“Because it’s a goddamn skeleton,” Marco replied through gritted teeth. “Seriously, Theo, I’m getting tired of your extreme Halloween decorations. Sometimes it’s like you have the same level of intelligence as a fruit salad. And not a very smart fruit salad, mind you.”
Theo scoffed. “Words may spill from your mouth but you ain’t fooling no one, Marc. You can quit pretending you don’t love my utterly awesome and extremely–”
“More like vomit inducing.”
“–fantastic Halloween decorations. Instead of sitting on your ass all day and writing hundreds of pages on god-knows-what–”
Theo rolled his eyes, “You know that’s called a thesis, right.”
“–I actually do something with my life and bring some life and death to our little shithole.”
“We don’t live in a shithole,” Marco argued.
“Okay, maybe we don’t,” Theo shrugged. “But Halloween is just around the corner and I am not letting your tasteless, ungrateful and boring eyebrows ruin my holiday spirit. Not even the dog is gonna screw this up.”
The dog barked.
Marco rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He did this a lot, lately. But then again, Theo was becoming surprisingly more of a handful since he finally got that job at the Elementary School. It’s like he’s morphed from being a giant man-child and suddenly became one of his students.
“Merda, I ain’t got time for this,” Marco sighed, the furrow of his brows becoming even more pronounced. Theo hummed happily as he watched the flames rise higher and burn brighter. “Wait, what’s wrong with my eyebrows?”
“They’re bushier than a forest,” Theo blinked.
Marco’s eye twitched. “Just put out the fire and put some normal, non-inflammable decorations.”
Theo whined, high in his throat. “But where’s the fun in that?”
The dog barked again. Marco could feel his blood pressure rising.
“Put. It. Out.”
“But–!”
“You’re the reason I’m gonna have gray hair before I turn twenty-five, you massive trashcan,” Marco snarled. “You put my sanity in danger.”
“Your sanity’s in danger? My month is in danger!”
With clenched fists, Marco walked out of the room, counting prime numbers in his head to keep himself from breaking the bastard’s neck. He barely got to twenty-three when the bloody, cut-off head of a blond woman fell from the ceiling to land in his fucking face.
Outside, in the busy streets of Brooklyn, passersby could hear the sound of a man screaming bloody murder, followed by manic wheezing which could be taken as a laugh, and a lot of barking.
“Wait, wait wait. You mean to tell me you actually thought the nuclear bombs were a good idea?” [from suddenly prompts]
“Wait, wait wait. You meant o tell me you actually thought the nuclear bombs were a good idea?” Arturo shouted in her face. The air smelled slightly of burnt popcorn, the way it always did when Arturo teleported in or out of a place.
"Ugh.” Char pinched the bridge of her nose with a groan. Dropping her arm, she rested her forehead against a cool metal tank. “In theory, they were a good idea,” she defended herself in her usual charming way--that is to say, she was brisk and matter-of-fact. “A rational opponent would have understood nuclear weapon mean mutually assured destruction.”
“Well, what’s the problem then?”
“Our opponents are apparently not rational.” It sounded like it physically pained Char to admit this.
“Great.” Arturo’s fingers twitched. He was preparing to leave again. “Is there anything you need, then, Dr. Parker? Captain’s asking.”
“Yes,” Char snapped irritably, already having turned away form Arturo and returned her attention to her project. Her irritation seemed to have more to do with the project before her than Arturo or the Captain. “I need you to leave me alone in peace so I can put together this hydrogen bomb.”
LeTasha was in the middle of cleaning his bedroom when Prince Tarquin himself walked in.
She froze, hands full of dirty sheets (she tried not to think too hard about what must have happened last night with the lady Tarquin had brought home again), and watched as he trudged across the room and flopped face-first onto the mattress. She hadn’t replaced any of the sheets or blankets yet, and stood there awkwardly.
“Um, hello, your highness,” LeTasha greeted uneasily, and gave a tiny bow. He just replied with a long, drawn-out moan of utter exhaustion.
How easy it would be. She had the knife hidden in her pants, and he wasn’t even looking up. Tarquin never walked around the palace with bodyguards. Her employers were getting impatient; LeTasha had promised them a much earlier date, and she had already pushed back her deadline three times. It was much more difficult than she had expected to worm her way into a position close to Prince Tarquin, and she’d had to do it as a cleaning maid.
She dropped the sheets on top of the pile of blankets, keeping a nervous eye on the prince. He hadn’t moved, except to pillow his head on his arms, and was staring away from her. She could see, through his loose white shirt, the vibrant, tribal patterns of those magic Kamean tattoos. She had to strike now, before he could use the spells, and wiped her sweaty palms on the front of her wide-legged pants.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, slipped the knife from its hiding place, and stalked quietly towards the bed. Tarquin, without even looking at her, said, “Do me a favor? Try again later.”
LeTasha froze. “I-I’m sorry, your highness?”
He let out an aggrieved sigh. “I’m too tired to be assassinated today. Can you come back later?”
She stared at the prince’s back. “I’m afraid I-I don’t understand, sire,” she squeaked. “I’m just the maid.”
Tarquin heaved another gusty sigh, then rolled over with an effort. LeTasha quickly stuck her hands behind her back and tried not to look like she had just been contemplating murdering the king’s brother. He frowned at her.
The prince did look exhausted. The circles under his eyes suggested that he and his lady friend hadn’t gotten any sleep at all last night, and probably not even the night before that. Fresh bruises cobbled the right side of his jaw and his neck. “What were you going to do? Pillow on my face? You know, you could’ve poisoned me last night when you brought up that dinner tray. It would have been much easier. Use a slow-working poison, and you could have been out of Lovensk City before I even felt sick.”
LeTasha felt both cold and sweaty, gripping the knife until her fingers hurt. How could he know? There was no way this debauched fop of a prince could have figured it out. She glanced over her shoulder, glancing through the bedroom door, but no guards lurked in the prince’s sitting room.
The bed creaked, and LeTasha jumped, whipping her head back to see Tarquin now standing. He didn’t approach her, though, but instead turned his back to her, picking up a water bottle from the windowsill.
He knew. This was her only chance. LeTasha switched the knife from her left hand to her right and took two long steps forward.
In the next moment, LeTasha was flat on her back, blood pouring from her nose and her head spinning. Tarquin stood over her, twirling her knife between his fingers. “You were going to stab me?” he guessed, and sighed again. “You really are an amateur. I also thought you’d be a little more considerate of whoever has to clean up after you. You’ve been picking up after me for a month, after all.”
LeTasha blinked, both to keep tears from her eyes and to rid herself of the temporary dizziness. She flinched as Tarquin tossed the knife - not at her, but over, and she heard it thunk into the wall. He offered her a hand.
That was his mistake. Her mistake was thinking that she could wrestle an inkmage into submission.
“You almost had me there,” Tarquin said, a minute and a half later. Stars, he didn’t even sound winded! With the prince sitting on her back, pinning her elbows to the floor, LeTasha involuntary let out a sob. The door in the sitting room burst open as a man ran into the room.
“Aw, geez, Tarq, you had me worried,” complained a man’s voice. LeTasha turned her head to the side, smearing blood all over the carpet and sending spurts of pain through her probably broken nose. She expected to see the steel-toed boots of the Royal Guard, but instead spotted a pair of sneakers instead.
Tarquin pulled LeTasha’s arms behind her back, and more of the cords that bound her feet together raised themselves from the tattoos on his arms, wriggling from his skin to wrap around LeTasha’s wrists. “No need, Rafe, I wasn’t ever in any trouble.”
“What!” LeTasha cried, angry and humiliated.
With a frown in his voice, Rafe said, “Quit playing with the poor girl and let her up, Tarquin.”
“I asked her to come back later,” Tarquin said, but his weight left her back. Both men, with surprising gentleness, lifted LeTasha to her bound feet and sat her on the edge of the bed.
Rafe, a black-haired man with olive skin, hissed in sympathy. “You did a number on her face,” he said, and LeTasha jerked back when he reached out to touch her nose.
Tarquin waved a dismissive hand while LeTasha tried not to cry. “I’ll ask my nephew to heal it later. You know, she was going to try and stab me to death?” He sounded offended, but more by the method, rather than the attempted murder itself.
“No, really?” Rafe shook his head at LeTasha. “C’mon, girl, you gotta be smarter than that. We both thought you were gonna poison him last night.”
Red-faced, LeTasha snapped, “I already knew that wouldn’t work, okay! A-And there was poison on the knife, I just needed to scratch you.”
Tarquin blinked, then trotted over to the far wall, where LeTasha’s knife had stuck, point-first. Rafe nodded approval. “That’s a little better, I guess,” he admitted. “If you have that kind of stuff, though, know what I would’ve done? Smeared it on their dinner utensils.”
LeTasha blinked. Behind her, Tarquin said, “Remind me to start checking my forks, then, Rafe. It’s a good thing they hired her instead of you, after all.”
The bed sank as Tarquin sat next to LeTasha and smiled at her. “It’s all right,” he told her, “you’re not the first failed assassin I’ve had to deal with.”
“You’ve had, what, three this year?” Rafe asked, leaning against the wall.
“Five, actually, counting hers.”
“Should we count hers? We’ve known about her for months.”
“Don’t be like that, Rafe,” Tarquin said. “She really did try, didn’t you?”
Unable to contain herself any longer, LeTasha burst out, “Can you just k-kill me already?”
Tarquin and Rafe exchanged surprised looks. “Must be the smell,” Rafe said, nodding sagely. “When’s the last time you showered, Tarq?”
“You know I haven’t had a chance,” Tarquin complained.
“Oh, look, now she’s crying,” Rafe said. “Geez, lady, please don’t, I can’t stand it when girls cry.”
Tarquin rolled his eyes. “We’re not going to kill you,” he said, losing the teasing tone. “I promise. If worst comes to worst, you’ll only be sent to Ember Island for life.”
LeTasha sniffled. “But - But I’m not a mage.”
“No, but you did just try to kill a member of the royal family.” Tarquin watched her with serious green eyes. “And trust me when I say that all those horror stories you’ve heard about Ember Island? They’re all true.”
Shuddering, LeTasha hunched her shoulders and blinked furiously. She was better than this. She would not cry in front of these bastards!
“Do you want something to drink?” Rafe offered. He looked stunned when LeTasha burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, while both men looked distinctly uncomfortable. “They were going to kill me, I didn’t - I didn’t have a choice!”
“Now look who made her cry,” Tarquin hissed at Rafe. He slid a comforting arm across LeTasha’s shoulders, and she leaned into his chest, sobbing. She hadn’t wanted to kill him, she whimpered, she just didn’t have a choice.
They ate it up. “Who?” Tarquin asked, rubbing his hand across her back. She remembered the succession of women he had invited to his room since she began working at the palace, and barely repressed a shudder. “You can tell us. We won’t let them kill you.”
“B-But, you’ll send me to prison,” she wailed. “Y-You’ll put me in prison and then he-he’ll kill me there!”
“Not if you tell me who it is,” Tarquin said, his voice low and calming. “Look, LeTasha, I can tell you weren’t meant for this sort of thing. We’ve watched you for months - you’re not a killer. You were forced into this. Just help us catch the curs who want me dead, and I promise you won’t go to prison.”
With her face still tucked into Tarquin’s shirt, LeTasha couldn’t repress a smile. Prince Tarquin really was as trusting as they said. Stupid man.
With his help, she would get her estate back, and murder the bastards who stole it from her.
but I think I hate this dead person more than I hate anyone alive.
Late night blogging was on my usual schedule; not that I had one in the first place, but it was to be expected after being bored in the middle of thanksgiving break. Nothing to be thankful about though, especially since my parents were out visiting other relatives. The only reason I stayed was because I was sick with a cold and they were afraid of me being in the presence of my newborn cousin and spreading my deadly germs to him.
And so here I am, resting my chin in my hand, staring blankly at the screen as I scroll through posts mindlessly. I grabbed a tissue and blew my nose, throwing the tissue in an intimidatingly large pile of snotty waste. I was about to click on the separate tab I keep for my playlist, until the stupid thing froze. I mashed on buttons, grunting my disbelief that the night took another turn for the worse. Right after it went back to normal, a message popped up in front of the page. I was about to delete it until I noticed the font.
Comic sans. This old-as-time laptop just sent me a warning message in comic sans. At this point, my grumpiness disappeared and all I was left with was curiosity. I read it and couldn’t help but gape in confusion.
“WARNING. YOU APPEAR TO BE EXPERIENCING BOREDOM AT AN ALL TIME HIGH. ONLY A PHANTOM SUCH AS I CAN SOLVE YOUR DILEMMA. ALLOW ME TO SHOW YOU THE SECRETS OF THE DEAD THAT MAY ALLEVIATE YOUR NEGATIVE STATE. PRESS THE LINK BELOW.”
I mumbled my disbelief out loud, wondering who could be hacking into the laptop. Well, I have nothing of value downloaded on this ancient machine, and I was promised one this upcoming Christmas, so why the hell not? This clunk of metal was already slower than I was at the pacer test. I sniffed and clicked the link at the bottom of the message, opening up another tab. It was only then when I realized my playlist was paused as I heard different, yet familiar music blast through the speakers. I groaned, turning to the gross pile of used tissues as if it were my witness.
If y’all don’t know where this is going y’all must be new. Let me introduce myself:
Hi there, my name is Amy, this is my blags, and I’m complete and total shipping trash.
Read my trash under the cut.
Story Title: Extra
Notes: Takes place sometime after the Helicarrier crashes but before the team moves out of Aunt May’s house. There’s also some swearing and Marvel Cosmic slang words wandering about. This is yet another, different AU of USM. I blame entirely spiderminx‘s anon for everything regarding this OT3.
Sam woke up, instantly aware that something wasn’t right. What that something was, though, was escaping him.
He’d shut the window himself, after coming in from a rough night backing up the Fantastic Four with their weird ass shlag. From his place on the floor he could tell that it was still shut.
No gunshots, explosions, laser fire, screaming, maniacal laugher or any other immediately obvious ‘bad news’ noises could be heard. Though to be fair Parker usually woke up, too, when he heard those sounds.
His helmet was sitting quietly in his backpack, no angry glowing or urgent beeping and no irritated-insistent urges to put it on, either. The house was, well, not quiet, not with five teenagers and Aunt May all living there, but there weren’t any weirder than normal noises for this time of night.
He sat up to give the room a quick once over, door shut, nothing and no one hiding in the shadows between the door and Peter’s bed, a head of messy brunette hair resting on Peter’s pillow, another head of messy brunette hair resting on Peter’s chest, Peter’s alarm clock reminding him it was too das’t early o’clock[1]…Wait.
Problem found.
Instead of one slightly nerdy, inhumanly built, spider powered person in said person’s bed, there were two.
But the not-Peter that was using the actual pillow had hair just a little bit too long, and lips just slightly too full. And, oh, yeah, actual Peter was cuddled face first in her boobs. He should probably try and wake Webs up first.
Though were they both Webs? Whatever. He reached for his smart phone.
Definitely, definitely he should try to wake Pete up before he woke up… Webigail? Ugh, she’d probably punch him if he called her that. With the ease of someone used to sneaking embarrassing pictures of (rightly) paranoid friends, Sam tilted his phone’s camera so the flash wouldn’t wake either of them.
Webby though... he could probably get away with that. At the flash two nearly, but not exactly, identical groans of what could generously be interpreted as his name sounded. ‘Webby’ pulled the pillow over her head and Peter snuggled in deeper to her chest. They both sighed in almost perfect unison.
Still asleep, they were lean, nerdy, messy haired, adorable perfection. Or well, they would be perfection if they weren’t wearing identically stupid pajamas. Seriously. Who wears lame striped pajamas? Spider-Man does, and apparently Spider...Lady?
He emailed his new picture to himself, anyways.
They really needed to figure out what was going on though. Aunt May would be up soon. He was pretty sure she knew about their superheroing but SHIELD didn’t think she did. So that meant sneaking around and making lame excuses.
While he was admittedly better at that bit than Peter. It would be kind of difficult to explain a new niece, especially one that wasn’t going to be sticking around.
Locking his phone, he sat it back down on the nightstand and turned off the alarm. He so did not need two super powered spider people freaking out when they both flailed at the alarm clock and hit each other instead.
He leaned over the bed and started poking Peter in the ribs, “Hsst, Parker.”
Peter scrunched his face up and tried to bury his head in ‘Webby’s’ breasts. It was relatively successful, but probably would be bad for his health when she woke up. She grumbled something incoherent[2] (that definitely did not sound like ‘go away Buckethead’ Sam told himself[3]) under the pillow and tried to wiggle away from Peter’s clinging without any luck. Spider strength and spider stickiness could be really annoying. Sam could empathize. From strictly platonic post nightmare cuddling, of course[4].
But, huh, he probably should have seen that she’d be a Parker, too. He renewed his rib poking and tried again “Pete, wake up,” Peter protested wordlessly, “It’s kinda important,” Peter made a sound that reminded Sam of space whales. He had never gotten around to looking up their species properly[5], but, eh, unimportant now, “Peter. Please—” he whisper-shouted somewhat desperately. He just knew he’d be blamed somehow for the inappropriate boobening if she woke up first.
Peter snapped his head up and gazed at Sam with what felt like laser focus. Sam sunk back down into a crouch, blue eyes followed his movements, “Uh, Pete, don’t freak out, OK? But, uh…” Sam waved his hands vaguely at the bed. “I think we have a problem…”
／/＼｡｡／\＼ミ☆ to be continued ★彡／/＼｡｡／\＼
1This was a very specific time that exists exactly between ‘really shouldn’t have stayed out this late’ and ‘should have gotten up before Master Rocket’. [return to text]
2 It was most definitely not anything even vaguely resembling ‘Go away Buckethead’[return to text]
3 It was, infact, “Go away, Buckethead.”[return to text]
4 A completely normal activity for two teenagers to engage in. Happens all the time. Practically a Terran tradition.[return to text]
5 This was mainly because it was extremely impolite to interrupt a pitched battle for life and death to ask your opponent(s) their species name.[return to text]
The cable seems endless. He never really thought something like a cord could be described as sinister, but its thick glossy black coating and muffled hum of electricity is enough to send shivers up his spine. Whatever it's connected to, he muses, it must need tons of power. Runaway thoughts of secret government organizations and scientists plotting to ruin humanity cross his mind's eye as he hesitantly shuffles closer. People aren't the problem though—people can be reasoned with, people can be stopped—it's the machines. Without empathy or any resemblance of an emotion that he can manipulate, any and every kind of machine could be coded into corrupting the world.
The also seemingly endless, shadowed corridor houses the cable beside him. Sebastian swallows, rubbing his cold fingers together as he makes careful steps beside it. Wherever it leads, it can't be any worse than sitting here waiting to be found.
