himself motionless. “Before his friends find us... we should go.”

Even from the corner of your eye, beyond the blood and swelling on James’ face, you could see the confusion, the horror, as the words left your lips. You knew your husband better than anyone else in this room, so you knew there was no scenario where he would allow James to leave this room alive; not unless his own self-preservation outweighed his need for revenge.

So, you’d stay with Brock, go with him far away from this factory, away from James and his team, to corners of the world you’d never see the other half of your heart again. You’d stand by your husband’s side and keep up this disguise for the rest of your life. You’d wear a dozen different masks, staple a smile to your face, and learn to be content – complicit – again. You’d do anything if it meant James survived this.

“Brock,” you whispered, taking another step forward like you were approaching a feral animal, cautious, calculated movements as not to set it off. You slowly reached out to him, close enough to slowly wrap your hands around his and carefully pull him to your grasp. Gentle, tender movements as you held his gaze, the blood of your lover warm on your palms as you guided away the monster’s fist.

“Let’s go,” you urged. “You and me. We’ll get away from all of this. But we have to leave now.”

There was a stillness in Brock, a slow drawl of his eyes as looked from your intertwined hands to your face; a moment of reprieve, maybe something like relief, and he pursed his lips together to a soft smile.

Then, he released James’ shirt and your whole heart fell crashed to the floor; concrete to his jaw, his arms bound behind his back and unable to catch himself. He groaned, withering against the cold of the ground, trying to push himself back to his knees, trying to catch your eye and beg you to stay, beg you not to leave with the same man you’d been desperate to escape from.

“Okay, baby,” Brock cooed, his free hand sliding up your arm, pulling goosebumps like ice and venom along the way until he cupped the side of your face. You held your breath, allowed him to kiss you, push his tongue into your mouth, and you held back tears, realizing you’d kissed James for the last time. Brock had already swept his touch away from you.

You could feel James’ eyes burning on you, desperate, begging, but you couldn’t look at him. The second you did, you knew you’d lose your resolve completely. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Protect James; the way he protected you, the way he protected Peter. This was how you save him. Go with your husband. Take the life you were dealt and deal with the consequences.

You were prepared to make that sacrifice. Until –

“Just one thing before we go.”

Brock swiftly yanked a pistol from his waistband and in those seconds, your world seemed to move in slow motion; like limbs underwater, pushing against resistance, like you might be able to reach out and stop it in time if you were only faster than time itself.

The barrel pressed to James’ temple.

The unlatch of the safety followed; deafening, echoing.

There was a burning in your lungs long before you realized you were screaming.

“NO!”

You clamped your hand over your mouth, muffling yourself under trembling hands as time came speeding back up to you.

Brock froze, head slowly turning to you with a hardened expression of disbelief, of fury and fire and rage burning behind his eyes; a flicker of something darker hidden in the flakes of green, a realization, maybe, and you were certain a single look could have killed you.

You quickly dropped your hands and closed them to fists at your side to stop the shaking.

“Do we have a problem here, baby?”

There was venom to his voice. He spat the pet name at you like an insult.

You cleared your throat nervously, trying to find your breath but your eyes flickered to James. There was crimson coating over most of his face, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, and he was watching you, terrified, but never for himself – no, his fear was for you. His drive to protect you was always stronger than that of his own.

It was something you had in common.

“He’s a—a federal agent,” you tried to reason. “You don’t—you don’t want to give them more to charge you with. You kill one of their own and they’ll hunt you down. They won’t stop until they find you.”

Brock’s stare could have torn right through you, unnerving and cold as ice, like blades to your skin as they drew blood right at your heart. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he lowered the weapon and you exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

“Fine,” he shrugged, far too calm for the man you knew. He brushed the barrel of the gun against his thigh, examining it up against the light. It was the calm before the storm and you could sense the lightening long before the thunder when his eyes snapped to you. “Why don’t you do it?”

Before you could take another breath, Brock bounded across the room, grabbed a painful grip of your wrist and yanked you towards him. His grasp cut deep into your bones, would surely leave behind bruising and you watched as the marks of his fingers left discoloration in their wake.

He slammed the gun in your hand, cold metal to the burning heat of your palms, forced your arms out straight, pointed the barrel at James.

“Stop,” you gaped as you tried to push out of his grasp but there was no give on his hold; no release as he caged you, forcing a violent weapon to your hands and aimed at the one man you’d give your life for.

“Go on, baby! Shoot.”

You shook your head, trying to squirm out of his hold but it was like fighting with a wall. “Brock, let me go--”

“You wanted to be part of Hydra, didn’t you? This is Hydra, baby! Welcome to the fun!” Brock shouted, a laugh in his voice, amused, as his fingers dug bruises to your shoulders. “Now... shoot him!”

Your hands were shaking, the barrel of the gun swaying in your grasp. Your eyes caught James and you were shocked to find him calm, waiting patiently on his knees. There was a determination there you didn’t quite expect, a simple kind of realization. His gaze pointed down at his left shoulder before it returned to you.

You furrowed your brow.

“What are you waiting for?” Brock grunted. “No one is coming for him. We’ll dump the body before the feds can find us. No one will miss a fuckin’ narc.”

James was staring at you and you could barely make out the blue of his eyes over the swelling, behind the steady stream of blood on his face. He was breathing heavy, gargled, like there was blood in his throat, too, and God, it was worse than that terrible night in the basement. You choked back a cry, trying to bit it down before your husband could see your tears.

You wanted to scream, to run, to use that goddamn gun on Brock himself, but you wouldn’t get more than a few feet before his men took you down. There was no way out of this. James seemed to know that, too, because there was a slight nod of his head, impossibly subtle that not even Brock seemed to notice. You parted your lips in shock as blue eyes flickered to his shoulder again before returning to you.

The realization hit you like a sucker punch to the gut.

No.

“I’m growing impatient, baby,” Brock groaned, squeezing hard at your shoulders and causing you to recoil under the strain of muscle. “If you don’t take the goddamn shot, I will and I’ll make a damn mess of things; might empty the whole clip and I know how you women are about keeping things clean.”

You shivered as the heat of his breath touched your neck, disgust and rage surging through you and you struggled to find your breath.

James nodded at you again. Your heart thunderous in your chest; it pounded in your ears. You could feel the pulse of it in your temples, through your finger tips and you slowly slid your pointer to rest against the trigger.

“Good girl,” Brock praised, his voice laced in a thick, unrelenting poison.

James held your gaze the entire time and you wished you could have known what was running through his head in that moment, because all you could think about was how scared you felt how terrified you were that this was it, that you’d already used up your time with him.

He nodded again, the curve of his lips so soft you almost missed it. That sweet smile of his, the one that convinced you trust him more than a year earlier, the one that lifted the storm clouds and walls you’d surrounded yourself with, the one that you dreamed about at night. It was small and only an ounce of what you knew it to be, but it was there.

“Shoot him, baby,” Brock urged in your ear, but his voice was distant, muffled, because you kept your focus on James, on the sense of calm on his face, the trust in his eyes.

Brock was miles away when you were with James.

You took a deep breath, and on the exhale, you pulled the trigger.

There was barely anytime to watch as the bullet tore through the fabric of James’ shirt, as the impact nearly knocked him over, as the blood splattered out onto the white walls behind him, dripping down in deep crimson stains.

Hands shaking violently as the weapon was pulled from your grip, you couldn’t look away as James’ eyes started to lose focus, how they drifted away from your own, and started to flutter, how he could hardly hold his head up.

You barely registered the push of angry hands shoving you to the door, a painful grip on your wrist, bones crackling under the touch as James slumped down to the floor. Your body was not your own as it was dragged on unsteady; a vicious ringing in your ears and a muffled voice shouting at you with malice laced in his tone.

Vision tunneling. Blurry. No – tears in your eyes. You nearly tripped over something on the floor, foot catching on something heavy and it took a moment before you realized it was James’ body Brock dragged you over.

You glanced back in horror, unable to pry Brock’s grip from around your wrist, to find blood pooling around James as he struggled to find his breath. The bare of your feet touched over warm, slippery crimson as Brock shoved you forward; red footprints in your wake.

Brock turned abruptly at the door, swinging you sharply behind him, and fired his weapon in two consecutive shots; ones that were muffled to the ringing in your ears as Kohl and Sanzetti fell to the floor, vagrant stares in their eyes and bullets lodged deep into brain tissue. You barely flinched, your focus solely on James.

He wasn’t moving, his gaze fixing on the wall far beyond you.

The pool of red under him was growing.

“You wanted to go, baby?” Brock sneered, yanking painfully on your hand, his rings cutting into your skin and you felt something pop. “Let’s fucking go!”

Red and blue lights flashed into the building and Brock cursed loudly, dragging you along as he sprinted to the back of the factory. James disappeared from your view and all you were left with were the bloody prints on the bottom of your feet.

The cold air slammed to you like a wall, shivers trembling up your spine, rocks and dirt to the bottom of your feet as Brock led you through the wooded overcast of trees running along the property. It was too dark back where you were, the street lights barely illuminating the front of the factory, let alone the long, winding, dirt path at its rear.

Police cars were parked by the entrance, lights flashing, men and women in uniform with weapons attached to their hips, some in their hands, as they slowly entered the building. You wanted to scream, to beg for help, but you knew the second you did, it would divert their attention to you and they might not reach James in time. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Branches poked at your sides, scraping your skin and leaving prickles of blood in their wake; stones puncturing at your bare feet, leaves and dirt sticking to the mess of blood drying underneath. You nearly tripped over an exposed root before Brock shoved you up against a tree, hand slamming down over your mouth as a patrol car zoomed by up along the road.

No one saw you.

No one would.

At the end of the tree line was an unmarked car sitting alone in an empty parking lot. Brock pushed out ahead of you, pulling a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the vehicle. You paused, staring at him, wondering why the hell he had a getaway car stash out a mile away from the factory.

“Get in the goddamn car,” he growled, yanking your hand like you were a child and whipping you around the trunk. Your hip slammed to the rear lights and you let out a whimper, though Brock paid it no mind.

He shoved you to the passenger seat, slammed the door behind you. He slid over the engine and dropped in behind the wheel himself. Headlights off, he threw the shift into drive and drove away like it was nothing at all, like there weren’t dozens of policemen and SWAT teams and FBI patrolling the area.

The low vibration of the engine was deafening. Your hands were shaking in your lap so you tried to curl them to fists, nestle them under your thighs, but nothing seemed to make it stop. Dried blood on your feet, ringing still burning in your ears, and you turned your attention to the side of the road, watching the blur of trees out the passenger window.

You tried not to think of James.

Along the way, you must have lost track of time, because you were suddenly pulling into the driveway at the end of your estate. You’d lost nearly twenty minutes just staring out the window, lost within the ringing and the panic in your veins, and you stared up at the home with narrowed eyes.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, turning to Brock suspiciously. “This will be the first place the feds will come looking for you. We should--”

You bit down on your tongue because beside you, Brock was laughing to himself. Chin to his chest, wide smile pushing at his cheeks, like he was genuinely amused. It wasn’t a look you saw on him often. It was... unsettling.

“Brock?”

He looked up at you, crooked smile on his face, as his right hand slowly slid up your arm and nestled along your neck, fingers scratching at your scalp and they interwove into your hair. It was an intimate gesture, a tender one, and you tried to fight against how quickly you tensed up, how your muscles conformed to stone, but you knew he could feel it.

“We should go,” you tried again, voice low, cracking in the effort. Your throat was dry, like sandpaper.

He only smiled back at you, though it didn’t touch his eyes. Something was wrong.

Your heart started to pick up in pace, your breath becoming shallow.

“You can stop pretending, baby. It’s just the two of us now.”

His hand gripped tight to your hair, pulling out strands and a yelp from your lungs, and he slammed your head to the dashboard. Once, twice, until darkness came in and washed you away.

***

You woke to the smell of gasoline.

It burned in your nose, the tang of it bitter on your tongue, pushing down into your lungs with a sharp intake of breath. You started to cough, violent and dry heaves as you tried to find clean air, and that was when you felt the resistance at your wrists.

Vision still tunneled, unforgiving darkness, like you were looking through the thin fabric of a black mask, you found your wrists bound to a single, wooden chair; tied down primitively with electrical wires. You tugged against it, only for it to rub raw into your skin, digging deep into the crevices, pulling a hiss from between your teeth. You tried to push forward but there was a series of wiring wrapped at your chest, holding your shoulders to the back of the chair.

“Welcome back, baby.”

Snapping your eyes abruptly to the sound of the sudden voice, you saw Brock sitting on the corner of the couch, stretched back into the arm rest with a cigar in his hand, legs crossed over one another.

“Guess I knocked you out a bit too hard, huh?” he snickered as he started to light the end of his cigar. “You figure out where we are yet?”

Your head was throbbing, black spots covering most of your vision, but they were slowly fading away. You could make out the soft blue color of the couch he was sitting on, the coffee table with stained rings upon the wood in the shape of old mugs, the greenery hanging by the windows, the colorful bindings of hundreds of novels lining the shelves surrounding you.

A room that had held you safe for so many years. Four walls that shielded you from Hydra’s claim. A place where you could be yourself without fear of repercussions, where you found respite and grew to love a man who now laid in a pool of his own blood miles away.

Your library.

“Ah, there it is,” Brock jeered, taking a long drag from the cigar, his wet, cracked lips circling around the wrapper as he inhaled. He held your eye as you stared at him, wide and stunned, before he removed the cigar and slowly blew the smoke to your face. The thick cloud of grey touched your skin and the bitterness of it stung in your lungs as you tried to cough it away.

“What the hell are you doing, Brock?” you rasped, chest burning from the smoke and the sting of gas in the air. There was a container at his feet, a bucket filled high with thick, dark liquid, and you could see his reflection in.

“Getting justice,” he replied with a shrug.

“Justice?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Are you insane?!”

The mask you’d worn was long cracked and dismembered to pieces at your feet. There was no hiding your distain, no reason to pretend that your relationship was anything other than hostage and captor; certainly not with the wires binding you to a chair and the blinding pulsing in your head from where he’d knocked you out cold.

“Maybe,” he shot back with a sickening grin. He waved the cigar at you, eyes trailing over your body, the hem of your dress riding up high on your thighs in the struggle. He smirked. “I see you’ve decided to drop the act, as well.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you spat, rolling your eyes.

“Ouch. That stings,” Brock whined, hand mockingly clutching at his heart. “Didn’t know you were so unhappy, baby. I gave you the world, didn’t I?”

“You took everything from me, you fucking asshole!” you shouted, voice raw and hoarse. “You forced me from my career, from my friends. You stole my money, my inheritance, my—my freedom! You tricked my sixteen-year-old cousin into a goddamn drug trafficking ring and threatened to beat him within an inch of his life! You kept me locked up in this house for years and tied me to your arm at those miserable fucking parties like I was some accessory you could show off for a few hours before you threw it back to storage! You destroyed my life!”

“Funny,” Brock chuckled, completely unfazed. “I recall you signing the marriage certificate yourself. No gun to your head or anything.”

You shook your head, chest heaving with heavy, painful breaths. “You lied to me. You used me.”

Brock only shrugged, a slight purse of his lips as he tapped the end of the cigar and grey ashes fell to the cushions of your couch.

Your stomach was heavy, lined with stones; your gaze focused on the muddied imprint on the tips of his shoes, the dried blood on the soles of his feet, the same blood that stained your bare skin, where you’d left footprints behind.

James’ blood.

“We could’ve had it all, baby,” Brock sighed, taking another drag from the cigar. He blew the smoke to the ceiling. “You and me. We could have ruled Hydra together. You could have been my queen.”

He paused, a heavy sigh as a cloud of thick, grey smoke passed by his lips. The cigar twirled around his fingers as if manipulated by string.

“But you just had to go and start fucking my hitman, didn’t you?”

It was the full force of a train whipping along the outer curves of a mountain, plummeting you to frozen rapids amongst the free fall. Ice water to your chest, in your veins.

The hardened glare slipped from your features, replaced by widened eyes, parted lips gaping in the shock of it, panic and fear; exactly what your husband wanted from you. He wanted you afraid, trapped. It was how he always wanted you.

You couldn’t find your breath, much less your voice, so all you could do was watch as Brock pushed himself up from the couch and started to pace along the room. He slid his fingers along the shelves, pulling books by their bindings and watching as they fell to the floor, open pages stepped on by muddied wingtips.

“You know,” he drawled, picking up a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, examining it as he flipped through the pages before he tossed it over his shoulder. You winced as it hit the ground. “I never understood your obsession with this room. All these old, boring books written by old, boring people; thousands of dollars of my fortune... wasted on fairytales.”

Your stomach was still lodged in your throat, hands gripping painfully at the arms of the chair. Your wrists were raw, red, and there was a burning sensation there, a tingling, and you realized the wires had cut through your skin, dipped in blood. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pounding of your heart in your chest, your ears, down to your fingertips and toes.

“You spent so much time in here. Figured it must be something special…. but it’s just another fuckin’ room,” Brock continued, passing by the series of plants hanging by the windows.

In one swift motion, he grabbed a pot hanging from the ceiling and threw it across the room. You flinched, the shock of it forcing several skips in your already racing heart, as it collided against the wall and shattered to the floor; a cloud of dirt circling into the air above it.

Behind you, Brock snickered as he began kicking over the plants behind you, tipping them from their place on the windowsill and dumping them from the shelves. Flowers and greenery amongst the dirt and pieces of broken ceramic, lying on the floor as he dug his heels to the roots, smashed the petals under his wingtips and kicked at the remains.

You could hear the floorboards under his feet whine as he paced behind you but you kept your gaze forward, not daring to turn around. He paused then, a heavy exhale as he turned his attention to the couch, smirking from behind your shoulder.

"You fuck him in here, too?”

You bit on your tongue, tears burning in your eyes you could no longer contain.

“Huh?!” Brock bounded across the room, thunderous steps and he gripped ahold of your shoulders until you yelped, turning away from him as best you could. “You fuck that traitorous son of a bitch in my house?!”

You recoiled as he screamed to your ear, eyes closing shut as tears slipped down over your cheeks. Brock chuckled to himself as he pulled away, pleased by your reaction and he wiped his hands on his thighs, as if to rid you from his touch.

Despite the bindings, you were shaking; hands trembling, breaths labored and uneven, jaw clenched impossibly tight to stop the chattering. You weren’t made for this the way Natasha was, or Sam, or Steve, or James. You weren’t an agent of the FBI. You weren’t trained as an army ranger or learned how to withstand torture the way James did that night in the basement. Brock hadn’t even raised a hand to you and you were in pieces.

You were a literature professor at Columbia. This wasn’t your world.

“I don’t know how long you knew he was a fed but frankly, I couldn’t give a shit at this point.” Brock bit the cigar between his teeth, holding it steady as he knelt down in front of you. His breath was sour, like old smoke and day-old bourbon, and you flinched as his fingers reached up and grabbed a sharp hold of your jaw. “All I know, is that you were in on this somehow. You gave me up. Didn’t take long to figure that out once our buddy James was lying bloody on that floor and you wouldn’t let me kill the bastard myself.”

You swallowed, trying to pull yourself from his grasp, but his fingers dug in further.

“I was surprised at first,” he continued, words garbled from the cigarette nestled at his lips as he ran his free hand through your hair, “but then I remembered how Karpov volunteered to take a beating for that punk ass cousin of yours. I remembered how you reacted that night in the basement, how you begged me to stop and I realized... he did it for you, didn’t he?”

Your blood ran cold. You couldn’t speak.

“It opened my fucking eyes, baby!” Brock shouted right to your ear, causing you to flinch. “All those times he was watching you from the corner of the room? Shit, I thought it was harmless. The guy wanted to fuck you. So what? Half my men get themselves off to the thought of it. But him? No... this was different. That fucking moron actually fell for you... and you know what is so goddamn funny about it all? You fell for him, too, right under my fuckin’ nose.”

Tears were openly sliding down your cheeks, touching onto Brock’s fingers as he held your jawline in place, forcing you to look him in the eye. His stare was of ice, heartless, a vicious envy in the green of his eyes.

A single beat. And then, “imagine how fun it was for me to force you to shoot him.”

“You’re a monster.” It came out broken, harsh and aching. Images of James lying still and bloody on the floor of that factory haunting you as you closed your eyes.

“Yeah?” Brock chuckled humorlessly. “At least I’m not dead.”

Cold, unforgiving eyes stared back at you; seething, red.

And yet it ignited something in you.

“James Barnes,” you started slowly, finding strength in his name as you stared to the eyes of the devil, “is ten times the man you will ever be.”

You waited, watched as Brock’s mouth curved up to a smirk, baring teeth behind dry, cracked lips, and you spat.

He flinched at it landed on his cheek, wet and dripping down his jaw. He started to laugh as he wiped it away, flicking away the saliva to the floor and wiping the rest on his suit pants.

“Was.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You mean ‘was,’ as in past tense,” Brock jeered, planting his hands on your forearms, face inches from yours. “James Barnes was ten times the -- blah blah blah. You killed him, baby... or did you forget?”

No.

No, you shot him in the shoulder, right where he told you. You were certain of it. It was a clean shot.

But there was so much blood. There shouldn’t have been so much blood...

God, why was there so much blood?

You weren’t trained like he was. You weren’t an expert marksman like Natasha. You could have missed without realizing it. You could have shot two inches to the right and hit an artery. He could have bled out alone in that room before the cops got to him in time. He couldn’t actually be–

Your heart rate started to pick up, thunderous and burning a lump in your throat. Breathing coming in uneven, rushed, shallow, and you looked up to Brock with wide eyes, only to find him turning his back to you, slowly making his way to the bucket by the couch.

“His friends aren’t coming for you,” he taunted, picking up the container of gasoline and dumping a steady stream onto the couch beside you. You held your breath, trying to turn away from the stench of it, but it was too powerful. Brock only laughed.

“You think that because you were his plaything that they’ll give a shit about you? You’ve been a part of Hydra from the start, baby! You stood in the shadows and watched from your fuckin’ ivory tower! You knew everything that was going on in this house and you kept your mouth shut like the good little girl you are!”

You shook your head, panting because your breaths were coming in faster than you could take in air. “You threatened me! You threatened my family!”

“You were still complicit to hundreds of crimes,” Brock shrugged, dragging the container around the room and spilling puddles of gasoline along the hardwood floors. “You are Hydra, baby, whether you like it or not. You are not worthy of redemption. You are not better than me. You are and always will be Hydra to those feds and they will leave you to BURN!”

There were splinters in your palms from how tight you were holding the edge of the arm rests. Your whole body was rigid, like stone, as you watched Brock douse the shelves filled with priceless books, first editions and cherished copies, with gasoline.

He always held a resentment for this room; the fact that you had a place within the cold, unforgiving nature of this home to feel safe in. It mocked him, infuriated him, that he couldn’t control every ounce of relief and happiness you were allowed in this world. You’d found that for yourself outside of him. In this room. In James. In yourself.

And he was going to set fire to it all.

“Brock,” you choked out, terrified, “wait.”

“I think I’ve waited long enough,” he shot back, tossing the rest of the gas onto the plants behind you, letting it seep along the floorboards. He threw the empty container to the side of the room, against the bookshelves to your left and pulling down several novels along with in. They splashed into the gas, their pages soaking in the fuel.

“Don’t do this,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper, too lost, too broken behind the lump in your throat. You tugged against the bindings, fighting the restraints, until blood dripped down your wrists and stained the hardwood floors beneath you.

Brock winked as he leaned on the door frame, pulling the cigar from between his teeth and blowing out a cloud of smoke. One final drag before he flicked it to the floor, almost in slow motion as it spun and twisted in the air.

It landed amongst the gas, and then, it burst into flames.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

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prose-for-hire · 4 years

Text

Y/n the friendly ghost

Pairing: Xander Harris x reader

Request: For Halloween can you write about Xander falling for a ghost reader with the prompt "The afterlife can be fun. Sometimes. It's mostly scaring clueless teenagers to death."

Requested by: Anon

A/N: Again, I don’t know if Xander’s particularly popular with you guys but I have a bunch of inspiration for a second part to this if any of you are interested 🖤🦇

On Halloween night, it is said that if you are the first person to remove an apple from a water-filled bucket without using your hands, that night you would dream of your soulmate. Your betrothed. The one soul that was bound to yours...

Xander had been having dreams. Ever since Halloween night. He had been apple bobbing and won, emerging victorious as he managed to bite into the crisp apple from under the water. For some reason, he wasn’t aware why, he had been really competitive. He had held the apple high above his head, showing it off to anyone that would look.

In the month since Halloween, the most attractive person he had ever seen would meet him inside his dream each night. He was besotted. Growing more in love by every second. He kept them to himself, not able to tell the others in fear of teasing. He was excited to go to sleep, finding himself willing the night to fall so that he could meet them again.

As he closed his eyes, the scene played out before him. It was always the same setting but they both spoke intimately every night. Some kind of regal ball, where the men wore suits and the women wore fancy dresses. It was vibrant with chatter and music playing.

Through the crowd, they came to him. The reason for his happiness. It was you. Your eyes always lit up when you located him in the crowd. You and Xander had been sharing these dreams, such beautiful moments you enjoyed together.

You would dance and laugh. Hiding from the eyes and idle gossip from the crowd around you. Both of your favourite part was when you managed to sneak away. the first few nights you went through the motions, enjoyed the dancing and the time period but eventually as soon as you found each other again, you found yourself a private corner immediately. You wore such grand clothing, such decadence surrounded you both, but neither of you had eyes for anything except each other.

You thought it was very odd, you had only died last year. And you could tell by his humour and the way he spoke that he wasn’t from this period either. You were not familiar with the time frame and neither was he. And in some sense, this made it feel more natural. That your souls were meeting in your dreams, that may have found each other in a previous life.

Unfortunately (or fortunately as it meant you at least got to meet him) you had died but kept your soul. You hadn’t moved on to the other side yet, although you had been assured by the powers above that this process would happen eventually. But definitely not before next Halloween.

Xander was falling in love. He had been enjoying every moment of your shared dream. He knew it sounded silly, you clearly weren’t real. But he was falling for you with every moment he spent with you in his dream. He longed for this to be true, he desperately pleaded to find you in reality. But knew you were too good to be true.

He had started to walk more often by himself, after dark. Tonight, he had felt this pull, this unusual feeling. Something deep within was navigating him. Willing him to step over the threshold of the house at the end of the street. He often walked to clear his head, or he would just try to go straight to bed. Trying to sleep. Trying to see you.

For some reason, unknown to him, he entered into an abandoned house. One that had been lived in by a priest and his wife, it had been abandoned for a long time. There was a small graveyard in the land at the back and it had always given him the creeps so he had stayed clear. However, he had walked straight in and let himself in as if he lived there. He turned to leave, but didn’t make it back through the door.

You sensed everything in the building. From rain leaking out of the badly patched hole in the roof to the mice family that lived in the basement. You had named all of the mice, pretending they were your pets. You scared away any cats or wild animals that wondered into the house, making sure the family were safe. You needed something like that, some kind of attachment. It could get lonely. The only thing to look forward to being your dreams.

You saw him turning to the door and you gasped. Could it be? It was! it was really him!

You became so excited that you floated at top speed towards him, forgetting your lack of corporeality in your excitement. Ideally you wanted to jump into his arms and wrap yourself around him. But you stopped short of attempting that.

Xander, who was already spooked from the strange little decaying house you resided in, wasn’t expecting a real ghost to come flying at him - only to stop abruptly about a centimetre from his face.

He screamed, using his whole body and pointing at you in surprise. It was a scream he was glad Buffy and Willow weren’t there to witness. As he was thinking this and recovering from a minor heart attack, he looked at you. Properly. That face. He knew that face. He loved that face.

“It’s you!”

“You know me?” You ask, snapping yourself out of just dreamily staring at the man of your dreams. Your eyes had started to light up in that way he loved, “Remember me…?” you questioned softly, confirming what you could have only hoped for.

“How could I not? I mean… wow” he gestured at you. You chuckled at him, shaking your head and looking down at yourself.

When you looked back up after only a second, he had started to squint growing a little suspicious. He noted your weren’t corporeal. This didn’t lessen any affection, but he hadn’t had much luck when he was in high school with partners (they had ended up trying to eat him, or maim him at the very least).

“Y-you’re a Casper right?” he checked, still squinting as you frowned, not quite catching up straight away.

“A Casper?”

“A friendly, how can I help kinda ghost?” he explained, which instantly made you smile.

“Oh! Yeah! I’m very nice when you get to know me… ghosts get a bad rap. But we can be helpful… we can joke” You smiled as he did, before dropping his eyes to his feet, “We can even… fall in love”

The suggestion crackled through the air, he looked back up to where you were floating, slightly above him. You stayed in silence, just staring in awe at the other before he finally spoke.

“Cool... ‘cause I’m not one with the creepy scariness” He replied, nervous to tell you just how much he loved you in case he scared you off. This thought made him smile, the idea of scaring a ghost being humorous to him.

“The creepy, scary things are all around you, it’s the soundtrack of your life” You smiled, something he had referenced in one of the many stories he had told you in his dreams.

“Tell me about it”

“I believe you would actually enjoy being a ghost! The afterlife can be fun. Sometimes. It's mostly scaring clueless teenagers to death."

“Yeah, you’re doing a great job. What with the scary jumpiness” He confirmed and you took it as a compliment. You knew this man, you had kept his secrets over the last month or so. You had shared things so deep, you wondered why you felt so nervous.

“Yes! It was funny, you almost jumped out of your skin!” You chuckled.

“I c-can’t actually do that right? You can’t make me do that… can you?”

“No! of course not! I wouldn’t want to do that…” You said softly, before revealing, “I’d rather kiss you”

“Yeah?” He asked and you nodded, perhaps a little shyly. You had visions of him whenever he was dreaming. You wanted it to be true, “Then lay it on me!” he started to move towards you and you panicked, stepping back. But it was too late. He fell straight through you which made you shiver and squirm, “What was that?!”

“I-I can’t-” You tried to explain but the rest of the sentence became stuck in your throat. His face dropped as he realised and you almost wept. You looked around and your face, which had dropped with his, suddenly lit up again, “We could… kiss through this” You offer shyly, pointing towards a surprisingly clean pane of glass (not that it mattered to you either way).

“Really-?” He looked unconvinced. As if you would laugh and make fun of him for even considering it. But you didn’t, you merely nodded softly. The sadness permeating in the air. Leaving you feeling his lack of touch that you had never had to experience when you met in your dreams. Touch felt real there.

You would touch a hard object for a very small moment in time. You moved in, landing a single kiss against the glass at the same time as him. You both sighed, wishing there was some way you could touch properly while you were awake. Your gazes meeting through the glass in a mix of adoration and despair.

There was a desperation for more. A mutual wish, no a prayer, for you to be reunited in person the way you had in your dreams. You pleaded to have your physical body back, even for one day. You loved him so much you ached. It was as if you had known him forever. For your whole life. Longer.

You both felt the longing more physically than you could feel the glass beneath your palms. Your hands on the glass, his hand pressing against where yours was resting, corresponding between the glass. You willed to keep your touch for even a little longer, but you could feel yourself starting to disappear, an unknown pull to wherever you were sent in the house or in the gravesite in the garden.

“I’ll see you in our dreams...” You whispered, closing your eyes. When you opened them again, he was gone and you were confined to the loneliness of the decaying building once more.

#A very Buffy Halloween #Xander #Xander Harris #Xander Harris x reader #Xander Harris imagine #Xander Harris x you #Xander x reader #btvs #btvs x reader #btvs imagine #btvs x you #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #buffy the vampire slayer imagines #gender neutral #gender neutral reader #Halloween #Halloween fic #Halloween request

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i-stan-nct-and-satan · 4 years

Text

Not Broken Part 10 (Jaehyun Mafia AU)

Not Broken Masterlist

Jaehyun X Reader

Y/N is a burlesque dancer living in Seoul. Jaehyun is one of the most powerful mafia men in Seoul. How will Y/N survive when Jaehyun suspects that she is involved with a rival gang?

Reasons to read this story: Ten's a cross-dressing madam so..... yeah read it ya freaks.

Trigger warning: mentions of physical abuse, mentions of sexual abuse

“Wow.”

Taeyong was the first to break the silence once the tape ended.

Everyone in the room turned their heads to look at their boss. They had been gauging his reactions as they all listened to the tape, but no one dared to make eye contact with him until now.

His unreadable expression juxtaposed the guilt-ridden faces that filled the room.

Jaehyun remained silent as he processed the contents revealed in the tape.

“Damn. We fucked up,” Mark offered, attempting to ease the tension in the room.

An abrupt fist slammed onto the table, immediately prompting Mark to regret the words that fell past his lips.

“What did you just say?” Jaehyun dared Mark to repeat himself.

“Uh. I-I just,” Mark stuttered.

“You what?”

“I was just saying that we made a mistake. That’s all.”

“A mistake? You think that I made a mistake?”

“N-no sir, I just meant.”

“What else could you have meant?” Jaehyun challenged, standing up from the table.

“What about the rest of you? Who else thinks that I made a mistake in how I’ve chose to deal with the situation at hand?”

The room was silent as Jaehyun looked around at his men.

“Don’t think that this changes anything. This tape is just another factor to consider. We’ve dealt with hostages in the past who have come up with more convincing stories than this one. The fact of the matter is that we’ve just heard another story and we don’t know if it’s true or not and even if it is, that still doesn’t mean that we were anything less than professional in how we’ve gone about this mission. I expect you all to remember who we are and why we’re here.”

Jaehyun looked at his second in command whose eyes were currently glued to the floor.

“To find the bastard who killed IU. Don’t let your feelings get in the way of that. Y/N isn’t a woman, she’s a suspect. Remember that.”

<><><><><><><><>

I shut the water off.

“Finished?”

“Yeah.”

“Here’s a towel.”

I instinctively crossed my arms over my breasts, half expecting Winwin to pull back the curtain completely. I was relieved when instead, Winwin’s hand enter the shower only to hand me a fluffy, oatmeal-colored towel.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, cursing myself under my breath for having thanked one of my captors.

“When you’re done drying off, wrap yourself **** and then come out,” the raven-haired boy instructed.

I quickly ran the towel over my body before using it to give my hair a quick ruffle with it to keep my hair from dripping all over. I didn’t want to rush, but I didn’t want to risk irritating the man acting as my prison guard, so I wasted no time in wrapping the towel around my frame before stepping out into the spacious bathroom.

Winwin’s eyes only looked over my body for a brief moment before he walked over to the door. The apparent disinterest in his stare caused me to wonder if he was only looking to make sure I wasn’t hiding anything under my towel. Maybe he really wasn’t interested in women, not that a man’s lack of attraction to me meant that he lacked an attraction to any woman. I wasn’t deluded enough to think that.

“Are you coming or not?” he asked, obviously annoyed.

Yet again, I had found myself distracted by unimportant thoughts. I followed him out the door and back into the large bedroom.

“What’s your size?”

“Excuse me?”

Winwin rolled his eyes as he grabbed my free hand, the one that wasn’t holding my towel in place. He guided me over to a black dresser whose shiny painted coating gave it an obsidian-like appearance. I lost myself in the reflection of the black surface and for a fleeting second, I questioned whether a dresser made of obsidian was really that farfetched of an idea, especially in a house like this.

Winwin kneeled in front of the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. He took out a few pairs of pants before closing the drawer and opening the one above it. I watched as he continued to open each drawer, take out a few articles of clothing and then close them again. Once his arms were filled with clothing, he stood up and walked over to the neatly made bed. He dropped the clothing onto the bed, ruining its once wrinkle free surface.

“See what fits.”

I turned to Winwin, now aware of what he had meant before when he asked for my size.

“I don’t want to change in front of you.”

Winwin rolled his eyes for the hundredth time.

“Then I guess you better check the sizes to see what fits **** you don’t have to do it more than once,” he instructed.

Knowing that he wasn’t going to budge, I walked over to bed and inspected the labels on each article of clothing. I had only meant to look at the sizing, but I couldn’t help but notice the branding that adorned each piece. Dior, Chanel, and Versace littered the bed spread. Lucky for me, the clothes all seemed to be roughly my size with only a few exceptions that were definitely meant for someone much thinner than me. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to choose any of the articles that appeared to be on the more expensive side, so I grabbed the plainest white T shirt I could find and a pair of jeans. I couldn’t help but notice that even the T shirt, which the average person wouldn’t have been able to distinguish from one that came in a Hanes value pack, had a Gucci tag on the inside.

Rich people, I swear.

I turned away from Winwin and gave my best attempt to put on the shirt and jeans while still hiding my body with the towel. There wasn’t any underwear on the bed to choose from, but I figured that was because Winwin believed that no underwear was better than used underwear, a sentiment I agreed with.

“Hey Winwin?” I asked as I awkwardly changed into the fresh set of clothing.

“Hm?”

“Whose room is this?”

Winwin paused for a few seconds as he organized his thoughts.

“Lee Ji-eun's.”

I shot Winwin a glance while continuing to change.

“Oh. Who is that?” I probed further as I pulled the shirt over my head.

“Jaehyun’s sister. The one who was killed by Lucas.”

The towel dropped to my feet.

<><><><><><><><>

“So, what do we do now, sir?” Johnny asked, cautious not to piss his boss off any more than he already was.

“Right now, we have to check her story out for any inconsistencies. Taeil, recheck the footage from the ball. If there’s anything we missed, we need to find it.”

“Got it,” Taeil obliged, opening his laptop.

“Johnny, go tell Winwin to take the girl back to the basement,” Jaehyun commanded.

“On it.”

Johnny turned to leave when the sound of vigorously clacking keys came to a sudden stop.

“Um, boss?” Taeil gulped, causing both Johnny and Jaehyun to turn towards him.

“You might want to take a look at this,” he continued, rotating the screen so they could see.

“Crap,” Jaehyun muttered, gritting his teeth.

Taeyong positioned himself beside Jaehyun so that he could see what his friend was referring to.

“Oh no.”

“What? What is it?” Mark asked as he tried to see the screen only for Jaehyun to close it.

“They know.”

Everyone’s eyes were on Jaehyun as Taeyong took the lead in updating everyone.

“That was a message from Wayv. They know Y/N killed Lucas and they know we have her. Not only that, but they’re demanding we give her to them.”

“Wait, so that confirms that Y/N’s story is true, right? That she didn’t have anything to do with IU’s death,” Mark exclaimed excitedly.

Jaehyun sent a glare towards Mark.

“What it means is that we have a rat among us, moron,” Doyoung spat.

“W-what?” Mark faltered.

“That’s right,” Jaehyun began.

“It makes sense that word would spread after the events of the burlesque show. It wouldn’t be that much of a surprise if they figured out the identity of the girl we took or even why we took her, but one thing’s for sure, there was no way that they could have found out about the contents on the tape without someone here leaking it.”

“Jae, you know that no one here would betray us, and besides, there are over ways they could have found out. They could have hacked us,” Taeyong voiced.

“How Taeyong? We used as old-fashioned recording device,” Jaehyun boomed.

“No evidence of hacking our networks either,” Taeil chimed in having reopened his laptop.

“What about hidden cameras?”

Taeil lifted his head from the laptop.

“Not a chance there either. I implemented a system that messes with the electromagnetic frequency of certain HighTech transmitting recording devices. That’s why we use older forms of recording devices.”

Taeyong sat down, looking defeated.

“Okay, but... who could it even be?”

A pregnant pause washed over the room as everyone attempted to cease their wandering eyes.

“Fuck!” Jaehyun cursed causing everyone to look at him.

“Winwin is alone with Y/N right now! That bastard!”

Jaehyun turned to Taeyong.

“Hurry, we need to find them before-”

“Before what?” Taeyong panted.

“If Winwin’s the mole, he might be under orders to hand Y/N over to Wayv or to kill her on the spot. We have to find them, now!” he yelled before they both started charging towards the East wing.

Johnny hesitated for a moment before turning to the remaining members at the table.

“Come on, let’s go.”

Now it was Johnny’s turn to start running towards the East wing with Mark following quickly behind.

Doyoung got up to follow but was stopped by a sudden hand that tugged at his wrist. Doyoung faced his purple haired partner.

“What?”

“You don’t think that Winwin’s actually the mole, do you?”

Doyoung’s face softened slightly before looking down at Taeil, who was purposely avoiding his gaze.

“I don’t know, but it’s not our place to challenge orders.”

Once the blue streaked boy disappeared from their vision, Yuta and Taeil merely stared at the empty doorway.

“Winwin please,” Taeil prayed softly

<><><><><>

“Are you done changing?” Winwin asked.

“Oh, umm. Yeah,” I commented, having been suddenly caught off guard.

I bent over to grab the towel that had fallen at my feet.

Winwin did his best to explain everything to me. He told me that IU was Jaehyun’s sister and that she was killed by Lucas. He explained how Wayv defected from NCT and how they’ve been unable to find him since the incident. Winwin even told me how the necklace I was wearing the night I was kidnapped had belonged to her and that led Jaehyun and the rest of NCT 127 to believes that I had something to do with his sister’s death. I stood there and listened to him without any comments or questions. It was too much to take in all at once.

“What? Are you surprised?” he questioned, observing your reaction.

“No,” I lied.

I thought they were interrogating me for Lucas’ death but instead they thought I was responsible for his sister’s death? I almost died because of that mistake. Even if that’s why he acted the way he did, he nearly beat me to death and over a goddamn misunderstanding. I scoffed in bewilderment. Winwin stared at me eyebrows raised.

“I was just noticing how I’m getting better at understanding your accent,” I lied again.

I was amazed that Winwin’s eyes didn’t fall out of his head due to all the eyerolling he did.

“Oh wow. What an honor,” he mused sarcastically.

“So...” I began.

“So...?”

I laughed at the amount of courage I was feeling. Especially since it didn’t make much sense in this situation.

“So, what was she like?”

“IU? Well... She wa-”

Winwin was cut off when the door to the bedroom was slammed open. The interruption was so abrupt and unexpected that I fell back onto the bed. Winwin, however, seemed unaffected by the pink haired man who had suddenly crashed the conversation. Only seconds after Jaehyun entered the room, a certain fiery red head soon followed suit.

Jaehyun’s gaze met mine and a wave of relief seemed to wash over him, softening his usually stiff features. I, of course, hadn’t noticed this. I was too anxious to decipher the meaning behind his expression since I was still in fear for my life.

His breathing was heavy and uneven making it obvious that he had run here. He stared at Winwin, giving himself a few seconds to catch his breath and assemble his thoughts before approaching the composed man in a less than composed manner.

“You bastard!” Jaehyun’s hands grabbed Winwin’s shoulders, forcing his narrow frame into the wall.

Despite their similar heights, Winwin’s body, which looked as though it had been defined through years of hand-to-hand combat, looked almost fragile next to Jaehyun’s more muscular build. Anyone else would have surely felt overcome with alarm and panic if put in Winwin’s position, yet the man himself seemed to be more annoyed than anything.

“Admit it, you worthless piece of shit.”

Johnny and Mark were the next to run through the bedroom door, then Doyoung, but I hadn’t noticed their presence until Taeyong’s hand came into my field of vision. I looked up at him, realizing that he was offering to help me up. I accepted without thinking.

“Mark over here is going to take you somewhere. Follow everything he says, okay?”

Despite his intimidating features, his gaze resembled that of a concerned mother. His watery eyes mirrored mine and I couldn’t help but trust that his instructions were in my best interest. I nodded in response before the nearby blonde guided me into the hall.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Winwin’s bitter stare bore holes into the hands that were wrinkling his shirt.

“And what exactly is it I should be admitting?” he challenged, making no effort to remove himself from his boss’s grip.

“Don’t fuck with me, Winwin. Or should I say Sicheng?” Jaehyun spat.

Winwin’s irritation turned into genuine confusion once the name had reached his ears.

After a short pause, Winwin’s eyes widened in realization only for them to tightly squeeze shut.

“What did Kun do?”

An oppressive force filled the room and the now somber atmosphere resembled that of a funeral rather than an interrogation.

Jaehyun removed his hands from Winwin but his unmoving figure informed his curly haired underling that he wasn’t finished with him yet.

“Wayv knows.” Jaehyun carefully analyzed Winwin’s reactions as he disclosed this new information.

Winwin looked past his boss’ shoulders at the other four men standing in the room with them. Doyoung stared back at him while Johnny and Mark did their best to avoid meeting his gaze. Taeyong simply shook his head at what was happening in front of him.

“About what? The girl?” he finally responded.

When Jaehyun gave no hint of confirming nor denying his presumption, he continued to press on.

“And what? You think I’m the one who told them? What evidence do you have of that? None, right?” Winwin scoffed.

“Well who else would it be?”

“Winwin is innocent!”

Everyone’s eyes shot towards the two men who had abruptly entered the bedroom.

“What do you mean?” Jaehyun asked.

“The message from Wayv. It wasn’t traceable.” Yuta explained.

“So? It isn’t uncommon for an enemy message to be untraceable. It’d be sloppy of them if it was.”

“Yes, but this time it’s different,” Taeil began.

“Normally with messages like these, we can at least trace them back to an IP address even though they’re almost always dead ends, but when I traced the origins of this message ...”

“Get to the point, Taeil,” Jaehyun ordered.

“Yes, sir. When I searched for the message’s origin, the IP address the message was sent from matched the IP address of the computer that received it.”

“In other words, it was sent from Taeil’s laptop,” Yuta translated.

“Wait, what does that mean? So, someone had access to Taeil’s computer?” Taeyong asked.

“Well kind of. As you all know, I’ve been the only one who’s had any direct physical contact with my laptop over the last few days,” Taeil explained.

“So, what are you saying?” Jaehyun huffed.

“Someone hacked my laptop without me knowing. I gotta give it to them, I had no idea and right now I don’t have any idea how long they’ve had access or how much control they had, but at this point, it’s highly probable that they’ve accessed control of everything my laptop has control of, including any systems we’ve implemented not to mention it’s microphone and camera.”

“So, they can hear everything Taeil’s laptop could hear,” Yuta summarized.

Jaehyun turned back to Winwin.

“Don’t think this means we’re done here,” He growled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Winwin smirked at his boss.

“Taeil? Where’s your laptop right now?” Jaehyun asked the brown-haired man.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

“So, how are you?” Mark asked as we walked down the winding hallways.

I stopped and looked at him, the irritation in my face somehow went over his head.

“So, is that like a not good?”

“Oh no, I’m great. I might have two black eyes but at least I don’t have three,” I spat out before resuming my pace.

Mark sighed.

“Where are we even going?” I asked, still peeved.

“You know what, I don’t actually know. Taeyong didn’t give me any orders beyond telling me to get you out of there.”

“How did I get myself into this mess?” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Mark looked around as we continued down the hall. I could tell there was something on his mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to care what it was.

“Hey,” He loudly called out even though I was walking right next to him.

I gave him a quick glance before returning my gaze forward.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you hungry?”

Before I could even think of an answer, my stomach thought of one for me.

Mark’s laughter added to my annoyance, but I chose to stay silent.

“I know where we should go.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

“Boss, what are we planning to do?” Johnny asked following his colleagues as they journeyed down the East wing’s halls.

“Do you think that we can mislead them by giving them fake information or something?” Yuta half-asked half-suggested.

“Not an option,” Taeil chimed in.

“Exactly. If Wayv has complete access to Taeil’s laptop, then they already know that we’ve found them out. The only thing we can do now is destroy it and initiate the emergency systems.” Jaehyun stopped before looking to Taeil.

“Unless you think you’d be able do anything.”

“Sorry, boss. That’s a no go. They’re already ten steps ahead of me if they managed to hack into my computer system and if they know that we’ve discovered their presence, they’re probably working to get twenty steps ahead as we speak.”

“Then it’s settled,” Jaehyun began as he and his men turned the corner entering the kitchen.

“We’ll incinerate the laptop before we-”

Jaehyun’s words came to a sudden halt as he found himself staring at Y/N and Mark sitting and eating on the kitchen counter.

“What do you think? I was right, huh?” Mark asked, handing me the packet of gummy candy we were sharing.

“Hmmm. I don’t know, I kind of like the sour apple ones better than the watermelon.”

“Psh, whatever. More for me I gue- Boss!”

I turned towards the group of men who had entered the kitchen. When my eyes landed on the man who was responsible for my wrecked state, I froze.

“What is this?” Jaehyun demanded as he approached us.

Despite knowing that the question was directed more towards Mark than at the both of us, I still struggled to form anything even close to resembling a coherent thought. I had just watched this man get into it with Winwin without personally feeling the slightest ounce of fear, but now his aggression was being directed towards me and Mark. I hadn’t noticed until Mark started speaking that he must have felt the same way.

“I umm we-”

“I instructed Mark to take Y/N to the kitchen to get her some food,” Taeyong winked.

Jaehyun turned back towards the redhead that was standing behind him.

“Well let’s hope for your sake and theirs that they didn’t say anything of any importance while sitting only one room away from our little problem.”

“Huh? What problem?” Mark inquired more curious than fearful at this point.

Instead of answering, Jaehyun motioned for Doyoung to come closer. After whispering in his ear and pointing towards the living room, Doyoung nodded and left for the nearby room.

“Taeil and Yuta, go catch Mark up on everything upstairs” Jaehyun ordered.

“As for you,” Jaehyun rumbled, turning his head towards Winwin.

“Until we know for sure what’s going on, Johnny will be tasked with staying by your side. Johnny, make sure you keep an eye on him.”

“Um. I can watch him boss,” Yuta volunteered.

Jaehyun immediately shook his head.

“Johnny will be in charge of watching Winwin and that’s final. I need you to help Taeil explain the situation to Mark in terms that he’ll understand. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Yuta acquiesced.

Mark hopped off the countertop and offered me up a sympathetic look before heading off with his colleagues.

It was just us three now. I could hear my heart beating in my chest. It only made me more anxious as I feared that he could hear it too and that he might end my life just to rid himself of the bothersome sound.

I kept my eyes glued to the floor as to not disrespect the man in front of me. I wasn’t going to risk pissing him off any more than I already had, not while my skin was still splashed with shades of blue and violet.

I could sense his stare and though I was fearful of the consequences that would arise might my eyes meet his, I couldn’t suppress my curiosity for more than a few brief moments and so I surrendered to his gaze. Though I had expected to see a look of rage, what I was met with instead was that of confusion. He looked over my body as though examining an antique he was trying to set a fair price for. It wasn’t the most objectifying look I had received. Far from it, in fact, but I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious under his scrutinizing gaze. I had no idea what was going on. Now that they found out what happened with me and Lucas, NCT 127 had no use for me anymore and Jaehyun was probably thinking of what to do with me. If he was going to kill me, wouldn’t he have done it by now? Perhaps he had something else in store for me. Was this pink haired mob boss contemplating whether I’d be profitable if he were to sell me as a sex slave?

“Those clothes,” He growled.

I blinked a few times, waiting for him to finish his thought.

“Take them off.”

“W-what?” I stuttered aghast.

“Boss?” Taeyong quirked, voice riddled with concern.

“I said, take them off. Now.” His voice boomed.

My already uneven breathing quickly turned into full on hyperventilation. I looked for an exit hoping to find any way out of the mess that I was in, but it was no use. My heart was beating faster than a rabbit whose foot was caught in the teeth of a large predator. Adrenaline filled my veins, yet I was too fearful to use it. I was frozen in place, unable to think, speak, or move even an inch. The familiar sight of black dots began to dull my vision until there was nothing else to be seen.

“Shit!” Taeyong cursed as he scrambled to my side.

“What the hell was that?!” He shouted as he checked to make sure the fall didn’t do any serious damage.

“Those clothes,” Jaehyun muttered bitterly. “They’re IU’s.”

“So?! Just because you don’t like seeing someone else wear IU’s clothing doesn’t mean you can just order them to strip, Jaehyun! Do you have any idea what she must have been thinking?”

“She’s not just someone else. She’s the girl who’s involved in IU’s death.”

“No, she’s not, Jae. You saw Wayv’s message. Her story was true,” Taeyong stood up from Y/N’s side. He was practically yelling at his boss.

“You don’t know that. She could be working with them!”

Taeyong grabbed Jaehyun by the shoulders.

“Snap out of it, Jae! Stop looking at her like she’s the person who killed your sister and start seeing her for what she is, one of Lucas’ victims, just like your sister. No, actually. Scratch that. You should start thinking of her as the girl who killed the man who killed your sister because that being the case, maybe you should thank her instead of doing whatever the hell it is you think you’re doing!”

Taeyong immediately regret the words as they left his mouth, but it was too late. He braced himself for whatever reaction Jaehyun would have to his verbal lashings, but he wasn’t prepared for his boss’s lack of a reaction.

Jaehyun scowled at his second in command before looking at the hands that still held onto his shoulders. Taeyong noticed this and immediately released his hold on the mob boss in front of him. Jaeyong continued to stare at Taeyong as he contemplated his words.

“Then what do you suppose we do with her?” He asked through gritted teeth.

Taeyong took a step back and looked down at my unconscious body.

“She doesn’t know that much about what’s going on so letting her go wouldn’t harm us in any way, but with Wayv after her, she’s not exactly safe anywhere but here.”

Jaehyun’s eyes, which had previously been glued to Taeyong were now gazing at the figure laying on the kitchen floor. After a few moments of silence, Jaehyun sighed.

“Put her in one of the spare bedrooms while we figure this all out,” He decided, hands rubbing at his temples.

“Yes sir.” Taeyong lifted my body off the ground in a less than graceful sweep.

“And send someone to get her some clothing. I won’t have her wearing any more of IU’s things.”

“Yes sir.”

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mamabear-elinor · 3 years

Photo

THE FORGING OF BITTER BONDS

V. Five Times Sorcha Flirted with Elinor...and one time Elinor flirted back. January 1993-June 1993

[cw -- some vomiting (from illness) that’s it for this one tho woo!]

→ → → January → → → “I got you something!” Sorcha’s arm appeared in front of Elinor’s nose, her bangles jangling loudly in the library, as she wiggled the little bag with colorful tissue paper sticking out of it. She moved into Elinor’s line of sight the next moment, plopping into the chair next to her.

“We’re in a library,” Elinor protested, but she took the bag from her. Sorcha just shrugged and lounged in the seat as if she was in her living room. She had a way of looking comfortable wherever she was. Elinor was jealous of it, considering she had spent the last few months of school not wanting to get comfortable anywhere. And, besides that, didn’t know how to be comfortable. Sometimes, she felt as if she was either five years older than her peers or had somehow grown up in a different universe. Their behaviors alien, their laughter loud, their words crass. Of course, Marigold took to it like a fish to water. Elinor had always felt stiff and awkward, like there was a tattoo on her forehead that branded her as a fish out of water.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” Elinor asked suspiciously, keeping her voice low. It was the middle of the day, so there weren’t many people around. She liked to squirrel away in the darkest parts of the library, where no one could find her. A habit leftover from childhood, she suspected.

“I asked Marigold, of course. I needed to know that I was right?” Sorcha replied with a smile, her voice the same volume it always was: loud.

“Right about what?”

“Your birth chart. And I was, by the way. You’re such a Capricorn.” She flicked a page of Elinor’s book, which earned her a scowl.

“I don’t know what that means,” Elinor sniffed primly, pulling her book into her lap where it would be safe from further abuse.

“I’m a Pisces, so don’t worry. We will get along.”

Elinor didn’t know what to say to that. She blushed slightly and grabbed the bag, just for something to do. Pulling out the tissue paper, she reached in and grabbed something small, smooth. It was a keychain of a golden sun, its rays stretching outwards. The metal work was lovely and carefully crafted. Elinor knew how delicate such work would be.

“Thank you,” Elinor told her, realizing that she had not received many gifts for her birthday. A new dress from her father and mother (though, Elinor had a feeling someone else had picked it out. Considering her mother could hardly look at her.) A set of hair pins from her sister. Wool for knitting from a few of the staff at the castle. Marigold had gotten the book for her that Elinor had mentioned she wanted, but that was as personalized as gifts got. “It’s lovely.”

→ → → February → → → The weather was cold and damp. One of the worst months of the year, in Elinor’s opinion.

Of course, Sorcha did not think so. As they walked back from class, Elinor hurried along, only to notice that Sorcha was no longer next to her on the way back to the dorms. When she looked over her shoulder, she found her standing in the middle of the field, her hat off, snowflakes caught in the tight curls of her dark hair.

“Sorcha!” Elinor hissed, backtracking and stomping toward her friend through the snow.

“Let’s make snowmen!” She flopped back into the snow.

“You’re going to catch your death,” Elinor told her matter-of-factly as she came up to her and peered down at her.

“And what a glorious way to die!” Her hand, which had been moving back and forth to create her wings, reached out and grabbed Elinor’s ankle and swept it out from under her.

Elinor yelped and lifted her foot up, trying to shake Sorcha off, but she just gave a tug, knocking Elinor off balance and sending her sprawling to the ground next to Sorcha. “Hey!” Elinor gasped as the cold snow started seeping into her trousers. She shivered but she reached behind her, grabbing a handful of snow and throwing it right into Sorcha’s face.

“Eghad! She fights back!” Sorcha laughed after her moment of shock wore off. She sat up so that they were facing each other, their hips nearly touching. Perhaps it was just because it was cold, but Elinor could feel the warmth of Sorcha’s body, even through her thick coat.

“Of course I do,” Elinor sniffed and couldn’t help but remember the Winter’s Ball. Of course I did. Something curled in her stomach, a tug that made her look away from Sorcha’s dark eyes, dancing with mirth. She swallowed, then stood up, brushing the snow from her clothes and holding out her gloved hand for Sorcha--whose hands were bare, because she was a bloody idiot. Sorcha let Elinor pull her to her feet, but then stayed, clutching to her hand, even as Elinor began to walk off.

When she stopped again, glancing down at their hands in confusion, Sorcha shrugged in that way she did. As if she wasn’t confined by gravity and barely staying on earth. That simple movement was an acknowledgement of how her body wanted to leave this earth. “My hands are cold.”

They walked back to the dorm hand in hand, not talking.

→ → → March → → → It’s Sorcha’s birthday this time.

“I want to spend the day with you,” Sorcha told Elinor as she laid, sprawled on Marigold and Elinor’s couch. She was looking at Elinor in that way that made her feel as if Sorcha could see exactly what Elinor was feeling.

Elinor’s arms crossed over her chest and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. Her heart felt as if it was going to beat out of her chest. The feeling made her even more nervous than Sorcha’s declaration. She wondered if she should, perhaps, stop seeing Sorcha so much. Something about her burned. After all, she was brightness incarnate, if names were to be believed.

“Aw, I think that’s so cute!” Marigold says from her spot curled up in the arm chair. “I would totally come with you but it’s the women’s rugby match and I can’t let the team down.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Elinor asked Marigold, turning desperately to her friend. “I’ve never missed a match.”

“And we’ve never won one!” Marigold laughed brightly. “Besides, Thomas is coming up from Oxford and we’re going to be spending the weekend together anyway. He will be my new lucky charm, so don’t worry about me.”

That made the clawing in Elinor’s stomach worse. “Fine. I mean--yes. I’ll go.”

“Oh, you’re the best, Ells.”

Elinor wrinkled her nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, sunshine.”

Don’t call me that either. Elinor blushed.

→ → → April → → → “You don’t look so good, sunshine,” Sorcha appeared in the mirror of the bathroom behind Elinor. She hadn’t even heard the door open, or a knock.

“Ugh, get out,” Elinor mumbled from where her face was in the toilet.

“You’re not pregnant are you?” Sorcha asked as she came and sat on the lip of the tub, leaning her elbows on her knees. Her brow was furrowed with uncharacteristic concern.

“What? No!” Elinor used the rest of her energy to shout in alarm. Just the idea of something like that. Hilarious. Laughable. Her mother would kill her. “I must’ve eaten--” her words were cut off by another bout of sickness. She heard the water running in the sink and the next moment, there was a cool cloth on the back of her neck. Her eyes fluttered closed as she laid her cheek on the disgusting toilet seat and reached up to flush.

It had been a long time since someone had taken care of her while she was sick. Her mother had never had the stomach for it and as soon as she’d outgrown her nanny, it was up to her. Thankfully, she did not get sick often. Which she credited to her great love of the outdoors.

“Go away,” she croaked.

“And leave you to drown in chunder and toilet water? I don’t think so,” Sorcha chuckled. “Don’t worry. If I catch whatever you have, you can put a cool cloth on my neck whilst I vomit.”

“Why are you doing this?”

There was a long pause. So long that Elinor thought maybe she’d imagined saying it.

“You’re my friend.”

“Marigold and she went to stay somewhere else so she didn’t catch it.”

Sorcha didn’t say anything, she just got up from where she was sitting. “I’m going to go make you some ginger tea and then maybe we can move you to the couch and get you a pail. Maybe watch a movie.”

“Do not,” Elinor feebly protested.

“You’re lucky you look so helpless and cute right now,” Sorcha laughed at her before disappearing.

→ → → May → → → “This is so cool,” Marigold giggled as they made their way down into the basement of the art history building, dragging Elinor by her sleeve. It was dark and cold and damp. The building was old, but it was not a castle. It had been built specifically as a university and not one that was supposed to have stood for four hundred years. Which meant that the basement leaked. It smelt of mold and the cold.

They found the door that they had been directed to and stepped inside. There was not a single light except for candles that flickered off the wet walls of the little storage room. Elinor and Marigold crammed into the room, Elinor doing her best not to brush against the walls, unless she get some sort of slime on her fine wool sweater. A shiver ran down her spine and while she knew nothing nefarious had ever happened in these catacombs, she really also hoped that she wasn’t about to be part of one.

“Do you think Sorcha tricked us down here for a ritual sacrifice?”

Marigold barked a laugh, making several people turn and look at them. She did not get a chance to respond, however, for the next moment Sorcha appeared on the stage as if by magic. Her dark skin seemed to absorb the light from the candle around her, making it a warm brown, reminding Elinor of summertime, not a damp, dingy basement with grey walls and unnameable sludge.

There was a smattering of clapping, Elinor followed along, not sure what the protocol is. (If you don’t know the etiquette, follow others. Always follow. Never lead.) It wasn’t until the sound of her own clapping, loud and harsh, reached her ears that she realized everyone else had been snapping gently.

Elinor blushed, just as Sorcha’s eyes found her in the near darkness. “This poem is for my friend, who inspired it.”

Another round of snapping. Elinor did not join in. Instead, her heart was clenched in her chest.

Elinor had read all the greats of poetry, of course. Dickinson. Wordsworth. Yeats. Keats. Blake. She had, also indulged a bit in Maya Angelou. Hughes. Plath. Elinor loved poetry. She loved the stories that the lyrical words could tell.

She did not know how she felt about this poem about dark, straight hair like a river at night or pale, rosy cheeks. Noses in books. Heads in toilets. Brightness. Illumination.

When Sorcha’s poem finished, Elinor turned on her heel and fled.

→ → → June → → → Elinor was drunk.

Elinor never got drunk. Usually, at uni parties, she trailed behind Marigold to make sure she didn’t get in a fight or fall down a flight of stairs and break her neck. But Marigold was in London, visiting Thomas. Her exams had finished before Elinor’s and--Elinor didn’t want to go home. She didn’t have a sweet, handsome boyfriend to visit.

All she had was her cold castle and her cold mother to return to. Her disappointed father and her judgemental sister. The only person she missed was Dawn. And Dawn, as her mother often reminded her, was not a person.

“Hey there, sunshine.” It was Sorcha, having found her sitting on the back steps of whatever house this party was at. Elinor couldn’t remember.

“Of course you’d be here,” Elinor scoffed, gesturing at Sorcha.

Sorcha just chuckled and shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.” She sat down on the steps next to Elinor.

Elinor scowled. “You aren’t disappointing me with your--” Elinor gestured again.

“My--?” Sorcha’s eyebrows were lifted now.

“Yes, your--the way you--how do you do that?”

“Er, not sure I’m following there, sweetness.”

“Do that thing where you make it seem like nothing bothers you.”

“Nothing does bother me.”

“How is that possible, how can it not bother you? Don’t you worry? Don’t you care?”

Sorcha just glanced out into the dark. “Sure, I care. That’s not the same thing as being bothered.”

It was to Elinor. She was bothered by everything, because she cared so much. She was bothered by the roundness of Sorcha’s shoulder, like a stone. She was bothered that she wanted to touch it. Feel Sorcha’s warm skin under her fingers. That Sorcha made her feel this way. Made her feel seen, understood. Elinor didn’t even understand herself half of the time, but Sorcha just seemed to know. What she needed. When she needed it.

She turned to look at Elinor now, her chin resting on her bicep from where she’d wrapped her arms around her knees. She smiled. It was a soft smile. An inviting smile. Her lips looked smooth and inviting as they curled in the corners. Her eyes were two warm, dark pools like the lochs that Elinor had been warned about as a child. The ones she used to dip her toes in anyway, just to feel that shiver of daring.

Before she could think about it, she dove in--pressing her lips against Sorcha’s.

They were chillier than she expected and it made her draw back after just a moment, though she didn’t fully pull away. Sorcha’s breath ghosted over her lips and that was warm and tasted like honey, despite the cheap beer they’d been drinking. It was Sorcha who nudged her chin forward the second time and kissed Elinor. Her hand snaked around Elinor’s neck and drew her in.

And Elinor was right: Sorcha was warm. She warmed Elinor. All the way down to her toes as their kiss deepened. Her own fingers curled against Sorcha’s bicep as if she needed to hold on, as if Sorcha had sucked the gravity out of Elinor and made her feel weightless.

When the kiss broke, Elinor felt like rain on a window pane, like falling snow.

“I do care,” Sorcha repeated softly. “I care about you.”

#the forging of bitter bonds #five times #self para #featuring marigold harrington #featuring sorcha benjumea #heheeheuaeluselag

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roofer515 · 3 years

Text

Preventing Ice Dams plus the Roof Leaks These people Cause

Here we are accompanied by another chilly Massachusetts winter in addition to as with any winter here in New Great britain many property owners will have major difficulties with ice dams creating roof leaks and shingle damage. Though it may seem while though ice public works are an unstoppable force of nature, they are actually quite preventable. Attics and cathedral or perhaps vaulted ceiling places that have been correctly included into the overall building envelope don't have got problems with ice cubes dams and icicles in the cool seasons. Through the particular use of appropriate insulation and air flow techniques ice dams can be stopped frosty (pun intended). Below an average scenario with regard to the formation of ice dams: The house has an increase of snow within the roof. The temperatures outside is below freezing. The temperatures inside the attic is above freezing, thus raising the particular temperature of typically the roof itself to above freezing. Since of the warm roof, the ideal over it begins to melt from the bottom upward. This melted environments water tries to be able to run down and even off the roof. As soon as the water extends to the edge of typically the roof it gets exposed to the freezing air. The refreezes as ice instead of snowfall in the gutters, if present, and alongside the edges associated with the roof. As more and more melted snow drinking water continues to run down the roof it just will keep freezing behind and on top of the previously frozen work off, forming a larger and bigger ice cubes dam. So Precisely how Do Ice Public works Cause Roof Leaks? The melted ideal water doesn't immediately freeze anymore right after the ice dam has begun to adopt shape. Once the particular ice dam offers built up a bit it literally creates a ravage that traps the rest of the particular water trying to be able to run off typically the roof behind that. Could trapped water will eventually freeze, it might take a when and during that period a portion regarding the shingles in this roof, right behind the ice dam, are basically sunken in water. Nowadays of course your own roof shingles will be obviously suppose to shield your home coming from the weather we. e. rain and even snow. Yet , the majority of roofing materials will be not meant to have got a pond or perhaps river on leading of them. So What Can You Do To be able to Prevent Ice Public works? First and primary you should recognize that proper insulation in addition to ventilation is the key(see image on right). If we are usually talk about the attic area in that case typically because of this the particular insulation needs to work up the wall space of your house then above the attic flooring joists forming a great ideal insulation package. In the attic scenario only typically the floor with the loft should be covered, not the underside from the roof! Proper ventilation is likewise required. Outside weather needs to end up being capable of enter typically the attic in order that the basement temperature is the same as typically the temperature outside. An individual achieve this fresh air through the work with of gable grille, soffit vents plus a roof ridge port. In roof devices with attic locations below them it is fairly straight frontward to get a contractor of which knows what they will are doing to improve any problems in terms of proper insulation and ventilation. However, roof systems with a new cathedral ceiling listed below them that have got these issues are more of the project to improve, yet they can end up being corrected. In purchase to have a new properly ventilated in addition to insulated cathedral threshold the contractor should install baffles inside each rafter these kinds of before installing the insulation. These baffles allow air in order to flow between your soffit vents along with the shape vent which will keep typically the underside of typically the roof the equal temperature as outside. If these baffles ore not mounted in your cathedral ceiling then typically the contractor will require to remove the existing sheetrock and even insulation from your current ceiling to be able to properly ventilate the area. This particular type of project could cost more than an attic project. Inside of addition to typically the ice dam issue, if your loft is warmer compared to outside temperature you might be also wasting a lot of money heating that room. So basically you will be paying extra funds on your own heating expenses for your privilege of growing nice major ice dams and even icicles that result in roof leaks and destroy your roof. Type of makes this even worse once you think of this this way doesn't it? Exactlty what can you Do About Existing Ice Dams? Whether it's the midsection of the winter season and you have ice dams or through recent experience you believe they will be forming soon there are some steps you can consider. First of just about all, minus experience climbing on the roof throughout the winter, particularly with snow on it, don't do it! Call a professional. Exactly what you can do is go to the local hardware retail store and purchase an ideal rake that features an extendable manage designed to draw snow off regarding the starting ft of the roof and attempt in order to pull some regarding that snow off of, from the ground, before it offers a chance to be able to melt and refreeze along the roof edges. You can also do this kind of once the glaciers dam has formed and keep it from getting just about any bigger and provide it to be able to burn, hopefully. Also, many roofing contractors, us all included, function with typically the winter and often provide roof snowfall removal services found in addition to their particular typical roofing companies. This is a new service our company is delighted to provide with regard to our customers below in Massachusetts, for example. Again, please don't try and perform this yourself. Involving icy ladders in addition to slippery roof surfaces it is some sort of recipe for catastrophe for that inexperienced. There are also some products on the market that can assist in preventing ice public works before they form and melting these people if they have already formed. You should be able to find a home development store in your area that markets a product that will is basically the coated, heated cable that you batten across the edges regarding the roof and then plug inside if the conditions are usually right for ice dams to form (see picture in right). These truly work pretty great, however, they normally are not solving the true difficulty which, naturally , is ventilation and insulation concerns. They are often right intended for some homes inside of some circumstances nevertheless. Most home development and hardware stores also sell pellets or tablets of which are designed to be thrown upwards onto the roof from the ground. These tablets then supposedly may melt the snow from the roof as they break down into the water that will is running straight down the roof to the ice dam. There are no experience using the products so My partner and i can't say with regard to certain if these people work as designed or even not. However , several people say they have got worked for their particular ice dam troubles. Anybody searching for I would certainly be worried about like a roofing service provider is potential destruction to the shingles from the chemical substances these tablets are constructed with (salt is zero great for asphalt shingles), along with possibly staining the roof using those self same chemicals. And even in basics case situation this product is still just the band-aid for the greater problem. Proper Roofing Tips for Chilly Climates Besides making sure that the particular roof has correct ventilation and attic insulation there will be an additional amount of security against ice cubes dam issues and roof leaks that all responsible and honourable roofing contractors must be taking in cold weather climates with regards to frequency, asphalt shingled attics. Every time a new roof is installed, these kinds of days, extra part of protection called ice and water membrane needs to be set up from the advantage to at a minimum of 3 feet upwards the roof. This added layer involving protection will aid prevent leaks in case ice dams conduct develop along typically the roof edges. Ice cubes and water membrane will not avoid ice dams it simply is added security in order to help protect typically the plywood sheathing underneath the asphalt shingles preventing leaks should the ice dam type.

#Roofing #Roofers

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snowdice · 4 years

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Something Left (Part 1 of the series Is There Anything Left of Patton?)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Virgil & Logan, Logan/Patton(?)

Characters: Logan, Virgil, Patton(?)

Summary: Virgil has been living in Logan’s house for 3 months and they get along pretty good. Their abilities seem to balance each other out making them a good team for the apocalyptic world outside their door.

Then he finds the secret in Logan’s basement... He almost wishes that secret was as simple as he first thought it was.

In which I set up a world where Logan is probably crying like 85% of the time.

Notes: Zombie Apocalypse AU, Past major character death(?), Look it’s a zombie AU so you can probably guess why there’s a question mark after everything involving Patton.

Three months. It had been what passed for a normal three months, a good three months even. Especially when compared to the three months before it and even more to the three months before that. Don’t even get him started on the three months before that; those months had been the shittiest months. Those three months had started out with him working at a coffee shop trying to pay rent while look for a better job and ended with him almost dying because he had to jump off a bridge into running water to save himself from a pack of zombies.

These last three months had been good comparatively. This was mostly because he’d been living in Logan’s house for almost the entire time. Logan’s house had actually been his (as far as Virgil could tell) from before. That or he’d bothered to lug cases of old college textbooks with his handwriting scribbled in the margins and boxes of photographs with him in them through the zombie apocalypse.

It was a nice house even now and sat on the outskirts of what used to be a town. Virgil had no idea how he’d managed to hold down the fort during the outbreak or how he’d managed to not get overrun after it. He imagined that the population of the dead in the vicinity of his house was a lot smaller now than it had been at onset, but it was still sizable enough that Virgil had almost gotten eaten while scavenging in a neighboring house. That is how his met Logan.

Virgil had been certain he’d been about to die since he’d just barely been holding back teeth from chomping his face, when a single bullet had gone through the zombie’s head and embedded itself right to the left of Virgil’s own skull. Even just the one gunshot, of course, alerted every mindless carnivore in the area of their location, so they’d scrambled into his house to wait it out.

Virgil had just… not left. He’d never really been invited, but he’d also never been asked to leave so he’d just stayed. He contributed of course. Virgil was pretty good with the little garden out back while Logan seemed to have… whatever the opposite of a green thumb was. He seemed to appreciate Virgil taking it over. Virgil was pretty sure the plants themselves cried in relief.

Despite his lack of skill in the gardening department, Logan was pretty good at things like hunting (managing to only kill the zombie and not also shoot Virgil had not been a lucky shot) and keeping the house structurally sound. They both were okay at scavenging which was much easier with two of them and they worked well together.

Also, Logan was nice to talk to, especially since Virgil had been alone for a long time during the last year. He was a good guy if a bit eccentric. He’d disappear for hours into the maze that was his house and Virgil often found him reading in odd places, but he was chill and smart.

Well.

At least, that’s what Virgil had thought.

“God dammit. You’re one of those people. Fuck.” Virgil said.

“It,” he said standing in his secret, fucking, dead body prison basement, “It isn’t like that.”

“You know, Logan,” Virgil said. “That’s what they all say.” He gestured at the thing in the cage. Even though he knew there was nothing going on in its head, Virgil couldn’t help but feel a bit of pity for it all trussed up like that in the corner, squirming and making horrible sounds behind a gag. “So, what? Huh? Is it someone you think you care about too much to put out of its misery even though it might kill anything it comes into contact with? Are you keeping it for some sort of last-minute defense for your house? Do you do science experiments on it out of some perverted need to know more about them? Tell me, because I’ve honestly run the gambit of crazy assholes in the last year.”

“No,” Logan said. “I…” he sighed. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I don’t understand?” Virgil scoffed. “Why don’t you explain it to me? Why do you have a zombie in the basement of your house. The house I lived in for the past three months without you thinking to tell me about this?”

Logan looked at him for a moment. “Very well.” He grabbed a set of keys on the wall and moved over to the enclosure.

Virgil lunged forward to grab his arm when he moved to put the key in the lock. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

Logan didn’t try to pull away from his hold. He just spoke calmly, face neutral. “He is restrained well on the other side of this cell. I will lock the door behind me. You won’t be in danger.”

“You’re fucking nuts,” Virgil spat. “What am I supposed to do. Just stand on the other side of the bars and watch you get ripped to shreds by that thing?”

“I will not get ripped to shreds,” Logan promised. “I’ve been in that cell many times. I know how to deal with him. Please let me explain myself.”

Virgil cursed, but released him. He took a few long steps back while Logan unlocked the cage. His warry eyes went to the creature who was stirring at the noise, but it did seem well restrained. As he had promised, Logan locked the door behind himself.

The thing grew more agitated as Logan approached, straining against its bonds and making sickening noises behind the gag. Logan went to his knees in front of it, a sad smile on his face. “Hello Patton.” Logan reached for the handcuff locks.

“You’re so fucking nuts!” Virgil said, but it did not deter the other man and it was not like Virgil could stop him from the other side of the bars. He didn’t even have the keys if he wanted to enter the cage. When Logan released the thing’s arms, it reached forward, its fingers grazing Logan’s cheeks in a move Virgil recognized. He’d seen people get pulled in with motions like that. Mindless dead fingers grabbed and grabbed, pulling you toward deadly teeth so they could tear you apart. The only thing keeping Logan from being a snack was the gag in the things mouth, but as Virgil watched, he reached up a hand to take that out. From experience, Virgil expected it to lunge directly towards Logan’s neck, but it… but it didn’t.

It continued to reach for him, and the raspy moans got even more haunting without the gag smothering them, but it did not attack. Despite all rational thought, Virgil felt himself draw closer to the bars of the cell to watch. Logan calmly set the gag to the side as though he was not being clawed at by a mindless dead thing and then, he reached up to press the inside of his wrist to the creature’s mouth. “I don’t know why,” Logan said, very much not being bitten. The creature seemed discontented with this new thing covering its mouth and titled its face to get away. “Perhaps it is a different strain of the virus or something went wrong with the turning. Maybe it’s just him. He was a good man in his life. He wouldn’t even let me kill bugs he found in the house. Perhaps there is an echo of that leftover that keeps him from hurting people. Or maybe it’s just me; I wouldn’t risk anyone else to test out if he’d attack another. That’s why I keep him restrained here.”

“I…” Virgil said. “Fuck.”

Logan looked up and Virgil was shocked to see that despite the level tone he’d been using the whole time, there were tears leaking from his eyes. “You can see why I can’t just finish him off though. Even if perhaps I should. I just…” and his voice finally wavered as he gave an aborted sob. The creature reached and reached mindlessly for him, brushing his face again and again with its fingertips. Logan grabbed its hands and held them between his own. “I-I don’t know what you want, dear,” he whispered. The creature wiggled and pulled against the grip. Logan cleared his throat. “Virgil would you perhaps mind sliding me the first aid kit on the table over there?”

Virgil obeyed, grabbing it and sliding it through the bars to him. He took it and opened it with practiced ease. “You’ve hurt yourself again,” Logan said at a volume that made Virgil sure it was not meant for him. “Here, I’ll fix you right up. It’s okay.” There was a minute pause in the sounds it made. A reaction to the words? To the tone of them? Or did it just finally need a breath? Virgil could not be sure. It did not pause in the reaching, and the moaning started full force again right after. Logan rubbed some sort of cream into a mark near the creature’s elbow.

“Does that work?” Virgil asked. Most zombies he’d seen didn’t appear like they ever healed. They were often rotted and limping.

“He’s still living in some sense of the word. He heals if wounds are properly treated and he has enough nutrition. In fact, he seems to heal faster than before.”

Nutrition. “And uh, what do you feed him?”

“Meat. He doesn’t seem to have a preference for cooked or raw. He won’t eat anything else. Well, except for baked potatoes for some reason.”

“Backed potatoes?”

“He won’t eat mashed or fried.”

The creature stopped reaching for Logan in favor of attempted to get at the cream on its skin with its mouth. “No,” Logan scolded. It did not respond. He pushed its head back and picked up bandages to start wrapping the area.

“You know this is crazy, right?” Virgil asked.

“I do, but what do you expect me to do when there is something left of him?”

“I. Fuck,” was Virgil’s response. “Fuck.”

Want to read more? This is now part of a series! Click below for the next part of this story.

Someone You’ll Never Meet

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #adriana writes #zombie au #past major character death #angst #italop

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delimeful · 4 years

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to taste your beating heart (1)

warnings: vampires, blood mention, memory loss, mild violence, captivity

Anxiety watched his target carefully as he trailed him through the rainy city streets, hood pulled over his eyes.

The man was carrying a cat-patterned umbrella, the brightness of it contrasting with the grey skies overhead and the dull concrete buildings all around them. He walked with heavy shoulders, eyes down, and mind elsewhere.

Distracted, tired, alone. For a first time hunt, he was the picture of the perfect prey. Anx felt sort of bad about taking advantage of the guy’s obvious bad day, but it wasn’t like he was planning to kill him. There was plenty of humans in the city, which meant plenty of blood. If he was still hungry, he could probably find someone else.

His coven would make fun of him for being so soft, but didn’t it just make sense? With how often they impressed on him the dangers and mercilessness of hunters, he thought they’d make more of an effort to avoid killing people and leaving bodies. Of course, if one was dead, they couldn’t blab about being bitten to the aforementioned hunters, but…

Anx shook his head, trying to refocus. It didn’t matter. He would do what was safest in the moment.

Ahead of him, his target turned into a shortcut between buildings, and Anx let his lips curl with a smirk, hurrying his pace. An opportunity.

He walked after him into the alley, footsteps almost soundless, and his body shifted into a more predatory stance. He gained ground with every step, and was only a few yards away when the man stopped. Anx froze in response, brow furrowing curiously. Had the human heard him?

“Um,” the man said, turning to face him without surprise. He had clear blue eyes that looked a little sorrowful. “Please stop following me.”

Anx drew back a little, surprised, but then mustered up every ounce of menace he had, straightening his spine to loom.

“Don’t worry.” He said, voice gravelly. “I won’t for much longer.”

The man opened his mouth to respond, but Anx was already moving with inhuman speed, slamming into him and pinning him against the brick wall. The cat umbrella clattered onto the ground. The man wheezed, eyes wide, and Anx couldn’t blame him. He was the fastest in his coven, so to a human, it had probably looked something like teleportation.

This close, he could hear the man’s rapid heartbeat, and smell the sweetness of his blood. His mouth watered slightly, and the stranger almost managed to shake him off when he started struggling against his grip. “Let go of me!”

“Hold still.” Anx hissed, drawing in closer and tugging the man’s shirt collar to expose the juncture of flesh between the neck and the shoulder. With how tense the man was, the bite would hurt like a bitch for a while, but Anx thought he’d probably prefer that over a severed artery, so. “I’m not going to kill you, so quit wriggling already!”

Apparently too scared to speak, the man shook his head vicariously, making it impossible for Anx to duck down and bite him properly. He growled, pulling back for a moment, and only had a second to see the man glowering at him, no fear in his gaze, before he was slamming his forehead against Anx’s.

He saw stars, stumbling back, and the man charged him, knocking him to the wet, gravel-covered ground and pinning his shoulders down with strength you wouldn’t find in the average human. A hunter? Anx thrashed, his hood falling back.

When he managed to focus on the man’s face, however, he was met with a stunned gaze rather than malice or hatred.

“Virgil?” The man whispered, and Anx felt a sharp pain ricochet in his head. He snarled, mind aching.

“Who the hell is Virgil?”

Roman paced back and forth in the hall, glancing through the tinted glass of the double sided mirror with every turn.

They had the basement room installed with what essentially amounted to a police interrogation room, although designed for much stronger occupants. Even thralls, who were the ones that occupied the room most often, had superhuman strength and endurance granted to them by their ‘masters,’ and thus needed superhuman restraints to hold them while they tried to track down the vamp responsible.

Of course, the one currently strapped to the chair in that room wasn’t a thrall, as much as Roman wished that was the case. It would have been easier to fix than being turned.

His heart had skipped a beat when he’d answered the phone to the sound of Patton in distress, nearly incoherent through his sobbing. It had nearly stopped entirely when he got to the alleyway and found Patton sat on the ground with an unconscious Virgil, head resting in his lap. Virgil hadn’t recognized his name, and had struggled viciously against any explanation until Patton had been forced to knock him out, and he was still sniffling now, hours later.

Even Logan, who was always the best at keeping his head between the three of them, was stunned into a painful silence at the sight of Virgil’s eyes. Bright, unnatural purple where they’d once been a dark, soothing brown.

When they’d sworn to find their missing companion, alive or dead, none of them had expected to find him like this.

A cool hand settled on to his shoulder, and he paused, drawn back to the present. Logan had entered without him even noticing.

“Roman.” Logan said, a subtle reprimand in his voice. “You aren’t going to help Patton calm down by working yourself up.”

“Who’s worked up?” Roman said, but his voice came out tense, and the joke fell flat. He bit his tongue, looking at the limp form in the chair before them. Sitting on the wrong side of an interrogation table. “Is there even anything left of him in there?” His question came out soft.

Logan’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “I don’t know. We’ll have to see.” Sensing that this wasn’t enough, he turned to facts instead. “He isn’t feral. He can speak, and he told Patton he wasn’t going to kill him. He may not know us, but studies have shown that memory loss due to disease can theoretically be reversed. Don’t give up.”

“Me? Give up?” Roman took a breath, firming his shoulders with bravado. “There’s no chance of that.”

Logan’s face softened in a manner that would have been a smile on anyone else, but before he could respond, there was a harsh inhale. They both twisted to face the window into the room, watching as Virgil- the vampire came into consciousness with a jolt, struggling to look around and wrestling against the restraints ineffectively. Patton had informed them of his incredible speed, but apparently that didn’t carry over to strength.

“I’m going in.” Roman said, immediately, and Logan sighed.

“Let me get Patton first. He’ll want to be here.”

He left, and Roman stood close enough to the glass to fog it slightly, staring at that familiar face. The vampire was breathing heavily, the way Virgil would during a panic attack, and his eyes flickered around to different spots on the mirror as though searching for something. Roman’s heart ached, and he reminded himself to focus on the things that were Not-Virgil, like his glowing eyes and the edges of fangs he could barely see past his lips.

The purple dye Virgil had maintained so dedicatedly was faded now, the pale strands against his clammy skin making him look washed out. If it weren’t for the brightness of his eyes, he could have been mistaken for a corpse. Roman shuddered.

“We’re here.” Logan announced, and Patton grabbed Roman’s hand like a lifeline, eyes puffy and rimmed with red.

“Hey, Pat.” He drew the soft-hearted hunter into a hug, drawing back after a moment. “Don’t worry. I promise to be as careful as our emo nightmare would demand.”

Patton’s eyes grew even more watery, but he let go of Roman’s hand and nodded. Logan searched Roman’s gaze for a long moment and then nodded as well, tension lining his body. No matter how the nerd proclaimed otherwise, he cared about them. The way he’d worked himself to near-exhaustion after Virgil’s disappearance was a testament to that.

Roman turned to the door, not letting even a smidge of hesitation leak into his body language. Two steps, and an opened door later, he was there. In the same room as Virgil, or, at the very least, Virgil’s body.

The vampire stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide and scared, and Roman closed the door behind him, walking a few steps closer. He could see the way the vampire’s shoulders tensed up, but he didn’t snarl or even hiss, and hope fluttered in his chest despite himself.

“Hey there, Dark and Stormy.” He said, exhaustion making the nickname come out less menacing than he’d intended.

The vampire blinked once, twice, and then-

“Roman?”

Roman’s body froze as though he’d been electrocuted, breath catching in his lungs. The vampire- Virgil searched his face as though recalling the features.

“You- You’re Roman. You are Roman, aren’t you?” He asked, voice dropping into uncertainty.

“Yes.” Roman choked out, his throat closing up with the emotion he felt. He remembered. “Yeah, I- Yes.”

Relief flooded Virgil’s face, but only a moment later it dropped away to fearful uncertainty again. He shifted in the chair, restraints chafing against him. “Are… are you going to kill me?” He asked, voice cracking.

Roman moved forwards as though drawn by a magnet, turning the chair away from the table and grabbing Virgil’s hands in his own. “No, god no, Virgil, we wouldn’t-”

He paused as Virgil seemed to cringe in pain, not at his proximity but at his... words? “Virgil?” Another wince, accompanied this time with a snarl, and Roman realized the facade for what it was at the same time that the vampire’s pupils contracted to vicious slits.

He threw himself back, and got a perfect view of sharp fangs snapping shut on air with a click, the vampire having lunged forwards as far as he could in the restraints. Trying for Roman’s throat. There were muffled shouts from the room behind the mirror, and Roman realized that the vampire had faked waking up, had been listening to them talk at least long enough to hear Roman’s name and use it against him.

He rolled to his feet, facing the vampire with a dark expression. The monster was working his jaw after the failed bite. “Ouch.” He muttered, sinking back against the chair in a slouch. Painfully enough, he looked even more like Virgil that way.

“Roman!” The door to the room was flung open, and Patton launched himself at Roman, checking him over and hugging him. Logan trailed in after him, resigned to the loss of secrecy, and stood between them and the vampire.

“Sorry, Pat.” Roman responded, still staring at the vampire with narrowed eyes. “He fooled me.”

“I thought… He fooled me, too.” Patton admitted, turning to face the familiar stranger in their midst. The vampire tilted his chin up defiantly, but his hands were clenched into trembling fists. “You… you really don’t remember us, huh?”

The vampire looked surprised at being addressed for a moment, before catching himself and baring his teeth with a hiss. “Whoever you think I am, he’s long gone. And I’m not telling you anything. So just get it over with.”

Patton buried his face in Roman’s shoulder again, and so Logan was the one to respond. “Get ‘it’ over with? What exactly do you think we’re going to do?”

“The same thing hunters always do to us?” The vampire responded, incredulous. “Whatever you’re going to use to kill me, just do it. Even if I was willing to tell you shit, I don’t know anything important, so torturing me is pointless.”

Patton clung to Roman harder, but all he could think about was the way Virgil had referred to vampires.

Us, he’d said. He thought of himself as a vampire, had no doubt been told how evil and cruel hunters were, didn’t even know that he’d been one only a few weeks ago. Roman felt a boiling hatred in his stomach, not for Virgil, but for the vampires that had stolen him. The vampire that had replaced him.

“How many people have you killed?” He asked, voice low. Patton’s grip became painful, and Logan inhaled sharply through his nose, no doubt irritated with his rashness.

The vampire squinted at him. “Are you stupid? I just said I’m not answering shit.”

“How would I use that information against other vampires?” Roman countered, unfaltering. “How about this: if you answer, you get to eat.”

“Roman….” Logan said, frowning. Roman turned to him, eyebrows set stubbornly.

“What? Are you going to leave him here to starve until he goes feral?” Logan looked away. “I didn’t think so.”

The vampire ran his tongue over his fangs, staring between the three of them with something like bewilderment. “You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.” Roman challenged.

“None. I haven’t killed anyone. He,” Here the vampire looked to Patton, “was my first solo hunt.”

Patton pulled away from Roman, staring at the vampire with heartbreak written all over his face. “You told me… you weren’t going to kill me. Back in the alley.”

The vampire stared at him for a long moment, face unreadable. Then, he turned his head to the side and a cruel sneer spread across his face. “Yeah, well, I just wanted my prey to stop struggling. Not my fault you believed it.”

The three of them exchanged shocked gazes of recognition at the tell, making the vampire shift with uncertainty from where he was watching them from the corner of his eye.

“You’re right.” Roman finally said, his heart twisting painfully as the vampire kept his head tilted away. His eyes flicking to the side in the same tic Virgil always had when he was lying. “I don’t believe you.”

Whatever memories he had lost, Virgil was still in there somewhere.

Roman had to believe that.

#sanders sides #vamp virge au #vampire #ts virgil #ts roman #this is just the combined and edited vers of the snippets from earlier #ts logan #ts patton #vampire au #writing #my writing #ttybh #to taste your beating heart

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trashyeggroll · 4 years

Note

'storm' for ramvers:) also i loved your ramvers fic(s)! didn't know you wrote for then too. every ship ive soo much as looked at you've got it covered lol.

🤩 thanks anon!! so many good ships, not enough waking/not working hours in the day. ramvers is absolutely one of my favorites to write, the fluff potential is just as endless as the angst. also i am 90s kid so the references in the movie felt like a personal attack

#11 Storm: a too-long backstory sandbox 😅

For days, the meteorologists had watched and issued warnings about the tropical storm barreling across the southern Atlantic and along the Gulf of Mexico. On August 3, 1970, the upgraded Hurricane Celia it made landfall near Corpus Christi, Texas, wreaking havic on the coastal town, knocking down buildings like dominoes, washing away roads like sand, and roaring with winds that sounded like rocket shells to the families who had remained, huddled in shelters and basements and bathrooms.

One of them had been six-year-old Maria Rambeau, frozen with terror as she sat frozen with terror in her family’s dark basement. It sounded to her like the world was ending at the top of the stairs, and water had started leaking through the walls, puddling in the low spots in the floor. Maria clung to her older brother’s arm while they stared in silence at the rumbling ceiling, occasionally releasing a cloud of dust and dirt after a particularly loud bang. Maria felt like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink for fear that her whole world would be ripped away.

When the storm passed, Maria emerged to find half of their house gone, smashed to splinters, and in the ensuing days, as the Rambeaus packed up to relocate with family in Louisiana, the death toll in Texas would top out at 15, and Celia would long hold the title of the costliest storm in the state’s history.

As the years passed, Maria learned to manage her fear of storms, of thunderclaps and dark skies at high noon. She might’ve enlisted in the Navy if not for the way trickling water still made her pulse tick faster, and the very thought of being surrounded on all sides in the belly of a metal ship for months on end… No, the skies were Maria’s home, and besides, nobody flew fighters in storms.

Much to her chagrin, Monica loved storms, a trait very likely learned from Carol, who after growing up in the land of tornadoes found hurricane season somewhat quaint… especially after gaining her powers. A bolt of natural lightning would be like an ant bite to Captain Marvel, and gale-force winds like a pleasant breeze.

That had been something of a problem in the years that Carol had been missing. Their daughter had lost her example of confidence and wonder, and too often, Maria had felt too nervous herself to properly comfort Monica through roaring storms that tore the limbs off trees and shingles from their roof. Monica was strong, though, and during storms or clear skies, she made Maria more and more proud of her with each passing day.

Still, Maria was tired of cowering before storms. She’d zipped through space in extraterrestrial crafts, held laser guns and battled movie monsters come to life. Storms seemed like a reasonable foe to conquer.

Carol had listened to her plan with widening eyes, and when those ran out of real estate, her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “That is… dramatic.”

“Says twinkle fists,” Maria shot back, arms crossed over her chest.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you sure you can hold up your end?”

The mild challenge made Carol scoff, and Maria knew the conversation was over before the blonde added, “Pfft. Easy.”

And so, on July 18, 1997, almost three decades after the night in the family basement, Maria Rambeau instesd donned a lightweight spacesuit that Carol brought her from another world. Her wife still looked a bit worried as she fastened the last airtight cuff, her forehead adorably wrinkled when she stepped back.

“I want to do this,” Maria murmured into her helmet, which would transmit to Carol’s own suit. “And… I’ll have you there, with me.”

The blonde’s expression softened, and her lips quirked into a smile as Maria grasped her hand, giving it an extra squeeze for good measure. Usually, she could feel the heat from her supercharged wife’s skin, but the suit effectively blocked it, and she supposed that was good for what was about to happen.

“No pressure,” Carol stilled joked against her lips, and Maria gently thunked her helmet against the superhero’s forehead. It was a poor stand-in for a kiss, but Carol would probably make her refit the whole suit if she disengaged the face shield, and it got her signal of affection across.

The first drops of rain were starting to plink against the metal roof of Maria’s workshop, and she blinked reflexively at the drops spattering against the glass shielding her eyes when they stepped out from the shop’s refuge. Carol folded her arms around Maria’s chest, attaching a bungee cord between their suits for good measure, and after a quick 3-2-1 countdown, they jettisoned together into the darkening sky.

Hurricane Danny roared ahead, drenching the Louisiana delta, and Maria’s heart started thudding against her ribcage. It certainly looked different, from a few hundred feet in the air. Carol’s alien fire burned up the rain before it reached them, but Maria could feel the outer winds, and each flash of lightning turning the sky to daylight made her muscles tense. But Carol was right there, holding her firmly to her chest, giving her encouraging squeezes whenever she felt Maria go stiff.

The hurricane-force winds were at the eye of the beast, but Carol didn’t take her through them; the superhero turned and zoomed higher, until the rain broke over their heads, and it was just stars above. Maria would never tire of that view.

“Look,�� Carol’s tinny voice chirped in her ear.

Maria tilted her chin down as they stopped to hover in place. She’d seen astronauts’ photos of hurricanes before, but they didn’t do an ounce of justice to the effect. The slow swirl of the clouds, the way lightning illuminated puffy sections in white-blue. The storm was still mostly over the ocean, tracking a strange, jagged path across the gulf states.

“It’s almost pretty,” Maria said, not entirely consciously. “From up here. But I’d hate to be on a boat down there, right now.”

Carol’s glow brightened. “I’ve seen better.”

Maria twisted a little in her arms, enough to see the cheesy grin her wife was flashing over her shoulder, nose wrinkled. “You stop.”

“What? I’m adjusting your associations with storms. And I meant it.” The blonde adjusted her hold as Maria turned back around, dropping one hand to grip Carol’s tightly. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Maria had no sooner sighed the words before Carol took off, hurtling them back down, towards the massive eye of the hurricane. This time, Maria closed her eyes against the rush of panic, fighting off flashing memories from her childhood—the helplessness, the way her imagination turned breaking beams into skyfall.

“It’s just heat and water, that’s all,” Carol was saying as they dove through the clouds, purposefully dipping ito the place where the winds blew hardest, and the rain became a sheet. The sound, even through her suit, drowned out nearly every thought, all sound completely overtaken by endless water… and she could still feel Carol holding her tight. Her arms were sure and her flight steady. Maria opened her eyes.

Behind her face shield, it almost looked as though they were moving through a choppy ocean, except for the bubble of safety in Carol’s glow, and Maria imagined this might be how it felt to be in one of those ocean cages, where you could get “up close and personal” with sharks. Except, Maria’s foe was on all sides, and her metal cage was the strongest in the universe. Heat and water. Life or death, depending on the form. That, the engineer in her understood well.

Maria’s nerves seem to peak along with the winds, like a wave breaking on a rocky shore, and a final burst of adrenaline had her shouting into her helmet, a crowing victory call that no one but Carol and the hurricane could hear, and her wife’s musical laughter filled her earpiece.

Veering sharply to the right, Carol took them through the wall of the storm, and as suddenly as they’d dove into danger, they were floating in cool, calm air, high over an churning ocean. Water fell off them in a miniature falls, and Carol gingerly turned Maria in her arms.

“Better?”

“Better,” agreed Maria, reaching up to open her helmet, now that they’d returned to human-friendly heights. “Just heat and water.”

Carol nodded, smiling as Maria looked around the surreal column over the ocean, illuminated by the moon and Captain Marvel herself. When she turned back, Maria couldn’t help but capture her wife’s lips in a kiss, taking another small victory in the way they dipped in the air and Carol’s small noise of surprise.

#not entirely happy with this #but regardless THANK YOU for the prompt #trashy writing #ramvers #danbeau #long post #the keep reading isn't working

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ramblinganthropologist · 3 years

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N7 Challenge - 5 (Cruelty)

Summary: It was cruel fate that stuck Garrus in that cafe, waiting for his fake date so they could get that mission going. He would’ve been so much better as the tech oversight guy... damn the fact Shepard’s too gay to pretend to be into a woman realistically.

(Aka, Chris plays fast and loose with the rules.)

ME1

---

It was a lovely day on the Citadel... and Garrus was in hell.

'Relax, you're as stiff as a board. Nobody's going to believe you're on a date like that.'

His mandibles twitched as he listened to Tali through his hidden transmitter. Normally, this was where his visor would come in handy... except he wasn't allowed to wear it. No, apparently that was against the first date dress code and he'd been made to leave it on the Normandy along with his armor and weapons.

Well, he had a pistol stowed away... but that wasn't the same as his rifle, damn it.

“I still don't get why I'm the one who had to do it.”

'We needed a tech expert, and Shepard says... Shepard, what did he say again?'

'He's too fucking gay to fake being into a woman, so Tali was out. You were the only one left, Mandibles.'

The other Shepard's deep voice disrupted the quarian's electronic tones. Garrus hadn't been expecting it – the sudden change made him wince a little. Luckily, nobody at the cafe noticed. They were too busy eye-fucking their dates.

He knew this place, had walked past it when he had still been in C-Sec. It was a popular spot for couples to have their first date thanks to the fact it was public, fairly reasonable, and offered booze if things started to go south. Had he not been on a mission, the turian definitely would've been ordering a drink or two to survive this.

After all... he had to fake being on a date with Commander Shepard.

There was a point to all this, of course. According to Alliance intel, there was something strange about this cafe and the fact a lot of well-armed people tended to stop by after hours. He hadn't heard whispers of it being a front for something, but it had been sometime since he had walked a beat. For all he knew, someone could have moved in while he was gone.

That... or he just hadn't really cared. Scoping out hot date spots had never been high on his priority list.

“Where is my date anyway? He didn't run away at the thought of being in public, did he?”

Garrus hadn't meant to use that much scorn, but it leaked out anyway. It wasn't as if he disliked the man, per se … just found him incredibly odd and more than a little off-putting. He had a way of catching you off guard and hammering home that made the turian uneasy, not to mention his strange hamster tending habits. Add in the fact they had met by colliding into each other and... well, maybe he was a little salty.

So, he didn't dislike the Commander... but maybe they weren't quite to like just yet.

'You're not that ugly, Mandibles.' The Normandy's XO sounded bored on the other end. 'I think he's scoping the area out. Make sure to appreciate the view when you see him, I worked my ass off getting him ready.'

'She really did a good job, I'll be amazed if you recognize him at all.'

Well, that was perfect. Guess they were going for the blind date angle and taking it to the extreme.

“Thanks.” Now he really meant the sarcasm as he sipped at his water. If he was on a date, he should probably wait before he ordered anything. That was polite, right? “I swear, you two are enjoying watching me suffer.”

He could expect that from the human, but Tali's cruelty really caught him off guard. Who would have known the quarian had it in her?

The line went quiet not long after that – no doubt they'd gotten their fill of his misery. Garrus was left to glance around in the hopes he might spot Shepard. He had already checked all the obvious spots, but nobody quite fit the profile of short and kind of awkward looking.

Ok.. maybe that was mean. But the guy was awkward. Even he said so.

“Where are you...” Garrus' mandibles twitched as he kept looking. Really, it was couples as far as the eye could see. Apart from a couple school-age looking girls gossiping, everyone else looked to be on a date. There was nobody who stood out as being on their own, especially not someone who looked to be casing the joint. “Shit, he better not be the girls.”

Before he could worry if he was going to have to ask one of the teenagers if they were actually a fully grown man in disguise, a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, expecting to have to apologize to the waitress for taking so long to order. The excuse was already on his tongue – his date wasn't there yet. But then it died on his tongue.

There was a man standing there, human and wearing the tightest jeans Garrus had ever seen. He gave a little wave as he smiled, eyes sparkling. Well, eye – the other one was covered by his blue-streaked blonde hair.

“Hey there, been waiting long?”

Garrus' brain had short-circuited long ago. It didn't help that his tongue had somehow glued itself to the roof of his mouth of the sight of the man and his incredibly tight pants. Really... he must have had to paint those damn things on. Weren't humans concerned with ball space or something? Their genitals were on the outside...

…

Also wasn't he supposed to be straight? Why was he checking some dude's ass out?

Right, words. “Uh... what?”

The man chuckled as he sat down. “Sorry I was late, I know we said we'd meet at 2 but I got held up at work. You didn't wait long, did you?”

By now, the turian's brain was thoroughly fried. Somehow, someone had mistaken him for their date. Scenarios to get him out ran by quickly – the most obvious being to tell him that he wasn't there on a date at all. But that would probably break his cover...

And more importantly, Shepard and Tali would enjoy it way too much. They were evil.

“I...”

“Anyway, thanks for waiting for me. I hear this place has great tea. Not sure what you can get, though. Are you allergic to levo?” The man's voice lowered as he leaned forward to whisper to Garrus. “Perimeter's clear, though the back door has some pretty serious locks for a simple business. I think we're onto something.”

…

His brain turned back on. “Wait... Shepard?”

The man's cheeks turned pink as he sat back down, playing with the ends of what Garrus realized now was most definitely a wig. “I told her it was too much, but she said otherwise I would've been too easy to spot.”

In theory, that made sense – Shepard was the first human Spectre. Pretty much everyone had seen the video of him accepting the position at least once. To say a small human with a bight red military haircut and a missing eye would've stuck out in a popular cafe was putting it mildly. Honestly if any of this was actually true, it might have gotten guns pulled on them had they tried it.

Which, probably would've made things easier but they were trying to be subtle.

“Well... she's right. Those two are probably enjoying this.” He moved in closer as well, if only to prolong the image. That close, he could definitely smell Shepard had been sprayed with something that wasn't sweat. It wasn't bad just... odd. “So... see anything else?”

Shepard pulled the menu so he could flip his wrist over to expose his omni-tool. Specs popped up, showing the blueprint of the building. Garrus' facial plates twitched as he gave it a brief once over, stopping at the basement level.

It was pretty damn big... maybe too big for a restaurant.

“I think it's shared with a building halfway down the block that has connections to the Blue Suns.” Another spec, for a place Garrus definitely remembered as being a suspected front for something. They had still been working on it when he left C-SEC. Maybe they'd wind up wrapping two cases. “It'd probably be easier to get into this one once it closes up...”

That would be in a couple hours... so they were probably doing dinner then.

“Hi there, are you two ready to order?”

Both men sprung back up as they realized they had company. A cheery looking waitress had appeared, smiling at them like she knew what was going on. At the same time, the pocket of her uniform was sitting a little weird. Maybe it was a datapad... but maybe she was packing heat. The Blue Suns were getting creative with their recruiting.

“Uh, yeah. I'd like a strawberry soda for now.” Shepard had dropped his voice way below where Garrus thought he could, and his accent was different. He grinned as he turned to the turian. “How about you, big guy? Pretty sure I picked somewhere you could eat.”

It was hard to keep his mandibles from twitching. This was going to be a long night. Luckily, there were no turians around to pick up his subvocals as he shot murder over at the human. Instead, he checked the menu fast – honestly, he had forgotten it was there.

“Coffee is fine by me.” And then he remembered he had to pretend to be into Shepard. The pants helped. “Wouldn't want to be bouncing off the walls and kill the chance of a second date.”

The waitress giggled – maybe that was a datapad. That, or she was one hell of an actress. “That's one strawberry soda and a coffee for the cute couple at table 5 then. Be right back!”

And then she was gone. Both breathed a sigh of relief as they relaxed – it was a little harder for Shepard for obvious reasons. But at least they had managed to pass the first round of this fake dating nightmare.

“You didn't seem like the coffee kind of guy, Garrus.” His fake date sounded a little too honest as he leaned back. The turian would have thought him using the position to look around under the wig, but he knew better – that eye was dead. “Let me guess, you take it black as night and bitter as hell?”

Garrus' mandibles twitched a little. “Not big on sugar. Clearly that's not the case with you. You planning to bounce around all date?”

“Some of us need the energy. Besides, if you think this is bad you should see me slam pixie sticks sometime.”

Just the thought of it made Garrus twitch. Biotics and their energy requirements...

“Right, well, we should start to figure out where we're going next.” His eyes wandered back to the storefront. “Maybe a walk around? There's a park nearby that's beautiful at night.”

Shepard smiled at him, and his stomach flopped. Maybe it was the fact he hadn't eaten anything. “Sounds good to me. Now, why don't you tell me a little about yourself so if you try to murder me and shove me in a trash can, I can text my sister beforehand so she knows who to tell C-SEC about when you go to the bathroom.”

Despite everything, Garrus found himself laughing. The human chuckled as well, maybe in spite of himself. Honestly, the whole thing was just utterly ridiculous and the plot of some cruel spirit that enjoyed jerking them around. Somewhere, they were enjoying this.

Fucking spirits...

“You two are doing great. Shepard's scan gave me a weak point you can access once the building is shut down.'

Tali was back in his earpiece. From the sound of things, she wasn't in engineering anymore. Wherever she was heading this mission's tech corner was somewhere much quieter, and with a little less foot traffic. Maybe they wanted to enjoy this in private.

'Tell Al to fix his shirt, unless he wants to show his new underwear off when you two go to take your walk.'

The other Shepard sounded almost amused by this. Garrus felt his mandibles twitch as he glanced over at the human sitting across from him. Shepard had taken to folding a napkin again and again, turning it into a rather lopsided bird. If it were real, it probably would've been spawned near a toxic waste dump and probably glowed under black light.

But at least he was doing something with his hands that wasn't too suspicious.

“Hey, I know this is awkward because I shouldn't be staring at your ass yet-” At least Shepard had the sense to chuckle at that. “But... might want to pull your shirt down.”

The blush that colored Shepard's cheeks was definitely real as he tugged his shirt down over those skin tight pants. Hooray for method acting, he assumed. If they kept this up, people might actually believe they were a couple.

Maybe. Spirits, this was hard.

“Thanks...”

“No problem.” The turian nodded as he spotted the waitress. “I spot my coffee and your sugar syrup. Refuel for round two?”

They would need it – he was starting to get the feeling things might get interesting after all. After all, it wasn't every day he faked being someone's date to get into an underground facility with a Spectre in skinny jeans.

Now that was something even the writers of Blasto couldn't come up with... too bad he was living it instead of watching it. At least he got coffee...

#n7month #ramblinganthropologist's writing #Alistair Shepard #Garrus Vakarian #fake Shakarian #it'll be real Shakarian eventually #just give it time and trauma'

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andersunmenschlich · 4 years

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Episode 18: The Man Upstairs

All right—let’s see how long this one takes me. Listening, writing, listening, writing....

[August 8, 2020: begin!]

This statement was given in December 2008 by someone named Kristoff Rudenko, and has to do with (as the episode title might suggest) a man who lived in the apartment above the one our statement-giver moved into sometime in 2002, later in the year. Apparently the place was called Welbeck House.

I have some experience with people living above me. The apartments I choose as a photosensitive tend to have people upstairs of them. What can I say? Basements are nice when light hates you.

Kristoff saw the man for the first time the day he moved in.

According to our statement-giver, the man was leaning out of his window, smoking... while wearing a hooded jacket pulled up so tight it obscured most of his face. Now, I don’t smoke, but that seems like a rather odd way of doing it to me. Surely it can’t be that convenient to stick something into your mouth while you’ve got your face all wrapped up? At least I’ve never seen anyone doing it that way. Even in quite cold weather people seem to prefer to leave their faces mostly exposed while smoking.

The weather on this particular day, Kristoff says, was gray and overcast with the possibility of rain later. Hmm. Is this the type of weather in which one would wear a coat while still technically indoors? This is a genuine question: I’m a cold person in many ways, and often wear jackets when others wouldn’t.

Well, perhaps it is that cold, or perhaps the man upstairs also possesses an unnaturally low body temperature.

He certainly possesses an unusual odor. Our statement-giver describes it as “halfway between the smell of a pavement after rain on a hot day and chicken that’s starting to turn,” which is difficult for me to imagine.

The man, leaning out his upstairs window, watches Kristoff move in for a while. Then, between one trip and another, he vanishes. Presumably he finished whatever the heck it was that he was smoking. One wonders: did the smell come from him, or from his unhealthy little treat? Our statement-giver doesn’t tell us what it was the man was smoking, forcing us to make do with the vague conclusion that it must have been something common for the time and location.

Wandsworth near London, later in the year 2002... a cigarette?

It could, of course, have been a cigar, a pipe, a marijuana roll-up, a hookah, or almost anything else, since we’re not told—but I assign higher probability to a cigarette than to any other possibility.

...Ha. Why, yes: I do have a certain fondness for precise and detailed information. However could you tell.

Speaking of precise and detailed information, Kristoff admits he had no idea whether the man upstairs was a man, he just decided to assume—which is an admission I like, because frankly I think admitting you’re making an assumption is a step up from making the assumption and apparently never even noticing that it is an assumption, and might be incorrect.

Kristoff also gives us more information about his own internal workings by letting us know that, despite not knowing why, he was “slightly spooked” by the encounter. Something in this other tenant’s manner, he says, shook him.

Well, being stared at by someone for the better part of half an hour might be a bit unsettling, don’t you think? Smell or no smell.

The man upstairs is apparently reclusive and stays quietly in his own place most of the time, with only his smell wandering around bothering people. Kristoff has another go at describing it and comes up with “rotten and earthy,” but also notes that it stays out of his place—which I think is interesting, don’t you? In my experience living downstairs from people, scents come right on down, floors and ceilings no obstacle to their passage.

Despite this, Kristoff gets in the habit of burning scented candles. Of course, all candles have a scent. I have a habit of using candles and lamps for lighting, and I’m familiar with the various odors—but specially scented candles are, I think, nice when you’re in the mood for them.

Returning to Kristoff Rudenko: Things were pretty all right for the first two years.

In 2004, however, the banging started.

It’s the day before our statement-giver’s 37th birthday, and he’s clearly planning one of the many sorts of party that I don’t enjoy, since he’s unpacking a whole crate of beer when the noise begins.

Ten minutes of banging, which seems to start on one of the walls in the apartment above, but then moves to the floor, and is vigorous enough to make our story-teller’s light sway with the force of it. This hammering carries on (presumably moving the whole time) for nearly a full hour. Kristoff, despite being the social, party-throwing type, apparently has enough normalcy in him that he does not want to interact with the tenant in the flat above him, and so he simply puts up with the noise until it stops.

This reminds me, for no particular reason, of the time Walmart was selling coconuts for fifty cents.

I bought one. I brought it home. And then I spent far too long trying to get the confounded thing open. Really I should have given up the instant I tasted the milk after holing and draining it—that liquid did not taste right—but I’ve never liked coconut milk and so I thought perhaps that was the problem.

When, after what felt like a small eternity of increasingly vigorous abuse, the coconut finally cracked open, I was delighted. The people upstairs from me were probably also pleased, though I really couldn’t say for certain.

In any case, the coconut was exactly what I should have expected for 50¢.

Kristoff Rudenko has his party, and manages to annoy the family across the hall so much that they actually come and ask him to turn his music down. He, meanwhile, is pleased that the man upstairs is apparently back to being a thoughtful neighbor. I wonder how many people are actually aware of their own hypocrisy? “Boy, I’m sure glad that one neighbor isn’t annoying me! This way I can focus on annoying my other neighbors. Whew. Big relief.”

The man upstairs is quiet for another two weeks—then, apparently, it’s hammer time again. Walls first, then floor, and after about an hour, silence again.

Every two weeks.

Must say, that would aggravate me, too... and I’ve been putting up with random banging and unannounced water shut-offs since I moved into this new place at the very end of May. Sharing space with other living things? Not, in my experience, an excellent idea.

Furthermore, buying an apartment in Welbeck House is essentially the same as buying a very small house built right up against your neighbors’ houses, so....

No landlord. No housing association, even.

Kristoff Rudenko carries on not talking to his upstairs neighbor about this regular percussive behavior, and simply stews for about six months, at which point the mail service accidentally delivers a package meant for his neighbor to him instead. It’s not a box package, mind you. It’s one of those shipping envelopes for smaller packages, and is apparently simply stuffed with padding (not a bad idea when sending anything even slightly breakable through the mail).

Finally, Kristoff goes upstairs and knocks on the door of the flat above his own, taking along the package addressed to that flat—a package meant for someone named Mr. Toby Carlisle. It’s an excuse, you see. Now he’s not just there to complain, he’s making a delivery and incidentally mentioning that Mr. Carlisle’s banging and thumping is bothering him.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, how difficult people sometimes find it to complain about perfectly complainable things? And yet at other times they’ll throw a completely unwarranted tantrum over something as silly as a store being out of pennies.

Truly, humans are fascinating.

[August 9, 2020: continuing]

Mr. Toby Carlisle seems to have had an effect on the place where he lives. The wooden door looks older and more beat up than any of the other apartment doors in Welbeck House (which, according to Kristoff Rudenko, all seem to have been replaced fairly recently), and the carpet directly in front of the door is a bit stained, like something’s leaked out from Mr. Carlisle’s flat. Also, there’s no apartment number, no nameplate, nothing to identify the place or show who lives there.

I suppose that might explain the misdelivery. Bit difficult to get packages to a place with no address or name on it, isn’t it?

Kristoff knocks on the door.

No one answers.

He knocks again.

This time he can hear someone coming towards the door—but the possibly carpet-muffled footsteps stop on the other side of the door and then there’s just nothing for a while. Total silence. Our statement-giver is about to knock again when, unexpectedly, the door opens.

It doesn’t open much. Just a crack. But it’s enough for Kristoff to A) see that there don’t seem to be any lights on in the place, B) get hit by a whole lot of horrible smell, and C) tell that there’s someone standing there.

“What do you want?” apparently-Toby-Carlisle asks.

Kristoff Rudenko does the package thing. You know: “Uh, I got a package for—are you—?” and so on.

Silence again. Then, suddenly, a thin and pale hand with long and dirty yellow fingernails and a dark red mark that might be an injury of some kind on the back of it shoots out and snatches the package. The door slams.

Well, it’s not a terribly polite way of receiving packages, is it?

Adding lack of proper cleanliness to the other charges, this Toby Carlisle left a disgusting smear of some sort of thick, off-white liquid on Kristoff Rudenko’s jacket sleeve when he so rudely grabbed the package from him, and the stuff smells terrible. In fact our statement-giver says he had to throw the jacket away because the unbearable smell would not come out.

Really now. Is it so difficult to maintain a level of hygiene such that you don’t leave rotting goop on everything you touch?

Kristoff Rudenko, it seems, decided not to knock on the door again and broach the subject of the fortnightly banging. Frankly I can understand his desire to go away and not come back, but it seems to me that he’s unlikely to get a better opportunity.

“Yes, one more thing,” he could say. “That hammering you do every two weeks; what on earth are you doing? And is there no way to do it a little more quietly?”

He’s right there at the door, after all. It’s a very convenient location.

Instead, Kristoff goes away and doesn’t try again. “That was it for a long time,” he says. “The man upstairs was named Toby and he was a disgusting shut-in who smelled rancid and occasionally made hammering noises. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something I could understand and live with. Two years passed like this, and I had almost forgotten about him, to be honest. He had become just another part of my life, and could be lived around.”

I find that remarkable. How does one forget about continual eruptions of horrible noise? Even “almost”? It seems like the kind of thing which would drive me absolutely bonkers.

And I speak from current as well as past experience, because the “temporary maintenance issue” that’s still, after more than two months, waking me up in the middle of the day and shutting my water off at inconvenient moments... this isn’t a thing I’m likely to forget about, nor even almost forget about.

It’s very annoying.

But Kristoff Rudenko, it would seem, has managed this apparently impossible thing, and so he didn’t really think about Toby Carlisle until late 2007.

[August 13, 2020: back from work]

At this point, our statement-giver has decided to move to Sheffield to be closer to his ailing mother, and so he’s trying to sell his place. This is difficult, because eventually every prospective buyer asks the looming question: “What’s that smell?” The third set of viewers even points out a stain on the living room ceiling, which they assume is the result of a leaky pipe.

I’m pretty sure it’s not a leaky pipe.

Kristoff tries to get hold of a plumber, but for some reason they can’t get to him before next week. So he has to wait, and in the meantime the smell gets worse and the stain gets... stainier.

“As it grew, it started to turn a dark yellow in color, and glistened ever so slightly when the light hit it.”

Doesn’t sound much like anything you’d expect to come out of domestic piping. I’m reminded of blood plasma, or melted fat—both of which I’d expect to smell rather worse than simply “rotten and earthy,” though I suppose the second one might smell a bit like “chicken that’s starting to turn.” Hmm.

In any case, Toby Carlisle isn’t answering his door anymore.

When the male plumber turns up, he touches the ceiling and it just... collapses. Kristoff Rudenko describes it as “buckling and tearing like wet cardboard.”

Disgusting gunk comes out of it, too. Sickly yellow fluid with viscous white lumps, you say? No, that doesn’t sound like anything I’d expect to find in a ceiling (nor in a floor, come to that).

Kristoff Rudenko throws up.

The plumber, presumably due to lots of experience with gross things, only looks like he’s about to throw up, and excuses himself.

[August 15, 2020: continuing]

Once he finishes vomiting, Kristoff Rudenko is furious with the man upstairs. Understandably. What sort of horrible neighbor does a thing like that to someone else’s ceiling? Come to that, what kind of person would do something so repulsive to their own floor? Whatever type of individual this is, they’re clearly one in need of punishment.

You see, it’s not a good idea to let people do things which inconvenience others too greatly. Even if they’re not harming you at the moment, they may in future—or others, following their example, may. Deviation from standard social behavior is only acceptable to a point.

Storming upstairs to pound on your neighbor’s door, you may say, seems like a bit of a deviation from standard social behavior.

This is true.

When punishing someone for deviant behavior, it’s acceptable to deviate a bit yourself. This is part of what makes it so satisfying, I think: when punishing someone else for hurting you, you’re allowed to hurt them. Allowed, you understand? So long as you don’t seem to harm the person in question more than those around believe they harmed you, you have a free pass.

Since this Toby Carlisle has actually damaged a place in which multiple people live, Kristoff Rudenko is free to tell him off considerably. Maybe even hit him, if he seems belligerent or particularly unrepentant.

It’s a very good situation for Kristoff.

When he begins to bang on the door and shout for the man upstairs to come out or he’ll call the police to fetch him out, the door swings open slightly.

It isn’t locked. I wonder how long it hasn’t been locked? I wonder how heavy the door is, that normal knocking wouldn’t push it open (and pounding only moves it slightly). Maybe the carpet’s especially thick, because Kristoff Rudenko has trouble opening it. He manages to get it open enough to allow passage, but for some reason can’t open it all the way.

He fumbles for a light switch, and finds one. There’s something on the wall beside the switch, though: something soft and wet.

The light comes on.

Someone’s been redecorating. Now, personally, I don’t understand the urge. I only started putting things on my walls after a visitor commented on their utter blankness—something about how it didn’t look like a human lived there.

I am, of course, human. Human, human, human. Just look at my neck!

That said, it seemed to me that it might be a good idea to decorate a bit more, and so I put up a few reproductions of classic paintings.

...I was later informed that this, too, was somehow suspicious. Really, I don’t know what anyone expects from a normal apartment. Mine has floors. It has walls. It has ceilings. I’ve put towels and washcloths in the bathroom and kitchen, a jacket in the closet by the door, clothing in the closet in the bedroom; I’ve got a toothbrush, toothpaste, a sleeping bag, and even some food in the fridge—and perhaps most importantly, I have not plastered any of the surfaces in my apartment with meat, either raw or cooked. What could be more normal?

At the very least, I think it’s fair to say that Toby Carlisle’s apartment is considerably more abnormal than mine.

“The light that came on was weak and tinged with red, but it was enough to see by. I looked around, and saw that every surface, the walls, the floor, the tables, everything except the curtained windows, was covered in meat.

“Steaks, chunks of chicken, even a whole leg of what I assume was once lamb, had been nailed everywhere. There were layers of it, the newest additions simply stuck on top of the old, and a putrid yellow-white rot could be seen where the oldest pieces had long since turned to liquid. Flies buzzed thick in the air, and maggots carpeted the place. Looking up, I saw the light too, had been smeared with meat, causing the place to be bathed in that dull red light.”

Now, I have no objection to red light, particularly when it’s not especially bright. In fact I prefer it. But this method of obtaining it doesn’t seem sanitary.

Our statement-giver doesn’t tell us whether the meat in question is cooked or uncooked. Perhaps he can’t tell. Once piece of it, however, is probably uncooked: the body of Toby Carlisle, lying in the hallway. The face is no longer hidden, and apparently it’s so riddled with holes that Kristoff can’t tell where the eyes used to be.

This seems unlikely, since eyes tend to be in roughly the same place on every human body, and usually they’re fairly symmetrical. So are there a lot of “puckered, septic lesions and holes” in the same places on the right and left of Toby’s face above the nose?

If so... well, I do appreciate symmetry.

Moving apparently on instinct, Kristoff Rudenko calls the police.

And then, with the phone in his hand, his eyes fall on the thing in the kitchen. Toby Carlisle’s been doing a craft project!

“There, in the center of the floor, was a pile of discarded meat and bone, stacked almost as high as a person. It seemed less decayed than the rest of it, though that foul yellow fluid oozed from it, and ... when I looked at that heaped pile of meat, it moved. I don’t know how—I don’t know quite how to explain it, other than to tell you that it opened its eyes. It opened all its eyes.”

Now, that’s interesting.

A thing built out of meat and bone from... where? The supermarket, probably, given the location. So—dead things from which the life’s long since departed. But there’s life in it, isn’t there? And what, I wonder, has happened to the life of Toby Carlisle?

Personally, if I were going to give a craft project life, I wouldn’t give it my own.

Do you think Toby Carlisle meant to sacrifice himself to this? Or was it an accident? And where did the other eyes come from? I don’t know how things are in your supermarkets, but where I shop most meat doesn’t come with eyes. Surely the only available eyes would be the ones Toby Carlisle once had? Also, what is it with The Magnus Archives and eyes? I’m certain I’m not imagining it now: there are eyes everywhere in this show.

“The next thing I remember,” our statement-giver says, “is the police’s arrival, and a lot of questions from officers trying to hide the fact that they had just finished vomiting. The pile of meat was gone, though the bits that had been nailed to the walls and floors remained.”

So... Frankenstein’s monster left.

But let’s pause and have a think about this. In late 2002, Toby Carlisle already smelled funny—yet he was quiet and the smell wasn’t overly intrusive: just a few whiffs here and there. In July 2004, he starts banging.

I think we can assume this is when the carnal redecoration began. Walls first, then floors, yes? Kristoff Rudenko never mentions the ceiling of Toby’s apartment aside from a note regarding a light fixture. Is rotting flesh nailed there too? Did our crazed meat-painter smear the ceiling with blood and fat? Or did he leave the ceiling itself untouched? These are the kinds of details I’d like to know, and Kristoff Rudenko is not being particularly helpful!

Six months of an apartment papered and carpeted in beef and chicken and lamb and so on and then, in early 2005, Toby Carlisle receives a package.

...A “thick and soft” envelope.

Now, you can have meat shipped to you through the mail, but that is not the right way to do it. There are regulations for the shipping of meat in, I think, every country on Earth. You can’t simply pack meat into an envelope and send it off, that’s a biological hazard!

And yet it’s only in late 2007, after three years of rotting meat, that Kristoff Rudenko says “the smell had begun to pervade my whole flat.”

I would have expected the odor to become a problem long before that! Perhaps our statement-giver has an unusually poor nose... or maybe Welbeck House was built to a truly enviable standard of insulation.

In any case, a hazmat team has to be called in to clean the place up.

Kristoff Rudenko does not mention how the police responded to the dead body. He says nothing about an investigation into either murder or suicide. Does this mean Carlisle’s monster took his old body with it? Does it mean that the police went with either “suicide” or “natural causes” as an explanation for death? Or does it mean that they simply didn’t do anything with it at all, officially—cleaned everything up and pretended it never happened?

Information! Why are we missing so much information? Ahh, well... I suppose these episodes would never end if everything was gone into in as much detail as I’d like. All things considered, this is fine.

Kristoff Rudenko moves in with some friends in Clapham:

“People who are very clean, and don’t mind the fact that I have recently become a vegetarian.”

As someone who has occasionally felt tempted to partake when passing roadkill, I can’t say I understand this reaction. It’s true that I like my meat closer to living than to decomposing, but that is the natural progression—for all living things, vegetables included. First they live and grow. Then they die. Then they rot. We all know this, yes? So why should seeing things at the end of that process put you off eating them at an earlier point?

Well.

Jonathan Sims says, “Looking into this one has proven a bit tricky, as police, hospital and even fire department records give wildly conflicting reports.”

So! I take this to mean that each department wrote up reports it thought worked as plausible explanations—without consulting with one another. In short: they cleaned everything up and pretended the event itself never happened. It’s the gas leak by the Mion River, handled by a bunch of people who aren’t with a single organization (like the Holy Church).

We’ve got a date for the discovery, though: October 22, 2007.

Ah, and Carlisle’s monster didn’t take the body. “The cause of death was listed as gangrene,” which doesn’t seem terribly believable to me. Who dies of gangrene these days? With antibiotics available everywhere?

But then Toby Carlisle, even aside from rituals involving bringing unnatural life to monsters of flesh and bone, wasn’t exactly usual.

Who knows? Maybe he did cut himself on something, and elected to leave the infection entirely untreated. It isn’t as though he’d have to visit the hospital for a little cut—recluse that I am, I’ve treated enough of my own injuries to know what can and can’t be handled at home. A little soap and water, hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol, a tube of triple antibiotic ointment, a sterile bandage... unless you’ve actually cut your arm open and gotten something unusually nasty in the wound... and even then! gauze and a packet of sutures should take care of the worst you’re likely to get at home.

Was Toby Carlisle the type to simply let his injuries, small or large, fester? I suppose he might have been. He certainly doesn’t seem to have cared about keeping his living space clean and healthful.

Kristoff Rudenko hasn’t died yet.

And Incredibly-Competent-Assistant Sasha has turned up Toby Carlisle’s financial records, which seem to suggest that he was making money somehow, but it was all going to pay for his place—and where was he getting the meat? There are no records of purchases made in person or online.

Assistant Tim, despite asking everywhere, hasn’t been able to figure it out.

Assistant Martin is still having stomach problems, it seems.

[August 16, 2020: concluding]

And Head Archivist Jon, like me, is bothered by not knowing where the meat was coming from. Given that it obviously wasn’t coming from any of the more conventional sources, though... well, maybe some of those cold cuts came with eyeballs after all.

Still, I’d very much like to know whether any of the eyes that thing opened were (or had been) human.

#The Magnus Archives #episode 18 #commentary #late to the party

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