[The freighter out on the water keeps sending small boats of belongings. Crates, lamps, chests, until finally, finally after one great boxed monster comes the real cargo. The lady. The bride from across the sea.
He mutters to the men around him who remark that she does not look like a treasure. From this distance she doesn't look like much of anything with the bundle in her arms coming closer and closer to the shore. Finally, with the help of the crewsman she is brought to the wet sand.
Dimly, he realizes he has not seen a new face let alone a new woman in close to four or five years since he planted himself on this distant shore. Frank steps forward and offers his hand.]
[ Natasha was still dressed in black, having been in mourning for her previous husband for over a year now. He had been a good man. A kind man. She couldn't speak so he talked for both of them. It was almost as if he could read her mind and the love she felt for him ran deep into her bones. He gave her such a beautiful little girl. That and the memories, little trinkets she had tucked away in bags, were all that was left of him now. Her father didn't want her to remain a widow for all her life. She was too young, too beautiful. Even if she was mute.
So here she was, halfway across the world for a man she had never met, and the smell of salt water thick on the wind. She doesn't take the offered hand but watches Frank, her expression pinched against the wind. Her daughter, Anya, peeking out from the blanket that had been bundled around her. She squirms and Natasha carefully sets the small child on the beach. At four years old, she's braver than Natasha had ever been at that age. ]
Hello! Are you here to take us home?
[ She says brightly to the man, staring at the tattoos on his arms. ]
[Aren't the dead always better and kinder than the living? That was a saying he remembered from his days at sea. The Navy hardened his heart and skin. Though there is something about the razor sharpness gaze of her green eyes that jabs him just so. The wind whips around them and the air is getting more damp with the growing hours.
His attention shifts to... a walking and talking china doll.]
That I am. Your father is not yet come. I'm sure that he caught the storm that sent you closer.
[Since...no one is going to take his hand, it comes upon his hip. That's not the only markings he has. On his arms, his neck, his face. The whole lot of them must look like savages.]
Come. It will be getting dark. My men have begun to take your things. The larger items will have to wait until morning.
[ And she didn't like this man she had never met. Why was her mother marrying him? It made no sense to her. She grips the blanket closer to her as her expression grows sour but still staring at the markings on him, her eyes eventually drifting to the others. Their hair was long, skin dark. She had never seen such people before.
But at the latter statement, Natasha shakes her head, hands clasped in front of her. She was not leaving her piano. ]
[ It was always risky staying next to an army base but Natasha had learned that soldiers would pay good money for a girl that knew what she was doing. And a girl's gotta eat. Living out of a hotel room was nothing new but thanks to the soldier boys, it was a little nicer than the others she had been in.
Still went out to the nearest club, dressed in her tight bottoms, straightening her hair out to long, straight red strands. Top tired up between her breasts and bracelets that matched her earrings. Other women would glare at her as she walked in but she didn't give a shit. They could eat her -- and she told them enough in the bathroom.
Sometimes the same soldiers would come to her for another round or introduce a "friend" to her. All she asked of them was a drink and payment up front. They wouldn't regret it. ]
[Behold, Natasha. Another friend. He's not nearly as starry eyed as the ones before. And for being as serious and solid in the jaw, there is a little something soft in his eyes. Meaning that he hasn't seen combat yet. That there's still a shred of tenderness in him. The good old boys promised to show him a good time. They gotta make the most of it. Soon they'll be shipped off to fight the communists and free Vietnam from itself. It's the American way. All Uncle Sam's boys ready and raring to go. They've gotta burn off that energy someplace.
Some with the girls at the bar. Some, well, with the ladies of the night. That's what they've been talking up to Lance Corp Francis Castle.
And he is so very much a man in height. Broad shoulders and somehow making that ridiculously severe haircut look good. "Franky Boy, this here is Natasha." Brody, an old friend, is the one that's brought him over. "Natasha, he's one of our newest and brightest." The veteran client slides four bills her way flat and elbows Frank. Hard. "You kids have fun." His work here is done so he goes to find the jukebox.]
What're you drinking tonight, Ma'am?
[Which is what he'd say to any other woman, any other place. For an introduction he has the decency to look her in the eye.]
[ And how handsome he was. She smiles at Brody, remembering him because she had fun with him. And he was pretty nice. Both qualities that went a long way with her, considering her profession. She takes the money and grins at Frank. ]
Vodka martini.
And you can drop the "ma'am". It makes me sound old and I'm pretty sure we are around the same age.
[Funny because he is caught up in admiring her and the way the clothes grip her body tight. It doesn't take too much imagination to see her figure. It's not enough.]
Just because it's business don't mean you're not entitled to respect.
[He signals to the bartender. Another beer and the vodka martini.]
[ There's a small, breathy moan at the touch of his hand through the thin fabric. She pushes into it even as she's halfway to freeing her breasts from her top. Surely he can feel how wet she is already.
But with his help, she's at least able to get her top off, breasts out and bare, nipples hard and too sensitive as she pulls him down for another kiss. She groans into it as her chest rubs against his leathers, something she never would've guessed would feel so good. ]
[Silk dampens and is as soft as the petals of a rose. Matt is certain he'll find other things just as lush and pleasing to the touch. His fingers thread into her fire kissed hair, the other hand pulling her close as she is willing to stand. Leather and the warm, warm heat of her body make him feel like summer has fallen upon him in her embrace. Disrobing is usually something that happens slowly in the harsh climate of the north.]
[ She gives a soft cry into his mouth, pushing against his fingers insistently before she's arching her back to push up her breasts and smoothing, pink nubs rubbing against dark leather, her hands smoothing up his chest. ]
Is my bear ready to show me this "Northern hospitality" I hear so much about?
[The ties that hold her small clothes up give away and as much as he would like to begin lapping up the nectar as any bear would he moves to undo the fastens. The leather tunic and ornate work give away to a softer, lighter cotton which so easily comes undone. Below is a body hardened by labor, battle and long, cold winters. The belt that fastens trousers on really is being put to the test with the full groin expression of his desire. Matt laughs softly to himself as he undoes the leather, it can be done while burying his lightly shaven face into the soft cushion of her breasts.]
[ She was not born a wolf. But the Red Room made sure she acted like she had always been one by the time she left.
They picked her, turned her, and trained her for years. A red wolf of Russia and one of the fiercest, quickly gaining notoriety wherever they unleashed her. She was a weapon first and foremost and she had been content with that life, content with the title. Or so she had always told herself. She was told she would have no mate, being a turned human. They have her tonics to keep her heat and fertility suppressed, saying she would breed when they wanted her to and not before.
It was only after being hunted down by a human named Clint Barton that she started thinking for herself again. He gave her the chance to live a life of her own. Help humans and wolves alike, not just kill. She thought it was a trap at first. But he dropped his weapons and give her the chance to take his hand. Years later, she can't believe he had done that.
For her.
No one had ever cared about her or wanted more for her. Not since her parents (and they had died the night they took her, claiming her as their own). It was all about the pack and Red Room. To join a different pack, to defect... They would hunt her. Kill her or try to. She vowed she wouldn't make it easy.
And she never did. Nick Fury was an old but reliable Alpha and Natasha grew to trust him like a father. She grew accustomed to life in America, seeing how wolves and humans co-existed for the most part. There were still certain designated areas in the larger cities but even out in the more rural areas, packs allowed humans to live on their land. It was new and different and something she never thought was real when she heard people talk about it.
When he told her to join the Avengers, to help in leading them - that Steve was going to need her help more than he could know - Natasha did as she was asked. Stayed with them, helped save more lives, fought more destructive packs and organizations. Sometimes they would spend months together as a pack and then go their own ways. Eventually, they ended up living on a compound Stark had made for them and life had been peaceful.
Until it all fell apart. General Ross wanted them to disband, not trusting the technology they possessed or the abilities some of their pack possessed. They were being called out for the damage they had done, it didn't matter if they had saved more lives than lost. The two Alphas of the pack butted heads about what to do. Steve wouldn't back down, neither would Tony. Natasha tried to keep the pack together, afraid of losing yet another family. But it didn't work.
Months later, after the Avengers was no more, Tony furious at her, Rhodey possibly permanently disabled, Steve and the others on the run, Natasha ran from country to country for a long while before diving into Hell's Kitchen. It would be the last place they would look. Back where it all started. She could still recognize some of the buildings from the fight with Loki. She cut her hair, dyed it blond and went about getting a job with fake IDs and numbers to complete the new identity. Small apartment, keeps to herself but not secretively. Still aware of her surroundings and anyone near her. Resists every urge to go running around in her wolf form no matter what howls she hears in the back alleys.
She's not looking forward to having to try pill suppressants for the first time for her heat but it's necessary. She's on her way back from the pharmacy with them tucked into her purse when she smells it on the wind. Normally, it's clogged with other smells. Humans, other wolves, cars, food, the sewers when she walks by one of the drains. But this... this is something she's never smelled before. Sweet and soothing, calming. She's almost in a daze as it gets stronger and she is trying to look around to see who, what, it could be.
Before she knows it, she's knocking shoulders with a blind man and she's snapped out of the revere, back into the real world, on a sidewalk in Hell's Kitchen. ]
[Matt has never been one to flaunt his suffering. It was obvious enough that he is blind. That he has it hard on a day to day basis. That's only one layer to him. Born a wolf, raised to be aware of his nature not by kin but by a callous old fuck called Stick. The well-meaning clergy at Saint Agnes did what they could to raise a man. There is only so much that can be done. Matthew Murdock had to do plenty of growing up and adapting on his own. That is the path of a lone wolf.
The way is paved by strife, violence and cunning. The world can believe he is feeble. His nose is more sensitive than any others. Ears more sharp. His skin can detect changes in the air most would never be aware of. What would have made so many become vulnerable, he's strong. Out of will or sheer stubbornness, he really can't tell.
Wilson Fisk is incarcerated. And another domino to fall is the Hand. Hell's Kitchen is his turf. Marked by each victory in the streets, won over with violence...yet mercy. Perhaps that was a duality he would forever be working around. A man and a beast. Matt Murdock is on the fence between the two. Karen could take the man but the burden of lie after lie in exchange for her blind faith was too much. Foggy's understanding was a little more generous. Both frowned at his bloodied hands.
Maybe no one would understand. Just as well. Heading home from court his head is a mess. Stay in and try to sleep or work out the restlessness that is trying to seep into his bones. He's off his game when his shoulder gets knocked. With it a burst of awareness is on him. The smell of skin, the sound of a designer cut of silken hair fluttering with movement and the crinkle of a bag.]
[ Natasha almost slips back into that daze when she finally seems to find the origin of the soothing scent: this man? No, a wolf. She can tell what he is even as they both walk about on two legs.
Shaking her head, too late realizing he has a cane and dark glasses on, she moves to gently touch his elbow, an offer of civility, a show she was no threat and didn't want to be. ]
No, it was my fault. I should've paid attention to where I was going.
[Her voice is low, warm. Matt is already reassured even with the earthen musk below the perfume and products. Being around so few like him, like them he is stunned. Are they allowed to recognize each other? Stick was not the best tutor in the social arts of their kind. Another lone wolf, a grizzly old fuck.
The touch to his elbow makes him relax his brow and jaw, he wasn't aware he had been tense.]
I should have too.
[A small smile on his lips.]
Thanks for being uh understanding.
[Instead of the uncomfortable overflow of apologies with the nervous, painfully anxious heartbeat.]
[ Natasha moves in time to give Steve the space he needs to move away from the target of his anger. She reaches down to get a quick pulse read on the man's wrist. Still there. ]
It's okay. He's alive.
[ She then gets back up and moves to Steve, hand pressed to the center of his chest. ]
[ He can still feel the tense in his shoulders, the pressure of the anger in his neck and temples, and Steve screws his eyes shut as if he could just will the feeling away. It doesn't work. In fact, it isn't until Natasha presses, hand to him and giving him gentle pressure to focus on instead, that the anger even begins to abate enough that he can force his eyes back open.
That doesn't make it right, he thinks. He only nods slowly in response. ]
[ Her first time being in Wakanda is full of surprises.
Not only does she see Bucky again - no longer the Winter Soldier - but also Bruce. And while that is awkward to say the least, the strangest thing she sees is a red string. Glowing, long, almost ethereal in how it just... is. She can touch it, but no one else can. People and things pass through it, and she feels nothing on her end. She can see it, but no one else reacts to it.
So, there's really only one thing it can be.
Only her and whoever is attached to it can see it. That's how the red string of soulmates works. Or so she's been told. She's never asked anyone else about it, and now she can see it's attached to no one she knows.
It's been said that it only appears when the people attached to it are ready for it. Not before. But Natasha can't help feeling this is possibly the worst timing for this.
Thanos is on the way, and this is the last damn thing she needs right now. They have other things to focus on (several, actually). But as they walk Vision in, she hangs back, letting Steve know she'll catch up. He doesn't like it, but keeps walking.
Nat bites the inside of her cheek as she begins following the thread, heart racing the more she does. God, who the hell could it possibly be, here and at a time like this. ]
[ To be quite honest? Loki stopped considering soulmates as even a possibility for him somewhere around his thousandth year. Which was, give or take, nearly five hundred years ago. There are a lot of reasons for this but the condensed version is he simply stopped believing that he'd ever be ready, that he'd ever find someone like that. He told himself that he was too chaotic, that he wasn't built for that sort of commitment, that he didn't deserve that kind of thing in the first place, and it was fine.
Really.
He pointedly never asked if Thor saw the red thread with Jane, and his brother never mentioned it, much to Loki's secret pleasure.
When it appears, he's distracted. Busy working on potions in an otherwise empty building, repurposed for this exact reason, in the Wakandan capital city. Potions that will keep people alive, protect them, bolster powers and abilities and give them every edge he can manage. He understands that Wakanda is a bastion of Midgardian technological advancements, that the mineral from the stars that powers its culture and technology is very impressive. That the people assembled here are going to do their best, lay their lives on the line, use every ability in their arsenal.
But it's not enough. It's not going to be enough. So he is trying his best to improve their dismal odds. He is part of this, after all. A great deal of the blame for all of this could be, accurately, be laid at his feet. And isn't he also one of these last defenders? Shouldn't he, too, use every ability at his disposal?
He doesn't notice when it appears. He notices a few minutes later, and almost ruins the table with how badly it startles him.
Well, he tells himself. If he doesn't seek out the other end, perhaps it will be fine. He can't be distracted now, it would become a literal disaster.
But he's never been good at 'perhaps'. He's always been a man of plans, of plots, of subterfuge. And advisor, certainly, but also a negotiator. He knows how to turn a thing from various edges and see how the light may catch.
Loki knows good and well that the person on the other end of that string is unlikely to ignore it as he has. At least not indefinitely.
So he adjusts the wards on the building to allow it to be accessible to the one holding the other end of his red string of fate. Makes it so they can enter, when no one else can even see the building in the first place. There's an old-fashioned bell that chimes as the door is pushed open, and Loki doesn't turn from what he's doing, waving a hand in that direction. The space before him is a cross between a mad scientist's chemist laboratory and a witch's den, full of jars and beakers and things that defy gravity via magical or technological means. ]
Give me, [ He holds up a finger. ] A minute and a half, if you please. This is very delicate work.
[ If he doesn't look, then it isn't something real, something that can hurt him, something he can lose. ]
[ Natasha had accepted, years ago, that she was never going to see the red thread. Not when there was so much blood on her hands. There wasn't enough time for her to wash all of it out and feel like she was good enough for whoever would be on the other end of that string.
And now, here she was, on the precipice of a battle for the Earth the likes of which none of them are prepared for, and she is following a glowing red thread to... nowhere.
Looking over her shoulder, Natasha hesitates in going forward. But she knows she has to. She has to know. Going into battle with that level of distraction was beyond stupid. Forcing her feet to move again, she pushes through the invisible barrier and startles at the sound of the bell.
She looks up at it and then inside. Her legs move her inside before stopping completely. She knows that voice, the way he looks from behind. Natasha had snuck up on him when no one else could manage, after all.
She knew Thor was here, but Loki?
Natasha makes it as far as the fifty-second mark, too stunned to form words. Until her temper finally comes through ]
Hey. Triple imposter. ( what? he can't petty text her while he's waiting for jarvis to finish with the assembly of the new arc reactor chest piece for his iron man suit? ) I believe you signed a two year contract to be my assistant, which means you're still obligated to come work for me.
Pepper's a priority, of course, but spare me some time? ( at least, he's asking nicely. )
Harsh. Is this your way of telling me you had a terrible time being my fake assistant? ( granted, he is a handful. but didn't they settle on some nice perks, including a holiday bonus? there's no way fury pays her more. )
Here's the thing though. I need someone and you happen to be that someone. I can't hire anyone else. It's too much paperwork. It's a whole thing.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
AU: the Piano
He mutters to the men around him who remark that she does not look like a treasure. From this distance she doesn't look like much of anything with the bundle in her arms coming closer and closer to the shore. Finally, with the help of the crewsman she is brought to the wet sand.
Dimly, he realizes he has not seen a new face let alone a new woman in close to four or five years since he planted himself on this distant shore. Frank steps forward and offers his hand.]
Welcome.
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So here she was, halfway across the world for a man she had never met, and the smell of salt water thick on the wind. She doesn't take the offered hand but watches Frank, her expression pinched against the wind. Her daughter, Anya, peeking out from the blanket that had been bundled around her. She squirms and Natasha carefully sets the small child on the beach. At four years old, she's braver than Natasha had ever been at that age. ]
Hello! Are you here to take us home?
[ She says brightly to the man, staring at the tattoos on his arms. ]
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His attention shifts to... a walking and talking china doll.]
That I am. Your father is not yet come. I'm sure that he caught the storm that sent you closer.
[Since...no one is going to take his hand, it comes upon his hip. That's not the only markings he has. On his arms, his neck, his face. The whole lot of them must look like savages.]
Come. It will be getting dark. My men have begun to take your things. The larger items will have to wait until morning.
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He's not my father. My father died.
[ And she didn't like this man she had never met. Why was her mother marrying him? It made no sense to her. She grips the blanket closer to her as her expression grows sour but still staring at the markings on him, her eyes eventually drifting to the others. Their hair was long, skin dark. She had never seen such people before.
But at the latter statement, Natasha shakes her head, hands clasped in front of her. She was not leaving her piano. ]
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dat 70s au
Still went out to the nearest club, dressed in her tight bottoms, straightening her hair out to long, straight red strands. Top tired up between her breasts and bracelets that matched her earrings. Other women would glare at her as she walked in but she didn't give a shit. They could eat her -- and she told them enough in the bathroom.
Sometimes the same soldiers would come to her for another round or introduce a "friend" to her. All she asked of them was a drink and payment up front. They wouldn't regret it. ]
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Some with the girls at the bar. Some, well, with the ladies of the night. That's what they've been talking up to Lance Corp Francis Castle.
And he is so very much a man in height. Broad shoulders and somehow making that ridiculously severe haircut look good. "Franky Boy, this here is Natasha." Brody, an old friend, is the one that's brought him over. "Natasha, he's one of our newest and brightest." The veteran client slides four bills her way flat and elbows Frank. Hard. "You kids have fun." His work here is done so he goes to find the jukebox.]
What're you drinking tonight, Ma'am?
[Which is what he'd say to any other woman, any other place. For an introduction he has the decency to look her in the eye.]
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Vodka martini.
And you can drop the "ma'am". It makes me sound old and I'm pretty sure we are around the same age.
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Just because it's business don't mean you're not entitled to respect.
[He signals to the bartender. Another beer and the vodka martini.]
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GoT AU | for fightlikehell | very nsfw
[ There's a small, breathy moan at the touch of his hand through the thin fabric. She pushes into it even as she's halfway to freeing her breasts from her top. Surely he can feel how wet she is already.
But with his help, she's at least able to get her top off, breasts out and bare, nipples hard and too sensitive as she pulls him down for another kiss. She groans into it as her chest rubs against his leathers, something she never would've guessed would feel so good. ]
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Is my bear ready to show me this "Northern hospitality" I hear so much about?
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wolf au | for fightlikehell
They picked her, turned her, and trained her for years. A red wolf of Russia and one of the fiercest, quickly gaining notoriety wherever they unleashed her. She was a weapon first and foremost and she had been content with that life, content with the title. Or so she had always told herself. She was told she would have no mate, being a turned human. They have her tonics to keep her heat and fertility suppressed, saying she would breed when they wanted her to and not before.
It was only after being hunted down by a human named Clint Barton that she started thinking for herself again. He gave her the chance to live a life of her own. Help humans and wolves alike, not just kill. She thought it was a trap at first. But he dropped his weapons and give her the chance to take his hand. Years later, she can't believe he had done that.
For her.
No one had ever cared about her or wanted more for her. Not since her parents (and they had died the night they took her, claiming her as their own). It was all about the pack and Red Room. To join a different pack, to defect... They would hunt her. Kill her or try to. She vowed she wouldn't make it easy.
And she never did. Nick Fury was an old but reliable Alpha and Natasha grew to trust him like a father. She grew accustomed to life in America, seeing how wolves and humans co-existed for the most part. There were still certain designated areas in the larger cities but even out in the more rural areas, packs allowed humans to live on their land. It was new and different and something she never thought was real when she heard people talk about it.
When he told her to join the Avengers, to help in leading them - that Steve was going to need her help more than he could know - Natasha did as she was asked. Stayed with them, helped save more lives, fought more destructive packs and organizations. Sometimes they would spend months together as a pack and then go their own ways. Eventually, they ended up living on a compound Stark had made for them and life had been peaceful.
Until it all fell apart. General Ross wanted them to disband, not trusting the technology they possessed or the abilities some of their pack possessed. They were being called out for the damage they had done, it didn't matter if they had saved more lives than lost. The two Alphas of the pack butted heads about what to do. Steve wouldn't back down, neither would Tony. Natasha tried to keep the pack together, afraid of losing yet another family. But it didn't work.
Months later, after the Avengers was no more, Tony furious at her, Rhodey possibly permanently disabled, Steve and the others on the run, Natasha ran from country to country for a long while before diving into Hell's Kitchen. It would be the last place they would look. Back where it all started. She could still recognize some of the buildings from the fight with Loki. She cut her hair, dyed it blond and went about getting a job with fake IDs and numbers to complete the new identity. Small apartment, keeps to herself but not secretively. Still aware of her surroundings and anyone near her. Resists every urge to go running around in her wolf form no matter what howls she hears in the back alleys.
She's not looking forward to having to try pill suppressants for the first time for her heat but it's necessary. She's on her way back from the pharmacy with them tucked into her purse when she smells it on the wind. Normally, it's clogged with other smells. Humans, other wolves, cars, food, the sewers when she walks by one of the drains. But this... this is something she's never smelled before. Sweet and soothing, calming. She's almost in a daze as it gets stronger and she is trying to look around to see who, what, it could be.
Before she knows it, she's knocking shoulders with a blind man and she's snapped out of the revere, back into the real world, on a sidewalk in Hell's Kitchen. ]
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The way is paved by strife, violence and cunning. The world can believe he is feeble. His nose is more sensitive than any others. Ears more sharp. His skin can detect changes in the air most would never be aware of. What would have made so many become vulnerable, he's strong. Out of will or sheer stubbornness, he really can't tell.
Wilson Fisk is incarcerated. And another domino to fall is the Hand. Hell's Kitchen is his turf. Marked by each victory in the streets, won over with violence...yet mercy. Perhaps that was a duality he would forever be working around. A man and a beast. Matt Murdock is on the fence between the two. Karen could take the man but the burden of lie after lie in exchange for her blind faith was too much. Foggy's understanding was a little more generous. Both frowned at his bloodied hands.
Maybe no one would understand. Just as well. Heading home from court his head is a mess. Stay in and try to sleep or work out the restlessness that is trying to seep into his bones. He's off his game when his shoulder gets knocked. With it a burst of awareness is on him. The smell of skin, the sound of a designer cut of silken hair fluttering with movement and the crinkle of a bag.]
'Scuse me. Sorry.
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Shaking her head, too late realizing he has a cane and dark glasses on, she moves to gently touch his elbow, an offer of civility, a show she was no threat and didn't want to be. ]
No, it was my fault. I should've paid attention to where I was going.
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The touch to his elbow makes him relax his brow and jaw, he wasn't aware he had been tense.]
I should have too.
[A small smile on his lips.]
Thanks for being uh understanding.
[Instead of the uncomfortable overflow of apologies with the nervous, painfully anxious heartbeat.]
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for indivisible - sentinel/guide au
[ Natasha moves in time to give Steve the space he needs to move away from the target of his anger. She reaches down to get a quick pulse read on the man's wrist. Still there. ]
It's okay. He's alive.
[ She then gets back up and moves to Steve, hand pressed to the center of his chest. ]
It's okay now. I'm okay. We're done here.
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That doesn't make it right, he thinks. He only nods slowly in response. ]
Sooner out of here the better.
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Ready for extraction.
[ After there is a confirmation on the other end, she reaches down to take Steve's hand in hers, tugging him to follow her to the extraction point. ]
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for icasm - half of the same whole - soulmates au
Not only does she see Bucky again - no longer the Winter Soldier - but also Bruce. And while that is awkward to say the least, the strangest thing she sees is a red string. Glowing, long, almost ethereal in how it just... is. She can touch it, but no one else can. People and things pass through it, and she feels nothing on her end. She can see it, but no one else reacts to it.
So, there's really only one thing it can be.
Only her and whoever is attached to it can see it. That's how the red string of soulmates works. Or so she's been told. She's never asked anyone else about it, and now she can see it's attached to no one she knows.
It's been said that it only appears when the people attached to it are ready for it. Not before. But Natasha can't help feeling this is possibly the worst timing for this.
Thanos is on the way, and this is the last damn thing she needs right now. They have other things to focus on (several, actually). But as they walk Vision in, she hangs back, letting Steve know she'll catch up. He doesn't like it, but keeps walking.
Nat bites the inside of her cheek as she begins following the thread, heart racing the more she does. God, who the hell could it possibly be, here and at a time like this. ]
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Really.
He pointedly never asked if Thor saw the red thread with Jane, and his brother never mentioned it, much to Loki's secret pleasure.
When it appears, he's distracted. Busy working on potions in an otherwise empty building, repurposed for this exact reason, in the Wakandan capital city. Potions that will keep people alive, protect them, bolster powers and abilities and give them every edge he can manage. He understands that Wakanda is a bastion of Midgardian technological advancements, that the mineral from the stars that powers its culture and technology is very impressive. That the people assembled here are going to do their best, lay their lives on the line, use every ability in their arsenal.
But it's not enough. It's not going to be enough. So he is trying his best to improve their dismal odds. He is part of this, after all. A great deal of the blame for all of this could be, accurately, be laid at his feet. And isn't he also one of these last defenders? Shouldn't he, too, use every ability at his disposal?
He doesn't notice when it appears. He notices a few minutes later, and almost ruins the table with how badly it startles him.
Well, he tells himself. If he doesn't seek out the other end, perhaps it will be fine. He can't be distracted now, it would become a literal disaster.
But he's never been good at 'perhaps'. He's always been a man of plans, of plots, of subterfuge. And advisor, certainly, but also a negotiator. He knows how to turn a thing from various edges and see how the light may catch.
Loki knows good and well that the person on the other end of that string is unlikely to ignore it as he has. At least not indefinitely.
So he adjusts the wards on the building to allow it to be accessible to the one holding the other end of his red string of fate. Makes it so they can enter, when no one else can even see the building in the first place. There's an old-fashioned bell that chimes as the door is pushed open, and Loki doesn't turn from what he's doing, waving a hand in that direction. The space before him is a cross between a mad scientist's chemist laboratory and a witch's den, full of jars and beakers and things that defy gravity via magical or technological means. ]
Give me, [ He holds up a finger. ] A minute and a half, if you please. This is very delicate work.
[ If he doesn't look, then it isn't something real, something that can hurt him, something he can lose. ]
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And now, here she was, on the precipice of a battle for the Earth the likes of which none of them are prepared for, and she is following a glowing red thread to... nowhere.
Looking over her shoulder, Natasha hesitates in going forward. But she knows she has to. She has to know. Going into battle with that level of distraction was beyond stupid. Forcing her feet to move again, she pushes through the invisible barrier and startles at the sound of the bell.
She looks up at it and then inside. Her legs move her inside before stopping completely. She knows that voice, the way he looks from behind. Natasha had snuck up on him when no one else could manage, after all.
She knew Thor was here, but Loki?
Natasha makes it as far as the fifty-second mark, too stunned to form words. Until her temper finally comes through ]
Is this--is this some sick illusion of yours?
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text;
Pepper's a priority, of course, but spare me some time? ( at least, he's asking nicely. )
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[ But she can't say she isn't amused by the text. Unsure if he's feeling upset, petty, or trying to flirt. Maybe it's all three. ]
text;
Here's the thing though. I need someone and you happen to be that someone. I can't hire anyone else. It's too much paperwork. It's a whole thing.
text;
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