Trope adventures: The missus and the ex + scars for Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Intriguing! especially since Phryne and Jack have met each other's exes... several, of course, in Jack's case. But I think we could get more interesting material out of Phryne trying to solve the enigma of Rosie. After all, who is the Deputy Commissioner's daughter? She cares about status to some degree; even about conventionality. She is the woman with whom Jack is careful enough to maintain courtesies that Hugh isn't sure what to call her when she visits the station during the Robinsons' separation. I get the sense that both Jack's deep silences and his deep passions might have been faintly disconcerting to Rosie, even before the war. But even if she felt herself flattered by a young Jack Robinson's attentions, it took some courage to descend the social ladder to marriage with him.
My point is: I think Rosie is a mystery Phryne would enjoy trying to solve, for a range of reasons. For once, she would be more genuinely indifferent to Jack's opinion than usual, even as she enjoys his discomfiture less than she usually does. The emotional scars go without saying; whether physical ones are involved or not is debatable, I think. But this might be an interesting way to bring Phryne and Jack into parallel with each other, battle-scarred adventurers that they are.
happy kinktober everyone!!!! i may not be following the prompts whatsoever, but im dedicating this month to finishing multiple trope mashup prompts for calli! ...unfortunately theyre like 2 years old because i totally forgot to actually write them...
so uh yeah big apologies for that. hopefully my trope mashup ficlets are
these will probably all by trans!mickey btw, because ive lost all ability to write him as not a trans guy
without further ado, heres 2-year-old prompt fill number 1!! rated M, themes of gender dysphoria and self-image, pre-smut, just Ian fawning over Mickey tbh
Looking at him now, it’s hard to imagine Mickey as anything else.
Of course Ian would say Mickey would be perfect no matter what he looked like, but he can still admit the wonders passing has done for Mickey’s health and happiness.
There was a time when the world saw him as a girl. When no matter how loud he screamed or how hard he punched, the word tomboy was still spat out with venom on their tongue. When he felt there was no way to fix what God or the universe or what-the-fuck-ever got wrong when they made him.
Then he saw Colin selling ‘roids to the football jocks. And one session on the library computers later, he learned he was his own goddamn universe and could turn himself into whatever the fuck he wanted to be. He’s leveled up from buying from some college meathead when he was barely fifteen to seeing a real doctor and getting a real prescription filled by a real god-damned pharmacist.
And Ian has been the lucky witness to much of the process, all starry-eyed and cum-filled.
He didn't see the beginning, not really, only from a distance. And some of the middle parts he missed for reasons they still avoided discussing. But what he did witness of Mickey’s transition was sublime.
His shoulders broadened. His arms could carry more and more weight, until eventually he could pick up Ian with little effort. His hands grew rough and calloused, enforcing the threat branded on his fingers.
(He grew his own motherfucking cock. Small as it was compared to other men’s, Mickey was proud of the little guy nonetheless. And Ian was infatuated; called it the “perfect mouthful.”)
Years of do-it-yourself hormones, fistfighting, and hard labor melted fat into muscle. And suddenly, the man he dreamt of being became the man he saw in the mirror. He no longer feared looking down at his own naked body.
And he’s very lucky, he knows it, to never have had a large chest. Understanding he’d never have the money for top surgery without private insurance, Mickey honestly doesn’t know what he’d do if the universe didn’t grant him that one tiny blessing. Binding was for tight-fitting tops peace of mind more than it was for passing.
Besides, everyone knew not to misgender Mickey. He’s sent enough people home with broken bones to be a warning for any transphobe in the South Side.
It's difficult to think he used to share bras with Mandy. Not just because of the repressed, painful memories of going through puberty as a girl in the Milkovich house. Because he hasn't been that person for so long, physically or psychologically. He's forgotten what it was like. Trying to remember his early teen years before discovering testosterone is the same as flipping through the television channels. Like staring in a two-way mirror; it's a different life on the other side.
So Mickey can confidently say he feels and sees himself as a man, and has for quite a few years. Especially with Ian’s help - an unconditional love for every version of Mickey’s body that borders on obsession.
Still, he knew he could bulk up even more. Especially now that Ian's gained his post-wedding “happy weight,” as they call it, their size difference has almost become a nuisance, more comical than sexy. And Ian is always on his ass about making more conscious health decisions.
He may still refuse to eat whatever the fuck kale is, but there are other sacrifices Mickey is willing to make.
Once Mickey realized the torture of exercising was outweighed by the results, it was over for Ian. He knew he'd never finish a full routine for the rest of his married life.
Such is the privilege of a 24-hour gym included in apartment rent, they choose to go only when it's empty. For reasons exactly like right now.
Ian is desperately trying to complete his reps on the rowing machine, Mickey stationed as usual by the dumbbells, bench pressing with his legs spread as if he's purposefully trying to get Ian hard.
And then he goes and does this.
Ian witnesses Mickey pull his tank top off, watches sweat drip and muscles ripple without any fabric blocking the view, sees his nipples harden and light dusting of chest hair stand on end when exposed to the air, sees that tiniest bit of a jiggle as he does his reps.
Ian is fucking gone.
He stops his workout entirely to focus solely on ogling his husband, hoping to get caught so they can lock eyes and silently agree to fuck in the showers again.
Last time was absolutely unforgettable: Mickey sticking out his toned ass, balancing on his toes, groans and begs to be cum into just loud enough to hear over the cascade of water encapsulating them.
Fuuuuck… how did he get so lucky?
“The fuck you looking at, bitch?"
The pissed off sounding voice knocks him to reality but when his eyes refocus, Ian sees the smirk painting his husband's bitten-red lips.
He has to move now.
Has to reach Mickey before Mickey reaches him because God knows how Ian’s brat of a husband acts when he thinks he has the upper hand.
They meet on top the weight lifting mat, Ian's hands on Mickey's chest before any other part of them touches.
He has to squeeze, getting the perfect handful, feeling fat and muscle mold perfectly to the shape of his palms.
“Fuckin’ checking you out, bitch. What, you gotta problem with gay guys?”
They look each other up and down, two predators hunting for their next meal. Mickey hums.
“Yeah I do, when they can't put their money where their mouth is. You got the dick to back up that attitude?”
Ian tugs Mickey's nipples, pulling him a half step closer, whispers his next words directly into his husband's mouth.
“Think you already know the answer to that, based on what we did all morning.”
Mickey doesn't shy away from his touches. Doesn't push Ian away. Doesn't tell him to stop.
Only puffs his chest out like the proud man he is and smiles brilliantly.
“Think you might need to remind me, lover.”
Exactly ten minutes later, they're kicked out of the locker room by an (un)lucky gym attendant.
"Girl, are you sure you want to do this?" Sasha looked between her friend and the poor unsuspecting man at the bar.
Michonne nodded. "Andrea has been locked in her room for days and he's just out here like he didn't do anything wrong."
Sasha sighed. "Ok, but isn't this her fight then? I'm not exactly lookin' to get arrested."
Michonne winked at her. "I'll be quick."
She took a deep breath and made her way to the man at the bar holding the brown jacket with the eagle patch on the sleeve. Andrea had given Sasha and Michonne a brief description of the tall brunette who led her on for weeks then suddenly broke her heart. Andrea had sewn that patch on for him and not only did the loser ghost her but he'd moved on to some other blonde who had just excused herself to the restroom.
Michonne tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. His blue eyes reminded her of sparkling sapphire her grandmother wore in a heart pendant around her neck. Had Andrea mentioned his eyes were blue? No matter, he had the jacket, it had to be him.
"Shane Walsh?"
The man frowned at her. "Excuse me?"
Michonne punched him square in the jaw quick before she lost her nerve. "That's for Andrea you piece of shit."
She turned back toward Sasha as they made their way out of the bar.
***
"Dad, I think we forgot the milk in the hall."
Rick nodded. "I got it." He stepped back into the hall and turned at the sound of keys dropping and a muttered curse.
Just two doors down stood a gorgeous woman fumbling with her keys. She wore an orange crop top with flowing black pants and a beautiful satin headband to pull her locs back. He put the milk down and walked over.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
There was fire in the brown eyes that looked up at him and suddenly he recognized her. She rolled her eyes. "It's you."
Rick lifted his hands. "Look, that was a huge misunderstandin' I—"
She put a hand on her hip. "Grew a conscience? You know you can't just treat women like—"
"Daddy?"
Judith ran down the hall to him and grabbed Rick's hand. "We can't have milkshakes without milk."
Rick gave her hand a squeeze. "I was just trying to help our neighbor."
Michonne finally successfully turned her key in the lock. "No, thank you, Shane."
"That's not his name."
Michonne stilled in her doorway and looked from Judith to Rick. "What?"
Rick scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, I tried to tell you at the bar but you ran off so fast."
"Oh God." Michonne threw her face in her palm, her locs falling forward forming a curtain around her and shook her head. "I'm so—"
"Shane is my friend and I was holding his jacket for him."
Michonne nodded and didn't remove her hand. "Of course you were." She dropped her hand. "I'm sorry."
Rick waved his hand in dismissal. "I wish that was the only time I took a hit for him. You've got impressive aim." He rubbed his jaw. "And quite the power in that right hook."
Michonne bit her lip and Rick felt the strongest urge to kiss it free. "I didn't hurt you too bad…"
"Rick, Rick Grimes and nah, I'm pretty sure I'll survive."
"I'm Judith," offered his daughter.
Michonne chuckled and leaned down toward her. "It's nice to meet you, Judith." She stood back up and turned her gaze to Rick. "I'm Michonne. I don't suppose there's any way I could make this up to you?"
Rick shook her hand. "You any good at makin' milkshakes?"
Michonne winked and he felt his heart jump slightly at the gesture. "Oh, I'm an expert."
"Dad," called Carl from their apartment.
Rick rolled his eyes and nodded toward his door. "Shall we?"
Michonne locked her door. "Lead the way, Mr. Grimes."
Forgotten First Meeting + Soulmate AU would be a pretty bomb combination I think 🤔💗
Trope Mashup
Oh my god nonnie ur so right this is so compelling!! You all really do gotta clarify if you want a motogp pairing or an f1 pairing, bc this just screams rosquez to me😭
I think in this au I'd have like the first words your soul mate says to you written on some part of your body, and they like appear when your soul mate turns 18.
So basically, Marc gets his mark when he's four, and he's lived his whole life putting it on a pedestal right? Like he's so lucky he's had it for so long, he'll know who it is immediately. (It probably says something along the lines of, Ah thank you, we just give it our all, no?)
And he's going abt his day to day life, competing and everything when suddenly he's hit with the sudden opportunity of meeting Vale, his literal idol. (Through sponsorship events or smthng idk) So ofc Marc is like YES??
The day finally comes, and Marc is literally vibrating. He goes up bc it's his turn to mee the man, and just blurts out "I am a huge fan, i am going to be just like you", then proceeds to stare at him for wayy too long. Vale just laughs at the boy, says, "Ah thank you, we just give it our all, no?" And—
Oh my god, Valentino Rossi is his soulamte. Oh my god oh my god Marc is gonna have an aneurysm this is literally the best day of his life, he's literally fated to Valentino Rossi.
Obv, Marc is not gonna tell Vale this bc he's still a kid and doesn't wanna mess up his chances. Instead, he starts training more, riding harder, faster, skimming the limits bc now he has to reach the 500cc, there's no way he can't, his soulmate is literally waiting for him there (Marc is a child and he's delusional and thinks that everything will be solved when he reaches MotoGP)
Cue to him turning 18 and winning th 125cc championship that same year, having his highest high knowing Valentino probably just got his mark and is aware it's Marc now and also he just fucking won the championship so rlly everything is great.
Valentino, on the other hand, is extremely surprised by the coloured sentance running down against the back of his spine, bc he has no fucking idea who his soulamte is. He literally has thousands upon thousands of fans and all of them say variations of the same line, so forgive him not remebring this one. Also, he just turned 32. If his mark has appeared only now, then that means his soulmate is 18. Yh no. Valentino is not interested in getting involved with whatever shit this is.
Fast forward to 2013 and Marc finally reaching MotoGP, going up to Vale and shyly greeting him, only for Vale to be completely normal in return? This just keeps happening throught the first half of the season and Marc is hit with the sudden realisation that Vale doesn't know they're soulmates.
I feel like he'd go through a huge crisis bc this literally destroys every idea of the future he's had, but the he locks in and is like, okay I'm gonna win a championship a then confess to Vale bc like obv he'll want me more if I'm successful and good at the craft we've devoted our lives too.
Except, him and Vale acc start getting close, and as he spends more time with Vale he learns that Vale is not really interested in having a soulmate at all (Valentino is a lying liar who is trying to hint to Marc that he'd like for them to be in an actual relationship and that he doesn't care abt what his 'pre destined soulmate' will think of it, expect Marc is literally said predestined soulmate)
So now, one year turns to two, and Marc is just putting off telling Vale this huge thing...
and suddenly, it's sepang 2015, and Vale hates him. His soulmate has just made him a target for literally every media outlet and he genuinely seems to believe Marc would go that low. Well, fuck this shit. Fuck this. (Yes he still trys to reconcile with Vale for a bit, but you get the point, he's just a little desperate okay)
Skip a bunch of years ahead (I am not researching the timeline rn😭) and while they aren't spreading any misinformation abt the other anymore they still aren't talking (thry think abt each other way too much tho)...
Until. A video gets leaked of Marc's first time meeting Vale and Vale just watches it bc he watches everything Marc, and he hears it. "I am a huge fan. I am going to be just like you."
Yh he's up and abt blackmailing ppl for Marc's address and flying to Spain immediately. Cue some very angsty long drawn out reconciliation as well as some very freaky sad emotional sex and they they live happily ever after.👍🏽
Hi Calli!
#60 (Truth/Lies) + #72 (Post-Finale Life). Interesting combo....
Hmmm, let's go with the idea that Ian is actually kinda terrible at hiding things from Mickey. Every year for Mickey's birthday he tries to plan some kind of surprise, and every year Mickey figures it out.
Until that one year, 5 years after the finale....
"C'mon Ian, you know you can't hide whatever it is from me," Mickey taunts.
"Fuck you, Mick. I've been keeping secrets from you for years. I just let you find stuff out because it makes you happy to catch me."
"Yeah, ok, Red," Mickey smirks. He is 100% sure he is going to figure it out any day now. Ian just can't hide it when something has him excited, and he always slips up. Always.
Days pass, and Mickey is starting to think that the surprise is that his bitch of a husband actually didn't get him anything. That has to be it. He even stole Ian's phone when he was knocked out from the meds one night, checked his browser history, his email, his texts.... there's nothing.t
Needless to say, he's a bit grumpy by the time the day of his birthday arrives, and hasn't noticed the fond little grins that Ian has been throwing his way.
His grumpiness fades a bit when he walks out into the living room and sees a big white box with a bow on it sitting on the coffee table. At least it's something, even if it's something shitty.
But when he opens it... He stands there absolutely stunned at the sight of a gorgeous little pitbull puppy. She's mostly black, with a white star on her chest and a white tip on her left ear. She's perfect.
"Ian, what..." he stutters. "You know they aren't gonna let us keep a pitbull in the apartment."
"I know," Ian replies, coming up behind him and wrapping him up in a hug. "That's why I have another surprise. I've been putting some money aside ever since we moved here. And I talked to the bank, got some paperwork started, and they approved us for a mortgage. So we can buy a house with that back yard you always wanted for your dog."
Mickey spun around in his husbands arms, staring at him in shock. "What?"
"Guess I can lie to you when I really want to after all. Now pick up your puppy before she falls on the floor trying to climb out of that box."
For the trope mash-up post, may I request Fake Dating and Soulmate AU for Drarry please, if it sparks any fun inspiration?
(P.S. you're wonderful and I will love literally anything you come up with, even if it's not for these prompts, I just got super excited when you posted this 💜)
No, YOU'RE wonderful!!
So this is what came to me - and I can actually see the rest of the story but I have to go adult for a bit, but I am going to come back later and write some more of this! (As per usual, this is pretty much SOOC and unbeta'd, etc etc.)
Draco’s known since the Final Battle.
He’s pretty sure Potter has no idea, whether it’s that no one’s remembered to tell him about soulmates, or that his mark hasn’t activated yet, but he treats Draco exactly the way he’s treated him since they'd all arrived at University. He’s unfailingly polite, cool and distanced, and deeply disinterested in one Draco Malfoy.
Which isn’t, you know, how you’re supposed to treat your soulmate.
The thumbprint on Draco’s wrist had flared to life when Potter had grabbed his arm to haul him onto the back of the battered broom that carried them both out of the fire. He’d almost fallen off at the way Potter’s magic had rushed over him, through him. Draco had always heard the stories that connecting with your soulmate could be disorienting, but since it happened to him in the midst of mortal terror, Draco’s not sure his experience was typical.
It’s also very rare that one person connects and the other doesn’t, although it does happen. It takes time for the bond to solidify, to grow into a true soulmate connection, and obviously, that’s not happened here. Basically, Potter is a faint echo in Draco’s mind, enough to distract and ache a little, nothing more than that.
All this to say, it’s weird when Potter comes dashing into their suite common room one Saturday afternoon, looking wild-eyed and somewhat disheveled. It’s a rainy day, raw and windy, the kind of day where Draco does not plan to leave the building if he can help it. Potter is damp and windblown, so he clearly had other ideas. Fucking weirdo.
Potter looks around wildly, and lights up when he spots Draco curled up on the couch under his favorite striped blanket.
“Malfoy,” he says eagerly, and Draco blinks up at him in surprise.
Potter’s never sounded happy to see Draco before.
“Yes?” Draco says cautiously. “Can I help you?”
Potter nods vigorously. “You can, yes, absolutely. I need you to pretend to be my soulmate and go to the gala with me tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?” Draco asks, trying to make sense of the words he’s just heard. “You need me to what?”
Potter hangs his coat on the rack by the door, kicks off his grubby trainers and makes his way around the couch to plop down next to Draco.
“I need you to pretend to be my soulmate and go to the gala with me tonight.”
“That’s what I thought you said,” Draco says. “But also, what the fuck are you talking about?”
Potter sighs, lets his head rest on the back of the couch and runs a hand through his unruly hair.
“You know how the press…” his voice trails off and he flushes.
“Follows you around incessantly and makes your life a living hell?” Draco says dryly. “Yes, Potter, I’m aware.”
“Well, someone thought it was a good idea to advertise that I haven’t found my soulmate, and to suggest that anyone who’s unbonded should come to the gala tonight and you know. Shoot their shot or whatever.”
Draco sits bolt upright, outraged. “What the hell? That’s bullshit. That’s not even how it works!”
Potter just sighs again and slumps down even further, eyes closed. “Yeah, I know that, but it’s turned into this whole thing, and every girl in the greater Oxford area, apparently, is now coming to the gala.”
“Can’t you just… not go?”
Potter shakes his head, looking miserable. “No. The Fund is really important to me. I promised to speak.”
“So your solution is to fake a soulmate bond with a man?” Draco asks and Potter snorts.
“Okay, well, when you put it like that, it does sound stupid. I just thought if I could get them all off my back for a bit… No, you’re right. I’ll just have to get a bodyguard again, I guess.”
He sounds so utterly miserable that Draco can’t help but feel sorry for him, which is why he finds himself saying, “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
Potter opens his eyes to stare at Draco. “What?”
Draco shrugs. “I’m not doing anything tonight, there’ll be wine at the gala, yeah?”
Potter looks excited but then his face falls. “But what about your soulmate? What if they’re out there looking for you?”
Draco looks away and swallows. “That won’t be a problem.”
Potter’s eyes narrow. “Why not?” He sucks in a breath and whispers, “Malfoy, do you know who your soulmate is?”
Draco just nods and there’s a long silence while Potter clearly puts some picture together in his head. He’s never been stupid, Draco concedes. Since for all intents and purposes, Draco is unbonded, Potter must know there’s something wrong with all of it.
Finally Potter says, “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Draco says and finally turns to look at Potter. “It’ll be fun,” he says carelessly. “What should I wear?”
hello my love thank you for your request I wrote a bunch solely because I'm in love with you
--
Life is nothing if not consistent for Lena Luthor. She wakes at the same hour every single day, does an hour of stretches and exercise, eats the same egg white omelet. She’s the first to the office and the last to leave. Every moment is structured and accounted for, allowing Lena maximum control and regulation. Just the way she likes it.
And then, one day as she was stretching deep into a downward dog, her new life path came crashing down through her crystal glass coffee table.
One moment she’s thinking about the meeting she has in an hour and the next she’s flinching away from a spray of glass raining down overhead. She curls in on herself with a yelp, terrified and frozen at the sudden explosion beside her. After the clattering of glass had stopped, she’s left in dead silence. With a deep breath for confidence, she finally works up the nerve to look.
Collapsed over the metal frame of what had been her table lay some woman she had never seen before in her life, knocked out and bleeding all over her Persian rug.
Lena feels herself clicking into survival mode at the sight of her. She’s always been good at that – surviving. No one can keep a clearer head in a crisis than Lena. The initial fear now replaced with adrenaline and clarity, Lena jumps into action. Years of Pilates and daily weight-lifting aides her as she pulls the bloody woman off the twisted frame, dragging her over to her yoga mat. The woman is out cold.
She’s got glass stuck in all kinds of places, the worst of which seems to be a long, jagged piece stuck in her thigh. Lena knows better than to try and pull that one out, so she instead focuses on tying her sweatshirt around the woman’s thigh to try and stave the bleeding. It looks like it might be in a dangerous spot, possibly close to an artery, and the last thing Lena needs is some home invader dying on her living room floor. The press would have a field day with that.
While working to stabilize the rush of bleeding from her thigh, Lena shouted out,
“HOPE, call emergency services.”
HOPE, her omnipresent homemade helper, replied back from the speaker located just above.
“Yes, Miss Luthor. Police, fire, or EMT?”
“EMT and pol-” she’s cut off by two hands on her at once: one covering her mouth forcefully and the other pressing a large glass chunk to her throat right at the jugular vein. She freezes.
Apparently, the unconscious intruder was more conscious than she thought.
“Tell her to cancel it,” the woman says with a hoarse, pained voice. Lena watches her with a calculating eye, weighing her option. If she didn’t respond to HOPE in the next few moments, she knew her virtual assistant would call the police automatically.
“It’ll take them, what, 5 minutes to get here? Maybe 10 with traffic. You’ll bleed out in seconds and I’ll be long gone before they even get close,” the woman says, “Nobody has to die today, okay? Cancel it.”
Her mind reels for alternatives, but the woman presses the glass harder against her throat, hard enough to cut, and her mind is made up. She nods, and hesitantly the other woman removes her hand from her mouth.
“Cancel request, HOPE,” Lena says, voice surprisingly steady for someone in such a situation.
“Request successfully cancelled,” HOPE chirped happily before shutting off.
The other woman sighs, the glass held to Lena’s neck slacking just a bit as she leans backwards. Lena can feel the way it pulls at her skin, how blood starts to trickle. She keeps her hands where they’ve been this entire time – pressing hard around the glass in the woman’s thigh. She’s bleeding a lot, even with the pressure Lena’s applying.
“That was foolish,” Lena says, pulling away from the woman. “The EMT was for you. You’re bleeding too much too quickly, I think you nicked your femoral artery.”
The woman laughs, laid back eyes closed like she’s not invading her house and threatening her life.
“That’s right, you had medical training. I forgot about that,” the other woman says, pulling herself up into a half-sit and looking down at her injuries with a curious eye. “In my defense, they barely mention that in the history books.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The woman just shakes her head.
“What day is it?” she asks. Lena is tired of this already. She’s supposed to be showering right now and preparing to leave for work, not negotiating with a half-dead possible hostage-taker.
“Tuesday. March 13th.”
“What year?”
“Is that a joke?”
“Yeah,” the woman smiled, a hint of blood on her teeth. “Humor me.”
“2018.”
The smile fades fast, replaced with a sudden alarm. As if the year were somehow worse than the giant piece of glass sticking from her thigh.
“That’s way too early,” she says, hints of panic in her voice. “They dropped me way too far back. Crap.”
Her face looks pale and grows paler by the minute. Lena looks down to see the cloth she’d tied around her thigh fully saturated, the puddle beneath her growing. She’s losing too much blood.
“Put the glass down and give me your hands,” Lena says, but the woman doesn’t move. Frustrated, Lena grabs her hands with her bloody ones and presses them just above the glass.
“Hold here,” she says, and then gets up to leave.
Lena races to her bathroom, ignoring the woman’s shout of “Wait! Come back here!” and rifles around until she finds what she’s looking for. She comes back with a field medic kit and lays it on the ground. The other woman watches her wearily, hands still pressed to the wound.
“You’re bleeding too fast,” Lena says, “and at this point you’ll be dead before the ambulance can arrive. We have to stop the bleeding.”
The woman doesn’t resist. At this point she might not have the strength to. Lena uses shears to cut up the seam of the the the woman’s pants, up and past the deep gash of the glass shard.
“This is bad,” she says, and the woman doesn’t even look.
“It’s too early,” the woman is saying, sounding weak, and Lena pulls supplies from her kit. She ties a tight tourniquet, earning a shocked groan of pain.
“This is temporary, it can only be temporary. It should buy you a little time but it’s going to hurt like hell and if it’s on too long you could lose the leg.”
“Fine, it’s fine,” the other woman says, almost delirious, and she grabs Lena’s shirt to pull her attention.
“Listen to me,” she says, eyes wide and bloodshot, “Your brother is going to destroy the world, and you’re going to help him. But you don’t have to. You don’t have to help him, okay?”
She’s practically incoherent. The blood has stopped but it’s still everywhere and Lena is covered in it.
“They’re calling me,” the woman continues, shaking her head, “I’ll come back, or they’ll send someone else, but you have to stop him, Lena Luthor. Non Nocere-”
And then she vanishes.
One minute, Lena is wrapped around a delirious, halfway bled-out home invader, and the next she’s alone in her living room surrounded by glass and blood.
-
She’s much more prepared the next time the stranger comes.
To her credit, she’s had a few years by then to obsess and analyze and research. She’s watched the security footage of that day so many times and in such excruciating detail that she could tell you how many pieces of glass were shattered, how many gasps the intruder let out in pain. She could recite the entire five-minute experience from start to finish with perfect accuracy. Yet she could never explain it.
She can infer the basic gist of it, of course: at some point, time travel becomes a possibility, and the best possible use of that unbelievable advancement is to come back and stop her, because something she does – or rather, something she helps Lex do – is so catastrophically horrible it’s world ending.
She’s tried to find this woman, though of course if she’s a time traveler she may not even exist yet. There’s no way to know. Lena’s spent months studying the footage she has of her, noting the militaristic jumpsuit she wore, the strange patches for organizations that don’t seem to exist adorning the sleeve. She’s made note of the scars she can see – the long one that dances down her face, the smaller ones made visible when her pant leg was cut. The woman had clearly endured hell in life, and that hell had led her to Lena’s penthouse. She felt a sick nervousness just thinking about how they might link.
All of that to say, Lena is much more prepared when the woman returned, at least on an intellectual level. She’s not so prepared for the woman to show up as she’s sitting post-shower on her bed in nothing but a silk robe.
One minute she’s sitting alone, the next a woman is crashing on top of her. Their heads bonk together hard at the force of it, Lena reeling back against her pillow with a groan. At least she’s a softer landing than glass and metal.
“Ah crap,” the woman says, and there’s an instant spark of excitement in Lena at just the sound of her voice. She’d listened to that tape so many times it’s burned into her psyche but hearing it now in person after so long – absolutely thrilling.
“Thank you for not breaking any furniture this time,” Lena says, and her voice is a bit breathy from the rush of it. The other woman pulls up from where she’d collapsed against her and seems to finally realize where she is and just how little Lena actually has on. She practically flings herself off of her and on to the floor with a shout.
“Oh wow,” the woman says, mouth agape and face beet red. “I- I’m so sorry, there’s no way to know what you’ll be doing when I get here and I just, I didn’t realize you weren’t done getting dressed or… that wasn’t… I’ll just-”
“Wait in the hallway?” Lena asks, amused. This version of the stranger is such a funny leap from the way she was all those years before, yet exactly the same. It’s like she hadn’t aged much at all. “I was finishing my bedtime routine and I sleep naked. This is as dressed as I’ll be the rest of the night.”
Somehow, the woman’s face gets even redder. It reminds Lena of the blood from that day, how dark and covering it had been on her. That takes a bit of wind out of her sails.
“How’s the leg?” she asks, sitting back. She can feel her robe fall open slightly but left it be. It's amusing to see how nervously the other woman’s eyes dart around looking everywhere but her.
“Still sore,” the woman finally says, pulling herself up to sit on the end of Lena’s bed. She glances at her and then looks away. “It’s only been a few weeks for me, so it’s not close to healed yet, but I didn’t lose the leg or my life, thanks to you.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Are you?”
“Mmhm. If you’d died that day, I wouldn’t have this chance now to ask you what the hell is going on.”
The woman is watching her in a strange sort of way, and it seems to take her a moment to clear her throat and mind.
“Right, yes, that makes sense. I just-” she rubs her eyes, laughing in an embarrassed sort of way. “I’m sorry, you’re just a little distracting.” Her eyes stray along the line of Lena’s robe before jerking away. She stands up and moves away, hands ringing nervously. Lena notices the slight limp to her walk. “Crap, I’m sorry. Okay, focus, Kara, focus,” she coaches herself, and Lena latches on to that morsel of information with a fierce excitement.
“Yes, Kara,” she drawls, and the woman’s eyes cut sharply to her. “Focus. Tell me who you are and what I can do to help.”
Kara gulps noticeably at her tone, shifting on her legs, before saying,
“I’m from the future. 40 years in the future, to be exact, and I was sent back in time to stop you and your brother from destroying the world.”
Lena nods along. It’s not so unbelievable, the idea that Lex could destroy the world. That he could use her desperate yearning for connection to make her a willing accomplish.
“Non Nocere,” she says, and the woman jolts in surprise.
“What? That’s – have you already invented it?”
“No, but you said that last time we met.”
Kara visibly deflates, sinking into a sigh as she leaned back against the wall.
“Thank Rao, okay. Yes. It shouldn’t exist yet, not for another year.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the tool your brother uses to destroy the world. You build it for him.”
Kara looks heartbroken as she says it, and Lena feels just the same hearing it. All she’s ever wanted to do is be a force for good despite her family, despite the life they’d set up for her, but here is this scarred, scared stranger come back to tell her how horribly she fails. How she destroys everything.
julia, my dear, i know you didn't reblog the trope mashup, but you said you wanted to play on discord, so,
how about 8 + 13? 🤗💚
Thank you Nosho for nudging me into waters I've never waded into before. Here we go... #8 Hitman + #13 Mermaid AU 🧜♂️
*********
This was it, this was the last time he was doing this shit. He was so sick, of being Terry’s errand boy, for putting his life, his future on the line. And for what?
This was the last one.
He pulled up to the marina parking lot, killed the engine, and looked out at the harbor. A gorgeous day as ever for a hit. His target was the Emerald Star, an enormous luxury yacht floating in the sparkling blue water of the bay. He could almost sit back and enjoy the view, the sun glimmering off the pristine white boat. But he had a job to do.
The place was crawling with uniformed and plain clothes security. He packed up his revolver and silencer in his briefcase, straightened his tie, adjusted his phony security badge, and made his way to the dock.
Just as he was about to climb up the ramp, he saw a flicker and splash in the water right off the starboard side. They got big ass fish out here, he thought. The splash turned into bigger waves disrupting the calm glassy surface of the water, and he swore he saw a flash of red and aquamarine swim away. Sun's starting to fuck with me.
Once on the yacht, he made his way through the party, desperate to get his hands on a glass of champagne or several shots of Belvedere. He had a job to do first though. He’d get this done, collect his share, and close the chapter on this miserable existence. Start his life for real.
He spotted his target out on the deck. He grasped the suitcase handle tight, teeth grinding. He felt a headache coming on, the sun was beaming right into his eyes.
Another big splash off the side of the deck caught his attention. He looked over, and his heart jumped - now he knew the sun was fucking with him because out of the water emerged a beautiful creature. A man. With porcelain skin, crimson hair. He watched mesmerized as the man swam effortlessly closer. He knew he was going nuts now, because the man flicked ocean water right at him, with a glimmering sapphire tail.
The beautiful man peeked his head up again out of the water, stared straight at him with emerald eyes, and mouthed one word: “Jump.”
