#i think over time i became aware of the fireplace option which i know is the origin of the stockings thing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

Text

Prompt: Size Kink Title (optional): Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier has a thing for men bigger than him. He especially has a thing for the witcher he’d been travelling with. And eventually, Geralt gets tired of it.

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Crossposted on ao3 here -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing Jaskier notices about Geralt are his shoulders.

More specifically - just how broad they are.

The way his armour emphasizes them, the same way it emphasizes his narrow hips, creating a contrast that takes the air away from Jaskier’s lungs all the way back in Posada.

And countless times after that.

The thing is, Jaskier’s always had a thing for men bigger than him.

Men that could probably break him in half with one arm, without even paying it much thought, which is one of the reasons he’d always had a talent for getting himself in trouble, flirting with men that had a rather strong preference for women.

He just couldn’t help himself, really.

Naturally, said weakness turned travelling with Geralt into a nightmare.

Having to come up with excuses when the witcher would catch him staring wasn’t the biggest problem, for Jaskier had an admirable imagination and could get himself out of pretty much any situation. The biggest problem was the irresistible need to touch.

No matter what Jaskier did, he couldn’t fight the constant need to reach his hand out, run it over the witcher’s shoulders or chest or arms.

He’d gotten over his uneasiness with blood not only in order to be able to help Geralt mend his wounds but also to have an excuse to touch him. To run his fingertips over the man’s firm muscles, press a palm over them, pat him on the shoulder, trying to hide the quickening beat of his own heart.

After some time, Geralt got comfortable enough around Jaskier and then it became much, much worse.

The first time Jaskier had offered to help the witcher with his hair when Geralt was too exhausted to be able to deal with it on his own, he didn’t really think it through. And when Geralt just started undressing like the bard wasn’t even in the room, it was way too late.

He tried to, he really did, but he just couldn’t stop looking, greedily taking in every inch of pale, scarred skin, physically feeling himself blush when Geralt got to the buttons on his trousers, undoing them one by one, still paying absolutely no mind to the bard.

Jaskier had seen many men naked. He’d slept with humans, elves, half-elves, even a few witchers but Geralt... Geralt was impressive.

Enough to make the bard feel breathless at the thought of how it would feel to have him inside, how long it would take him to work himself open enough in order to even be able to take all of him in.

Running his fingers through the witcher’s tanged, bloodied hair, slipping down to his neck and shoulders every so often, finally allowed to touch, Jaskier kept thinking about how it would feel to wrap his lips around Geralt’s cock, wondering if he’d even be able to fit all of him in his mouth.

He knew that Geralt can feel his fingers tremble, knew that he can hear his heartbeat and breathing but there was nothing Jaskier could do to help it.

And the worst thing was that even though Geralt kept to his usual grunting, he didn’t protest.

Jaskier had barely survived that evening.

After that, controlling himself got much harder.

There were only so many excuses as to why he started keeping even closer to the witcher, always offering help with his hair or his wounds, why he started crawling even closer to him at night if they had to share a bed, why he kept looking and touching and caring.

A few months went by that way but eventually, Geralt had had enough.

It’s when they’re in their little shared room of an inn a little North West of Vengerberg, nearly at the door to head downstairs for a drink or two that Jaskier reaches his hand up to tuck a silver strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear but, before he can do so, the witcher intercepts his wrist and pins the bard to the wall behind him, taking all air away from his lungs.

“Are you even going to stop touching me, bard?“ he growls, low and impatient.

Jaskier can feel his heart stutter at the feeling of Geralt’s fingers digging into the delicate skin of his wrist.

With just a little more force, he could break it.

That thought alone sends Jaskier’s head reeling and it takes his a few very long seconds to lift his gaze and meet Geralt’s eyes, the amber glowing dangerously in the low light of the fireplace.

“Touching you?“ he repeats, playing the innocence card. “Darling, you’re imagining things.“

Geralt growls at him and pushes Jaskier into the wall with his entire body, making the bard gasp at the feeling of the witcher’s narrow hips against his own. Oh, how he wants to run his hands over them, feel the strong muscles, the sharp V-lines that look so fucking tempting that they literally make his mouth water every single time he sees them.

“Imagining things?“ Geralt’s voice suddenly get’s even lower than it usually is, crawling right under the bard’s skin. “I can smell it on you.“

Oh. Oh.

Suddenly, playing the innocence card gets a lot harder but Jaskier is not a man that gives up easily.

“Smell what on me, Witcher?“ he enquires, deciding to test his luck and run his other hand down Geralt’s shoulder, nearly shivering at the feeling of the firm muscles under his fingertips.

Instead of answering, Geralt leans in even closer, pressing his nose to Jaskier’s neck, right under the sharp of his jaw, where his scent is the strongest, and takes in a deep breath, his other hand coming up to wrap around the bard’s waist and pull him closer, fingers digging into the fragile bones of his ribs.

“It’s been going on for months now, for years, even,“ he breathes into Jaskier’s ear, catching his other wrist without looking and pinning them both to the wall above his head, nearly making the bard whimper. “But you just don’t have enough nerve, do you? To tell me you want me.“

For what feels like an eternity, Jaskier is unable to breathe.

He just looks at the witcher with eyes open wide with both fear and lust, painfully aware of the colour spilling over his cheeks before he finally lets out a trembling sigh and averts his eyes.

“How long?“

Geralt chuckles, showing off dangerously sharp canine that had cost Jaskier many hours of sleep, and pushes his thigh in-between the bard’s legs, making him gasp and instinctively try to set his wrist free, feeling his mind go dark when that does nothing other than remind him that he’s powerless against the witcher.

“How long have I known?“ Geralt asks, touching his lips to Jaskier’s neck and tearing a choked, broken moan out of his chest. “Ever since I heard you call one of your lovers by my name.“

There is no getting out of this, Jaskier knows that perfectly.

Ever since they met, no matter who he slept with, he couldn’t stop thinking of Geralt. Couldn’t stop whispering his name under his breath when his lovers were too drunk to notice or simply didn’t care.

He did it much more than once. And he knows that Geralt had heard it much more than once, as well.

“If you knew, why not do anything about it?“

Geralt scoffs, his breath hot against Jaskier’s neck.

“I’m doing something about it now, am I not?“

Geralt rolls his hips against Jaskier’s, tightening his grip on the bard’s wrist just enough to make Jaskier shudder all over, arching his back to lean into the touch.

“You know, for someone who talks as much as you do, you’ve been awfully quiet about this,“ Geralt murmurs, nipping at the delicate skin of Jaskier’s neck and making him snap his hips forward without even realising. “I’ve grown tired of waiting.“

“Of waiting?“ Jaskier repeats, feeling his heart skip a beat. “What are you- you just told me to stop touching you.“

“No,“ the witcher retorts, letting go of Jaskier’s waist to tip his chin upwards, making him look at him. “I asked if you’re ever going to stop.“

“That’s-“ Jaskier starts, only to be cut off.

“That’s not the same thing, bard,“ Geralt says, softer. “You keep touching my arms and my back and my hair but you never go further.“

And then, before Jaskier can come up with an answer, Geralt is kissing him, hard and possessive and full of lust. He bites into the bard’s lips, runs his tongue over them, licking into his mouth to tear another moan from Jaskier’s lungs.

Painfully aware of just how hard he is, Jaskier rolls his hips against Geralt’s thigh, pleasure sparking up his spine. His lungs burn with the lack of air, and with his wrists still pinned to the wall above his head, he can’t push the witcher away and break the kiss.

Even if he could, he wouldn’t.

“Did you really think I couldn’t tell?“ Geralt breathes out, breaking away when Jaskier’s vision already starts to darken.

He lets go of his wrists, leaning into the touch when the bard immediately wraps both his arms around his neck to pull the witcher closer, until they’re breathing the same air, barely an inch left between them.

“I thought you didn’t want it.“

Geralt just hums, shifting to press his hips closer to Jaskier’s, and the bard can hear himself take in a shaky breath as he feels the witcher’s hard cock against his thigh.

“Does it look like I don’t want it?“

And with that, Jaskier is gone.

He’d thought about it for way too long, one fantasy after the other, for years on end, to hold himself back any longer.

So he just pulls the witcher into another kiss, just as raw and hungry as the first one, runs both his hands over his broad shoulders, down his back, rucking up the fabric of his worn black shirt to dig his nails into the small of the witcher’s back.

He wants to take his time, he really does, but not now. Not now.

“Always thought of you,“ he whispers, breathless, pushing Geralt away just enough to take a step away from the wall. “For the last seven years, it was you, you, you.“

Without thinking about it any longer, Jaskier sinks to his knees, undoing the buttons of the witcher’s trousers with trembling fingers and peppering smudged, wet kisses all over his abdomen, moving lower and lower as the buttons give way.

Geralt runs his fingers through the bard’s hair, gentle at first but then unexpectedly rough as he gets a fistful and tugs, making Jaskier gasp and throw his head back, looking up at him.

“All you needed to do all these years was take,“ Geralt says, holding the eye contact. “And we would’ve been here much sooner.“

Still looking up at the witcher, Jaskier slips his hand under the fabric of his trousers, wrapping his calloused fingers around the base of his hard cock, nearly moaning at just how good it feels.

“Same applies to you, Witcher.“

He doesn’t wait for Geralt to answer, doesn’t even listen to him, choosing to finally get the unnecessary clothes out of the way and run his lips over Geralt’s lower abdomen, following the V-lines that he’d been dreaming about for years and leaving a bite on the witcher’s hipbone, moaning softly when Geralt tugs on his hair in response.

He’s painfully hard by now, lust burning through him like a wildfire but he doesn’t think about himself, only about Geralt, stroking his cock in slow, even motions before finally wrapping his lips around the tip, his sigh breaking off into a soft moan.

Jaskier’s got a lot of experience in this kind of pleasure, he really does.

But there is no way he’s going to be able to take all of Geralt in, even if he chokes.

“Hold still for me,“ he whispers, looking up at the witcher for just a second before running his tongue over the entire length of his cock, following the throbbing veins.

Geralt throws his head back, resting it against the wall, loosening his grip on Jaskier’s hair but not letting go, brushing his thumb back and forth through the locks.

Making an effort over himself, Jaskier holds back from moving too fast as he opens his mouth just a little wider until he can take in the head, moaning softly at the weight of it on his tongue, at the slightly bitter taste of precome.

He never stops the slow movements of his wrist, listening to every sigh, every choked little moan Geralt gives him, as he moves his head, taking the witcher’s cock in deeper until he feels it in the back of his throat. And then, without even thinking, shifts just a little more, keeping his breathing as deep as he can as he feels the head slip into his throat.

Geralt shudders, biting back a choked moan that sends Jaskier’s head reeling even more so than before and though he knows that he won’t be able to go any further, it’s enough for both of them.

“Fuck,“ the witcher breathes out, running his fingers through the bard’s hair in a praising, almost gentle gesture. “You feel even better than I’ve imagined.“

Knowing that Geralt thought of him like this echoes in Jaskier’s body as a spasm of pure lust and he moans, sending a shiver through both of them. He knows what he looks like right now, with his lips stretched over Geralt’s cock - too big for him to take all of it in - chin glistening with spit and precome, and still, he can’t help but look up at the witcher before he can start moving again.

There’s nothing that he wants more than to be able to go even further, nose at the short winter-white hair at the base of Geralt’s cock, breathe in his scent, but even as he tries, he finds that he is just physically unable to and that thought goes straight to his own cock, nearly making Jaskier whine as he feels himself leak with precome.

“You can guide me if you want,“ he says, raspy and breathless, as he pulls away just enough for the string of spit between his lips and the tip of the witcher’s cock not to break.

He loves making his lovers wait, he really does. But not right now.

Right now all he wants is to please, to hear those gorgeous choked moans that Geralt is giving him and know that he’s the reason for them.

And it just so happens that Geralt doesn’t have to be asked twice.

For just a second, he cups the sharp of Jaskier’s jaw, tips his chin up, his eyes dark and devouring, before running his thumb over the bard’s lips and pulling him closer, the tip of his cock slipping into his mouth.

“Breathe for me,“ he says, an order more than a wish, before getting his hand back into Jaskier’s hair and rolling his hips, making the bard take him in deeper.

He’s not gentle as he moves, fucking into the bard’s mouth deeper and faster, keeping him close with a tight, nearly painful grip but he’s careful, keeping Jaskier’s limits in mind even as his moans grow louder with the building, sharpening pleasure.

Jaskier takes everything with a hunger that he would’ve been ashamed of if only he cared.

He runs his tongue over the veins, presses it closer to them as he moves together with the witcher, paying no mind to the tears in the corner of his eyes. His jaw hurts with the strain but he barely even notices it, moving his wrist in faster, harder strokes.

And it’s when the tip slips all the way into his throat again that he swallows, hard, making an effort over himself not to choke, and that’s enough to push Geralt over the edge.

He growls, gripping the bard’s hair even tighter before letting go and spilling all over his tongue, trembling.

He tastes just as Jaskier had imagined, and that makes the bard moan breathlessly as he pulls away and swallows, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand.

Geralt looks incredible like this. Half-naked, sated and still trembling, he looks ungodly.

“Gods, Witcher,“ Jaskier grins, getting up to his feet to press a kiss to Geralt’s lips, sharing his own taste. “If only you’d told me sooner.“

Geralt blinks slowly, his eyes focusing on Jaskier as he pulls him closer and gets both his hands under his shirt, burning the bard with his touch.

“I’ve told you now,“ he grins back, pushing Jaskier towards the bed. “But less talking, bard. I’m sure we can find a better use for my mouth.“

#oh wow can you believe I'm actually done with the first promt #only eight more to go #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my writing #this turned out much longer than expected #calton writes

78 notes · View notes

samwrights · 4 years

Text

Two Little Lines

Let’s just keep playing around with the pregnancy/baby theme, shall we? 😂😈 it’s going to be on the fluffier side, however, we are gonna sprinkle in some very mild NSFW. And we got real angsty with Kenma and we’re just gonna make em all real long. Sorry this took me a few days to do!

Kenma;

Let’s be honest, Kenma would be the cautious one that would more so plan for pregnancy.

Life’s going great for Kenma—great job, cushy life, hot wife??? How did he get so lucky?

Cause he’s cute af that’s how

He was finally ready to add another player to the party.

However, life can’t always be perfect and apparently neither can the two of you trying for a baby.

For the last year and a half now, Friday nights were your thing. No streaming, no work, no phone calls. You and Kenma—that’s it. And while he definitely had become very explorative in that time, every negative pregnancy test was wearing his drive down.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that Kenma isn’t a fan of going to the doctor, even to check on how his little swimmers are doing. “If it’s not meant to be, we’ll find another way.” But you could tell it was breaking his heart a little bit.

Frisky Friday’s became fragile Friday’s, in which the two of you really just cuddled in bed together, fireplace lit, and talked about hopeful dreams of finally having a child together, until one of you hopefully got in the mood.

Shit, this whole ordeal was even making your marriage rough. Kenma had been so hard on himself lately that he could barely look at you, which caused you to start to feel insecure, causing the both of you to fight.

It’s Friday night. No streaming, no work, and no phone calls. That was how it was supposed to be. But instead, Kenma is naked in bed atop the comforter, playing with his switch.

It’s pissing you off.

“I don’t know what you wanna do anymore, Kenma. Do you even want a family? Do you even want to be with me anymore?”

“Why would you even say that?” It’s Friday night. The two of you are supposed to be hanging out in bed, naked and just being together, not picking fights with each other. But since that seems to be the case, you see Kenma flush with anger.

“Maybe because you’re playing Animal Crossing instead of looking at me??” Your husband sighs before putting his switch on the night stand before taking down the loose knot that his hair typically resides in. He’s anxious. “You’re acting like I’m not upset about this too.”

As you’re talking to him, you cautiously clamber over him, your face filled with raw emotion. And, after being married for the better half of a decade, you can see what he’s feeling. Failure, distress, and pain were only the start of it. “Please, Kenma. One more time, and we’ll start looking at other options.”

Apparently one more time was all it took, according to the three pregnancy tests you’d taken a month later. Seeing those two little lines on one of the tests that your husband had bought in bulk sent your heart into palpitations. You were going to be a mom.

Kenma comes home from work that Friday—you decided to surprise him. “What do you want to do tonight Kenma?”

??? “Honey, it’s Friday. Don’t we usually...” he stops. Either you were giving up on trying, which you two would have discussed, or... “wait, you don’t mean...”

Holding up the positive pregnancy test, you begin to cry. Kenma does too.

“Baby Kozume has joined the party.”

Kuroo;

Only the two of you would get pregnant while having an IUD implant. Literally, that was just your luck. But it was still possible.

Which you had yet to tell Kuroo—at the moment you were thankful the two of you weren’t cohabitating yet because you were able to hide your unbearable morning sickness.

You were at least waiting to see your doctor to have your IUD removed before telling him, mostly out of fear but also because, if he did notice your morning sickness, you could pawn it off as symptoms of the removal.

You hoped that this wouldn’t take too long or as be as painful as it was going in, but then again you were going to be pushing a human out in nearly 8 months.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon; Kuroo has already finished classes for the day while you’re still out at your appointment. He did have a key to your appointment, but it was strange that you weren’t home considering you didn’t have classes.

He wasn’t gonna call you out on it though—Kuroo trusted you. Instead, he opted to just rummaging around your apartment, cleaning up dishes that were left standing in the sink and making lunch for the two of you.

The minute you walked through your door, the smell of his cooking wafted through the air and absolutely did not agree with you or the baby’s sense of smell. “Fuck,” you grit out before bolting to the bathroom to hurl.

??? = Kuroo.

“Babe? You okay?” Your response was more vomiting, which was apparent both by sound and by visual—you hadn’t even closed the door to the bathroom and Kuroo got to witness the scene clear as day.

In comfort, Kuroo rubs your lower back in an attempt to coax the remaining bile from your body. Disturbing, was the only way Kuroo could describe it, considering you rarely ever puked. In the last six years of dating, he’s only seen it once while you drunk.

When the nausea finally passed, Kuroo cleaned your face up with a warm rag before sitting you on his knee while he sat at the edge of the tub. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“That, actually.”

“What?” Kuroo’s a smart guy, however it took him a few minutes to decipher your two word puzzle. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, I was gonna tell you today, actually. I just had to go get my IUD removed.” For a moment he’s stunned—the IUD was supposed to be nearly foolproof. But nearly is the key word.

“Babe, you’re pregnant! Holy shit, I gotta call Kenma and Bo and tell them they’re gonna be uncles!” 💀💀💀

“Sooo, you’re okay with it...?” After all, there was a reason you had chosen to go with an IUD after your guys’ last pregnancy scare two years ago.

After all, being a freshman in college wasn’t necessarily an ideal time to start a family.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He balks.

“Because we’re college students that still have another year to graduate?” You deadpan as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“And? Now we’re gonna be married college graduates with little baby Kuroo.” M a r r i e d?

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, Tetsu.”

“What, you don’t wanna marry me?” For a minute, his face contorts with...confusion? Sadness? Anger? A myriad of all the above? “I’ve wanted to marry you since high school.”

“Is this a proposal?”

“The rings been in my gym bag since senior year.”

Akaashi;

Akaashi Keiji, contrary to popular opinion, was a real romantic.

Even as college students, while your focus should be on your studies, Akaashi never slacked on making you feel special and loved. He knew it, you knew it, and your poor neighbors that shared the wall between your bedrooms knew it.

Kinda made it awkward when the two of you would leave for class and you’d meet your neighbors’ eyes in the apartment hallway. But ya know, it is what it is.

Honestly, it’s too challenging not to go at it every day when your boyfriend is the sweetest, most endearing human to walk the planet.

But enough gushing about Akaashi. Four years into your relationship, you had never felt so off in your life. The last three weeks, all you wanted to do was sleep and eat, you couldn’t focus on anything at all. You couldn’t even have sex with Akaashi.

You know, your wonderful partner that you literally boned everyday? Yeah.

It felt like a permanent, three week PMS for a period that never came. Not that that was entirely abnormal for you—intense amounts of stress can throw off your menstrual cycle and stress was certainly no stranger to you.

But no. You knew your body and you knew it well. Something was wrong.

Just in case things went awry, you scheduled a doctor’s appointment with Keiji’s knowledge. After all, it could very well be nothing and there was no point in causing your man to worry.

“Miss, were you aware that you’re nearly six weeks pregnant?” 💀💀💀 obviously not, doc.

Not entirely convinced, whether because you’re a tad dense or because you really just don’t want to believe the doctor, you swing by a local drug store to grab a test. Just in case, like somehow the doctor would be wrong.

Thankfully, you get home before Akaashi is back from work for the evening, giving you the privacy of seeing your results with your own eyes. Even though you literally could go look at the results and notes from your doctors visit, but ya know.

You don’t even know how long you sat on the floor of your shared bathroom, just staring at the two little lines. You didn’t even realize Akaashi came home.

He calls your name, at first not necessarily concerned that the only light in the apartment was peeking from under the bathroom door. But with no answer, he calls out your name again. No answer. “Honey, is it okay if I come in?”

“Y-yeah?” You aren’t really sure how to answer. How the hell was Akaashi going to react? You guys didn’t have time for a kid?? You’re completely zoned out, staring blankly at the bathtub in front of you. Lowkey, you’re freaking out Akaashi.

Even more so when he sees your hand loosely cradling the pregnancy test—judging by your reaction, he knows what the result is. But he can’t think of anything to say, what is there even to say?

He’s not upset, no. Shocked? Obviously. Mad, not at all considering he’s just as much responsible. The “R” word is what triggers him.

Responsible, in the sense that in less than a year, the two of you were going to be parents. It swelled joy within him. While the two of still had yet to speak, Akaashi comes to your side, sliding down the wall to sit beside you before wrapping his arms around you.

“So, are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

641 notes · View notes

katnissmellarkkk · 4 years

Text

Summary: At the Seventy-Fourth Reaping for The Hunger Games, volunteering is outlawed, thanks to a tribute four years prior. Because of this, when Katniss’ sister Prim’s name is chosen from the bowl, there’s nothing she can do but hope that Peeta Mellark, past victor and now Prim’s mentor, can somehow bring her sister home alive. (Obviously heavy on Everlark.)

AN: Hi! I don’t really have a big author’s note or anything--at least, I don’t think I do? We’ll see how long this trails on--but this is one of the fics I’ve been working on for a while. It’s multi-chaptered so there’s gonna be a lot more coming in the future, but this first chapter is honestly a little similar to the original book, with some (significant) deviations here and there, but after this first chapter, this story becomes extremely different from canon. I gotta thank, obviously, @rosegardeninwinter for a). making me my pretty lil banner and for b). reading the million, unpolished, unedited screenshots of my drafts that I’m sure ya’ll got tired of really quick. And also for encouraging me to write this in the first place. And also, I gotta thank everyone who liked and reblogged the lil story edit I posted months ago for this concept. It really encouraged me to write this concept out. (I’m talking about this edit right here if you forgot or never saw x). Okay, anyways, I’m talking too much but thank you! Also link to this story on AO3 [x].

Chapter One :

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.

Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

#everlark #everlark fic #thg #the hunger games #thg fic #everlark fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #everlark fanfiction #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #writing #fic #fics #au #aus

69 notes · View notes

lailyn · 3 years

Text

Take My Breath Away Part 3 (Complete)

(TW: Paraysis, Angst, Sap so sticky it'll give you sticky eyes)

The first few weeks after Loki awakened from his month-long sleep were the hardest, on Loki and Stephen both.

Stephen had anticipated hard times ahead, had even braced himself for the worst, but nothing could have prepared him for Loki's reaction upon discovering the true extent of his disabilities.

Given the choice, he would rather face Loki's wrath than this complete and utter silence; if not for the despair in Loki's eyes every time he tried to move his legs and failed, Stephen would have thought Loki had slipped into a catatonic state.

Hell, catatonia would have been easier to handle than this stony muteness. If open communication had been scarce before, it was nonexistent now.

If brought food, Loki would eat. In the absence of it, Loki would not ask.

Carrying him to the commode for daily toileting was solely Stephen's duty. That was the only good thing about Loki's muteness; the only evidence of his displeasure was a deep frown that began to leave permanent lines on Loki's face the thinner he got.

Loki did not ask if the paralysis was going to be temporary, and Stephen did not tell him that it was likely to be permanent. It was not important.

Then suddenly, out of the blue, Loki began to speak.

That night it rained heavily in New Asgard. Having bundled Loki up in his furs, Stephen settled down in front of the fireplace as was his routine; getting into bed with Loki still awake was unsettling, the way his sunken eyes would follow Stephen everywhere, saying everything and at the same time, nothing at all.

"Go home, Stephen," a voice, rough from disuse, pierced the silence, and he nearly fell out of his chair.

"Loki," he gasped, heart beating at a hundred miles per hour.

"Go home," the pale figure on the bed repeated, before it closed its eyes and said nothing further till days later.

Wong had paid them a visit, bringing news from the Sanctum and arms overflowing with gifts from Bruce and Tony.

All is well, his fellow Guardian assured him. Take as much time as you need. I've got your back.

Stephen had never been more grateful for the very few people in his life he could call friends.

*********************************

"Who is Jonathan Pangborn?"

Stephen paused in the midst of upending the last scoop of protein powder into the tumbler and slowly raised his face with dread.

"Wong mentioned the name when he came to visit yesterday."

"He...was a patient of mine.” Stephen closed the lid over the tumbler and gave it a good swirl before making his way back to the couch. “Well. Not really. I turned him away because his spinal cord was permanently damaged and there was nothing modern medicine could do."

He waited until Loki took his first sip of the liquid breakfast before speaking again. "The Ancient One got him walking again by teaching him how to manipulate dimensional energy to his advantage."

Loki did not raise his face, but the almost imperceptible spasm of his fingers as they tightened around the tumbler gave him away.

"You do not approve?" he asked quietly.

When Stephen did not answer promptly, Loki decided probing further was the only option left to him. He did not expect his boyfriend to be forthcoming to begin with, but Stephen’s reticence was wearing him thin nonetheless.

“There has to be an explanation as to why you are refraining, when such treatment exists.”

Stephen sighed and raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “Did Wong tell you how Jonathan Pangborn lost it all back and is now worse off than before?”

“Are the Masters of the Mystic Arts aware of just how little faith their Sorcerer Supreme has in their own métier?”

“The sorcerer who ripped the magic out of Pangborn and left him lying on the floor of his garage for days was a Master of the Mystic Arts,” Stephen retorted.

Loki looked up in alarm.

“I will not have that happen to you,” Stephen vowed. “I will have you back on your feet and at your full strength even if it kills me. And I will do it my way.”

And that was the last time they ever spoke of Pangborn and the last time Loki doubted Stephen over some well-meaning but unsolicited advice.

*************************

Stephen wiped Loki’s front first, suppressing the urge to count each rib as he worked his way down. The once toned, if not a little lean, torso had lost most of its musculature and as he followed the groove of Loki’s concave abdomen, the lump in Stephen’s throat grew.

Before emotions could take over him and render him ineffective, Stephen moved on to Loki’s back. He lifted Loki’s hair off his neck and carefully wiped him down starting from the nape down to the base of Loki’s spine.

He worried that he had been taking too long when he could sense Loki shivering; Stephen was just about to wrap a clean towel around his lover’s shoulders when he realised that Loki was weeping.

“Hey,” Stephen walked his knees across the tiles and crouched in front of Loki. He peered up anxiously. “What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?”

Loki shook his head. He could hardly speak for the deluge of tears draining down the back of his throat from the futile effort of holding it all in.

“This is beneath you,” he wept.

What could Stephen say when no words existed that could assuage the pain in both their hearts? What reassurances could he give that Loki would not find empty and invalidating?

He could not very well ignore Loki and say nothing, could he?

It was an impossible situation. Keeping silent was a crime in itself, as evidenced by Loki’s apocalyptic downward spiral into despair and self-loathing.

“Just leave me,” Loki begged.

Stephen shook his head. “No way.”

Of course anyone could perform this task. Any of Loki’s servants could.

But would a servant be as gentle with Loki, as empathetic, as unconditional?

Loki hung his head low, his hair falling over his face. "I will not have you debase yourself like this, Stephen."

Stephen combed Loki’s wet locks away with his fingers.

"Do you remember the first Broadway show I took you to?"

Loki nodded, his thin shoulders hitching with silent sobs.

"Live in my house…" Stephen began to sing softly, quietly. "I'll be your shelter.."

He pulled the towel off Loki's shoulders and over his head.

"Just pay me back in one thousand kisses…"

He dried Loki's face with the towel gently, "Be my lover, and I'll cover you…"

Loki's face crumpled, and because Stephen simply could not bear the sight of more tears, he grabbed the back of Loki’s head and pressed their foreheads together.

“Don’t take this away from me, Loki. I need this.”

He kissed Loki’s lips and cursed the salt he could taste on his tongue. “I need you.”

*************************

“Stephen.”

“Hmm?” Stephen paused in the middle of flexing and extending Loki’s knee. They had skipped only a day of rehabilitative exercise and already the limb felt stiff and disjointed.

He carefully placed Loki’s leg on his lap and turned his full attention to his lover, who had been staring at the ceiling for the past fifteen minutes. “What is it, Loki?”

“I don’t blame you,” Loki said.

Stephen knew better than to ask as to what Loki was alluding to. There was no bigger elephant in the room, certainly not since Loki had fallen ill.

“It was my choice.”

The gentleness with which Loki delivered his acquittal was something Stephen was not expecting and it threw him for a loop; his rebuke came across brusque and sharp in response. “I shouldn’t have let you.”

“It was my choice,” Loki repeated adamantly. “I will not ask if you knew this was going to happen - "

"I didn't," Stephen insisted. "Loki, I swear, I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter," Loki said, his tone soft despite the flatness of his voice. "Given the choice, it is one that I would make, again and again."

“Even after everything?” Stephen demanded. “Honestly how can you care so little for yourself?”

“I am not sorry for what I did, Stephen,” Loki said stubbornly. “This is a necessary pain.”

"Why?" Something surged in Stephen and it felt too much like rage to be anything else. "Why do we have to be this?"

"Surely it doesn't surprise you anymore?" Loki sighed, closing his eyes.

He did not like seeing Stephen upset. It was not the first time Loki's self-sacrifice schema had driven a rift between them, and it would not be the last.

"It was just the flu, Loki."

His eyes still closed, Loki reached up a hand, relying on memory to brush his thumb along the high arc of Stephen's cheekbone. "It was not necessary for you."

Stephen's vision blurred but no matter how much he blinked, it would not clear. "Is that how you justify this?"

Loki's hand fell away but Stephen grabbed it on its way down and held it up again, palming it in place. If Loki would not see him cry, he could damn well feel the tears for himself.

“Do you ever think about what it feels like for me, seeing you like this?" Stephen asked, his voice cracking. “It breaks my heart, Loki.”

Loki clawed the suede couch and pulled his upper body up with a strength he did not know he possessed. Just as he was about to fall backward from exertion he caught Stephen around the waist, and Stephen his back.

They held each other in the awkward position for what felt like hours, neither pulling the other up or down, both suspended in perfect balance.

“For that...I am truly sorry,” Loki whispered. “Forgive me.”

Stephen laid Loki back down on the couch again when the trembling became too tremulous to ignore. “I already did.”

He picked up Loki’s slim ankle and dotted feathery kisses up the bone-thin shin, “I always will.”

All of a sudden, Loki gasped and bucked violently.

“What is it?” Stephen asked, running his hands frantically all over Loki’s body, expecting to find some source of pain. Instead he saw awe and delight.

“I can feel that,” Loki breathed out.

“What?” Stephen asked, just as breathlessly.

“Kiss me again,” Loki ordered.

Holding Loki's foot aloft, Stephen pressed a kiss to the bony ankle, all the while keeping a doubtful eye on its owner.

The enraptured expression on Loki's face was all the confirmation Stephen needed and before he could stop himself, he lunged.

"What does this mean?" Loki pummelled Stephen with question after question. "Is this good or bad? Am I getting better? Stephen, what - "

But he could not complete his sentence for apparently simply embracing was not enough; the utterly speechless Stephen needed to kiss him too, this time on the lips.

"Oh, Loki," Stephen's merry laughter rang sweet and clear as bells, the sheer relief permeating every note. "Loki, Loki…"

*************************

It did not take long for the news to spread. Either there was a hidden camera somewhere in the room streaming live feed to every mutual friend they knew, or Stephen's network of social contacts had now included Loki's brother.

Thor appeared not a day later, his guarded optimism cutting through the shadows like a beam of warm sunshine.

"Is it true?" He boomed.

Loki maintained a straight face, tipping his chin in the direction of his wiggling toes.

Thor's nose flared as he visibly struggled to contain his emotions.

Loki sighed and reluctantly stretched out an arm, finally taking pity on him. "Brother…"

Thor closed the last few yards to the couch in a sprint.

"I worried you," Loki murmured.

"You fool," Thor said affectionately, accepting the unspoken apology by tightening his arms around his brother in a fierce embrace. "You didn't worry me one damn bit."

*************************

“I can do it, Stephen.” Loki grabbed the glass from the tray with one hand and physically pushed Stephen backward with the other. “I’m not an invalid.”

Stephen warily watched Loki take a few gulps at once.

"Hey, easy - " He was about to warn Loki to take it slow, when he was unceremoniously shot down with a scathing glare.

“Say ‘easy’ one more time and I will smother you in your sleep.”

Stephen smiled. Loki’s threats were some of the most colourful he had heard in all his career. “Beats ripping my heart out and serving it to me still warm and beating.”

“That was yesterday,” Loki grumbled.

Some twenty minutes later, he proudly presented Stephen with a very empty glass. It was the first meal Loki had eaten in its entirety without coughing or choking, and Stephen could not contain his joy.

“Stop kissing me!” Loki flailed amid the flurry of kisses Stephen was showering his face with.

He must have been reduced to laughing, for never had he seen Stephen look so spellbound. "What?"

"You're beautiful." Misty-eyed, Stephen fingered the corner of Loki's mouth. "Never thought I'd hear you laugh again."

"It's a one-time thing," Loki said, but his facial muscles were starting to betray him again; now that he was regaining strength day by day, they were back to their mischievous selves, and Loki found himself quickly losing to their autonomy.

"I can't stop smiling," Loki grumbled, "but this isn't me."

"Sure." Stephen's own wistful smile widened into a grin. "I totally believe you."

*************************

It was on a bright, sunny afternoon a few weeks later that Loki decided he was going to walk.

"Outside," he requested.

Despite making the fastest progress Stephen kept saying he had ever seen in a patient in all his years as a neurosurgeon, Loki had been far too embarrassed with his still-unsteady gait to venture beyond the confines of his bedroom.

"Are you sure?" Stephen asked quietly.

"Yes," Loki said with a calm confidence. "I am ready."

"Where would you like to go?"

"I want to be where people and noise are plenty."

Stephen laughed at the strangely-worded yet quintessentially Loki request.

A New York minute later, they found themselves wading through the crowd at Times Square.

It was hardly the most relaxing stroll, but Loki had asked for chaos, and there was no place on earth more chaotic than the Big Apple.

The thought of Loki ambling slowly amid unapologetically impatient New Yorkers had worried him initially, but for some reason, people veered out of their path, parting around them without so much as a dirty look.

Still, Stephen kept a steadying hand on the small of Loki's back. A powerful thing, force of habit.

Before long, they reached the theatre district and Stephen's mind flew to the time when they first started seeing each other and how Loki would drag him to see a new play every chance he got.

"Stephen, look." Loki's face lit up in multi-coloured lights from the billboard overhead. "Rent is showing again."

"Huh." Stephen could not believe his luck. "They must have revived it."

"Perhaps we should ask inside if they have last-minute tickets," Loki said slowly, trying to hide his excitement. "You...could ask nicely for a discount?"

When Stephen did not answer, Loki looked down to where Stephen had suddenly dropped to one knee.

"Stephen?"

"I'm just doing your laces," Stephen mumbled.

Loki frowned. "But I'm wearing...loafers…"

His heart stopped.

"What is the meaning of this?" Loki whispered, every drop of blood draining from his face.

"Loki Odinson…"

Stephen's voice quaked but the hope in his eyes was as bright as the gleaming band in his hand. "Will you do me the honour of being my husband?"

Loki could not breathe, could not think -

What was happening to him?

"Come on, dude, just say yes!" A voice he had never heard before jolted him out of his stunned reverie.

Stephen was still staring up at him in earnest, and Loki had never seen a face as kind, eyes as gentle.

A crowd had formed around them but in that moment, there was only him, and Stephen, and the promise of love everlasting and a

"Thousand kisses," Loki vowed, tears quicky filling his eyes, "You...will take payment in kisses, yes?"

Stephen answered serenely, "Yes."

"Then...yes."

The crowd around them erupted in wild cheers as Stephen leaped to his feet and slipped the ring onto Loki's hand, which was shaking harder than Stephen's for once -

"A thousand sweet kisses," Stephen gloated and he leaned in to claim their first kiss as the newly betrothed. "Starting now."

#strangefrost #froststrange #fic #sick loki #ask #take my breath away

12 notes · View notes

bloomvalyria · 3 years

Text

I received a request for some sparxshipping, so I thought I’d give you some super old sparxshipping content! Since I’ve been getting so many questions about the whole “where did baltor go at the end of broken pieces?” debacle, I thought I’d share the idea I’d originally settled on back in 2016/2017 before scrapping it. It was a good idea in theory, but the deeper I explored it, everything very quickly fell apart. Nonetheless, please enjoy this scrapped rough draft material!

The room was oddly reminiscent of his pocket realm, slightly easing my tense muscles. It was enormous with a towering ceiling and tall walls lined with grand wooden bookcases. Dust coated the furniture and lightly lilted through the air. A great window overlooking the surrounding woods was perched on the other side of the room. The clear glass allowed an ample amount of moonlight to pour onto the hardwood floors. My gaze however was locked on a different light source flickering in my peripheral vision.

My Dragon Fire flared when I turned to look at the bright orange glow. Despite my distance, I could feel the intensity of the flames dancing in the fireplace. Its warmth combined with the pale moonlight gave the room an eerie yet annoyingly romantic vibe. Two stiff-looking arm chairs loomed before the fire, creating elongated shadows that stretched across the floor.

Easily able to sense the dark presence awaiting my arrival in the seat furthest away, I froze. My feet refused to take another step, petrified at the thought of approaching my host.

You can still turn back, my subconscious hastily whispered. He betrayed you. He lied to you. You owe him nothing.

That last statement prickled me. In spite of everything that had unfortunately transpired between the two of us, I owed everything to him. Without him, I never would have found Oritel and Miriam, nor would I have been able to revive Sparx. Even after our fight on Linphea, he’d still helped me achieve the one thing I’d wanted since discovering who I truly was. I may not have wanted to, but I owed it to him to at least hear him out.

Taking a silent, steadying breath I continued my approach to the ominous chair.

“No one would blame you.”

I nearly lost my footing as a familiar, deep voice echoed through the air. Coming to a halt, I felt the strength of the dark presence grow, fully announcing himself. A shadowy figure of a man lifted itself out of the furthest chair, startling me. He was shrouded in darkness until he stepped closer to the fireplace.

Baltor’s sharp features appeared more prominent in the harsh light of the flames. His piercing grey eyes stared deeply into the burning embers, and I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if it was on purpose. It was an odd sight to see him without his signature coat. Then again, his entire ensemble was much more relaxed than I was used to seeing. His normally regal attire was replaced with a simple pair of dark trousers and boots, along with a half-buttoned up, white-collared shirt. I had to mentally chide myself in order to stop staring.

“To be frank, I half-expected you not to come.” Baltor continued. He moved his arm up to rest against the mantle, attempting to look nonchalant.

I glowered at him. “I don’t remember inviting you to snoop through my thoughts.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. I hated that it nearly made me swoon. “I don’t need to use our connection to read your thoughts, Bloom. You remember what I told you about your eyes.”

An annoyed frown instantly crossed my face as I fought the shiver that arose from hearing him say my name. Shoving my hands into my coat pockets, my fingernails dug into my palms. Resisting the urge to throw a punch at him, I decided saying nothing was my only good option. I considered testing my luck, but the dull throbbing that had suddenly emerged in the back of my skull greatly discouraged it.

“I’m more than aware that I’m the last person you want to speak with.” he said, redirecting the conversation. “All I ask is that we sit down and discuss this.”

“I’m not sure what else needs to be discussed.” I replied, deadpan. The darkness took over much quicker than I’d anticipated. “You knowingly faked your own death. You didn’t contact me at all for months to let me know that you were really alive. Then, you magically reappeared wanting to pretend everything was okay. And, when I asked you why you waited so long to find me, you fed me nothing but a string of bullshit lies.” I paused, dramatically. “I don’t believe I missed anything.”

My response was enough to finally pull Baltor’s gaze away from the fire. The concern pooling in his eyes made my stomach twist with butterflies. However, the darkness worming its way deeper into my brain fought viciously to counteract it.

“Bloom,” he said, calmly, “I understand that you’re angry with me. You have every right to be.” To my amazement, he took a daring step in my direction. “But I know that’s not you.”

The throbbing slowly began to subside, to my shock. I wasn’t sure what made it retreat, but I wasn’t going to complain. Regardless of how truthful my outburst was, the guilt that followed was immense.

“Sorry,” I uttered. “It’s been a bit out of control lately, what with the move back here.”

He nodded. “Understandable. This is your home, and you want it to feel like your home. Living on Sparx is certainly going to be an adjustment for you.”

“An adjustment is one way to word it.” I mumbled, quickly growing exhausted. Running a hand through my tousled hair, I slumped into the seat next to the one he’d previously occupied. The leather fabric wasn’t particularly comfortable, but I needed a place to sit down. Baltor followed suit.

For a while, we merely sat there, glancing at each other. Neither of us seemed to know what to say. All of the snarky, clever remarks I’d conjured up in my head had vanished. Every emotion I’d felt over the last year was a swirling melting pot in my chest. I had a million questions for him. For so long I’d been deprived of the answers I so desperately desired, and now that my opportunity to receive them had finally arrived, I was speechless.

Baltor shifted forward in his chair, looking as if he was about to break the never-ending silence. My Dragon Fire sprung to life with adrenaline, warning me that I needed to speak before he did. My irrational fear of how well he could redirect a conversation was too strong.

“Where were you?” I blurted, cutting Baltor off.

A sad gleam sprouted in his eyes. Still, he didn’t answer. I could see the cogwheels turning in his mind, scrambling to muster up a convincing excuse to push my question off till another time.

“Where were you?” I asked again, fury dripping into my voice. My fingers dug into the leather of the arm chair, trying to still their shaking.

Baltor ran a hand down his face, immediately seeming more exhausted than before. Hearing the question aloud seemed to drain him. “Bloom, I know it’s not what you want to hear,” he began, hesitantly. “Nevertheless, I do believe that particular question is one we should wait on discussing.”

Steam poured from my ears. My cheeks burned red with pent up rage. “No!” I shouted, unable to contain myself. “We are not pushing this off anymore! I’m not asking you to do something outlandish, Baltor. I just want to know the truth!”

“I want to tell you, Bloom. Trust me, I do.” Baltor argued. “Considering how you almost crossed into dark territory only a few minutes ago, telling you would only be detrimental.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I could already begin to feel the pads of my fingertips rapidly heat up. “How would that be detrimental? That doesn’t make sense!”

“Bloom, I’m serious.” he warned. “You don’t need to know.”

“Oh, come on, Baltor! What is so difficult about being honest with me? Where could you have been that’s so bad that you’d have to lie to me about it?”

“The Under Realm.”

His interruption made my heart skip a beat. My rage instantly diffused, morphing into a state of shock.

The name sent a chill down my spine as it echoed through my head. Flashes of memories presented themselves front and center, reminding of my time spent there. As always, none of them were pleasant ones.

“What?”

Baltor clearly didn’t want to continue the conversation; however we both knew I wasn’t just going to drop it after that revelation. “When I found out you were alive, I went to the Under Realm,” he affirmed, slowly dragging out his words.

The thoughts racing through my head were a jumbled, cluttered mess. I kept waiting for my instincts to kick in and react like they usually did. Yet, this time, the longer I sat there I only became more confused.

No logical reason for why he’d be in the Under Realm came to mind. I couldn’t think of any unfinished business he could possibly have there. Even if he did, that still didn’t explain why he’d suddenly decide to act on it when I was in recovery.

Maybe you’re overreacting, my hopeful conscience reasoned. He didn’t say which part of the Under Realm. He could’ve been in Downland for all you know.

I was doubtful. If he’d been in Downland, there was no reason for him to hide it from me. Baltor was well aware of my history with the Under Realm, and if he truly went there, he’d only avoid telling me about it if he went to one particular place. “You were in Shadow Haunt.”

A short sigh slipped past his lips, but no words followed.

White hot anger flashed in my chest. “Baltor, were you in Shadow Haunt?” I asked again, my fury slipping into my voice.

“Yes,” he said. “You broke my curse. I’d hoped to return the favor.”

I stared at him, wide-eyed as the complicated puzzle pieces began to finally make sense. “You went there to try and reverse the effects of Darkar’s curse?”

“It was a long shot,” he indirectly confirmed. “Shadow Haunt seemed the perfect place to, at the very least, begin to search for answers. Since that was where the curse originated, I figured there had to be some information lingering there; possibly somewhere in the wreckage of the palace.”

He suddenly went quiet, acting as if he was finished with his tale.

“I’m guessing you didn’t find anything?” I inferred, feeling a wave of disappointment.

Baltor shook his head. “I searched for days. I didn’t leave a single stone unturned in that damned place, but there wasn’t a single trace that remained.”

My heart sank in my chest. I knew better than to hope for good news, yet something in me still grabbed onto it. I so desperately wanted to be free of her that I couldn’t help but hope.

“Although, I was able to sense someone else’s magic.”

My gaze flew over to him. A mix of fear and hope twisted my insides. “Who else could be there? It was abandoned. The authorities searched every inch of it to make sure no one was hiding.”

“Well, as it turns out, they didn’t do a particularly thorough job.” He hesitated, looking as if he was debating his next words. “One of Darkar’s minions managed to survive the attack.”

The entire universe came to a halt. Bile rose in my throat.

“I believe you called him Avalon.”

#sparxshipping #bloomxvaltor #baltorxbloom #valtorxbloom #bloomxbaltor

23 notes · View notes

elsanna-shenanigans · 3 years

Text

December Contest Submission #5: Thirty-Six

words: ca. 1100 setting: modern!AU lemon: no cw: none

Note: This story will not be included in the voting by choice of the author.

As Elsa looks over the white expanse of snow covering the dreary streets of her hometown, she’s transported to the past – to a time where she would once wake up and, upon witnessing such magic, would race to Anna’s room and wake her up (because “the fresh powder wouldn’t last forever, Anna,” and “the sky’s away and I’m awake, so let’s play!”) so that they could roll around in unconstrained glee, building up their relationship as surely as they would build up snowman after snowman after snowman.

And then, inevitably, just as snowmen thaw in the spring, so too did their relationship, and Elsa found herself pulling away; drifting, as it were, like the seasons, so soft and smooth that one doesn’t always quite notice that it’s moved on until it’s time to put the jumpers away and open the windows.

A knock on the door pulls her from her thoughts, and she turns to come face-to-face with that same sister, effortlessly invading her space just like she’s so easily invaded Elsa’s mind and thoughts for the better part of a decade.

“Hey, Sis,” she says, sauntering, and Elsa bristles because intolerance and frustration is all she really has now. “Wow, it’s been a while.”

By choice, by design, though Elsa does wonder if it ever really were an option – being a while, that is.

Anna doesn’t approach, instead just tilting her head to indicate through the window as she says, in a voice so weary Elsa knows that she’s spent all evening driving here and hasn’t slept a wink, “You look… really good. New gym? Diet? Boyfriend?

She should sleep, Elsa finds herself thinking, before casting that thought to the side like an old, well-worn shirt: comfortable, and yet entirely inappropriate.

“You should sleep,” come the words anyway, unbidden and unwelcome, and Anna’s gaze softens in a way that sends flares ricochetting through Elsa’s chest, burning flesh and searing bone until there’s nothing left of her.

How contrived.

“I wanted to see you,” Anna says, voice easy – there can be no allusions as to what she actually means. “Catch up.”

And Elsa knows she can’t hide much longer because she knows she can’t run, not forever. Not when the direction she’s going is so opposite to where she wants to be. So, she simply sighs and turns away, staring out the window once more and chewing on the words before she finally releases them to the wild.

“Hans is arriving tomorrow,” she says, like a guard, like a shield. “He missed you at the wedding. Wanted to see you.” Anna simply nods, an expression on her face so close to pity that Elsa’s heart squeezes and her bottom lip trembles, if only for a moment.

I wanted to see you, she thinks, but she can’t possibly voice that, not here – not in this place. So she doesn’t, clamping her mouth shut until Anna leaves, neither satisfied with the conversation (though, in matters pertaining to Anna, Elsa is very rarely satisfied, and only reaches that target in one specific, horrid manner).

She needs a drink.

—-

The next she sees of Anna, of her sister, is in front of the fireplace, stoking the failing embers.

“We have a heater,” she says over her shoulder. Elsa’s half a bottle in (over the course of an entire afternoon, which is not that bad) and she realises, faintly, that the sun is setting and it’s growing dark; she should turn on the lights but she doesn’t because the ‘comment over her shoulder’ becomes a ‘look over her shoulder’, and Elsa finds herself sinking to the sofa anyway. “All electrical.”

Elsa nods. Her body trembles; every nerve tingles, and she’s completely and utterly aware of every part of herself.

The last time they were sat in this room, there was nothing needed saying. The last time they were sat in this living room, they weren’t really sat at all, but rather standing, avoiding eye contact as the lawyer – the suit – read the will that would seal their fate.

The home, as it were, became abandoned. Neither had any use for it, nor for the memories it contained.

It seems so contrary now; the only thing Elsa seems to have are memories, many of which she’d prefer to forget if only because they’re so seared in her mind, her thoughts, her body that she doubts she every possibly could.

Anna notices her shake, it seems, and moves away from the failing flame to sit down next to her sister. A hand rests on Elsa’s knee, and it’s all she can do not to inhale, sharp, and give the game away; all she can do not to continue shaking, quivering, yearning to lean close and take, greedily, the warmth and tenderness that Anna always exuded – always offered.

“Hey,” Anna says, voice a murmur. “Are you okay? It isn’t that cold.”

Of course it isn’t. Elsa scoffs through her nose and tries not to make it obvious when she moves away, even though it clearly is and Anna doesn’t even both hiding the fact she’s noticed. “I’m fine,” she responds. Her eyes are averted because she can’t bear to look at her sister; can’t bear to become aware of the closeness, of the fact that she can smell her – sandalwood and vanilla – and and she so desperate to be closer that her body tenses, spasms, and her heart thuds and her naval clenches.

“It’s a little chilly,” she says – an excuse. Go back to the fire, is what she’s really saying. Please.

Anna has never been one to listen to common sense, though, a fact Elsa loved about her until she realised she couldn’t love her, not anymore, and their entire world came crashing down.

She’s never been one to listen to common sense, to leave well enough alone, and so instead of a laugh; instead of a comment about the fire, or heater; instead of moving the fuck away, she does the opposite and turns more fully towards Elsa, her sister, and says, voice low and thick with an emotion Elsa is all too familiar with and hates herself for it, “I’ll keep you warm.”

Then, as always happens, the space between them vanishes and Elsa, suddenly, isn’t cold anymore.

#elsanna #submission #december 2020 contest #prompt: warmth

8 notes · View notes

perpetuelledaydreaming · 4 years

Text

Back to you (Chapter VI)

Summary: Y/N Stark and Peter Parker are unconditionally and irrevocably in love with each other, being friends for years was just the step before making it official. BUT, just the weekend they did, Thanos and the snap happened, leaving Y/N broken: without friends, avengers family or Peter Parker. So, she has to move on, at least that’s what everyone’s telling her and she really tries to do it and who better to help her than Harry Osborn. But, has she really let Peter go? What if Tony Stark -genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist- knows how to bring Peter back? And what happens when he does? Is Y/N going to avenge again? Who’s going to lead the avengers now? Who is she going to choose? Harry or Peter? and who the hell is mysterio? *He doesn’t even go here

word count: 10.5k

author’s note: May was a really hard month for me and with everything that’s happening in the world, I didn’t even know if I should be writing? It seemed so pointless. But here we are anyway, it helps my mental health and that’s why I was so late with this chapter. I was going to make it longer but I think we covered our foundation here. Anyway, please if you are in USA be careful with everything that’s happening and I’ve been seeing some resources on instagram. I’ll try to post more here or on insta

series masterlist

“A pleasure to see you, Stark” Nick Fury stated as you shook his hand with a stone face.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Nick Fury, Tony, and Steve trusted him and in consequence, you did as well -at least the majority of the time-. He was the one that had brought them together but also with the fall of SHIELD, it wasn’t like before. Either way, you knew he was going to be part of this and you complied because you needed all the support that you could find to get the avengers together again.

“So, what’s this about?”, you asked as you turned back to see an old Steve sitting down in the conference room already.

It had been two weeks since the funeral and the world was going back to normal again, clearly as best as anyone possibly could. For you, it had been a busy couple of weeks with your non-profit and trying to figure out how to decipher Tony’s USB. The days you spent at the office were chaotic while the nights you spend them at your lab restlessly trying to find what Tony had left for you.

No one knew about the USB, it simply remained between Strange, you, and H.A.P.P.Y while you tested every possible combination to unlock it but your efforts have been in vain. Regarding your non-profit, relocating the children to their parents had been a rather a bitch of a process. The protocol that your volunteers had designed, which was overall great and easier, had been hijacked by the government that decided to intervene and just add more paperwork and more time; which annoyed you because kids wanted to be with their parents and this was just another way of keeping them apart.

Thankfully, Pepper and Harry had been helping you deal with everything and tried to see a foreseeable future for the non-profit and their facilities on the east and west coast. The facilities were still useful for kids that were in foster care of the kids who had lost their parents regardless of the snap, therefore, Pepper had managed to snatch a meeting with the president to discuss a possible alliance to keep the facilities working with their help.

Truth was that you felt better if the government gave you a hand, it had been a full-time work for you and now it didn’t seem possible to handle it all since you wanted to go to University. Stark Industries would permanently have a percentage; after the sale, it would be smaller than the one the government had but the non-profit would keep working and that was your main goal.

It was the only reason you had to agree to meet with Fury at the moment because you knew that now you would have the time and it wasn’t difficult to foresee what he wanted from you.

“You need to be the new head of the Avengers, Y/N”, Steve finally said with a stern look.

It was hard to see Steve as an old man when you had spent the majority of your life seeing him as this strong, young superhero that could have the mannerisms of a really old person. It was fun to make jokes about it and everyone did it, sure, you had picture Steve just like this for a Halloween someday but now it was too real. In all honesty, you didn’t want to judge his decision but somehow it pained you that he hadn’t chosen to stay with you and help you in this transition. Yes, he was there but not like before and it felt like you had been left alone by the other most important person in your life.

“What about Sam or Bucky?”, you asked. “They are older”

“They became fugitives after SHIELD crashed down”, Fury explained. “We need you”

You knew it. You knew that neither Bucky or Sam were approved by the government and it annoyed you to the core because Sam was the best option along with you but now it wasn’t possible thanks to a couple of white old men in suits that didn’t know how was it out there.

“I saw this coming”, you sighed as your eyes connected with Steve’s. “Isn’t it too soon?”

“The world is going to look up to you since your father saved the universe”, Fury answer, and you turned around to watch him walk silently. “It’s up to you to keep the Avengers alive”

You remained quiet for a few seconds. The guilt and the burden swinging over your head as the words of Fury stuck in your head while you watched him.

It was up to you and although you had tried to escape it and have a little peace of mind the last few weeks it was an irreversible fact that you were in charge now, whether you liked it or not. Pepper had let you go back with her to the cabin and she had tried not to push it, but the talk was brought up either way.

…

“You do know you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to”, Pepper said as she brought you your cup of tea while you sat in front of the fireplace.

“Thank you”, you answer softly as you took the cup in your hands, warming them. “The way I see it, I don’t have many options now that Steve made his choice”

She sipped on her coffee as she watched you carefully. Her eyes gleaming with fear, you knew she didn’t want this for you and neither did Tony, that’s why they try to avoid it as much as they could but now you were at this crossroad. It was even harder now to accept this new burden considering how your father’s story had turned out.

“I mean it, y/n”, Pepper insisted, her voice stern making you turned around completely to face her. “You don’t have to do this. Tony and I once hope that you would be the CEO of Stark Industries, that you could leave that life behind.”

“Pepper…”

“Y/N, I don’t know if you realize this but you are not Tony,” Pepper said, as she placed a hand over yours. “Your father, because of who he was didn’t have a choice, but you do.”

You shook your head.

“But I am like him”, you said quietly as you took Pepper’s hand into yours. “I can’t brush off his legacy and you know how much I wanted this since I was a kid”

“You also wanted to run Stark Industries like me”, Pepper said as she raised her brows. “But avenging, it can’t be your whole life”

“And I still want to”, you assured her. “I know it can’t and I don’t want to live as Nat or Steve did, I just don’t want to let dad down. I feel like everyone knows it’s on me”

Pepper remained quiet for a few moments and she sighed, she squeezed your hand as her gaze went to the fireplace in front of you.

“You are not letting him down Y/N, you could never do that and I know what you mean because Tony felt somehow the same and that’s why he fought so hard”, Pepper replied quietly, she sucked in a breath as she turned around to watch you again and gave you a soft smile. “I’ll try to be okay with any decision you make, but I want you to still go to university as you had planned before, your life can’t be on hold anymore”

“You know I want to go; you don’t have to ask me that. I started sending my applications after what happened”, you said as you took a sip of your tea. “Thank you for understanding”

“I dealt with your dad for a long time, I know better”, Pepper said with a chuckled while you giggled.

“You really think I can be like him?”, you asked.

“Y/N, you don��t have to be like him. You have to find yourself and whatever makes you feel okay”, Pepper replied honestly. “If you believe you have to do this, you can do it kid”

“Thank you, mom”

You knew you wanted this; you knew you had to do this because you wanted to make Tony proud. He had believed in you, Nat too, and know it was your chance to prove everyone that you were succeeding and that Tony’s legacy was still alive.

…

But now sitting in that conference room with Steve and Fury, you couldn’t help feeling as if you were suffocating while they watched you carefully waiting for an answer. Maybe the feeling would go away, you were just starting but what worried you is that the feeling didn’t stop.

“Mrs. Stark?”, Fury’s voice woke you up from your thoughts and you blinked trying to get back into the conversation.

“Sorry”, you muttered as you cleared your throat. “I get that we need the Avengers alive but we are only five. It’s less than what you guys,” you signaled Steve, “had when you started it.”

Nick Fury looked at you with a smile as he took out from his trench coat a couple of folders and threw them on the table, his only eye gleaming with satisfaction, as if he was proud, he already knew everything as if he hadn’t snapped and was still aware of everything that was happening.

“We have some ideas for recruits”, he said smugly.

You rolled your eyes and took a hold of some of the folders, your eyes followed the letters and the pictures on it and you couldn’t help but feel a shiver of fear as you read the profiles of this people. It was becoming too real and although you were great at making things work you couldn’t help but feel responsible for them.

But at the end of the day, they were exactly who you needed to make it work.

You nodded your head and turned around to watch Steve. “Do you agree with all of them?”, you asked as you raised the folder with your hand.

Steve remained quiet for a few seconds. “I think they have what it takes”

“Then we need to call them in”, you stated as you stood up, your heart thumping on your chest.

It probably wasn’t a good idea for you, to have Peter at the meeting. But he had become an official Avenger when both of you decided to go to Titan with your dad and he was the most beloved hero of New York City -apart from you-, it was obvious that you needed his help to do this.

But clearly, he wasn’t thrilled.

You were walking through the hallways of Stark Tower; you had just finished a meeting with the volunteers of the facilities to thank them all for their help during this time and now you were late to the Avengers meeting. Honestly, the anxiety of the meeting hadn’t slowed down, the ache in your stomach got worse as time passed and you felt like your mind was somewhere else as you checked over and over again the points of the meeting.

It wasn’t any news that when you were distracted enough you became a klutz. So, as you ran through the hallways of Stark Tower to get into the meeting in time, you unexpectedly collided with the brown-hair boy with chocolate eyes with specks of honey that made your heart stop.

It wasn’t at all the meet-cute that it could’ve been.

Peter, obviously with his super-strength didn’t even flinch as you fell forward on the floor as people gasped as they saw you there. It was as if you had wanted to run over him but he was a wall, so as you hit his back you were the one flying over. Papers everywhere, the screen of your iPhone probably cracked, a sharp pain on your shoulder and the ankle that Thanos had injured was throbbing a bit.

“I-I’m sorry”, Peter managed to let out as he helped to collect the files that you were carrying along with your phone while you sat down on the floor wincing.

“Don’t worry, I was the klutz”, you replied and it seemed that Peter froze as soon as he heard your voice.

Maybe he hadn’t even noticed that it was you but the face when he realized it was you, it wasn’t pretty.

Not even because of his hostile expression but he didn’t look well. He had bags under his eyes, the shadows made his usually big eyes become smaller, his brown curls weren’t styled as he liked but they were over the place and he seemed pale. It was as if he hadn’t sleep in…

“When was the last time you slept more than two hours?”, the question came out of nowhere and you wanted to hit yourself in the face because it wasn’t even appropriate.

But you knew him, you knew how he sucked in everything around him. Peter’s sense had dialed to eleven since he was bitten by the radioactive spider and along with his anxiety thanks to the sense of responsibility he had after becoming Spider-man. You used to think that you overthink a lot of things but when you met Peter, you realized that it wasn’t half as bad. Sleeping together, your voice, your hands on his curls, your laugh, and holding your hand were things that helped him blow the anxiety away. Nonetheless, he couldn't do it anymore.

Peter stayed quiet, examining you. You looked like heaven to him: rosy cheeks, your hair a bit messy but now more styled, the black turtle neck you were using looked elegant but casual by wearing your force 1 with them, he could tell that you were tired but the shadows under your eyes didn’t overshadow your y/e/c eyes, and those lips, you had just placed some Chapstick over them and he could tell. Peter decided right then and there that growing older suited you, you looked so good and he just wanted to kiss you right there and then. He wanted you to hold him and tell you that he hadn’t slept since you fought, he wanted to tell you that he missed you and that you two were meant for each other.

But as much as he wanted to kiss you and tell you that he loved you, he didn’t do it, the angered and sadness clawing their way into his heart.

The last few weeks had been confusing and tiring. He had returned to Midtown to all of your friends asking about you and while he didn’t say anything about Harry, he had to break down to them that you weren’t together and that you weren’t returning to Midtown either.

…

“Do you mean she’s abandoning us!?”, Flash exclaimed dramatically as they all sat down in the lunch table while Peter only rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know what she’s doing but she’s going to be 21 in a couple of months”, Peter explained. “She’s not coming back to school”

“Well, we are leaving in a few months to college”, Betty intervened. “We just have to take the final exams again but this fall we are going with Y/N to college”

“These are the most important ones!” Ned cried. “Where the memories are made!”

He was barely holding it together and Betty was just playing with his hair, in an attempt to calm him down while MJ remained quiet, as if she was trying to process what was going on. Peter had wished that you were the one who told them but he understood that they had questions and that you wanted to keep to yourself. It was usually the thing you did when you were feeling down, still, he couldn’t help to hate it at the moment.

But as always, MJ came out with the logical response and wisest answer.

“She’s not abandoning us Flash,” she snarled as she gave him a side glanced and then looked back at Peter. “She has grown and she just lost her dad. We don’t know what was like to live without us, so let’s just give her time and she’ll come back to us”

Peter rolled his eyes, not in an obvious way but enough for MJ to notice and see red.

“And get over yourself Parker, yes, she broke up with you but we don’t know what her life has been like for two years!”, MJ grumbled. “You know how much we can change in even six months?”

“MJ it’s not about me and y/n as a couple but-”

“-as best friends”, Peter and Flash said at the same time.

Flash looked back and forth between MJ and Peter while they looked at him bugged eyed.

“Shut up, Flash. You just literally became part of the group”, MJ grumbled and she stood up from the table as she faced Peter. “Stop being butthurt with Y/N and give her time”, she said walking away.

All of them remained quiet for a second.

“Are we going to do what MJ said?”, Flash asked quietly.

“When do we ever do something that MJ doesn’t say”, Ned replied as he placed his hand on Betty’s shoulder.

“What if it’s too much time?”, Flash asked once again.

“We just have to wait, Flash, don’t worry”, Betty replied.

But Peter remained quiet as he looked away, zoning out. It was actually something Peter saw coming, he knew that MJ and you had become close before the snap, and MJ was a fierce and loyal friend while you were as well. It didn’t surprise him her reaction and he also knew she was right, but he couldn’t help but feel still angry over what had happened with you and at that point he didn’t know if he was even mad at you but at the fact that he snapped away and you didn’t.

…

It had been a few weeks after MJ snapped at Peter, he thought maybe his anger would die down but as his eyes focused on you, it still hurt so much. At the moment, Peter could’ve said a lot of things but why? Did he wonder if you really cared about him? What were you possibly going to say that would make him feel better? Would telling you off make him feel better? Of course not, he would feel awful if he said anything bad to you. Therefore he didn’t answer.

“Peter, please”, you pleaded as he helped you stood up by grabbing your hand.

But he didn’t budge, he didn’t open his mouth. He simply walked past you towards the conference room and you turned around, with a bleak expression, seeing him walking away.

It hurt.

You had heard that some people preferred someone yelling at them and telling them off rather than to have someone not saying absolutely anything. Honestly, you didn’t understand and it was maybe because Tony had always said what was bothering him, he never stayed silent and neither did Pepper, so you didn’t understand until now how hurtful it could be. You winced at the realization you had done it to others, it was your preferred mechanism to disappear and stay with yourself, it was easier for you since you liked being alone but now you realized it was even worst.

Your phone buzzing took your eyes away from Peter before he made a right to make it to the conference room.

“What now?”

The screen turned on, with a small crack over it, and you couldn’t help but smile as you saw the MIT email on it.

We are pleased to inform you that you had been admitted to MIT undergrad programs of electrical engineering, physics, and business …

You couldn’t contain your excitement as you watched the screen. It was something that Tony had always wanted, he had a pull-on MIT and had wished that you were going to his alma mater, along with Peter. It was a bittersweet moment for you, one day you had picture yourself there with Peter and Tony picking you up on the weekends to New York to spend time with Pepper, training with Nat and Steve, visiting your friends.

But everything had been erased and now you were here, being head of the avengers and already definitely late for your meeting.

The race to the hallways was rather quickly and in no time you were in front of the conference room but before you opened the door you took a deep breath.

The ache in your stomach didn’t budge one bit, your feet couldn’t stop tapping on the ground as you bit your inner cheek. This was your first move as head of the Avengers and you needed to play the part; Fake it till you make it, you thought to yourself as you fixed your hair as best as you could and straightened your outfit; taking a deep breath, you walked in.

It seemed like one of those dreams when you watch yourself, from another place, like a scene of a movie. At least that was how you felt as you tried to catch in on all the people who turned around as soon as you walked in with determination and the poker face that Tony had once taught you, but it felt like you were gasping for air as you saw from the corner of your eye Fury glaring at you.

“You are late”, Fury stated.

“I’m running a multimillion-dollar non-profit and was in a meeting with a correspondent of the White House, and I’m going to run this show,” you stated as you walked next to him, in front of everyone present. “So no, I’m not late”

It was a bold move and you prayed internally that it worked as you had a stare-down with Nick Fury, which you couldn’t even picture in your wildest dreams, and although you knew it was a lie about the White House, it was a way to assert your leadership.

“Let’s begin,” you said by dropping the folders on the table and turning around to face everyone.

If Ned could be right there and then, you knew he would’ve passed out.

Peter was sitting at your right, a bit slouched but he was in, next to him Wanda was sitting down as she winked at you, Lila Barton was sat down next to her with Clint by her side. On the other side of the table, there was Steve, Bucky, and Sam -or how your dad liked to call them The Army Bros, Steve and his kids, Ménage a Trois, among others-, then Harley was next to them smirking at you, Cassie Lang was also with Scott who seemed a bit in awe with the view in front of him.

It was exciting seeing them together in one room, you could see a team forming here; you just hoped that it didn’t have to happen with an alien invasion followed by a significant battle in New York.

“You have been called here because The Avengers are not done”, Steve said sternly as he looked at all of them. He might have been over 100 years but the force on his voice and the sense of leadership in his eyes didn’t go away for a second. “We still need to have a future.” Steve gazed at you as he finished and you sucked in a breath.

It was your cue.

“There was an idea to bring together a group of remarkable people, they did become something more and fought the battles that we couldn’t win”, you explained seriously, watching how Nick Fury turned around to see how you cited each one of the words he had said to your father. They had stuck with you all these years and you didn’t see why you shouldn’t bring them up now. “We need to be the next generation of that group, maintain the legacy, we have a responsibility with the world”.

Your eyes connected with everyone’s in the room, except for Peter who immediately looked away.

“That’s the reason that we call you in”, Fury intervened as he walked towards you and Steve. “You have the abilities to save the world”. Everyone stayed silent as they watched him. “Y/N Stark or Iron hea-”, Fury began by dropping the first folder that contained your profile.

“-don’t even say it, it’s just Stark”, you interrupted as you raised your hand for him to stop, Fury simple rolled his eye with a still stone-cold face drawn.

“Spider-man”, he said looking at Peter, folder dropped.

“Scarlett Witch”, Wanda sucked in a breath as the folder dropped in front of her.

“Winter Soldier or White Wolf should I say?”, Fury asked.

Bucky remained quiet as he gazed at the folder that Fury had thrown on him, clearly bigger than any of the others. He just sighed and nodded.

“Falcon, the new Captain America”, Fury said and Sam smirked as he placed a hand over Steve’s shoulder while Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Iron lad”, Fury said gazing at Harvey who seemed like he wanted to pass out as he quickly took a hold of the folder and began reading it full speed.

“Statue”, he said looking at Cass while Scott looked at him with panic. It was clear that he didn’t want Cassie there but by the way, Cassie was excitedly looking at the folder and what was written about her, it wasn’t his choice to make.

“Finally, Kate Bishop”, Fury finished as he nodded at Clint who was sternly looking at you.

Cassie quickly turned around to look at her, bug-eyed. “Thought that you were Lila Barton?”, she said confused.

Before Clint or Lila could even respond, you interrupted them.

“It’s Lila’s secret identity”, you explained with a smile. “No one can know she’s related to Clint. It can risk their cover and we don’t want anything happening to them”.

“Thanks, Y/N”, Clint said with a tight smile.

It was clear that you would’ve to talk with Clint and Scott soon and calm them down, they reminded you of your dad and well, Lila and Cassie reminded you of you at that age and how much you wanted to follow your father’s steps into becoming an actual hero. They wanted to be in it so badly that they went behind their parents back to make it happened and it was the same as you began to build your suit without Tony knowing it.

Lila had talked with Fury at the funeral, she had sneak from Clint and Laura while Fury was having a word with Carol. She had explained to him that she was good with the bow and arrow, maybe even better than her dad; and most importantly, she had realized that she wanted to do something good if she knew how to do it. On the other part, Cassie had been begging Scott, Janet, Hope, and Hank to let her into the team, Cassie was smarter than Scott and in the few years that had passed, she was sure that she wanted to follow her dad’s steps after actually losing him. Although Hope and Scott didn’t agree on it, Hank and Janet had a soft spot for Cassie and had given her a suit, after a few trials they had realized she was really good. It didn’t take long for Fury to hear the word and contact them. It wasn’t a pretty discussion with Hank or Hope, but Janet and Scott more or less got where Cassie was coming from, finally convincing them it was a good option.

Lila was fifteen while Cassie was fourteen, approximately a year younger before your first mission; it seemed like it was time to train them although a part of you wanted them to stay training for a little longer.

“What about the other ones?”, Peter asked as he looked at Steve, drawing you back to the conversation. “T’Challa? Or Captain Marvel? Where’s Thor?”

You winced at his remark, it stung that he was unsure about this new plan and this new era. Did he wanted to be there? Steve had been the one calling him and knowing how much Peter respected Steve, you were sure he was going to say yes. But now that you were actually listening to him, at the dead tone he had, at the way he was avoiding you or even zoning out, you didn’t know if it was the best idea to have him on the team.

But Peter wasn’t doubting you. He didn’t doubt you for a second, in his heart he knew that you were going to be a great leader, but as he gazed at you, it became too much.

“They’ll come when they are needed but we need a response team, the foundations,” Steve said as he signaled the room. “You are that team”

Peter nodded in response. Truth was that Peter felt proud that he had been called, he remembered like it was yesterday when Tony had officially made him an avenger. How you had jumped into his arms and planted a kiss on his lips as if you didn’t care that you were going to a new planet and facing the scariest villain that you had met, all that it mattered was how official this was. But that was it, it came back to the fact that he wanted to stand up with you and hold your hand and be your support but he couldn’t do it.

“Anyway, newbies you are not official members yet”, you stated as you signaled to Cassie, Harley, and Lila. “But we need to start training you and we will begin next week”

“How much training?”, Harley asked concerned since you knew he was about to finish college this semester.

“Don’t worry, we will start on the weekends. You’ll be flown here from Boston and San Francisco by one of our quinjets”, you explained. “Lila, you’ll come every two weeks since you train with Clint almost every day and there’s no better teacher for your specialty”

Lila nodded excitedly as she gazed back at Clint, who simply smiled and placed a kiss on her forehead.

“We are going to train in the tower again?”, Peter asked as he looked at you, he was really looking at you, you gaped for a bit by the way his eyes were looking at you.

“Ye-Yes… I-uhm- until the compound it’s -uhm- I already ordered to rebuild it”, you stumbled through your words as you tried to maintain the first eye-contact that Peter had given you. “It’s on my name now”

Peter nodded quietly and you smiled as a response but it didn’t last long as he quickly gazed back at Fury as he began to explain the regime that you were going to follow and how the group trainings were going to go, especially since Sam and Bucky had a special mission in Europe for the next month or two. Harley along with Cassie were the ones doing the most questions and most of the talking regarding the new initiative, Lila asked a few questions but it seemed like she was more familiar with the spy language that you were using. Wanda, Sam, and Bucky took on the role of mentors as they sometimes intervened and explained how things worked, along with you and Steve. Peter talked a few times as well, but he stayed quiet for most of the meeting, he knew the protocols and the plans so he didn’t have many questions. He was zoning out as he looked at you when you weren’t looking, god, he was trying to avoid it because it created a lump on his throat the more, he looked at you and knew that nothing was going to happen between you two again.

So, when you lifted the meeting, he stood up as fast as he could and walked out of the room.

“So, what’s up with him?”, Wanda asked as everyone began walking out of the room and you stayed alone picking up the papers and giving a nod to Fury as he told you that he was going to be in contact.

Wanda was a big part of your life. She became like a sister after Ultron and although she was a couple of years older than you, it was a matter of time before you became best friends. The nights that you stayed at the compound and that Peter spent with Aunt May, became official girls’ nights between you two and sometimes Natasha (although she wasn’t a fan). You knew she was the first person that realized you had feelings for Peter and it was the first person you told about your first kiss after Scorpion attacked you. She also told you about Vision and you were there as she slowly let her guard down with him, at the end falling head over heels for him.

Their relationship was sweet and authentic, neither of them was trying to be someone that they weren’t and they accepted each other with everything they came with. When you lost both of them to the snap, it somehow made you feel okay? That they weren’t living without the other because they seemed so meant to be together, Vision adored her. Nonetheless, when Wanda came back and Vision didn’t, you knew it was going to take a toll on her. Wanda had been staying in the tower since all of you came back, she hadn’t left her room and she hadn’t been herself as she tried to deal with the grief of losing Vision, Bucky had been overprotective of her the last few days of her and Bruce checked up on her every day, you also visited her as much as you could and you had heard that Peter had swing by a couple of times as well. This was the first day that you had seen her out of her room and you were beyond happy about seeing her like this.

“I thought that he had told you when he came to visit”, you said as you turned around and wrap your arms around Wanda who hugged you back.

Wanda and Peter were good friends, she saw him as a little brother and she messed around with him when she had the opportunity. They used to try to sneak up on him with Vision sometimes, but Peter’s spidey sense was too strong for them to win; at the end, Wanda resorted into levitating a few things when Peter wasn’t looking and it would annoy him before he would shot his web to the object that would be flying over his head with a red halo or in another place of the room.

“He didn’t do much talking actually, he just listened”, Wanda explained as she let go of you. “So, what happened?”

In all honesty, you were somehow dreading this part of telling Wanda about Harry, you remember how happy she was when you told her about Peter and was all over your team even after older avengers were kind of apprehensive about it.

You sighed as you leaned on the table. “You know Oscorp Industries?”

“I don’t like where this is going”, Wanda bit her lip, wincing as she watched you carefully and you nodded in response.

The memory of Peter’s eyes gleaming with tears as they fell from his cheeks while you spat out that you were with someone new hunted you. Your heart sank more and more was you thought about it, it was one of the worst things you had to do.

“It’s not that I forgot about Peter, but I was just so lost and everyone was telling me to move on”, you shrugged as Wanda sat on one of the chairs next to you.

It was true, you never forgot about the boy with chocolate eyes. It just happened that when you were getting better, Harry appeared in your life and just made it easier. It was easy and calming to be with him, he was everything you would want on a boyfriend.

“I know the feeling”, Wanda mumbled and you felt guilty that you were talking about your love life when Wanda’s significant other had passed away. “So, what’s he like?”

You huffed as you tried to find words to describe Harry. “He’s gorgeous to look at, he is kind and humble. I just like to be around him”.

Wanda eyed you suspiciously for a few moments and it scared you because you knew how good she was at reading you and knowing your feelings. It scared you that she might tell you that you were making the wrong decision.

“But he’s no Peter”, Wanda stated as she looked at you intently.

No, there was no way that Harry would compare to Peter. And it was unfair to do it because they were too different, the only thing linking them together was that they cared about you.

“No”, you answered honestly as you closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose as you tried to find the right words to fight Wanda’s gaze. “He isn’t but I do care about him, a lot. You can’t understand how much he has help-.”

“-do you love him?”, Wanda interrupted and you became stiff as she mentioned love.

It wasn’t that the fact that neither Harry or you had said it, he knew how delicate that was for you and the fact that you had only told Peter that you loved him had maybe restrained Harry to actually mumbled it out. But on your part, you knew how your heart felt warm when you saw him and how you automatically smiled, he made you laugh and made you feel okay; still, you hadn’t said it.

“I think I do”, you answered honestly.

Wanda rolled her eyes as she stood from the chair and splayed her hands on the table, a straight-face as she eyed you again, as if she was in an interrogatory, “It’s a yes or no answer Y/N”.

And you felt the pressure like she had meant you to feel it. “Wanda, stop”, you felt your cheeks growing warmer and even maybe a headache as you looked right back at her, but you knew better than to avoid her questions and you finally answered, “I can’t give you one”.

Wanda finally looked away as she passed a hand through her hair. “So, what are your feelings for Peter then?” Wanda sighed.

“I love him”, you stated without any doubt on your voice, making her shoot a look at you of confusion.

What’s it weird to say that you love your ex-boyfriend but doubt that you loved your current one? Maybe, you thought as you hopped off the table.

“If you are so sure then why don’t you go back to him?”, Wanda asked, annoyance lingering onto her voice.

You smirked as you watched her because it was too obvious who she was going to choose, “Oh, I see you are Team Peter on this”

She gave you a light smile back. “You know I love Peter but Y/N…”, her lips pressed for a second as she tried to fix her words, “I remember when you told me about Peter for the first time and there was something inside you that you couldn’t control”, she said as she walked closer to you, “It was as if this bright feeling was filling you, everything inside you shined.”

And you remembered it, you remembered how you felt golden when you were with Peter. How your heart fluttered on your chest as his lips pressed against your body and then against your lips. How his hands would always seek your body and how on the nights you would spend together, you would fall asleep to the beating of his heart.

“I’m not disputing that,” you stated curtly, as you recollected all the folders with a little more speed than you would. “but I have Harry too and he helped me during the time I lost everything and we just get along so well. It would be unfair for me to simply toss him after Peter came back”

Wanda’s gaze was burning your back and you could tell she was swallowing somethings just to get off your back because she noticed you were getting riled up.

“I understand,” she finally said as you sighed and looked back at her. “But if you want this team to work, Peter and you have to keep being the best friends that you have always been”

At that very moment, Peter was thinking about the same thing.

Was it even worth trying to work for this new team out if you weren’t on talking terms? No, it wasn’t. You were his partner and he was yours, even if years had passed for you and you were with someone new, nothing could change the fact that together you guys worked. Together you worked better than anyone in the team, Peter even believed that you guys were more connected than Nat and Steve at some point before the snap. It was the actual true, Peter knew your every move and you knew him; most importantly, you would do whatever was needed to keep the other one safe.

But how?

“How what?”, a voice snapped Peter out of his thoughts realizing he had said it out loud. His eyes followed the husky voice, recognizing that the elevator at Stark’s tower had been emptied while he had been thinking about you.

His eyes found this boy, should he even say boy? No, he was a man. Peter was sure that he could be confused with a model, his almond eyes were green-ish or grey-ish, he couldn’t tell and were accompanied by a sharp jaw with well-groomed facial hair. He passed a hand through his dark hair and Peter realized how tall he was.

“I…”, Peter mumbled as he rose a brow. “It’s nothing, uhm- which floor are we?”

The guy simply nodded and smiled simply at Peter. “We are arriving at the penthouse, right now.”

Before the doors opened, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice could be heard in all the elevator.

“Hello, Harry”, the AI said smoothly. “And welcome back Peter, Mrs. Potts wanted to see you”

Peter blinked in surprise; he felt his body stiffened as he heard the name. It wasn’t that Peter had been stalking you or trying to find who you were dating. Just casually some days prior, Peter had recruited Ned to find out and without a doubt, Ned worked faster than the FBI.

…

“There are no photos?” Peter mewled as he walked through the walls of his room while Ned was furiously typing on his computer.

Peter wasn’t per se proud of how fixated he was on it, but he just wanted to know who had been the guy that you had actually opened your heart to that wasn’t him. You weren’t too much into relationships since he met you, you were focused on avenging and school; relationships other than your close friendships, and later, Peter’s were the things occupying your mind.

You had gone out on a couple of dates with both boys and girls before Peter, but nothing more than a friendly chat or maybe a kiss happened between you and them. Peter tried not to be jealous but the relentless flirting did annoy him, and sometimes he let shades of it through.

You noticed it, so when the girls would come by to talk to you at lunch and play with your hair while Peter watched, you tried to be as nonchalant as you could. With boys, you simply and politely most of the time (if they weren’t being an asshole) asked them to get lost or refused their advances. And always after the fact, Peter would be in an unusually high good mood.

So, now with Harry, he was clearly on a mission.

“No man, apparently his father wanted him out of the spotlight,” Ned replied as he rubbed his tired eyes. “Not that this Norman Osborn appears on many things. Remember that I had to do a presentation about him? There was barely any information”

Peter huffed. “Well, then what did you found?”

Ned glared at him as he began typing again, his fingers moving faster than Peter’s eyes. “Well, he is a billionaire and a philanthropist, he had projects in Latin America and Africa on bioengineer which he’s pretty good at”

Peter rolled his eyes, he knew how much you cared about doing your part in the world, you understood your privileges and tried to do something good about it. You didn’t like to be a girl with daddy’s credit card, there was nothing more annoying to you than when people assumed you were vapid and frivolous because of who your father was.

“Perfect, what else do we know about Mr. perfect?”, Peter snarled as he began descending from the walls and sat next to Ned.

Ned opened various tabs on the computer that seemed like it was going to burst with information at any point. “He has won several awards about bioengineering and as an activist. His mother was from China but he lived a few years in Malaysia as well, he went to a snobbish school and speaks English, Malay, Mandarin, French, and Spanish”

Peter’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull. “Can he be any more perfect?”, he whined and stayed silent for a few moments. “Is there any information about him and Y/N?”

Ned eyed Peter for a second, contemplating him in silence. “Do you want me to tell you that?”

Peter’s eyes connected with Ned’s, he was so tired of crying every night but it was almost impossible for him to stop. When he closed his eyes, he could only see you, you were a trigger for him.

“No, let’s leave it alone for the day”

…

“Aren’t you going come in?”, Harry asked slowly and Peter simply nodded as he followed him to the large living room.

Peter’s mind was running as if he had sipped four coffees without any milk, his jaw tightened as he watched Harry comfortably sitting on the grey sofa where once Tony had sat Peter to tell him stories about his fights, to explained him new plans, to finally confront him and you about your ongoing relationship that you had kept a secret for almost six months.

He felt himself growing hot and his anxiety flew out of the charts. Peter, who seemed so innocent in his jeans, white shirt and black hoodie began thinking about the many ways he wanted to toss Harry out of the apartment without a second thought.

Maybe you were his trigger, seeing you in that black dress was telling him that you were with someone else was his trigger but now Harry had become his new one. Now he could only picture you with Harry; Harry who looked like a model and was also a genius, Harry who had been there for you when Peter wasn’t and eventually took his place, maybe Harry was everything that Peter wasn’t.

Peter only realized how worked up he was getting when he began to shake, his eyes widened as he looked at how his hands had formed into a fist and now were red thanks to all the pressure. He cleared his throat as he placed his hands on the pockets of his jeans and started walking away from the living room, maybe he could go to his old room in the tower although if he was being honest he wanted nothing more than to go to your room where he stayed most of the nights years prior.

He remembered how you would open your window for him, especially designed for him to swing through swiftly. He remembered the nights where he would just crash your lips against yours and you would hum in response as both of you fell into your bed. He remembered also the early moments of your friendship, how you would go back to the penthouse excited after Tony had let you tried a new piece of tech, or maybe one of your works had worked. He remembered your laugh most of all, bouncing off the large walls and windows, how it would warm him up.

But then Harry’s voice stopped him, “Woah, Woah”. Peter snapped around to see the tall boy walking towards him, “You can’t go anywhere big guy. Mrs. Potts doesn’t like it when not close people walk around”

Now it was a fact, Peter wanted to rip Harry apart.

“I don’t need permission from Pepper to be here”, Peter retorted. He was a little bit glad that he was on a first-name basis with Pepper and Harry still weren’t, pried filled his chest as he looked at Harry staring blankly at him.

It lasted a few second, Peter watch how Harry was examining his face and his stand. Then his eyes opened like plates and he gaped at Peter.

“Wait”, Harry muttered. “Are you-”

“-Peter Parker”, Peter stated as he glared at him.

Was he being a little bit too standoff-ish? Yes, but at the moment he didn’t care, because it was his territory. He had been living in that penthouse for three years before the snap, he was basically family to the Stark’s and not even Harry could take that away from him.

“I-Uhm- It’s nice to meet you”, Harry muttered as he offered Peter his hand.

Peter looked down at it, somehow doubting Harry’s move but at the end of the day he knew nothing good would come up if he wasn’t polite. Hell, Peter was even polite to villains, although Harry had become his one.

“It’s nice to meet you too”, Peter replied as he shook his hand, firmly.

Harry pressed his lips into a tight smiled as he nodded. “Y/N, she talked about you, a lot.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. Harry had forgotten to even ask about Peter after the snap and since you never brought it up, it never crossed his mind that the love of your life was back. You had talked about Peter a few times, most of them ended in tears from your part and Harry had seen your social media was filled with pictures of Peter Parker, as well as the penthouse where Tony had photos of the three of you and all the other avengers. He knew how much Peter meant for you and now, although Harry wasn’t one that got nervous, he felt a shiver of panic running through his back as Peter let go of his hand.

“She talked about you; you were -uhm- are extremely especial for her”, Harry muttered.

Peter stared up at Harry, jarring silence filling the room as his heart rate increased. Harry’s eyes were blank and Peter felt stiff and uncomfortable, but another part of him felt a slight jolt of joy as Harry had mentioned how special he was for you and by how Harry was acting. Peter wanted to take the small charm that had the Iron-Spider-suit and jump from the window, maybe even swing from building to building while screaming of joy. You had talked about him, to the point that it seemed to make Harry uncomfortable.

“Yeah…”, Peter said simply as he gave a step back. “I’m going to leave now…”

Before could even turn around completely, he bumped into Pepper.

Pepper had this thing about her, she could be serious to the point of scary but she could also be the sweetest woman on earth. Pepper had become an important mother figure to Peter, and she got extremely well with May (who at first wasn’t a fan of Tony) to the point they would have a few talks over the more humanitarian side that Stark’s Industries needed or any new project that had Pepper busy. Moreover, Pepper was always there for both Peter and you, after every mission or school project, she had managed to make time for the both of you, which was impressive being CEO of SI. Peter was sure that Pepper knew he had feelings for you since he first arrived, she would give him these looks and he was sure that they had talked about it with May.

When you finally told both Tony and Pepper, she was there to help Tony get more relaxed about your decisions and she was the one that gave Peter permission to sleep on your bed when Tony didn’t feel very comfortable, she would keep him off your room for the time that you guys were together.

So, when Peter saw Pepper again (since he hadn’t really spoken to her at the funeral) he felt his heart clenching on his chest, the ache didn’t go away as she watched her. He hadn’t said anything to Pepper since Tony had died, anything. He hadn’t acknowledged the women who acted as a mother to him, how much she must be suffering from Tony’s death, and now your sudden role as leader of the Avengers.

“I have been leaving messages, Peter”, Pepper said sternly, pulling her blonde straight hair behind her ears and he was sure he winced at her voice.

“I’m -I …”, Peter stumbled through his words as he tried to phrase how sorry he actually was. “I’m sorry Pepper”, he finally said.

She stared at him; a blank gaze was drawn but after a few seconds her features soften as she looked at the shy chocolate eyed boy.

“It’s okay”, Pepper muttered giving him a light smile as she patted him on the shoulder and pulled him in for a small hug, which was short-lived as Pepper quickly turned to see Harry awkwardly standing there. “Harry, I’ll take Peter away but you can wait for her in the living room”

Peter watched Harry carefully who seemed dumbfounded at their recent interactions but as soon as Pepper talked to him he straightened himself and cleared his throat, giving her a charming smile.

“That would be perfect”, he replied with a nod, muttering a quick ‘thank you’ before he turned around and walked to the couch again.

Peter felt like a masochist as his eyes followed Harry, analyzing the way that he walked and wondered how you two actually looked like but Pepper didn’t give him much on an opportunity to ponder on his suffering from you. Quickly, walking away and telling Peter to follow her which forced Peter to remove his eyes from Harry who was taking a seat of the large living room again.

“So, how have you been?”, Pepper said as soon as they got enough distance from the living room, the only sound on the hallway was the clicking of her heels.

Peter smiled tightly at Pepper; he was not okay but he didn’t want to have any sort of conversation with Pepper where he would be the one to feel bad for himself. Not when Pepper had lost Tony.

“I’m okay”, Peter lied.

Pepper contemplate him as she wrinkled her nose, “Well, you don’t look okay, Peter. Have you been sleeping?”, she replied as they got to her office.

Peter wanted to answer and assured her that he had been sleeping and feeling well, happy to be back and grateful with Tony who had died for him to be there. But nothing came out, he simply shut his mouth and nodded.

“Yes, that was what I imagined”, Pepper chuckled as she opened the door. “Come in, I have to introduce you to someone”, Pepper said.

Peter stood there for a few moments when Pepper moved, she could see the tiny human that was laying down in fairly modern and beautiful playpen. The toddler wiped her head around as soon as she heard Pepper and Peter and he felt like crying when her big-doe-brown eyes locked with Peter’s.

Peter had not paid much attention to Morgan at the funeral, he was thinking only about you. He guessed that he would meet her eventually after you talked but it never happened. Nonetheless, he could tell that the little child was the spitting image of Tony Stark, Peter could tell that she was going to be smart beyond her years just like you and Tony and that she would have both of your wits and humor.

“So, you want to meet your goddaughter?”, Pepper muttered as she looked sweetly at Peter.

Peter’s eyes opened like plates.

“Am -I am her godfather?”, Peter stuttered as he entered the large office and walked towards baby Morgan who watched him intently.

“Yes, Tony wanted you to be the godfather and so did y/n”, Pepper answered and Peter felt her heart-warming, not even looking at Peter quickly kneeled to say hi to Morgan.

Peter didn’t know Morgan, he was afraid she was a little apprehensive because of how rapid he had kneeled and offered his hand to her.

“Hi baby Stark”, Peter whispered at Morgan, who quickly responded with a wide toothy smile and she giggled.

Opening her arms, she signaled for him to grab her from her playpen, and Peter followed suit at her request with a smile. She was as light as a feather to Peter, almost lighter and he easily placed her on one hand as she took a hold of his face and began examining him closely while Pepper watched wistfully.

“Peter!”, Morgan suddenly blabbered and Peter was stunned, he wiped his head quickly to Pepper who laughed at his reaction while Peter chuckled too.

“How -uhm?” Peter began but was cut off by Pepper.

“Tony told her stories about you, so did y/n”, Pepper explained as she walked towards the large white sofa in her office and patted the space next to her for Peter to sit down. “Y/N wanted her to know who you were, so for the night stories she would often tell her about you and her.”

Peter felt his heart on his throat as he heard Pepper’s words. Every word that came out of her mouth was exactly what Peter wanted to hear, he was holding on to any hope for you and him, although deep down he knew he had to respect your choice, whether he liked it or not.

“I know that you are not okay Peter”, Pepper sighed, a woeful expression drawn on her face. “I’m so sorry you had to find it this way and everything that happened”

Peter nodded, trying to hold on to whatever sense of stability he had on him but it was useless as his eyes locked with Pepper, who had seen him both at his best and his worst. Peter sank on the couch as he placed baby Morgan on his chest who kept playing with his features, he felt like he had exhausted all his tears the last few weeks.

“It’s just… everything hurts when I think about Y/N”, he whispered, his voice breaking. “I thought that… I just can’t deal with her choice”

“It was not entirely Y/N decision”, Pepper quickly said as her hand quickly ghosted his arm. She looked down biting her lip, Peter could see she was unsure of what she was going to say. “But you can’t understand how broken she was without you.”

Peter sniffle causing Morgan to stop playing with his features and watching him carefully, finally turning away from him to face Pepper.

“Mommy, what happened?”, Morgan’s tiny voice made Peter’s heart skip a beat. She was so smart already and he let a genuine smile out.

Pepper smiled too as she picked Morgan from Peter. “Uncle Peter is a bit sad, that’s all”, she explained, and then her eyes returned to Peter’s. “The first six months after the snap she just… she shut down Peter. We didn’t see her and nothing could get her out of that bed. We were so worried about her for months, we didn’t even know if she was going to make it. ”

“What?”

Peter had seen you after the fact, he had heard you when you said that you didn’t forget him and how Harry expressed how important he was for you, but he never expected you to be so lost without him. Peter always believed you were the stronger one on the relationship you had, he was the one following you like a puppy since he first met you and from then on, his feelings just grew to a point that when he finally kissed you and told you his feelings, he was sure his heart was going to explode. He had harbored his feelings for so long, he struggled to maintain them in a line when they were finally out. But you, you were so elegant and delicate with your feelings for Peter. He knew you loved him but being trained by spies from an early age may be helped you conceal your feelings longer or because of your personality, you seemed to be the master of limits. Peter never picture that you would fall apart so badly without him.

“I’m not going to tell you that you aren’t allowed to feel that way”, Pepper continued, clearly shuddering at the memories of you at the time. “But I just want to say that you should forgive her because this world wouldn’t be right if you two aren’t together, at least as friends and partners”.

Peter stayed silent for a few seconds. It felt like the poisonous anger and the debilitating sadness that had overcome his body the last few weeks were being dissipated by Pepper’s words. The common anxiousness that overwhelmed Peter was neutralized by a second as he quite literally felt like he could face all his emotions, trying to immerse in processing the new information. He realized that you may not have done what he would do, he realized that being angry about the fact that he had snapped and you didn’t wouldn’t help anybody, he realized that not talking to you was being more hurtful for both of you. He realized that if he claimed to love you so much, he would be there unconditionally and he felt ashamed he hadn’t.

Peter nodded, finally embracing every feeling he had and confronting himself.

“I under-”, were the only words that Peter managed to get out of his mouth before the hairs in his arms quickly stood-up, he could feel the goosebumps erupting in his whole body as his head snapped at the windows that reached both the ceiling and the floor.

He stood up without a word as Pepper watched bug-eyed, holding Morgan a little bit tighter.

“Whats happe-”

Screamed began coming from the streets, they filled the room, and then a roar shook the city.

---

TAGLIST: @erindanus @spideylovin @zlamaneserca @bethanystan @cedricisnotonfire @eridanuswave @babebenhardy @lyzalovealk

39 notes · View notes

eskalations · 4 years

Link

"My persona is a flirt." She whispered, lowly. With her hands wrapped around his neck, she dragged him down far enough so that she could breathe against the skin of his ear. She could feel her grin turn proud as she felt him shiver in response. "You make it more believable by leaving marks."

A set of Genderbend AU Royai One Shots

Read from the beginning (x)

A/N: Don't worry, I didn't forget about these two lovely characters! It took me a long time to figure out which scene I wanted to tackle next and this one just seemed to keep on popping up in my head. Now, I warn you - it's kind of spicy. Now there isn't anything explicit, but it's certainly enough to get the blood pumping. I don't think it's enough to warrant an "M" rating, but if it makes you uncomfortable leaving it at "T", just let me know and I'll change the rating. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

Thanks for reading!

East City - Spring of 1909

Ray Hawkeye wasn't sure how it had happened, but he found that the mechanics of it mattered very little. The truth of the matter still stands – in all its guilt-ridden glory.

He had taken his father's ex-apprentice to bed.

The words made his toes curl in a less than pleasurable way from the hour before, bile rising in his throat at the thought. How could he have done this? How could he have turned his back on his promise to protect this girl against all harm that came at her? How could he be so stupid?

The answer was plain and simple – alcohol.

The war had ended earlier in the month and both he and Raina had made their way to East City. Ray had returned to the Academy to finish his training for graduation in the summer – and Raina, after a brief stay with her foster mother in Central – had decided to put in a transfer out East. Though most saw it as a dead-end position, Raina insisted she had it on very good authority, that it was the right place to get her start. Ray didn't question that.

They hadn't spoken much since the end of the war. Ray was busy with his training and Raina was busy with the responsibilities that came along with her recent promotion. Upon her arrival back from Ishval, the young woman had been given the title of 'Lieutenant Colonel' – making her the youngest soldier in history to wear that rank. While anyone else would be proud of such an honor, Raina remained relatively quiet on the matter. She accepted, but there was no happiness behind it.

All Ray could see was determination.

He knew from speaking with Maes Hughes at the end of the war that Raina had all but committed herself to reaching the seat of Fuhrer. She saw it as the only option she had to repent for all the sins she had committed in Ishval.

Ray didn't exactly know what he was going to do, but he felt he would know once he was freed from the curse written into the skin of his back.

Raina had been fighting demons that night, causing her to call out to him in the most unexpected way possible. When his superior had told him he had a call from a young woman, he had hardly believed it, unable to imagine who would be bothering to call him at such a late hour. However, when he lifted the phone to his ear, he recognized the voice instantly.

"Ray?" She had asked, her words slurred against the sound of raucous laughter in the background. From the clank of glasses and drunken shouts, he deduced she was at a bar. "Ray, are you there?"

He hadn't heard his name from her lips in so long, having gotten use to her normal address of "Hawkeye" while they had fought alongside each other in the war. There was a vulnerability in her tone that had his heart clenching in fear, as though he somehow thought she couldn't handle herself in her current state.

"Where are you?" He asked, not bothering to confirm his identity to her, knowing she would recognize his voice. The anxiety in his words were obvious as he pressed on. "Do you need me to come get you?"

There was a pause over the line. From her side, he could hear another round of laughter break out and the snap of a pool stick before she finally came back with an answer.

"Yes."

He had retrieved her from the bar, shocked at the sight that met him. She was a vision to be sure in a low cut, black sleeveless dress with a pair of heels that looked like they had been made to kill. However, it was the look in her eyes that made him pause. While she had certainly had the eyes of a killer for well over a year now, the pain he saw within those dark depths was new.

He imagined it had to have been from the alcohol.

They hadn't spoken as he walked her to the apartment she now resided in. The building was near Eastern Headquarters and just a few blocks down from the barracks where he was currently staying. He hadn't realized how close in proximity they were to each other and part of him was glad he hadn't. With the current state that they were both in, he doubted them hanging out together would do much good.

He had walked with her up the stairs and had even turned the key for her when they had made it to her door. He had intended to leave once he was sure she was safely in her room – however, it seemed the younger girl had other plans, tugging his hand and leading him into her apartment. Cautiously, he chose to follow.

Her home was nothing spectacular. From what he could see, her living area was sparse with a single green couch in its center and a fireplace against the far wall. There was an entry way that led to what must have been her kitchen and dining area with a hall on the opposite side. Certainly, these were not the plush quarters of a Lieutenant Colonel that he had been expecting. It was simple; it was minimal.

Raina had ditched her shoes at the door, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to release the tension that had settled into them. She still wobbled to the side as she made her way to the living room, but she wasn't nearly as inebriated as she had been when he first retrieved her from the bar.

Ray didn't bother removing his coat, resolute in his decision to only stay for a few minutes to make sure that she was alright.

"Want a drink?" She had asked casually, swaying her hips as she walked towards the kitchen. Her long black hair fell down her back in an intoxicating fashion – so intoxicating that Ray felt himself swallowing harshly.

This was a bad idea.

Despite every warning whistle that was going off in his head, telling him that he was playing a dangerous game, the man for whatever reason answered in the affirmative.

"Yes." The words made a smile appear on her features, though it didn't touch her eyes. Ray could still see the pain from earlier swirling in those dark depths. "But only one."

The one drink had eventually led to two, which then became three, and things slowly escalated from there.

They spoke of what they had been doing since they last saw each other. Ray shared with her the topics of his last several trainings while she spoke in return of the work she had been doing in Eastern Headquarters. At nineteen-years-old, the older soldiers respected her very little, seeing her as nothing but a flirty upstart – however, she had become quite good friends with the old General Grumman who was at the head of the region.

They both avoided the topic that they had been mulling over for the past several weeks, neither forgetting the promise they had made upon their departure from Ishval.

After throwing back his third drink, Ray reveled in the relief the alcohol provided. He had been burying himself in his studies to avoid the pain of his memories of war, but it seemed to him that Raina had been conquering them in a different fashion. She had certainly developed a tendency to drink in Ishval, something told him though that it had only gotten worse since her arrival home.

It was after this last drink that he noticed a change in Raina.

She had shared one drink with him, but was nowhere near as intoxicated anymore. He figured that after how much she had drunk in the past year, her tolerance was probably even better than his. He had a buzz at the moment but was still completely aware of his actions. Surely, he could still make rational judgements in this state.

That was until he felt a warm pair of lips on his own.

To say he was shocked would be an understatement. It was if the world had stopped and all had ceased to exist at the touch of her lips. It took him a moment to realize what was happening and that the whooshing sound that was plaguing his ears was actually the sound of his erratic heart.

Before he could respond, Raina had pulled back, her dark eyes peering into his own and waiting for a reaction. He imagined the shock he was feeling translated on to his features. There was a warmth to his cheeks that hadn't been there before and he tried to convince himself it was from the drinks.

Raina raised a brow, still waiting for a response.

"No."

His words had been sharp, despite the alcohol and despite his shock. He knew what her eyes were beseeching, though he had very little experience in that department, but he simply couldn't give into such desires. This was the girl he had vowed to protect and taking advantage of her in such a position, certainly wouldn't help him with that.

Raina pouted at his refusal. "Why not?"

"Because you're not thinking straight." He had answered, glued to his seat. His mind was telling him to run, to return to the Academy and to wait a few weeks for all of this to blow over before meeting with her again – however, his body was saying differently. Just from one touch of her lips, it was though he had fallen under a spell.

It made him uncomfortable. It made him feel out-of-control. It made him feel dirty.

"I'm thinking perfectly fine, thank you. I'm not as drunk as you think I am." She had answered, scooting closer to him on the couch. Her bare thigh was touching his own, her warmth seeping through the material of his sweatpants. "And I know you're not drunk, either. I think we are both perfectly able to make decisions for ourselves right now."

"Well I'm making the decision to say 'no'."

The words had not been the ones she wanted to hear.

"Why?" She asked, venom laced in her tone. "Because you still see me as that child who showed up on your doorstep? Because you still see me as a girl rather than a woman?"

"That's not it, Miss Mustang."

"Yes, it is!" She exclaimed, jumping from the couch to stand in front of him. She stood with hands on her hips, her black eyes piercing into his own. "If it wasn't about that, you wouldn't have just called me 'Miss Mustang'. I haven't been 'Miss Mustang' in years!"

It had been a slip of the tongue, but Ray knew better than to take it back. Maybe if he let her rage long enough, she would fall into a drunken sleep and this would all be forgotten.

"You know what the major difference between 'Miss Mustang' and I is?" She didn't give him an opportunity to answer, instead poking a shaking finger into his chest. "That girl had never killed anyone and never thought she would have to. That girl had never taken advantage of her friend's trust and used the power he gave her to murder."

Ray could tell that her anger stemmed less from his response and more towards her own actions. Behind such furious words, guilt was evident in the wavering of her tone.

Ashamed, Raina turned from him. Though the fireplace was unlit, she stared into it, as if it would give her an answer to her problems. In a show of vulnerability, she wrapped her arms around her chest, hands pressing down on her shoulders.

The sight nearly broke the young Hawkeye's heart.

Silence drifted between them, the only sound coming from outside in the hall, as a band of friends walked drunkenly past her unit. The tension in the room was thick, so thick that Ray felt even a knife couldn't slice through it. There was a charge in the air and he hated to admit what that electricity was stemming from.

Surprising even himself, Ray stood from his position on the couch. He walked without thinking towards his old housemate and turned her around to face him. Once he saw the tears streaming down her face, he knew he was a goner.

He pulled her into a tight hug, one hand drifting to the back of her head. After her initial shock had worn off, Raina responded by wrapping her arms around him, her hands meeting over the expanse of his broad back.

They both tried not to think of the ink that his shirt was hiding underneath her touch.

"Why?" He was finally able to whisper, his breath rustling the hair that laid over her left ear. The sensation sent a shiver down the young girl's spine. "Why did you ask me to come get you? Why did you ask me to come over?"

Burying her face into his jacket, she tried to hide the blush that warmed the surface of her features. "I wanted to feel something besides shame. I wanted to feel something besides guilt."

Ray pulled away from her, holding her at arm's length. While they had been tentative friends during his stay in her home, he couldn't remember a time when he had been this close to her. Even when she had studied the plane of his back, they had always been careful to remain at a reasonable distance.

But now, in the dim light of her living room, both broken from their experiences during the war, it seemed that every wall that they had ever built between them came crashing down.

Ray just had one question. Well, he actually had a million – but there was only one that was burning in the back of his mind.

"Why me?" He asked her quietly, his eyes never straying from her own. "Why would you chose me over some random guy you could have found at the bar?"

The question didn't surprise her – however, it did have her face heating up once more. When she answered though, the words came out simply, as though they were a truth he should have known all along.

"Because I trust you."

There was no hesitation in her voice, just a quiet acceptance.

The trust she put in him was surprising, especially after he had spent so long questioning his trust in her. After she had taken the secrets of his father's alchemy and had committed such heinous acts, he really began to question whether she was the girl he thought she was.

It turned out though, that he had a monster living inside him as well.

He couldn't fault her for falling into the military propaganda in Ishval when he had done exactly the same. She wasn't the only one with blood on her hands – in fact, he had killed so many in Ishval that he was being given the 'honor' of graduating and gaining an instant promotion to second lieutenant upon his entrance into the State Military.

He was just as guilty as her as far as he was concerned. They had both committed war crimes and both deserved to be punished somewhere down the road.

For now, he couldn't deny that he too had been seeking some kind of validation for being alive other than the constant pain and guilt he felt. He had begun to wonder whether he had died back on the battlefield and his body now continued on in an endless loop of time. It was so hard to get a grasp of reality when all you seemed to do was live in the past.

It was that kind of thinking that got him moving.

After little hesitation, Ray leaned forward to place a soft kiss on the plump surface of his companion's lips. He could feel her surprise, even with his eyes tightly closed – however, she soon responded, her arms coming up from around his waist, to wrap around his neck.

He kissed her gently several times, allowing all the affection he felt for her to pour into his actions. Though he could feel Raina's own eagerness, she responded to the ministrations in kind, letting her fingers play with the ends of the dirty blonde hair that rested against the skin of his neck.

"I don't want to take advantage of you." Ray murmured against her lips, pulling back momentarily to catch his breath. Raina was breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against her's. "I don't ever want to hurt you."

His honest words had a smile appearing on her lips, this one finally reaching her eyes as she unwrapped one of her hands from his neck and placed it on his cheek. Their eyes met and in that moment, Ray knew he was gone.

"This is what I want."

Her words weren't slurred and her actions were as sober as they could be after the one drink she had partaken in earlier that hour. This confirmation was all his body needed to jump into action, even with his brain still telling him to stop.

The truth was…he wanted this, too.

His lips descended on her's once more, gently pressing against the smile on her mouth. They stood there for a few moments, reveling in the gentle kiss, arms wrapped around the other before progressing any further.

Just as she usually did, Raina commanded the situation. While keeping the kiss soft, she sighed in invitation, allowing him access to the contours of her mouth. He hesitated for a moment, struck by her boldness, before tentatively sticking his tongue through the slit of her lips. The girl moaned in approval, her own tongue reaching out to dance with his.

As the kiss became more heated, Raina found herself pressing closer to Ray's chest. The hand at the back of his head now tugged roughly at his hair, causing him to grunt in pain, though he didn't break away from her lips. The sound itself sent a shiver down her spine and had an unknown heat pooling at the bottom of her belly.

They were all feverish limbs as they made their way to the single bedroom in the apartment. Neither bothered to turn on the lights, the moonlight pouring through the window enough to guide their hasty actions.

Though their movements were heated, Ray laid Raina down on the comforter with a gentleness that spoke of years of hidden affection. She could see the emotions behind his eyes as he hovered over her, his lips swollen from the kisses they had shared earlier. His expression was so soft, it had her eyes closing in shame.

She truly didn't deserve such a gaze.

Tilting her head back, she led him right where she wanted him. In the lonely nights she had spent in Ishval, she had always imagined what it would be like to have his lips on her neck. Now, she was determined to find out.

"I don't want to leave marks." He wheezed, his breathing heavy from restrained desire. She could tell he was making an effort to go slow for her, unsure of her reaction to the experience.

The woman simply smiled in response.

The alcohol still coursing through his veins took that as a good enough reason to proceed.

At the first touch of his lips against the tender flesh of her neck, Raina closed her eyes in bliss. He started by leaving small, wet kisses against the skin, before following them up with a puff of air that had her toes curling over the edge of the bed. She couldn't hold back the breathy sigh that left her lips once he paused to suck at the particularly sensitive flesh over her pulse point.

Though she expected the act to be rough, he sucked gently, still pouring every ounce of affection he had for her into every heated movement.

After pulling a bit too roughly with his teeth, Raina let out a moan, which had the man lapping at the faint marks he had left behind on the pale surface of her neck. The bite had been gentle, Ray still fearful to try anything too extreme, not knowing the girl's preferences when it came to bedroom activities, but Raina didn't seem to mind. In fact, she pulled his face closer to her neck, her quickened breath practically begging him to continue.

He continued these ministrations for a few minutes, remaining careful in his actions, until Raina had decided she had enough of following his lead. He couldn't remember how, but at some point, she had rolled him over and on to his back, her legs straddled on either side of him, and her own lips attacking his neck.

Ray hissed at the pressure he now had on his lap, trying hard not to give in to the animalistic urges that threatened to make their way to the surface. His breathing became harder as she began to unbutton his shirt, her kisses drifting down the planes of his abdomen and causing the muscles to contract.

Maybe he had been right all along. Maybe he had died in Ishval and somehow found his way to heaven.

In a whirl of limbs and scattered clothes, the two found themselves bared to each other, the moonlight the only other witness to their act of desperation. They had both said they wanted to feel something and now they were getting the opportunity to provide that validation to the other.

Ray was gentle as he pushed forward, but became concerned as he saw the pain etched on his childhood friend's features. After a few minutes, though, she seemed to find herself lost in their closeness and thoroughly enjoying the act of making love to one another. Finally, she wasn't only feeling grief and guilt, she was feeling pleasure.

As they both came undone, their teeth clenched in an attempt to keep quiet in case Raina's neighbors were listening in, their sweat slicked bodies automatically clinged to the other.

Just like magnets.

Although he enjoyed the actions in the moment, it wasn't until after it was all said and done, that the guilt finally replaced the heat at the bottom of his stomach. With Raina curled against his chest, he couldn't help but hate himself at reveling in such actions.

He had tainted her once again.

It wasn't enough that he had given her a powerful alchemy at too young of an age, but now he had also taken the last ounce of innocence she had if the blood on the bedsheets was any indication.

In the aftermath, Ray found that his breathing still would not slow. Though Raina was relaxed in his grasp, a peaceful expression alight on her features underneath the sweat soaked bangs of her forehead, such peace would not find him in this situation.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The room had been silent for several minutes, the only sound being that of their gentle breathing. Raina looked up at him, her dark, tired eyes staring curiously into his.

"What are you talking about?" Her voice was deep, the remnants of passion still lingering in her tone as she reached a hand up to lay on his cheek. "What did I not tell you?"

"That I was your first."

The words caused a blush to develop on the girl's exotic features, bringing forth more bashful a reaction than the act they had been partaking in just minutes before. "I thought you knew."

Her words were honest, so Ray had no reason to suspect deception. Sighing, his breath fanning over the bare skin of her shoulder and causing her to shuffle closer, Ray fought the urge to dig his nails into her side in frustration with himself.

Of course, he should have known.

Despite Raina's bold personality and naturally flirty nature, he had never seen her come close to a man in any intimate fashion. The only man she seemed to spend any amount of time with alone had been Hughes and everyone knew that Hughes' heart belonged to another. With how young she was when she joined the military, he guessed he should have assumed that she was not as experienced between the sheets as she appeared.

However, with the way the recruits that he bunked with at the Academy acted, he had suspected that her experience during training was similar. He figured with her extroverted nature and rather alluring features, she had had no trouble at all finding men to keep her company during her time at basic training.

He guessed he was being a bit of a hypocrite.

"You were my first, too."

The words were so quiet that, for a moment, Raina wasn't even sure she had heard him. In the pale moonlight, she searched his features, looking for any sign of jest. She saw none.

"Really?" She couldn't hide the surprise in her voice, her arm finding its way to his chest so that she could rest her chin against the back of her hand. "I would have thought you would have gotten plenty of experience in the Academy."

The man gave her a wry grin; his thoughts having been the same in regards to her. "I guess we were both wrong in our assumptions then."

Raina smiled in return, her cheek resting against the skin of her hand. The look she gave him was so affectionate that it sent his heart into another round of palpitations. His guilt still weighed heavily on his mind though.

"I hate that you wasted your first time on a lecherous man like me."

Raina's brows furrowed at the term. "Lecherous? You're four years my senior – that's practically nothing when you consider we're both adults."

Ray knew he was being ridiculous pulling the age card – however, it still didn't sit right with him. "I just hate that I took your last piece of innocence from you."

Raina huffed, sitting up so that her face was level with his. Ever the bold one, the young woman didn't even attempt to hide the sight of her unbound chest from him. Ray fought to keep his eyes locked on her's, refusing to gaze upon her in a disrespectful manner after what she had given to him.

"Ray Hawkeye," The young woman poked her hand to his chest, the accusation clear in her tone. "I chose to give this part of myself to you. You took nothing that I wasn't willing to give. If anyone should feel guilty, it should be me. I had no idea that I was taking the same thing from you."

Ray wouldn't have her feeling any remorse on his part. "Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't have given this to you unless I wanted to. Even though I feel guilty over the whole thing, I don't feel regret for anything I've given you."

"Not even Flame Alchemy?"

Well…

"No," He finally answered. He gazed up into Raina's deep black eyes, his words brooking no room for argument. "You are the only person in the world that I trust enough to share that with and I know you will repent for what was done in Ishval. Once you burn my back, we will no longer have to worry about the evil that Flame Alchemy can cause."

Raina grimaced at the mention of their promise. She sunk back to his chest, her chin resting on her hand once more. Unlike before, her eyes averted from his gaze.

"You promised," He reminded her, bringing a hand up to brush a few errant strands of dark hair away from her forehead. Her eyes still wouldn't meet his. "Once I've graduated, I want you to hold up your end of the deal. I want you to set me free from my burden."

"You'll hate me," Raina muttered quietly, staring at the crisp white sheets wedged between their bodies. "I'm glad I had this moment with you, because I doubt you'll ever be able to look at me the same again."

"That's not true," Ray assured her, pulling her in closer. His actions caused her to glance up, her eyes finally meeting his own. "I could never hate you. I tried – oh, trust me, I tried. When I found out what you were doing in Ishval, I wanted to hate you – but I couldn't. It turns out, you're just as human as the rest of us."

This did little to help quell her fears. All she could think of is the smell of burning flesh and the fear that would grip her heart knowing that it was his. They still had a few weeks before he graduated and Raina hoped it was time enough to get him to change his mind.

"This can't happen again."

His words brought her back from her thoughts, fear gripping her heart for another reason entirely.

"What do you mean?" She heard herself ask, but it was almost as if she was listening in on a conversation from far away. Though she knew what he was going to say, it didn't help her increasing heart rate or the nervous sweat that broke out over her skin.

"We can't have an intimate relationship with each other," Ray clarified, back to his usual blunt way of wording things. "Once I've graduated, this will become fraternization. If you plan on one day becoming Fuhrer, the last thing you need is a court martial on your record."

"So you have decided to stay in the military?" Raina asked, knowing that before they had left Ishval, Ray had begun to question his path in life. She knew he had always wanted to become an engineer and she found herself secretly hoping that he would still pursue that career at some point in the future.

"Not yet." Ray admitted, his eyes narrowing pensively as he stared at the ceiling. "But you're not the only one who needs to repent, so I think I will likely follow in your footsteps."

"Just as you did before."

Ray smiled, though it held no humor. "Yes, just as I did before."

"You know," Raina's brows rose, her hand guiding his chin so that he was once more looking at her. "That didn't work out so well the first time."

"It didn't." He admitted, placing his hand over her's where it lay on his cheek. "But I have a promise to live up to as well."

Raina couldn't help but think that one day these promises were going to be the death of them.

"Hm, we'll see."

#royai #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #fma #fullmetal alchemist #fmab #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #royai fic #royai fanfic #royai fanfiction #fma fic #fma fanfic #fma fanfiction #royai genderbend #genderbend au #my fanfiction

11 notes · View notes

heart-eyes-kippen · 5 years

Text

Inhibitions

Word Count: 4871

Summary:

"Maybe he just had to do it. Maybe he had to let go of his inhibitions, his pre-conceived plans, everything, and march right down those stairs with nothing but intent."

A.k.a Cyrus comes out to his parents, and suddenly they understand why he talks about a certain boy so much. Also TJ gives him a hug because it's what he deserves.

You can read it on AO3 here

Hey dad, hey Sharon, I’m gay.

Hey, what’s up guys, I don’t like girls!

Hey, you know those grandkids you’re looking forward to in future? Yeah, they may be logistically impossible. Sorry.

Hey, you know Ellen? The TV show host? Yeah, the gay one. Anyway - just thought I’d let you know that her and I share a trait and that’s not liking the opposite gender.

Cyrus let out a heavy sigh, blowing some of his hair up in the process. He placed his hands down on his desk, feeling butterflies begin to swarm his stomach at the prospect of what he was planning. His heart was soaring, and his clammy hands were shaking, and was the room supposed to be spinning like this?

Maybe he wasn’t as ready as he thought it was. Or, maybe, coming out would always be a nerve-wracking process no matter how long he waited.

He’d spent a countless amount of late nights staring up at his plain white ceiling, with nothing but deafening silence to give him company as his mind raced with a million different scenarios.

Each option was becoming more and more convoluted, to the point where he wasn’t sure if his parents wouldn’t even recognise he was trying to come out to them. He supposed it was his mind’s way of escaping, of recoiling from the prospect of coming out.

Cyrus was hyper-aware of the media his parents consumed, in hope it would shed some light on their view of people like him. All he’d gotten so far were tiny inclinations, tiny indicators that maybe this wouldn’t go terribly.

He let out the breath he’d been holding, turning his attention to the window. Through it, he could see the last remnants of light fading, with light wispy clouds drifting peacefully across the darkening sky. His body felt stiff now with nerves as his grip on the desk tightened. Distantly, he could feel the cool wood pressing up against his skin, turning his fingers white with the pressure after a few moments, but it somehow provided him with a tiny sense of relief.

The swings weren’t an option. Not anymore. So here he was instead, left with a ball of anxiousness that had initially settled in the pit of his stomach, but seemed to be clawing its way up to the surface now.

Why was this so anxiety-inducing?

He’d crossed a major hurdle in allowing himself to utter the words ‘I’m gay,’ which held weight in comparison to simply admitting that he was crushing on a guy. Those words had kept him awake at one time, but now they brought him relief. He’d felt light as air after saying them aloud, solidifying them, and it was that moment he was sure as ever they were true.

It wasn’t an ‘I don’t like I girls as much as originally intended,’ or an ‘oh god that boy is kind of cute,’ it was a ‘no - this is me.’ This is who I am. This is the part of me that shouldn’t matter as much as it apparently does, but here he was, having a full-blown freak out over telling them to his dad and step-mom. He’d always prided himself on maintaining some form of rationality when it came to others, but that didn’t apply to himself nearly as much as he wanted it to.

When the silence became too much, Cyrus began flicking through his phone desperately in search of some music to fill it, hands still trembling as he did so. A warm night-light, in the shape of a dinosaur, lit the back corner of his room. Apart from that, he was enveloped by darkness as stars began to speckle the night sky, accompanied now by a clear view of the moon.

He turned up the music, not focusing so much on the lyrics as he was on his own thoughts. Hearing another voice, despite it practically becoming white noise, alleviated some of the ever-present loneliness that was pressing down on his chest.

Cyrus’ thoughts turned, once again, to the predicament at hand. He crossed the room, away from the glow of his night-light to his window. The parted curtains allowed pale moonlight, muted slightly by the clouds now, to pour inside. He leaned up against the window sill as though it was providing him with some kind of life support.

At that moment, maybe it was.

Desperate for more noise, he fiddled clumsily with the lock for a moment before lifting the window with some effort. Cool evening rushed by him right into his room, whistling softly as it did so.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips.

Maybe he just had to do it. Maybe he had to let go of his inhibitions, his pre-conceived plans, everything, and march right down those stairs with nothing but intent. The scared boy he once was would never have even dreamed of doing something along those lines, but that wasn’t him anymore. There was a flame of confidence inside of him now that hadn’t been there previously, and although it flickered on occasion, even coming close to burning out, it somehow managed to remain there.

He could do this. There was no one telling him he couldn’t, apart from himself. So why were his feet seemingly rooted to the carpet beneath his feet?

Cyrus thought about his dad. He thought about the way those eyes always crinkled with laughter right after his own jokes, he thought about the way they clouded with concern whenever Cyrus walked through the door with slumped shoulders, exhausted from the drama of that day. He thought about the rare but impossibly warm hugs he would wrap Cyrus up in when he’d had a particularly bad day.

Then, his thoughts shifted to Sharon. The way her laughter became high-pitched shrieks of glee whenever they’d watch trashy TV shows together and a particularly funny moment cropped up. They way she’d given him space at first to become accustomed to the new house, and the way she’d embraced him with nothing but warmth.

They wanted the best for him. Of course they did. But did that extend to this? Would that make them perfectly okay with having a gay son? Even if they were accepting, would Cyrus have to live with their private disappointment about what would’ve been? Would he see it constantly in the way they looked at him, or the way they interacted with him?

Cyrus had always been acutely fearful of being a disappointment, and it seemed nothing he did could wipe away the impression that he was, to his friends, to his family.

To himself.

He swallowed thickly, fingers trailing along the surface of his window sill as he continued to look out at the white sky. The clouds had parted again, revealing the entirety of the bright moon that was briefly hidden away.

Some of his shakiness had eased, but his heart still felt as though it might beat out of his chest with how rapidly it was thudding away. Adrenaline was surging through his veins, and nervousness was rising his throat as he turned to his bedroom door, which stood ajar only slightly.

He decided upon sending a quick text, the light emanating from his phone momentarily illuminating his face, before setting it down on his desk again and squeezing his eyes shut.

Cyrus took one step. Then another. Music was still ringing out in his room, reverberating off the walls with how loud it was, and for a moment he was able to register shock at the fact that his dad hadn’t come up to ask what was going on.

He padded down the stairs, tugging nervously at the sleeves of his shirt as he did so. Step by step, he made his way towards the kitchen. It was hot down there with the heater running, almost too hot, and he felt his face warm slightly as he came to a stop.

The fireplace was crackling away, filled with hunks of fresh wood and stone-grey ashes. Shadows were cast onto his face, which was visibly pale even in the warm light. A speckled marble counter separated him from his dad, who was stood in the light of the kitchen by a chopping board.

Cyrus’ heart was racing.

“Dad?”

His voice was timid, and the sound of it almost made him wince. He didn’t think he’d ever sounded so scared.

“Yeah?” he hummed back distractedly, attention focused on the head of broccoli he was systematically chopping up.

“I need to tell you guys something.”

His dad halted in his movements, gaze turning towards him curiously. Cyrus placed his hands down against the cool marble.

“Is...this something important?”

Cyrus gave a meek nod. His dad placed the knife down immediately, features softened slightly with concern now.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

This was it, he thought to himself, trying desperately to keep his breathes steady. He couldn’t hide behind jokes this time around, although a part of him sincerely wanted to. It was his immediate coping mechanism in situations that were serious, and not being able to lean on it was daunting.

His dad re-emerged almost a minute later, Sharon in tow now. They sat themselves down on the black bar stools opposite Cyrus, who stepped back immediately to put some distance between them. Being close seemed to make things all the more real.

Briefly, he noticed that they’d both assumed their therapist positions, but he tried not to linger on that fact.

Cyrus felt as though he was on a stage, with blinding spotlights beaming down on him, for a performance he hadn’t rehearsed for in the slightest.

Except - he had. He’d spent hours upon hours imagining every detail of this exact conversation, every detail of every possible outcome. He couldn’t depend upon that now, though.

Three words. That’s all it would take. He didn’t have to drag any of this out, but of course, he was Cyrus and his natural response to nervousness was to blurt out whatever crossed his mind.

“Okay, I, um...I just want you to know that I’ve been wanting to do this for ages but I kept holding off because I wasn’t sure about it and yeah, I guess it could kind of come as a shock, but I just...need you to know that the last thing I’d ever want to do is disappoint either of you, and I really hope this doesn’t change how you think about me, and I hope it doesn’t change how our Rabbi thinks of me and I hope this doesn’t have to be a big deal even though oh boy, I’ve made this a big deal in my head! Um...I’m rambling, aren’t I? Yeah, I’m rambling.”

His dad and step-mom had expressions on their faces that resembled shock, although only vaguely. They’d both been trained to conceal emotion and it had always been somewhat of an obstacle at the best of times.

His dad was the first to speak, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Cyrus...you can tell us whatever this is, okay? If it’s causing you this much stress, then...I think it’d be good to get off your chest.”

Sharon nodded along in agreement. The only sounds that filled the room at that moment we’re the crackling of the fire, the low hum of the fridge running, and the muffled pop music blasting from Cyrus’ phone from upstairs.

He took in a deep breath, before letting it out again with an audible whoosh.

“I’m gay.”

Silence.

Cyrus’ eyes darted desperately between their faces, searching for any hint of emotion that would give away what they were feeling. His heart began to sink with disappointment, and he had to take a moment to swallow the lump that had appeared in the back of his throat. His mouth was dry, and his hands were becoming clammy again.

In reality, only a few seconds had passed, but it felt like minutes.

“Cyrus...” his dad trailed off, gesturing towards the stool that was placed opposite them.

Cyrus bit his lip, before timidly stepping forward to sit down. His dad reached across the counter to take his hands, officially closing the distance between them. Sharon reached across too, a kind smile gracing her lips now, and Cyrus felt relief flood his system in one big rush.

“I’m sorry you were scared to tell us, and I’m sorry we haven’t been there for you...the thought of that just...” his dad took a deep breath in, shaking his head.

Sharon chimed in. “Cyrus. We love you no matter what, okay? All four of us. Our Rabbi loves you. This world...it’s harsh sometimes, and unfair, but nothing could possibly change the way we feel. You’ll always have us.”

After trying hard to fight the tears that were pricking at his eyes, Cyrus finally allowed a few stray ones to slip down his cheeks. His friends had been one thing, but his dad and step-mom had been a whole other thing, and those words had somehow managed to alleviate the heavy weight he felt pressing down on his chest. He choked back a small sob, before standing up from his chair and rushing around to them both. His dad was up in an instant, pulling him into a tight hug that Sharon was joining in on soon enough.

“We’re here now,” he heard his dad murmur, followed by the feeling of a soft kiss being planted on his head.

Cyrus grabbed onto his dad’s shirt, smiling despite the lump in his throat. He’d worried so, so much about this, and it had all somehow turned out fine. One of his many talents was getting himself worked up, and now he was finally unwinding again after what seemed like

months. An embarrassing amount of tears were making their way down his face now, being caught by the soft fabric of his dad’s shirt.

“Thanks,” he responded, in a muffled whisper.

It was about forty-five minutes later that his dad called to him from the kitchen, announcing that dinner was ready. Cyrus’ tears had long dried up by now, and despite looking like somewhat of a mess he felt a lot more content than he had just over an hour ago.

After rushing back up to his room to pause his music, he’d settled down on the couch and flicked through a few channels, eventually stopping on a soap opera he’d never heard of before and allowing all of its contrived drama to entertain him for a while.

Cyrus opened his mouth to respond, but shut it almost immediately when a few sharp knocks sounded at their front door. Confusion was written on his face as he got up from the couch, padding over to the darkened hallway and flicking on the light switch. He squinted for a moment, trying to make out who it was through the strip of stained glass beside the door, but eventually, he gave in with a shrug and moved forward to open it. Shadows shrank away from the light as it poured out onto the porch.

There, in all of his adorable glory, stood TJ.

Cyrus almost wanted to laugh. He’d completely forgotten about sending that text.

His cheeks were tinged red from the cold and he appeared to be out of breath, chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared back at the Cyrus. He was wearing a faded blue hoodie, the basketball printed onto it barely recognisable, and Cyrus couldn’t help the smile that came to his lips.

“Hey,” he breathed out.

TJ gave him a bright smile, seeming somewhat bashful as he reached up to rub the nape of his neck.

“Hey. Sorry, I just got out of practice, but I got your message. How’d it go?”

Cyrus tipped his head to the side at that, taking the boy in for a moment longer. His features were softened slightly by the glow of their overhead lamp. His hair was still slightly damp, presumably from showering, and his eyes were soft as they met his.

“Sorry, it’s just - you came,” he murmured, huffing out a laugh, “I didn’t expect you to.”

“Of course I came,” TJ smiled back, “this is big for you.”

The two looked across at one another for a few long seconds, cool evening breeze gusting over them. The sounds of approaching footsteps broke them both out of their seeming trances, and soon enough Cyrus’ dad was stepping out into the hallway.

“TJ! Hello,” he greeted, a pleasant smile on his lips as he walked forward.

His eyes flickered from Cyrus, who was looking down at the ground, to TJ, who was nervously wringing his hands together.

“Hey, Mr. Goodman!”

His dad stared a moment longer, and Cyrus’ stomach flipped at the realisation that swept over his face.

“Such a gentleman,” he mused, huffing out a laugh as he stepped aside, “you can just call me Jack. Would you like to stay over for dinner? We have plenty.”

TJ looked conflicted for a moment, but eventually, he nodded. “If that’s okay, then that sounds great! I’d just have to check with my mom.”

After sending a quick text, TJ was stepping in and toeing off his shoes by the rack, lingering for a moment by the doorway. Cyrus’ dad flashed them both a knowing look, before disappearing into the living room again. Cyrus turned to the boy again, a visible flush reddening his cheeks.

“It went well. I’m really glad I did it,” he told him, face lit up with a beaming smile.

TJ’s looked fond as he held out his arms, allowing Cyrus to step into them.

“I’m proud of you,” TJ mumbled against his neck, and Cyrus felt himself melt right then and there. He could barely keep the smile from his lips as he buried his face in the fabric of the boy’s hoodie. It smelt faintly of soap, and the usual scent of his cologne. Briefly, he considered the thought of just staying like this forever.

Unfortunately, though, they parted after what was maybe a moment too long.

Butterflies were swarming his stomach as he looked up at TJ, leaving him with an almost dizzying feeling of jitteriness. He cleared his throat eventually, turning towards the doorway.

“We should probably, you know...”

“Yeah,” TJ agreed, somewhat breathlessly.

They traipsed out into the dimly light living room, at the edge of which was their dining table had been set up for five people. With a giddy smile, Cyrus made his way over and settled down in the seat opposite his dad. TJ sat down beside him, and the pair shot each other a confused glance as Sharon began looking between them, much like his dad had just done.

Deep red candles were placed carefully in the centre of the table, glowing in the darkness, and it took Cyrus a moment or two to register that candles were definitely not a normal thing for them at the dinner table. He hastily brushed the thought off.

“Thanks again for this,” said TJ.

Cyrus’ dad waved him off. “No problem! It’s always nice having you.”

In typical fashion, their dinner started out with questions about school, which Cyrus and TJ answered as cheerfully as they could.

“Hey, you guys know how TJ is like, a basketball god?” he asked after a few minutes, eager to change the topic.

He heard the boy laugh softly from beside him. “Well, basketball mortal. I haven’t upgraded to god status yet.”

“You have in my eyes,” Cyrus protested, expression softening at the adorable smile on TJ’s face. He stared, for what was likely a moment too long, before snapping himself out of it. “Um, anyways! Today during lunch break TJ got a perfect basket from all the way across the court, literally standing backwards, on the first go! It was amazing. I could practically feel the power radiating from him.”

TJ shook his head at that, face reddened slightly as he waved him off. “I’ve practised it a few times before-“

“Not today though! See what I mean, guys? He’s a modest basketball god.”

Cyrus’ dad looked on in amusement, exchanging a fond look with Sharon before turning back to the pair.

“That sounds impressive,” he agreed, voice heavy with implications Cyrus really didn’t want to unpack, “I can see why you’re captain.”

“Thank you,” TJ huffed out a laugh, reaching over to place a gentle hand on Cyrus’ shoulder.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere without this guy, though. He’s the best cheerleader anyone could ask for.”

Cyrus beamed at that, taking a quick sip of his water. “I do pride myself on my signs,” he bragged.

“I’m glad those signs are appreciated,” Sharon chimed in, “I swear I see you working on those day in and day out.”

“I’m very dedicated,” Cyrus agreed with a nod, “three sporty friends mean a sign for each of their games.”

The conversation continued on from there, the fireplace still crackling away in the background as they ate. Cyrus felt himself relaxing more with each second that passed, which was a side effect he’d noticed whenever TJ was around. Lately, seeing the boy with Kira never failed in stressing him out and making his throat close up - nothing at all like how he usually felt around him - but he was grateful to have that same peaceful feeling back.

Eventually, Cyrus’ dad asked a seemingly innocent question that had him very nearly choking on his water.

“So TJ, do you have a girlfriend at all?”

After a few moments of spluttering, he managed to recover, flashing everyone a timid smile.

TJ, who had previously seemed relatively relaxed, shifted nervously in his chair. He put down his cutlery with a slight clatter, opening his mouth to respond before closing it again. His eyes never left Cyrus’ as he responded, and Cyrus could feel the air seeping out of his lungs.

“No, I don’t...I’m uh, not really interested.”

Sharon‘s eyebrows shot up at that, but otherwise she nodded and gave him a polite smile. His dad on the other hand, had a knowing glint in his eye as his gaze met Cyrus’.

He blushed, suddenly finding his plate of food to be the most fascinating thing in the room. Luckily, Sharon reverted to asking TJ about how his parents were doing, and the boy was more than happy to fill her in.

They excused themselves after about twenty more minutes, retreating upstairs towards Cyrus’ room. It was dark when they entered, with the warmth from his night light illuminating one side of the room, while moonlight lit up the other.

He walked over to his window, closing it to prevent any more wind from gusting in, before settling down on his bed. TJ followed suit, smiling gently as he crossed his legs.

“You know what I wanna get?” he asked.

Cyrus, who had been somewhat preoccupied with the way the moonlight was currently falling onto TJ’s face, blinked at him for a moment or two.

“Um,” he paused, clearing his throat, “what do you wanna get?”

“A tattoo,” he answered eagerly, hands clasped together on his lap.

Cyrus gave him a confused smile. “A tattoo? What kind?”

“Like...” TJ trailed off, seeming bashful all of a sudden, “maybe an inside joke between just us. Somersault or something, you know?”

“That’s super sweet...apart from the fact that you’re fourteen and tattoos are permanent,” Cyrus told him, clicking in his tongue in disapproval, “stealing a golf cart is one thing, but illegally getting a tattoo is a whole other thing.”

TJ just grinned. “One day, then.”

Cyrus nodded. TJ’s eyes were gleaming mischievously in the moonlight, and he had what was possibly the most adorable smile on his lips to contrast. It made him feel warm but jittery inside at the same time, which proved to be a pretty odd combination. He shifted slightly, eyes never leaving the boy.

“You know...tattoos are permanent, but markers aren’t.”

TJ bit his lip at that, clearly fighting back a smile. “Are you asking me if you can draw a tattoo on my arm?”

“A design, not a tattoo,” Cyrus corrected, getting up from the bed and moving over to his desk. He rummaged through his drawers for a moment, before pulling letting out a triumphant ‘aha!’ as he pulled out a black marker.

His phone, which was still sitting on his desk, lit up with a notification. Cyrus glanced down at it for a moment, before disregarding it and resuming the pop music he’d been blasting earlier, at a reasonable volume this time.

TJ flashed him a smirk as he made his way back over to the bed, sitting across from the boy.

“I’m ready for my tattoo.”

With an eye-roll, Cyrus gave his shoulder a playful shove.

“What design would you like, Sir Kippen?”

TJ hummed thoughtfully at that, looking out at the night sky for a moment as he did so.

“A heart with an arrow going through it, with ‘somersault’ written inside of it.”

Cyrus felt his face grow warm, and he prayed it wouldn’t be noticeable given the low amount of light. He shuffled closer to the boy with a faint smile, chancing a glance up.

TJ’s eyes were warm, and his lips were parted slightly, and now that his hair had dried it looked so ridiculously fluffy. Cyrus had to close his eyes for a moment to redirect his focus.

“Okay,” he murmured, gently taking the boy’s arm and resting it on his leg, “I’m not a professional by any means, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Sparks danced in the air around them, particularly with each point of contact, and suddenly that swarm of butterflies was making a reappearance in Cyrus’ stomach. He took in a shaky breath, hoping to god TJ wouldn’t notice how nervous he was, before taking the lid off of his marker.

He glanced up once more to find TJ watching his every move, and a small smile came to his lips as he set to work.

“Okay, so...I’ll do the word first,” he whispered, voice competing slightly with the upbeat music that filled his room.

Cyrus shuffled impossibly closer, before carefully writing the word ‘somersault’ in cursive on the inner part of TJ’s wrist. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard the boy take in a sharp breath, or if that was just his guileless mind imagining things. Either way, he had to bite back a smile.

“Okay, I think that’s good. Now the heart,” he said, in a murmur this time.

He glanced up again to find that TJ was clinging onto every word that left his mouth. Letting out a breath, he returned to work.

It ended up looking decent in the end, and a strange sense of disappointment filled his chest as he shuffled back to his previous position.

TJ gave him a roguish smile. “I think I just illegally got a tattoo. A very nice one too, might I add.”

“Shut up!” Cyrus giggled, and TJ only narrowly managed to dodge the pillow he aimed at him.

The glow of a street lamp was the only thing to illuminate TJ’s features as the boy gazed back at him. His smile was soft, and his eyes were alight with something Cyrus couldn’t quite pinpoint.

They were stood where Cyrus’ lawn met the pavement, silence filling the air apart from the cars that occasionally passed by.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, bashfully directing his gaze towards the concrete. There were unspoken words there, he knew there were, but neither of them seemed to be ready to acknowledge them just yet.

Instead, they settled in the air, covering them like a blanket with the promise of something more later on. In that moment, it was more than enough for Cyrus.

He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and reached out to place his hands on TJ’s shoulders. His heart was racing all over again.

TJ smiled gently. “Thanks for having me.”

“No problem,” Cyrus returned, acutely aware of the fact that he was currently in the boy’s space. “Get home safe, you rebel.”

TJ laughed softly. “I’ll consider it.”

“You better! We still have that detention, and I’m not suffering through it alone.”

The boy’s expression softened. A pitch black sky stretched above their heads, speckled with burning stars, and Cyrus didn’t think he’d felt so peaceful in a long time.

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

“Good,” Cyrus whispered back.

They lingered there for a moment longer. Cyrus let out a shaky exhale, which he could briefly see in the air.

“I’ll message you later tonight,” he added.

TJ took a step back then, still smiling. “I’ll be waiting. Bye, Cy.”

He turned around and walked away, looking back when he reached the next street light to give Cyrus a wave. The boy smiled and returned it.

At the streetlamp after that, TJ jumped up, tapping his shoes together, and Cyrus let out a giggle that cut through the silence.

He pretended not to notice the knowing looks he received when he went back inside.

#tyrus #tyrus fanfic #andi mack #cyrus goodman #tj kippen #my fics

147 notes · View notes

justrednow · 4 years

Text

A little Winter Fever

warnings: Severe illness, financial insecurity, hospitals, death, minimal editing, swearing, extreme cold, my crappy OCs

word count: 2393

Characters: Smalls. (OC’s->) literally everyone else except Roger I guess

Description: The Bronx newsies are hit hard by winter. Not only can they barely make enough to eat, they find temperatures are rising but not outside. (Sorry for anyone who needs to scroll, I don’t know how to make read more) _____________________________________________________________

Smalls stared at her bag still filled with 20 papers. She looked up to the street, snow danced in the lights from the lamps. It felt like her cheeks were being cut from the blizzard winds. She dropped the 21st paper back into the bag and shoved her ungloved hands into her pockets. The wind grabbed her skin through the thin shirt she had on. It was too early in the day to call it quits on selling, but her feet were numb. Her boots were wrecked, they were new too. she could feel the water seeping into them. She moved into the stoop of a store, to get out of the wind.

She jumped as a man pushed on the door behind her. Smalls quickly moved out of the way as he walked past her. “Care to buy a paper, sir?” She asked desperately. To her delight, the man turned to look at her, almost studied her bright red cheeks. To her dismay, he huffed and scurried out into the winter winds. “Maybe next time,” she whispered to herself.

The day dragged on like that. Hiding and begging for people to buy from her. She didn’t break even on the day like she had hoped. Not even close. She pressed 3 coins in her pocket and trudged back home. She was shivering, her lips were blue and chapped.

Finally arriving at The Bronx lodge, she shook the snow from her hair, tossing the sack of papers to the side. The slightly warmer air welcomed her with the hushed chatter coming from the other room. Smalls glanced at the attendant, lowered her head and kept walking. She owed money for her stay, 14 cents that she didn’t have. She spent it on food for the younger ones. Probably the only reason they hadn’t kicked her onto the streets yet. She traveled into the rec room as it was called. Young newsies ran, oblivious to the winter cold.

Spaniel looked up from her reading, a newspaper that hadn’t been sold. “Someone’s home late.” Her low voice chirped, alerting BlueJay.

Smalls shrugged it off, “it was a rough day.” Spaniel returned her dark eyes to the page. “As you already know, I’m sure.”

“Sure,” the girl murmured. “Didn’t see you at circulation this morning, how much did you take?”

“Only 25,” Smalls plopped herself down next to BlueJay who was sewing away at a loose button. “You?” She nudged him, having expected him to make more of a fuss about her.

“15, I’m not foolish,” he didn’t even look up from his work. “Spaniel didn’t leave today.”

“I did too!” Smalls heard the sound of a paper crinkling as she focused on the frost on the window glass. “But,” the girl stood up as a little newsie tripped over her outstretched leg, “I knew I wouldn’t sell nothing.” the little one, Frog, started coughing. “Carajo! Cover, child!” She stepped away, pulling her shawl closer to her. Frog shrugged and continued playing with the others. “What kept you really? Damn Brooklyn kid’s not dumb enough to walk up here, is he?”

“Someone’s nosy,” Jay chuckled, “it's not like she’s the last one back.”

“She might well be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Smalls sat up a bit more than she had been. “Everyone else is still out there, they’re coming back.”

“No one told you what the paper was?” Spaniel frowned. Smalls hadn’t thought to ask, the week had been so quiet and slow. “Scarlet Fever, all over Manhattan. They go down there, they’re good as gone.”

“No one is dumb enough to go to Manhattan in this weather,” Smalls assured her friend. “If they are...”

Jay nervously pulled at his sleeves. He had made it to Queens, to see his grandmother. Crazy old lady. “Only Manhattan?” He asked. He prayed it wouldn’t reach here. They’d all be dead.

“Right now, yeah. Hospitals are packed, you can’t see a doctor.”

“Speaking of,” Smalls interrupted, “Doc isn’t back. He’s typically here before you.” She shifted uneasily. She never liked talking about illness, it reminded her of...

Spaniel shook her head, curly black hair bouncing unaffected by the winter. “He’s upstairs, resting.”

“Tom?” Smalls frowned.

“He was here, now he’s not.”

Smalls opened her mouth to list off another name but Jay cut her off. “They’re fine, don’t let hyperbole get you upset.” He had already convinced himself not to be worried about this. “Besides someone having a little fever isn’t going to prevent them from coming back to the lodge.” he rested a hand on her shoulder for comfort. “Hypothermia will.”

“Why.” Smalls turned slowly, “why would you say that?”

“He’s an ass,” Roger walked into the room, stomping snow off of his boots and throwing himself down into a chair. “He’s right though, heard they found a kid from Harlem stuck in the snow. Said his skin was ice.” Roger took a breath as he brushed the water drops from his hair. “Wasn’t dead though. Don’t know how long before he did kick it.”

“Again,” Spaniel sighed and closed the door of the room, “ain’t no one dumb enough to stand out in that cold for that long.”

There was a moment of silence around the group. They were dumb enough, if not dumb they were desperate enough. Each thought about how many times they had refused to go back no matter how damn cold they were. The inside of their mouth could have been covered in ice from yelling and nothing would have changed.

More importantly, Roger’s mind wandered to Knot. The kid was 14 and refused to follow him back to the lodge. Roger had given up and left him alone in the cold. That was the wrong call. It took a week to find him, froze to death in an alley next to an apartment building. Roger took the blame, every time it came up. Not that it came up often. But it was hard for him not to when he thought about everything he could have done differently. It was hard not to think about it when the little ones set out on their own and Roger imagined finding their little bodies curled up around a coat they stole.

“Roger,” Smalls repeated for the third time. This time he came too. “Jay’s going to run and get food, want anything?”

Roger wiped under his eyes. They burned but no tears had fallen. “Yeah, whatever they have. I’ll pay you back,” he promised.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jay was already heading out before Roger could protest the idea. Roger glanced at the clock, he became aware of its ticking. “it’s already 6?”

Spaniel looked up at the clock and shrugged. “Guess so.” She began to pick up clutter around the room, shooing the little newsies off to wash up. She tossed the paper into the fireplace, taking a moment to watch it smoke and crumple. After the few books in the whole building had been put back into their basket Spaniel found her way back to her chair.

“I’m gonna go find Tom,” Roger excused himself as the conversation was over.

Smalls chuffed in amusement, “looking for a fight?”

“You know it,” he sighed before ducking out of the room. Smalls watched him go before she began to pull off her boots. Her socks were still wet. She made a noise. She pulled them off and laid them over the fire. Her bare feet were still cold but the carpet felt good, almost soft.

“What are we going to do with him,” Spaniel sighed with a smile as she traced her nail across the frosted window.

“Tom?” Smalls raised an eyebrow as she glanced out into the entrance of the building, “or Roger?”

“Both will get themselves killed,” Spaniel chuckled.

_____________________________

Within the next 2 weeks, seven were sick. Five were little ones: Frog, Jani, Louis, Hop, and Slingshot. The other two were Spaniel and Roger. They were all kept in the sick room. The healthy children started calling it the death room, Smalls almost hit them. Yet they weren’t wrong. They had nothing to reduce fevers, all used up. The only medicine for the illness was in hospitals. No adult was rushing to pay that bill. No newsie had the money.

Instead, they went about their lives. It was never of their minds, though. Who was next to become ill, who would die first? What could be done?

Smalls got back earlier and earlier, she couldn’t stand to be away. She sat in a little wooden chair by the door, listening to the coughing and children crying. She wanted it to be her, just to save one of them.

Jay returned for her when he could. But his own problems arose in Queens. He brought her a chunk of bread from his Grandmothers. “What did she say?” Smalls disregarded the offering.

“She doesn’t like Orphans, Smalls,” Jay let out a long sigh. “Especially street kids.”

Smalls stood up, she was ready to snap. “You’re a street orphan! But we all know that if it was you in that room you’d have a doctor living in the same room as you!” she shouted. “It isn’t fair! She can help them, you know she can!”

“I know...” Jay didn’t need a reminder of anything. “What do you expect me to do that I haven’t already done.” His grandmother was as stubborn as she was rich. “We’d have better luck begging at the doors of a hospital.” Smalls turned to him. “Which we are not going to do because it’s probably a crime in some way.”

“What other option do we have, watch them die?” Smalls spoke again. He turned away. “They are dying, Jay! You can’t ignore that, it’s not going to go away.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to be saying to you right now,” Jay shook his head and pushed the door with his foot, looking into the dark room. Spaniel caught his eye right away. Her usually rosy brown skin was now all rose. She was sweating and shivering. but she managed a smile and a wave to them before throwing herself into a fit of coughing. “Alright, let’s go.”

Smalls pulled the door shut and they headed out. She felt the tear in her boot become soaked with water, but it didn’t matter. She followed close behind Jay as the wind whistled in her ears. Around halfway there she began to think about what would happen if this didn’t work. What were they asking of these doctors? These doctors with other patients who are paying and more important that grungy street orphans. Smalls hugged herself tight as she thought about the five in the room, she coughed instead of crying. Jay spun around.

“I’m fine, we’re almost there, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and slowed down so that they would be walking side by side.

Before long they were there, walking in and moving around the rush. Smalls stared, she didn’t realize how many people there could be. She averted her eyes when she saw a mother holding a newborn with an awful rash. She then turned to an older man and his wife, both nervous looking. Jay pulled her by the arm to the front administration desk.

“We need to talk to a doctor!” Jay demanded.

The lady at the front desk nodded, “yes, I could have assumed that. Are you visiting a patient or admitting?”

Smalls looked to Jay desperately. The answer was neither. They didn’t have a plan, they didn��t bother to make one. “Visiting our younger sister, we are very worried about her.” The lady looked between the two of them, they didn’t look alike. “Last name?”

Jay paled a bit but continued to speak. “Smith.”

She pulled out a book and shuffled some papers. “First name?”

“Mine?” Jay stammered, “or hers?”

“The name of the patient, and if needed the disease they have.” Smalls flinched as she listened, around her people were chattering and coughing and sneezing. It was loud and she was scared.

“Elizabeth, scarlet fever,” Jay answered. 1 out of 100 lies is true. Smalls nodded along. “May we see her doctor please?”

“‘Fraid that’s the only person you can talk to...” The lady tapped on the desk. “She died this morning.” Smalls chocked and Jay bit down on his lip. he imagined the newsies, dead. “Wait down the hall, the doctor will be with you.”

Smalls, in her turn, grabbed Jay by his coat sleeve and lead him down the hall. “Dead.” She echoed.

__________________________

“Alright, I‘m confused...” Dr. Ellsen stared at the two. “You lied to come and talk to a doctor about curing a disease?”

“We just need the medicine, we can take it from there,” Smalls explained. The doctor rubbed his face laughing in dark ironic humor. Smalls looked at Jay who had leaned forward to see what the laughter was about.

The doctor stood up and looked at the pair. “You don’t get it, do you?” He sighed, “there is no cure for Scarlet Fever. If there was do you think half of our wards would be full of crying toddlers right now?” The two said nothing. “You’re brave to come here, but there is nothing to be done.” Jay opened his mouth to say something. “Free advice, you best take it. Keep that door shut and locked. They’ll be dead soon enough. Especially considering how weak you two look, can’t imagine it’ll take long.”

“Your pessimism is much appreciated,” Jay retaliated.

“Try being an optimist after telling a new mother her baby died,” he ushered them to the door. “I’m sorry. No need to waste the money you have here.”

____________________________

By the time they got back to the lodge, they found out that two more had been brought into the sick room. Spaniel somehow looked worse. Smalls entered the room, despite her better judgment.

She sat down on the edge of the bed that Hop was laying in. The child had curled around the thin knit blanket he had been given. Smalls brushed a hand over his sweating forehead. She realized how still he was and gave his cold body a nudge.

Panic swelled inside her as she jumped to her feet, shaking him harder. She looked for any sign of life. “Hop!” she shouted at him, alerting the others in the room. “Hop?” Her voice grew more and more desperate for the six-year-old to wake up. But he stayed in his endless sleep. Within the week half of those in the room would join him.

There is no cure.

#Newsies #angst #Smalls #Scarlet Fever #newsies angst #fanfic

8 notes · View notes

katlyn1948 · 5 years

Text

An Unexpected Journey: Part 14

An Unexpected Journey

Katlyn1948

Chapter Management

Edit Chapter

Chapter 14

: The Seed Is StrongSummary:

Arya and Gendry begin to pick up the pieces of their life and some news bring family together.

Notes:

AHHHH! I am so sorry that this took so long to get up!! I want to fully warn you that this is UNEDITED and there are a lot of mistakes. I have been writing this chapter for the last month and I just really wanted to get it out. I have one more chapter after this then the epilogue. Next chapter will be the wedding and it won't be a long one. I wanted to add the wedding to this one, but like this chapter was just DRAGGING. I was getting frustrated with it and I knew that it was just time to get it out there. Because it is unedited, there are some choppy bits and doesn't flow as well as I would like it to. I do plan on editing the entire story after I get it done, but that may take some time. Anyway, thank you all for your patience and enjoy!!

PS This counts as my AXG Week entry for "Don't Lie to Me," I will be grabbing the bit that I wrote in this story and post it as a stand alone because it can be, I just have to rewrite it a bit. Happy reading!!

Chapter Text

The sun gleamed through the thin curtains, spraying light heat across Arya’s aching body. The events from the previous night had left her sore and tired; her muscles felt like loose mud and the very thought of rising from the soft featherbed annoyed her. She was content on where she laid, with her very stubborn, very alive bull beside her.

He was gripping her tightly, her back to his front. They had fallen asleep like this, drowning so deep into slumber that neither had moved an inch while sleeping. Arya sank deeper into his still sleeping form and embraced the warmth that his body emitted. Although they had been apart for only several days, it felt like years had passed since she had been this close to him.

It was familiar feeling to have him cradle her in such a way and Arya could not help but smile as his hand rested over her stomach. She had not told him yet of the babe, but she was sure he would take the news with joy.

As swiftly and as quietly as she could, she turned her small frame to face his large one. She wanted to see his face while he slept. His eye was swollen still and his breathing was coarse; no doubt from the few broken ribs he had received from his beating by Lord Swann’s men. His lip sported a large cut and his nose was a shade of purple. Gendry had gotten the most beatings during their time captured, and Arya could tell on every inch of his body.

It panged her heart that she could not get to them sooner. Mayhap if she did, she could have spared him a few cuts and burses.

Arya wiggled her arm free from under Gendry’s and began lightly tracing his jawbone. She brushed her fingertips over his face, making small circles around his cheek. The light touches has stirred the sleeping bull from slumber. He cracked his good eye open and saw the face of the woman he loved staring back at him.

There was a comfortable silence between the two as he marveled at her beauty. Her gray eyes bore into his blue ones and her brown hair was disheveled in all kinds of directions. She had a small cut above her lip that was now healing, leaving nothing more than a small scar. Gendry also noticed how her face became rounder and fuller in the nearly four moons that she was had been there. Gendry reached up to brush a fallen piece of hair out of her face and leaned to press a small kiss atop her forehead.

“Good morning.” He said in a weak and groggy tone.

Arya smiled, “Good morning.”

Gendry groaned as he stretched his aching muscles, “Oh, I thought surely this was a dream and I was still held captive by Lord Swann, but alas, here you are wrapped in my arms.”

“Mmm, well I hope I am better company than the arrogant Lord Swann.” She mused as she gave Gendry a long kiss.

Gendry happily returned the kiss and enveloped Arya into a tight hug. He breathed in her scent; the smell wafting his nose with familiarity.

“Thank you, for saving me. For saving all of us.” He whispered into her ear.

Arya pulled back from the embrace and looked into Gendry’s eyes. There were welling with tears as she grasped his face in her hands.

“You do not need to thank me. I would have done everything twice over if it meant that you were safe. I love you and I cannot imagine my life without you in it any longer.”

Gendry smiled, “Good, because I do not think I would be able to give you up as easily as before.”

They laid in bed for a better part of an hour before a small knock stirred them from their embrace. Gendry rolled over and hobbled out of the bed, grabbing onto his side and wincing in pain as he did. His ribs were sore and the maester had warned him that the pain would be debilitating. He groaned as he trudged across his chambers; his feet feeling a hundred pounds heavier.

It took him longer than normal to reach the door and with a quick jest he released the latch and sung open the oak barrier.

Jon was standing in the doorway. He had yet to get used to the idea of his little sister having a man in her bed, but that could be discussed at another time.

He was standing with a tray of sweet bread and honey along with a pitcher of water. Gendry pushed the door open even further so that Jon could enter with ease. He shuffled to the small table in front of the fireplace and set the tray down, grabbing a chair to sit as he did so.

Gendry’s cheeks were flushed red and Arya could not help but smile at his slight embarrassment. This man had survived Gold Cloaks and Wights only to be scared out of his breeches by her brother. It was an amusing exchange as Arya glanced between the two men she loved most in the world. She could see the uncomfortable stance that Gendry was holding as he hesitantly sat across from Jon.

With a groan, she shifted out of bed and grabbed her nearby breeches, pulling them over her hips with a slight jump. They had become tight here of late and she knew exactly why. She drifted towards the table and drooled over the smell of the sweet bread. She was ravenous and could devour a whole cow if they would let her. She took the seat beside Gendry and grabbed a piece of sweet bread from the tray, lathering it up with honey. The bread was warm and smelled as if it had just come out of the hot stone oven. Arya shoved the sweet bread into her mouth and moaned with delight. It had been nearly 24 hours since she last ate and her body was craving sustenance.

“Hungry are we?” Jon questioned as he raised a thick eyebrow in her direction.

Arya grumbled, “I’m ravenous.”

She took another bite of her sweet bread and grabbed her goblet to water to wash it down. Gendry grabbed his own piece and nibbled at the baked good.

“I have received a letter from Dany. Lyra is doing well and has yet to question where you are. I think the twins have been keeping her occupied.” Jon states as he hands Gendry and Arya the letter.

Arya smiles at the sweet words Dany wrote. She jabbed Gendry in the shoulder and said, “I told you she would get along just fine.”

“Yeah, yeah, you were right.” He said as he rubbed her shoulder from her jab.

“Bran also sends his regards. He trusts that you will punish those accordingly.” Jon states.

Gendry swallowed and nodded his head.

“Speaking of…who do we have imprisoned?” Arya questioned.

Jon sat up in his chair. He pulled a piece of parchment from his jerkin and handed it to Arya.

“We have Lord Storm along with several of his banner men. Lord Swann’s sons are being held prisoner. His oldest claims full responsibility on behalf of his dead father, but I doubt he is telling the truth. Most of Lord Swann’s soldiers have laid down their arms, and have sworn fealty to Gendry.”

“Donnel is lying. He never wanted any part in this coup. If anyone deserves to be set free, it is he. As for the other son, I do not really know what his role was. Give the lands to Donnel; he will make an excellent lord.” Arya stated through chews.

“And what about Lord Storm? Is there anyone else who can rule over House Carion?” Gendry asked.

Arya shook her head, “Not that I am aware. As much as I want the man to rot, I do not think we should kill him. According to Rena, he was not a part of the original coup against you. I believe he got a little over zealous and followed a stupid Lord thinking he would get more land.”

“That still does not excuse what he did.” Jon stated matter of fact.

“Of course not, but must the man die?” Arya countered.

“What? The all-powerful Arya Stark does not want a man dead. What is this strange miracle?” Her brother teased.

Arya threw her fork at his head, which he narrowly missed. “On the contrary, Jon. I do not want all men dead. I am just…tired of all the killing and death. I have had enough of it.”

She spoke the truth.

What she did the night before was necessary but the feeling of taking a face had not set well with Arya. She hated that she enjoyed so much; that taking a life was a simple as a snap of the fingers. If was indeed with child, then she did not want them growing up around death. She did not want Lyra growing up around death. There were alternatives for men like Lord Storm and she would see to it that there was another option.

“We could send him to The Wall. If that is still a thing.” She suggested.

Jon scoffed, “Arya, the wildlings man The Wall. A man has not been sent north to take the black since it fell five years ago. Although….we could send him to live among the wildlings. Tormund can reform any man.”

Arya glanced at Gendry and he nodded in agreement.

“Good, that settles it then. We send Lord Storm to Tormund and Donnel can keep his family lands. If his brother was a part of this coup, then send him with Lord Storm. He’d never survive a day.” Arya said as she pushed from her chair. She circled around the table and headed towards the oak door, opening it for Jon to exit the chambers.

“We will be down in a few. Thank you for the food, now please leave.” She said to him as she waved her hand to gesture him out.

Jon chuckled and rose from his seat, giving Gendry a sturdy pat on the back, “We will talk later.”

Gendry gulped and gave a slight nod as Jon exited the room. Arya closed the door behind him, latching it for good measure. She did not want any more unwanted guests to interrupt their morning. She crossed the room and embraced Gendry into a tight hug.

“How long do you think we have until the maester comes to check on my wounds?” Gendry whispered against her lips.

She chuckled, “Not long. Besides, as much as I would love to take you to bed and rip your clothes off, we have to get ready to greet your castle. They have been through a horrific experience and they need their Lord Paramount to reassure them.”

“Don’t you mean ‘our’ castle? You will be their ‘lady’ soon enough, they should hear from you as well. After all, you did just save them.” He pulled back to look her in the eyes.

Arya groaned, “Gods, I hate talking to people.”

“You won’t have to do it much, just this once…and maybe after we marry.” He joked.

Arya scoffed, but could not help but have a smile on her face. The word ‘our’ felt nice against her lips and she truly could not wait to experience that life with the man that she loved.

They stayed embraced until another knock pulled them apart. Arya went to open the door, revealing the maester on his morning rounds.

She let the old man in and he immediately went to assessing Gendry’s fresh, but healing wounds. He applied another layer of salve over Gendry’s lip, protecting the gut from any dirt that may make its way inside the cut. He then began to bind Gendry’s abdomen to help relieve some of the pain from the broken ribs.

Arya watched the maester work on her injured lover and tried to suppress a laugh each time Gendry’s face twisted in pain. She did not take enjoyment at his pain, but rather the faces he made towards the maester every time he would jab something painful on Gendry’s body.

For nearly an hour, she watched the maester work. It was a remarkable sight; she had never actually seen a maester work and the intricacies and dedication that they put into their work was extraordinary.

“How long have you been a maester?” She asked as pressed a cold rag to Gendry’s eye.

“Nearly thirty years. I decided to join just shortly after my 21st nameday.” He responded.

Arya nodded, “So, you have seen quite a bit of things?”

“Aye, I have.”

“How many babes have you delivered?” She questioned.

She knew she was walking on hot coals. She did not want to shout she was pregnant, but more so imply just enough for the maester to understand her and for Gendry to be completely oblivious.

“Thirteen babes. All survived, as well as the mother. Why do you ask?”

Arya sighed. She wanted so badly to tell them that she thought she was pregnant. But, what if it turned out that she was not? She could not help but feel a slight panic rise in her chest. For years, she believed to be barren, but now there was a possibility that perhaps she was not. It was not the fear of not being with child that scared her; it was the disappointment that she would feel if she was not. With as much courage as she could muster she said, “Because, I think that I may be with child.”

Both men has swiftly lifted their gaze to her.

Gendry’s expression was that of shock, excitement, and confusion while the maester showed nothing but concern. He quickly finished up with Gendry and shuffled over to Arya’s side, instructing her to lift up her blouse. With some hesitation, she did as he commanded and the maester immediately went to pressing on her soft, yet firm abdomen. He did not seem to notice the scars that racked her abdomen. If he did, he did not mention it.

“Hmmm, you may very well be. Your belly is firm and there is a slight roundness to it, but it is still too soon to tell. If you are, I can wager that you are maybe three or four moons along. Have you bleed recently?” The maester asked as he finished examining her belly.

Arya’s cheeks turned a bight shade of crimson. She had not talked to anyone; expect Sansa, about her moon bloods. It was an embarrassing topic for her, considering her last bleed was at the age of thirteen.

“I-I do not bleed, maester. I have not bleed since my thirteenth year.” She confessed.

The maester pursed his lips, “No doubt from your physical activities that you’ve endured in your younger years. I have seen it before, especially with young women who do more dutiful tasks than their men do. Not to worry dear, that does not mean that you are not with child. I have encountered at least three other women who did not bleed that had children of their own. Come to me later and I will conduct a few tests to see if you truly carry a babe.”

Arya nodded and escorted the maester out of their chambers. She clicked the door behind him and returned to her dumfounded bull still sitting on the bed with his mouth hung open.

“Why the look of surprise?” She asked him with a smirk and she returned to her chair at the table.

“You are with child? But I thought…you told me…how did this happen?” He stuttered.

Arya chuckled at his utter confusion, “Well, when a man and woman love each very much-”

“Do not patronize me. You know what I mean, Arya.” Gendry interrupted, with slight irritation in his voice. The excitement had worn off, leaving only the confusion and fear.

“I thought you said that you could not bear children. You said that The Waif…what she did to you, damaged your insides.” He looked at her with questioning eyes.

Arya sighed, “I truly thought that I could not. Between missing my moon bloods and the attack from The Waif, I was highly certain that I could not carry a child. I guess I was mistaken.”

She looked over towards Gendry. He is face was still mixed with confusion, but the surprise had now turned to fear. She could tell he was afraid. She was not sure of what, exactly, but it was evident that he was afraid.

“Talk to me. Do you not want this child?” She said in a small voice.

Gendry snapped his gaze to hers. He immediately stood from their bed and made his way to where Arya was sitting. He gently lowered onto one knee and grasped her hands into his.

“Of course I want the child! What would have you think otherwise?”

“You look terrified, Gendry! I thought…well I do not really know what you thought.” She confessed.

Gendry chuckled, “Seven hells, I am terrified! A new born babe is always scary, but we will face it together.”

Arya smiled and pulled Gendry to meet her lips. She kissed him longingly and fiercely and never wanted to let go, but he pulled from her and she suddenly missed his presence.

“Come, the people want to see us and I think we have hidden for far too long.” He said as he lifted her from her chair.

Arya groaned and reluctantly followed behind him.

The descended down the stairs and made their way to the Great Hall. Although the Round Hall would have been a more suitable place to address the loyal liege lords and people of Storm’s End, the wounds of what happened there were still too fresh.

A large crowd had gathered in the Great Hall. Everyone from the liege lords to the housekeepers were accounted for. Even a lowly merchant from the nearby town had made an attendance. Arya was surprised to see such a large gathering, but it was comforting to know that there were still plenty of people that believed in Gendry to be Lord Paramount.

As they entered, Arya noticed that Jon, along with Ser Davos, Lord Archie and his wife, Lady Rena were all seated at the main table atop the large dais. There were two chairs that laid empty, seated right in the middle of the table. Arya and Gendry stepped onto the large dais and took their seats amongst the rest of their party.

Gendry lifted from his chair and cleared his throat before speaking to the crowd before him.

“Thank you all for coming. I know most of you are here to see what will become of those that have betrayed no only me, as their Lord Paramount, but the crown as well. For those who do not know, Lord Swann is dead. He threatened me, my family, and my other liege lords causing me to take action. His own stupidity killed him. As for those who followed him, they have been dealt with accordingly. I know that most of you here felt the tyrannical force that Lord Swann had bestowed these last few days. I can say nothing but thank you. Thank you for your understanding and your cooperation.”

Gendry nodded and the crowd before taking his seat once more. He turned to Arya and smiled, lightly squeezing her thigh under the table. She grasped onto his hand and assured him that he did was what right.

The rest of day was spent speaking to the liege lords and informing them of the pressing matters that did not need to be spoken in front of common folk. Gendry was gone the better part of day, leaving Arya to roam around Storm’s End for the first time in days. She started off by going to the stables. Little Lyra’s horse had been burned with the rest of the dead, leaving only a handful of horses in the stables. Arya was glad to see that horse who have given birth not too long ago, was still kicking, along her babe.

“I am surprised to see you here.” Rena’s voice said from behind Arya.

Arya jumped and turned to see her friend. Her wounds were healing, thanks to the maester, but the glimmer that was once in her eyes were now dulled by the recent events.

“Rena! Seven hells, you scared me.” Arya said as she clutched her chest, trying to ease her racing heart.

Rena chuckled, “Now you know how it feels.”

Arya laughed and looked at her friend. She could tell that Rena was not the same Rena she left just five days ago. This Rena was quiet and reserved and had a weariness to her that Arya was not used to.

“How are you?” Arya asked her after a short period of silence.

Rena scoffed, “The physical wounds will heal, but the mental ones may take longer. What is worse about the whole thing is that my children had to endure it.”

Rena’s voice cracked and she could no longer hold her composure. The tears welled in her eyes and spilled along her cheeks. Her young son would never remember the whole ordeal, but little Ginger had awoken in the early morn with nightmares that plagued her young mind.

Arya could not stand to see her friend in such turmoil. She quickly reached over to Rena and embraced her into a tight hug, letting her own tears weep from her eyes.

Arya knew what it was like to have those mental wounds. Even years after what she endured, there were occasions she would wake in terror. Since she has been in Storm’s End, the nightmares were less frequent, and she likes to think it was because of Gendry.

The two women held their embrace even after their tears were dried. It was comfort for the both of them to have someone who understood what the other was going through. Arya squeezed Rena once more before letting her go. She wiped her tear streaked face and laughed at the fact that the second time she has cried was in Rena’s presence.

“On a better note, I have something to tell you.” Arya said.

Rena perked and Arya saw a glimpse of the old Rena she used to know. “What is it?”

“Well, I am going to the maester later to confirm, but I am with babe.” For the first time since knowing, Arya did not feel embarrassed or hesitant when speaking about her pregnancy. With Rena, it was different. There was an ease when it came to telling her. Perhaps it was because she was a young mother and someone that Arya could turn to if she had any questions, which she was sure she would have.

Rena’s eyes sparkled, and for the first time in several days, Arya saw the old Rena return. She quickly embraced Arya and laughed with joy.

“That is amazing…unless it is not?” She suddenly realized as she let go of Arya.

Arya shook her head, “At first it was terrifying. For as long as I could remember, I never wanted children and there was time where I thought I could not carry them. Then I find out that I may be with child and,” Arya shrugged, “I guess it had to do with who I created that child with. I am not going to lie I am still terrified. I still have some reserves, but I am hoping that you and my sister will be able to help me through that.” She confessed.

Rena gleamed, “Of course I will help!”

The two women laughed and talked for some time before Arya left the stables. Rena stayed behind to watch the horses and Arya thought that with time, she would be the same Rena as before.

The day was nearing an end and Arya had stayed in the stables longer than anticipated. Gendry should have been finished with his liege lords, but that was not the man she was looking for. Jon had stated that he would be headed to King’s Landing come the morn, and she needed to speak with him before he left on his journey.

She wondered the castle grounds until she finally came upon him in the Great Hall. Most of the early morning crowd had dissipated leaving just a few stragglers behind. Jon was seated at the head table munching on stale bread and more often than not, stale ale. She climbed the dais and took a seat beside her brother, who seemed lost in thought.

“Something on your mind, big brother?”

Jon jumped slightly, but chuckled when he realized it was Arya that had greeted him.

“Mmm, everything is on my mind. How’d you guess?” he asked as she shoved another piece of bread in his mouth.

“Because you are brooding.” She stated matter of fact.

Jon scoffed, “I do not brood.”

“Yes, you do. Do not make me ride all the way, to King’s Landing to ask your wife if you brood. I’m sure her answer would be ‘yes.’” Arya laughed.

Jon chuckled. He finished off his ale and turned to face his sister.

For the first time since she had been back from her travels, Jon really looked at Arya. He could see that she was no longer that little girl he had held so close to his heart. She was woman grown taking on responsibilities he never though she would. He could see how mature she had gotten in her time away, and although he hated the idea of her leaving Westeros in the first place, he cannot disagree that it helped her in many ways.

“Why are you staring?” Arya asked after sometime.

“I am just admiring how much you’ve grown in these last few years. I did not see it in King’s Landing, but here, I can tell.” He said as he pushed a strand of hair away from her face.

Arya smiled, “Thank you? I think. So…I hear you ride for King’s Landing in the morning. Are you coming back?”

“Aye, I am. Who do you think asked me to go? I am bringing back the whole troupe.” Jon said with a wide smile.

“Everyone? As in…everyone?” Arya asked, wide eyed.

“Yes, dear sister, everyone. Gendry had mentioned riding up to King’s Landing to retrieve Lyra, but I had a better idea. I think Sansa is tired of the capital and would enjoy an escape. The twins will love it and Bran needs a break from kingly duties. Since I offered to go, Gendry asked me to bring Lyra. It gives you two sometime to yourselves” Jon said matter of fact.

Arya did not miss how Jon mentioned her time with Gendry. She could tell that he still felt uneasy about their pairing and perhaps a little betrayed that Gendry did not mention to him sooner that he knew Arya. It made telling Jon all the more difficult. She knew that he was a man of honor, so his reaction to her being with child is one she does not look forward to seeing.

With a deep sigh and quick clearing of her throat she says, “I have something to tell you.”

“You’re with child.” He said before she could even muster her response.

Arya stared at him with wide eyes. She did not think that it was yet noticeable, but perhaps she was mistaken. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, trying to avoid Jon’s gaze. She could feel his eyes dig into her skin and the lingering silence only made the situation tense.

“How…how did you know?” Arya finally asked after she mustered up whatever courage that was left in her small body.

Jon shrugged, “Gendry told me. ‘Bout killed him when he did. He was not thinking when he told me. Figured you would want to tell me, but it came out in a rush. I think he was just excited.”

“Well if you did not kill him, I certainly will!” She exclaimed.

Jon waved his hand dismissively, “Oh leave the poor boy alone. It was an accident.”

Arya furrowed her brows in confusion. She was oddly surprised at how well her brother was handling the news of her pregnancy out of wedlock.

“And you are okay…with all of this?” She asked as she gestured to her stomach.

Jon sighed, “If I am being honest, no, but I also know that if you did not want it then Gendry’s cock would be cut off. I also know that he loves you and you love him and you two would protect each other to the ends of the earth. As an older brother that is all I can ask for.”

“Thank you. Truly.” Arya said to Jon. She lifted from her chair and embraced her older brother.

He returned the embrace and tried to hold the tears that were threating to spill.

Jon released his sister and watched her sit back into the chair. He finished off his ale and began picking up the remnants of his meal when Arya asked, “Where is he?”

“Who?” Jon inquired.

“The bull headed man that spilled my secret?”

Jon shrugged, “Try the forge. He mentioned a scuffle with one of his liege lords and wanted to blow off steam.”

Arya nodded and watched as her brother departed.

She stayed at the grand table for a short time, munching on whatever left over bread there was. Dinner would not be served in the Grand Hall today, which meant her meal was most likely waiting for her in their chambers.

The sun was beginning to set and Arya had contemplated on going to Gendry in the forge, but the idea of the taste of honey and stew was consuming. Despite her better judgement, she went towards the forge where she could see Gendry hammering away at a hot piece of steel.

She could tell that each swing hurt more than the previous. With his injured ribs, she could not imagine that the task was an enjoyable one. She watched him swing and swing; the sweat pouring down his face. Even with the light breeze of night, the air was still sticky causing the forge to feel like an inferno. Arya could feel the heat wafting from the fires causing her leather breeches to stick to her skin.

Gendry was shirtless, aside from the leather apron that adorned his body. His focus was solely on the steel in front of him. Within the last several years, he had gotten better at drowning out the world around him. He knew that the only place that he would feel content was in the forge, hammering away. It reminded him of simpler times. Albeit, those times were dangerous, but at least he did not have a whole damned kingdom to run.

“I thought lords weren’t supposed to work in the forge?” Arya said as she creeped from the shadows.

Her sudden presence made Gendry jump with fright. He eased once he realized that it was just Arya.

“And I thought that princesses were not supposed to lurk in the shadows.” He quipped as he set his hammer down on the table beside him.

Arya smile and crossed the forge to where he was standing. She wrapped her small frame around his and breathed in deep, basking at the scent he was emitting.

“When have I ever been a proper princess?” She grumbled.

“Never. But when I have ever been a proper lord?” He countered.

Arya chuckled, “Never.”

They remained in silence as she embraced him. She was careful not to hug him too tightly, for his ribs were still bruised and broken.

“So, about Jon.” Arya chimed after some time.

Gendry’s face paled and he shifted uncomfortably in her embrace. He moved from Arya and returned to the fires, stoking them to burn brighter.

“What about Jon?” He asked innocently.

“You told him?” She questioned. He could see from the corner of his eye. Her arms were crossed and her stance was that of annoyance.

Gendry cursed silently under his breath, “Told him what?”

Arya grumbled in frustration, “Stop trying to deflect the question. You told him about the babe, did you not?”

Seven hells

“Mmmm, I do not recall.” He was digging a bigger hole for himself with every word that came out of his mouth. He should have known better than to believe Jon.

I will not tell her you told me, Gendry recalled their conversation. He had scoffed at the proclamation, knowing it was nothing more than a load of horseshit.

“Don’t lie to me, Gendry. It doesn’t look good.” Her hands were now placed on her hips and he knew that he was in trouble.

With a defeated sigh, he dropped his head and nodded, “Aye, I told him, but it was an accident! I swear!”

Arya burst into laughter, making Gendry’s scared expression turn into one of confusion.

“Oh, I know it was an accident. I just wanted to see what you would do if you were confronted. Now I know that you will never be able to lie to me.” She laughed.

Gendry scoffed, “I was never able to lie to you when we were children.”

She crossed the room and gave him a small pat on the chest, “It was a valiant effort. Now, please, come to bed.”

Gendry nodded and leaned down to peck her lips, “As milday commands.”

------------

Jon had left the following morning, leaving the couple to themselves. Although she wanted nothing more than to spend her time with Gendry, she knew that he was still a lord and had lordly duties to attend. She herself tried to keep busy with archery lessons to the small folk that worked in the castle. Most of her students were young women eager to learn the trade. Rena had even decided to learn how to shoot from the famed Arya Stark.

Between her archery lessons, she would practice her water dancing. She wanted to get in as much as she could before her belly swelled, preventing her otherwise.

As the night came, she would trudge up the stairs, muscles aching and stomach growling, only to be greeted with her stubborn bull half finished with his supper.

For nearly a week, they maintained this routine. It was becoming familiar to Arya, yet she still could not wait for her family to arrive. Storm’s End had been rather quiet without little Lyra causing a ruckus. Arya was sure that the little lady was enjoying her time, especially with her new found cousins. She was preparing herself for all the stories that Lyra would be telling her in the coming nights.

When the royal envoy was spotted just beyond the tree line, Arya became giddy. She was like a little girl again, running up to the gates to await their arrival. She stood for nearly an hour waiting for the envoy to enter the gates. Three large carriages came through, each for members of the royal family.

The workers around Storm’s End were scrambling to make the castle presentable. It had been ages since royalty had made their visit, exciting everyone from the young to the old.

Sansa was the first to exit her carriage. Podrick was right behind with their babe nestled in his arms. Arya nearly toppled Sansa over when she ran to embrace her sister.

“It’s good to see you too.” Sansa exclaimed with a chuckle.

The housekeepers began to loosen the trunks from the carriage, taking them to their respective rooms.

“Oh please do be careful with that one.” Sansa chastised to a young girl who had dropped one of her small trunks in the mud. The young girl blushed and nodded quickly as she retrieved the trunk.

Bran was the next to exit his carriage. Meera was close behind, along with Tyrion and, who Arya assumed to be, his wife.

“Lady Arya.” Tyrion bowed as he passed her.

“Lord Tyrion.” She bowed in return.

He and his wife went to stand behind the Lord of Storm’s End as they awaited the exit of Jon and Dany.

Just a few short moment later, the third and final carriage’s door burst open. A mop of brown curls jumped out and immediately ran to Gendry’s open arms.

“Papa! I missed you so! I had a lot of fun with the princesses. They are my new best friends. I cannot wait for Ginger to meet them!” She shrieked as Gendry lifted her up into a giant hug.

Gendry chuckled, “I am sure that Ginger will be enthralled with them.”

Lyra threw her arms around Gendry’s shoulders and hugged him fiercely. It did not take her long to realize that Arya was standing just a few short feet away. She wiggled out of Gendry’s arms and ran towards Arya with a toothy grin.

“Arry! Arry! Where were you?” She asked as Arya lifted her.

“Oh, sweetling, I had to come back her and help your father with things. You were having so much fun that I did not dare bring you back. I’m sorry if I worried you.” She whispered to the young girl. Tears were threating to spill from her eyes. If she had not been able to save Gendry, then she would not know what would happen to little Lyra. She was sure that her family would protect her, but there was the chance that Lyra would never truly be safe.

“‘sokay.” She shrugged. She quickly placed a snotty kiss on Arya’s cheek. Arya smiled and hugged her tightly, taking in the faint smell of lavender and coal that the child emitted.

She placed Lyra down and Lyra immediately when bouncing back to the carriage where Jon and Dany had finally emerged, their twins as their heels. Lyra grasp each of the twin’s hands and pulled them from their parents, running off towards the Great Hall.

Arya smiled as she saw the young children depart. She turned towards Jon and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thank you.” She released him and turned her gaze to Dany, “Both of you.”

“I do not mean to interrupt our greetings, but we have a wedding ceremony to plan.” Sansa intervened.

Arya’s eyes widened and she glanced over to Gendry, whose face was full crimson.

“What do you mean?” Arya slowly asked as she looked around the courtyard at each of her family members.

“I told you it would be a surprise.” Jon had said from behind her. She shot him a glare before turning gaze to Gendry.

I am going to kill him.

#Arya Stark #Gendry Baratheon #original house baratheon children #gendry/arya #Arya/Gendry Children #Arya/Gendry #axgweek #about time #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #Sansa Stark #Podrick Payne #Tyrion Lannister

7 notes · View notes

yeoldontknow · 6 years

Text

Kilig

Author’s Note: happy birthday @imdifferentshadesofpurple <33 i love you so much. i know weve been talking about this fic since christmas and ive not been able to work on it. but its the mark of your dreams and i love you! mork <3 ↳ Kilig (n. Tagalog): the unstoppable sensation of joy or elation experienced when intensely, madly falling in love; the sudden feeling of inexplicable joy when something romantic occurs Pairing: Mark Tuan x Reader (oc; female) Summary: You’ve weathered so much in your relationship with Mark, and still he makes you twitterpatted. But when you’re moving in together, and choosing the right home to start your life, you start wondering if things will ever feel the same again. Genre: fluff; romance; domestic au Rating: PG-13 Warning: implied sex Word Count: 2,554

For as long as you’ve known him, Mark has told you he loves you with all of him.

The ways have been endless and numerous, sometimes imperceptible to the untrained eye, but for you, they have always been obvious.

It started with this eyes, the way they would find you in a crowded room, seeking you and your shape as a comfort. Without looking, you could feel them on you, a sensuous sort of touch that called you to him and made your skin hurt wherever he was not felt. And when you did dare to meet his gaze, let yourself fall with him, it was the way they were open wide and swimming. Too many colours seemed to pool and gather in his irises, bewildered by you as he was and taking on all the light in the world just to see you in perfect focus.

Then, it was his lips. This is when the ways became both simple and complex, a paradox of sentiment that took you weeks to untangle. His tongue seemed to handle the word differently, gave shape to love as though he were sculpting a monument meant to outlast humankind. To him, the word was delicate, though it was only a fragile thing when it was given to you, asking you to hold it with him, and to cherish it. He spoke the word like it were feathers, but he kissed it on you like wildfire, reckless and with abandon, and demanding that you burn with him.

On you, there was not a single place his lips did touch or taste, greedy in the way he consumed you and unforgiving in the way he weathered you down.

Lastly, came his hands. The holiness of his hands washed over with delay, slowly and overtime, and without the dedication of your thought. Only when you realized he touched you as though you were something sacred, gentle but with the whole of his hand, did you think back on all the ways he had handled the totality of you. In the early days, he clutched your hand as a cross, fingers to your knuckles and unwilling to be parted from you. The flat of his palms rested against your cheeks as he kissed you, holding your head and holding you to him, fending off the oncoming separation with prayers against your skin.

But these were nothing to the way his fingers traversed your spine, your thighs, your breasts, tracing scripture into your pores and hoping they etched into the bone. Nightly, he carved commandments into you, let his love spread until his name and his essence was a mark upon your ribs. It was the same for him, you knew, the way your hands gripped his shoulders and slithered down his back as he moved in you - your touch had been sweared into his spine, a permanent reminder at the base of his cerebellum that dictated his choices, his thoughts, his speech.

You called this unity. He called you his soulmate. Together, you knew it was love.

For as long as you’ve known him, Mark as told you he loves you with all of him.

But now, searching for a home in which you will start your life, the love he gives seems only to be directed towards you and not your future, and you don’t know whether to be offended or exhausted.

Choice was never his strong suit, backing away from options with raised hands and a cock of his eyebrow. It is not that he didn’t have opinions, it’s just that his were never as loud as others, and so he never learned to argue. In choosing you, he is vocal, adamant and determined, and his perpetual choice of you, he felt, absolved him of all the rest.

You thought, perhaps, this would change after four failed house showings and one apartment, each more special than the last. But with each, he seemed only to withdraw further, shrugging at things you felt were important and being vocal about insignificant things, unremarkable things that could be changed.

Today, on your fifth house showing, he stands in the living room admiring the design on the ceiling with a scowl. Arms crossed, he furrows his brow and pouts his lips, aloof and somewhat bored.

‘Mark.’ You say his name in the hopes of bringing him back to you and receiving his focus, but instead his gaze remains fixed. ‘What do you think of the mantle?’

Unmoved, he sighs before speaking. ‘Do you think the circles were what they wanted?’

Thrown by his question, you blink at him before raising your gaze. ‘Probably? It’s in the final design, so I’m sure it was approved.’

‘It just looks so unfinished,’ he muses, turning to assess the design behind him. ‘Like wouldn’t they have wanted squiggles...for a ribbon.’

‘We can ask the development manager…’ Your statement fades as you search the pamphlet handed to you at the door, seeking a name. On each page, housing designs and templates greet you, all modern and extravagant, and with customizable kitchens. It says nothing about the ceiling.

‘I’m not saying we have to change it,’ he says, turning to look at you with a small, half smile. ‘Just would be hard to change if we wanted to.’

Briefly, you glance between Mark and the ceiling as you chew the inside of your cheek. Handling Mark when he’s like this is delicate, not because he is tempestuous nor volatile, simply because matching his aloofness will lead him to believe you are not serious - about this home, or any. One, poorly timed comment will send you back on another search and, while it is not that you are serious about this home, it’s merely that any home with him would suffice. And thus, this search has been overwhelmingly tiring.

Every home you have seen has been beautiful, modern, and delightfully within budget. This is a rarity, a magical experience in which choices are abundant and all are wonderful, and so you would be happy with any if he were happy at all. Instead, he’s placid, unmoved by any one house, liking things in one and hating the same in the other, difficult only because he maneuvers around choice.

But this is the first time he’s used the word “we,” implying an us in the space and a future existence. And so you are careful, clutching this word to your chest and hoping it does not sprout wings of hope.

‘Is this,’ you begin slowly, taking a step towards him, ‘something you would want to change?’

Shaking his head, Mark keeps his expression even and placid. ‘No,’ he says, simply. ‘Just saying, it’s hard to change.’

With a sigh, you close your eyes and count to ten.

Staring at the door to the master bedroom, rather than viewing the room’s size and scope, Mark hums. ‘These doorknobs are brass.’

From your position in the entry to the en-suite, you turn your head and regard him. Hands shoved in his pockets, he looks a little lost, and you hate that it makes you smile. ‘Yes,’ you offer, keeping your voice neutral, ‘but that’s much easier to change than a ceiling pattern.’

Mark glances up at you, somewhat aghast.. ‘Why would I want to change these?’

Once again, you find yourself dumbfounded. ‘Brass tarnishes easily.’ Pressing your finger into the knob, you pull it back after a moment to reveal the very clear impression of your print. Satisfied, you regard him patiently, as though this should be enough - the clear display of finger oils eating away at the smooth texture.

‘It gives the house character,’ he says, finally, still studying your fingerprint.

And this is what does it, what sends frustration and irritation to the center of your throat like bile. ‘These give it character?’ There’s a sharpness in your voice you know you will soon come to regret, but the way it feels on your tongue is a release you did not know you wanted to caress. ‘Not the mantle and the enormous fireplace?’

His head snaps up to meet your gaze, eyes searching your expression. ‘When have you ever seen brass knobs in a modern house?’ he tries, tone playful in the efforts of keeping you calm.

But still, you do not give in. He’s had so much of you, you think, and it is unfair he keeps this stage of your life at an arm’s length. ‘These give it character?’ you snap, fully rooted in your anger. ‘Not the mirror over the kitchen sink that faces the picture window to the yard.’

Taking a step back to fully appraise you, he regards you with a soft, worried expression. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Not the crown molding or the built in bookcases?’ you continue, unable to stop now that the flood has been unpinned from your lips. ‘But these, the ugly brass doorknobs, give it character.’

Several seconds pass in which you savor the silence, so unlike the quiet that usually falls between you. This is not the calm silence of knowing your lover enough to know their thoughts, the comfortable silence of partners in which words fail and somehow seem insufficient. This is the silence of realization and understanding, the silence of awareness that this may be your first real fight, and while it would never be enough to break you, it is enough to remind you that love takes commitment, even when commitment is hard.

‘Hey, what’s -’

Mark’s words are cut off as you spin on your heels and walk briskly out of the house.

Immediately, you know it will not be this one, and as you push through the front door a spiteful laugh rises from your throat. At least one choice has been removed, though it is not because there was any particular flaw. Sadness constricts your chest, and you are unsure if it is because you did really like this home or if it is because you have liked all the others, too, and you are unsure you will ever find a home with Mark or if he is just coming with you for the ride.

‘Baby.’

The deep intonation of his voice makes you release a heavy sigh, eyes wide as you cock your head back to stare at the sky.

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

At once, you feel him behind you. His eyes, and now the heat from his existence, attuned to it as you are, as though he were magnetic.

‘No,’ you shake your head, keeping your back to him. ‘I’m mad at you.’

At this, he laughs, the sound rich and full, the chocolate you always find yourself craving, and it takes work not to turn to face him, and to see his skin in the sun of high noon.

‘You can be mad at me, but I’d like to know what you’re mad about.’ He takes a few steps towards you, his head radiating into your back. ‘I think that’s only fair.’

Keeping your gaze straight ahead, unwilling to turn or see him because it means you will cave, you sigh. Crossing your arms, you scowl, pretending he can see you. ‘It was your idea to move in together.’

‘I know.’

Digging your heels into the earth your purse your lips. ‘So why don’t you want to?’

‘What?’ he asks, sounding alarmed.

The worry in his voice is real, surprised, and you know you have been unfair. He doesn’t know he’s being difficult, almost never does - so self-aware in every instance except for this - and it’s cruel of you to let him panic.

Turning to face him, you see the way his hands clench at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you. Still, you hold your ground. ‘You fight every house and find random things wrong with it, or pick the most bizarre things just because you don’t want to be involved in the choice.’

‘You think that’s what I’m doing?’ he asks, cocking his head to the side in concern.

‘Isn’t it?’ you laugh in disbelief. ‘You do that with dinner. You shrug every time I offer a choice and you tell me to pick. You let me pick what we watch on Netflix -’

‘But I like what you pick!’ he exclaims.

‘Okay,’ you shrug, shaking your head, ‘but I don’t want to choose anymore.’

‘That’s fine!’ Mark’s laugh is airy, unlike its usual texture. ‘I can pick the next show we watch.’

‘No, it’s not Netflix!’ You don’t mean to shout, but you’re tired. Tired of feeling like you don’t have a partner, and sick with the feeling that, somehow, you don’t have him. ‘It’s everything. I don’t want to be alone in choosing our home.’

At your words, he blanches, the colour fading from his skin even in the sun. ‘You think I don’t want to pick a house?’ he whispers, delicate in the way he handles his words.

‘Clearly, you don’t.’

‘I can see how it would come off that way, and I’m sorry.’ At once, he reaches for you, unable to hold back the need to touch you. He gathers you into his arms, burying his nose into your neck to take the smell of you in, deep into his lungs. ‘Really, I am. I thought you knew.’

‘What are you talking about,’ you murmur, immediately letting your guard down at the feel of his muscles beneath your hands.

Pulling back just enough to see you, he cradles your cheek with his palm. ‘Picking the house is so...not a concern of mine.’

In protest, you open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off.

‘Listen!’ he laughs, eyes wide and imploring you to be calm and to be patient. ‘Picking the house is not a concern because you are my home. As long as I’m with you, I am home. We could be in a hotel or a shed or a mansion, I don’t care. Okay, maybe I care about the mansion because that’s a crazy electric bill, but I don’t care where it is as long as I’m with you. I found home a long time ago, so when I bring up random things on house showings it’s because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Your heart is my home, and it’s the only place I want to be.’

Once more, silence falls between you, but this is the silence in which he tells you he loves you with all of him. The penetrative way he holds your stare moves you, makes you feel him once more taking root in your heart, holding it with his palm instead of your cheek. Silently, his lips shape the words “I love you” over and over, until he stops to smile, knowing that your soul has heard him where your ears could not. And last, he keeps you in his hold, hands burning with the knowledge that being separate from you is painful, terrible, and like this you know he is right.

Neither of you are truly at peace without the other, and so it should not matter what roof shelters you, for you will always shelter each other.

‘Goddammit, Mark,’ you laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder.

‘What now?’

‘You got me so emotional, I’m considering the brass knobs.’

#mark tuan x reader #mark got7 #kpopwonderlandtag #kwriterskollection #noonanet #got7 scenario #got7 fanfic #got7 au #mark tuan fanfic #mark taun scenario #mark tuan got7

280 notes · View notes

onewhoturns · 6 years

Text

pt 8 - Harbinger

I know, it’s been a while since the last chapter went up. Well, in case you forgot: here’s chapter 7. Or start from the beginning on AO3. Or part 1 on tumblr. As always, credit to @kaldwinqueen for writing the Outsider; I wrote for Emily & Corvo.

Here’s a big ol’ plot bomb for you, feel free to leave a comment here or on AO3 letting me know your thoughts. Hopefully you have many.

They ate efficiently in the room darkened by heavy curtains drawn closed with the sobriety of their intended conversation. After all three had had some sort of sustenance, and Corvo had gotten a good look at the unfinished report, it came to discussion time.

“There was another death at the Academy. A student.” The Royal Protector’s voice was low, somber. He was staring at the table where he curled a napkin into a tight spiral. There was an ominous tone to his words. “They were in possession of a replica of the Heart.”

Emily’s own heart lept to her throat, and she very nearly choked on the water she’d been drinking. A moment of spluttering and then she managed to speak, her voice high and tight. “There’s a replica of the Heart?”

“Not anymore there isn’t.” Corvo grimaced, still not taking his eyes from the fabric on the table.

Emily flexed her hands nervously as she tried to calm herself. No, of course not. And even if there was, it wouldn’t be the same. Silly of her, to let that flash of hope perch even briefly in her chest. She’d had her closure months earlier, saying goodbye to that last scrap of her mother. It was a gift she never could’ve imagined, that chance to make her peace, and yet as soon as the idea was even hinted at that she might speak with her mother again — Emily had lunged for it. And she wasn’t happy about that.

No, the Heart her father spoke of would’ve been something else entirely. It may not have held a spirit at all. Just the cogs and wires that could simulate a beat. ...A disgusting, morbid thing.

She still felt ill at ease. Mostly put off by her own visceral reaction to the thought.

“...And there are storms coming.”

The way he said it, she was sure he couldn’t mean the standard rain or thunderstorms. Her silence prompted elaboration.

“Sweeping in from Pandyssia. And reports from the Eastern Coast claim it’s… off. Unnatural. Though I suppose all reports of the ‘unnatural’ from Whitecliff should be taken with a grain of salt…”

Oliver listened intently, but he always did. His features twisted in concern, eyes flickering between them. He was contemplating, his gaze shifting around the room as if desperately searching for an answer in the air before him. Had he been in the Void, perhaps it would have worked exactly like that. Perhaps he wouldn't need to put all of the pieces of the puzzle onto a table and assemble them shard by shard. What was worse was that they were missing edges and corners, the ensemble was incomplete, they didn't have the full story.

Hearing about the heart again made his chest tighten and he recognized that feeling as guilt. He could remember haunting Pierro Joplin's dreams, influencing him to sew together flesh and sinew, mold it with metal and wire until it was part mechanism and part living, merging into one abominable amalgamation of love and torturous confusion. He remembered the day the empress' voice carried through walls of thumping skin, when she spoke to him with such kindness and warmth as if coddling a child. Even then, at his worst, he could feel her warmth through layers of ice that coated the whisper of humanity he still had.

He wanted to tell Emily so many things. He wanted to rake his fingers through her hair and reveal to her all of the secrets in the world. But he had a job to do. And hopefully, a whole life ahead of him.

He stood suddenly, from his seat at the fireplace, pulling the map of Isles off of the wall and prying it out of the frame hurriedly. His movements were sporadic because for once he wasn't planning them or compensating, not three steps ahead of himself. Not paced or stiff-backed. He laid it out on Emily's desk, knocking several items to the floor but not seeming to care.

"The Void is, in its most rudimentary form, an immense mass of raw, undirected, cataclysmic power," he explained, his voice lower, losing the sharp edges, the sultry undertones. "Without a representative, there is no means of translating that energy into the world. There is no connection, no common ground in which it can safely tamper with society and the direction that fate takes. Which would be acceptable if not for the gaping cracks in the world where oblivion seeps into reality, dripping down the walls like muddy rainwater on a stormy night. The Void is-" He was drawing on the map, taking the files that Corvo had set down and beginning to mark locations down hastily.

"The Void is a storm. The Void is a fearsome entity clawing its way into the realm of the living without realizing that there is no balance between these two domains. The Void is alone and some might even say that it is angry, hungrily devouring any life that it can take and snuffing out candles in the night — blotting out the moon and the stars, the clouds in the sky and leaving nothing but nothing in its wake, it is-" He furrowed his brows, eyes widening, locks of hair falling into his face as the picture became clearer.

"...starving," he whispered, staring down at all of the incidents. "...Did you know," he slowly stood straight and his brows furrowed, "six out of ten students that attend the Academy of Natural Philosophy are deeply intrigued by the nature and composition of the Void?" He glanced up at the two of them, swallowing softly, all too aware of the cluster of marks.

Still, he felt the other even when he wasn't looking, even though it wasn't marked on the map. The notch in the hills where the mines were rich with silver and the grounds were tainted with the blood of the innocent. He tried not to look there, though. He'd put his past behind him.

Emily was rather taken aback by the surge of motion, and as he moved and spoke she felt a thrumming in her very bones — a creeping dread, a chill that seemed to approach from the east, racing faster than the storm. Cataclysmic power. She’d been in the Void, and there she’d experienced its electric tension, this feeling that it was always ready to strike even when things seemed slow or frozen. There was an energy that hung in the air and inhabited every slab of stone, silent screams condensed to an eerie hum. The dreams had only added to her wariness of the place — the thing. No, not wariness: terror. The purest form of fear she had ever experienced.

“Are you implying that this storm has been… summoned? Called here by students?” Corvo’s brow was furrowed, and Emily shared his confusion, though she found it hard to concentrate on his words.

Her mind buzzed angrily, a series of questions and anxieties, and as she closed her eyes to take a deep breath, calm herself, she could’ve sworn she saw the storm itself for a brief moment. She didn’t jump, muscles tensing and holding her body still despite her surprise, but her eyes had opened again in an instant. She wanted to reach for him - slip off her gloves and weave fingers with his, chase off these chilling thoughts - but that wouldn’t solve anything.

Ignoring her father’s question she flexed gloved hands and asked, “What can we do? How can we prepare?”

“There has to be a person causing this, or a group — a cult? Another group like the Eyeless? If we find them, maybe we can stop this.” Corvo spoke logically, but she knew there was no logic to the Void.

Oliver went to answer Corvo's question but his eyes darted to Emily's form, the way she shuddered and looked away, clearly uncomfortable, clearly conflicting with herself. He furrowed his brows at the sight and quickly composed himself. Becoming unhinged was not an option, he knew Emily was a very empathetic person, whether she realized it or not. The last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her stresses.

He stepped forward away from the desk, sitting beside her once more at the small table that'd been brought in for their breakfast. His hand found hers, settling over it carefully. It was a subtle gesture, but the least he could do was let her know he was there. "No the students aren't summoning it... Not knowingly. The last remaining cults teeter off the edges of society, loose and hopeless. The Eyeless were the most prominent - the most funded - without them in power anymore, the other cults are dwindling in numbers. Natural philosophers will travel far and wide, to the outermost reaches of the empire and beyond to retrieve information that might better their understanding of the world and its workings. They seek knowledge, not power. Conquering the Void is not their aim, instead it is rather to comprehend something incomprehensible."

Oliver sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking a moment to think before speaking again. "So they surround themselves with artifacts and trinkets they find scattered around the Isles, my Mark carved into their ancient surfaces. Names have power and I believe the two of you understand that far more than the vast majority. In this case, the saying is quite literal. My runes and bonecharms provide the Void with tiny cracks in the slab from which it may spill out into reality. Typically, I could control that. I was its mediator, the one who directed the power, the one who determined who would act as the windows between worlds as to keep it at bay. But now the Void is empty, desolate, with no consciousness to be at one place at one time, no representative to speak for its vast, benign plains."

His hand eased some of her tension, but not nearly as much as she’d like. Emily closed her eyes, wanting to wrap herself around him as she had that horrible night — but this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t the Void in her mind, these were the facts of the world. She shook her head, blinking her eyes back open even as the ice in her bones spread. Six in ten. Curiosity that welcomed the Void, tried to explore it — it wasn’t something they could just stop. The Abbey had been trying for centuries, and what good had it done them? Her head cocked to the side for a moment, though her hope was slim. “What about the music boxes?” It wouldn’t stop the storm - she doubted anything could - but maybe if they applied strategic placement they could prevent a death or two. Weaken the ties artifacts held to the Void. But no, that would cause an uproar. Her reign had been particularly generous with the Academy, particularly fond of invention and study, perhaps a bit too lenient on heresy in the halls of scholarship; an invasion like that would anger a lot of people. Important people.

Drawing away from his comforting grasp, she found her head in her hands, incredibly weary. She wouldn’t ask for comfort, as much as she wanted it. She was drawing into herself again. She had to endure this, she had to be strong — the figurehead of the Empire. Her face went smooth, stony, chin rising as her hands folded neatly in front of her. No time for self-pity. No time for moping. It was time for planning and action.

He thought again, piecing things together in his mind, struggling to pull apart the information he had to work with and assemble some kind of answer. But he knew far too well how difficult it was to explain something as ambiguous as the Void. "Music boxes wouldn't work the way you'd like them to. They might distort the Void, but really, all they can do is fracture the intimate bond between a Marked and the energy that leaks through the Void and into them. They do not banish the Void completely, that would be impossible. What the Void seeks is equilibrium: as above, so below. It needs a counterbalance. Otherwise it would just swallow the world completely."

Oliver stopped when he caught sight of her movements, not continuing. His eyes flickered over her form and though he was obviously concerned, there was something else gleaming in his gaze. A mixture of things - admiration, yearning, desire - brows knitted together against his forehead. She was so resilient, even when the odds were against her she held her chin high, she spoke with voice unwavering, a tongue so sharp it could cut through diamonds. It was baffling, how someone so incredibly strong inside and out could be reduced to breathy moans and hushed desperation.

He was so lost in thought that the moment itself escaped him. He memorized her features, her jawline, her neck still faintly discolored by the force of his lips, her almond eyes and carefully shaped brows, the raise of her cheek bones, the bow of her lips. Everything in the wavering light of candles and a dying fireplace. Gorgeous. She was the most graceful creature he'd ever laid eyes on, like a roaming feline on the golden plains of the Pandyssian continent. She never fit in amongst nobles, her features too bold, her movements too methodical; she was a gem amongst rubble.

Emily stared at steady hands as she listened, distantly wondering if she might turn to stone herself if she stayed still enough. Would it be a relief, to be stone as Corvo had been? He never talked about his time trapped as Delilah’s statue. She’d never felt brazen enough to ask. She knew it hurt him to speak of those days - of his failure as Royal Protector - and it wasn’t necessary for her to see the pain twist his features for her sake.

She focused on her breath, counting as she breathed in and out, letting his words enter a calm mind. Balance. That made sense. The Void needed a touch of their world as much as their world needed a touch of the Void. All things in equilibrium. It lacked a counterbalance.

…So they needed to provide one.

She wasn’t happy about the prospect, but could had to wonder of Corvo’s feelings on the matter. She glanced to her father to find-

He stared at the man beside her, mouth in a tight scowl. But not in concern. He looked angry. Or just… thoroughly irked. Glaring furiously. She turned as well, even as Corvo cleared his throat vigorously, only to find a pair of pale green eyes dazedly staring at her... neck?

She felt a slight blush creeping from her chest, and adjusted the fabric against her skin, pursing her own lips as she quickly looked away. And they’d been doing so well.

Corvo cleared his throat again, louder, and she shot her own glare at him.

“Father, I thought we already discussed this-” Her tone was warning, but it didn’t do much good.

“Let the man defend himself, Emily, he’s not your pet — stop treating him like one.”

She felt affronted. How dare he. Her mouth opened to say something, but she felt at a loss for words. Corvo hadn’t even spared her a glance, his eyes still trained on Oliver. Words raced through her head, perching on her tongue, ready to call her father out for the way he was treating Oliver — the way he was treating her.

The clearing of a throat didn't reach his ears the first time. He wasn't focused on her neck itself so much as the entirety of her. He wanted to capture her where she stood. While he still had the privilege of doing so. It was only when she spoke up against her father that he snapped out of his reverie. His eyes shot towards Corvo, the look in his eyes almost venomous.

He spoke before she could, "I favored you Corvo Attano, when the streets ran with muddied waters and scattered limbs gnawed by plague rats. I gifted you with the ability to change the tides of fate and save Emily Kaldwin from perverse nobility and asked for nothing in return. I respected the rules you set in place, I acted accordingly from the moment I stepped foot into the tower and had I not met Emily by pure chance and chance alone, I would not have sought her out before you granted me permission. Now I am not asking, I am demanding that you, and please pardon my language, get the fuck off my back. I am not younger than you, I am not your subordinate, you may be Royal Protector, but I am four thousand years old, and excuse me for being so bold but I think I am a damn fine candidate to court your daughter so long as she, an adult might I add, is consenting," he snapped, brows furrowed dangerously, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were turning white.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have held his tongue. But now he knew what had to be done. He knew exactly what was necessary to stop all of this. Which meant ultimately that the life he envisioned would never come to fruition. He wouldn't learn by experience, he wouldn't taste all of the flavors life had to offer him, suffer blissfully through the mundane hardships of the average man. Most importantly, he wouldn't be growing old with Emily, as he had imagined himself doing, regardless of whether or not they were romantic. He just wanted to be at her side, he yearned for her presence. If he bored her and she took another suitor, he would accept that. But what he could not accept was that even after all of these years, Corvo hadn't shown the slightest bit of gratitude, or at the very least, some form of respect.

He didn't want to be treated like a god, revered or given special treatment. But he wanted to be treated like an equal. Frankly, he had no idea what Corvo had against him. Part of him suspected it was the dogma of the Abbey, another part of him felt something indescribable. An emotion that nestled between guilt and sorrow. He knew things, like the locations of hidden treasures, the great adventures of lost heroes, or the lonely life of the Royal Protector who still hadn't taken on another romance after the deep intimacy he shared with Jessamine. Who's only reason to wake up in the morning was the future of his pride and joy, Emily Kaldwin.

Emily’s brows shot up and she turned undeniably surprised eyes on Oliver as he spoke. She… hadn’t been expecting that. In the least. She found a small smile coming - unbidden - at his choice of language, and she bit her lips to keep them closed, though the lift in them was still evident. As he went on, she found herself oddly proud of him. Some smug part of her was reminded of her own sentiments; he didn’t need Corvo’s permission, he needed hers. There was a long tense pause. She found herself gazing at him in wonder for a moment before glancing to Corvo for his response.

He had a wry smile on his lips, eyes alight, and when he spoke it was to Emily, though his eyes only flicked away from Oliver briefly, his voice no gruffer than usual. “As I said… Let him defend himself.” He didn’t seem angry. If anything, he looked affirmed, as though he’d been waiting for such a response — though there was certainly a touch of amusement in his expression, even if no one but Emily would be able to spot it.

She wondered if he had wanted such a reaction — not necessarily an outburst, but perhaps just some push back. A curious part of her wondered if it was some kind of test. After all: Emily herself was often quite adamant. Maybe he wanted Oliver to prove he could stand up in the face of someone as intimidating as the Royal Protector. She had, admittedly, been a bit blindsided by his assertiveness. ...Maybe she had been a bit… over-protective.

Corvo finally looked to her pointedly, raising an eyebrow, but didn’t respond to Oliver. And it seemed he didn’t plan to.

Her eyelids twitched a moment as she resisted rolling her eyes, running her tongue over the back of her teeth to keep her childish exasperation from voicing itself. “...Well.” Her voice held just a touch of sarcasm. “If you don’t mind, my time is limited. Can we return to the matter at hand?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead looking down at her hands, her voice with a forced casual lilt. “If possible, I’d prefer not to sentence some poor human to thousands of years of torture and torment. Aside from the cruelty of it, there’s also no way to guarantee they’ll be… well… not Delilah. Do we have alternatives?”

Admittedly, he hadn't seen that coming. His emotions clouded his foresight and judgment, especially when Emily was involved. He sat back and let out a small sigh, eyes flickering to her when she finally spoke and broke the awful, somewhat awkward silence that'd fallen between them.

He felt like a weight had been lifted. Though not nearly as heavy as the burden of most likely having to return to the Void, it was at the very least comforting, He was grateful — for both of them, for Billie Lurk, and even Daud, the whispered name still lingering in his ear, against the length of his neck. The breath had been cold, it smelled like wet stone after a rain in the Month of Harvest.

In these few days, if he'd learned anything, it was to respect himself. Though perhaps he was a less suitable candidate for courting now that he was probably sentenced to another several thousand years in a vast, boundless oblivion. The thought made his stomach turn, made his fingertips ache and twitch just faintly. His mouth was dry, his throat was tight. He visibly tensed as though his father's hand were there, lingering and threatening to fall against his cheek until he saw red. He pushed past that, though.

Months ago, he would have rather slit his own throat than step foot in the Void ever again, the mere thought alone sent him into a trembling stupor. But now? Knowing that he had to, knowing it was a necessity, well aware that there wasn't much time left, there was no other choice.

"... The solution is perfectly clear Emily. There were eight that I marked, connected to the Void by the tether I tied to them. Touched by another world. One of them could take my place, but this is my choice. I am choosing not to subject another to the cruelties of that existence, it's simple... I'll return. The balance will be restored, the Abbey will have its whipping boy, the cogs of the universe will turn as though brand new, perhaps even better than before... And you will be the best empress the Isles have ever seen." He spoke evenly, despite the tension building, despite his eyes that flickered away from the conversation or the way he twiddled his thumbs beneath the table.

Emily stared at him, her brow furrowing slightly, looking mildly confused. She blinked.

“No.”

It wasn’t said vehemently, or passionately, just spoken as though correcting someone who’d just claimed the sky was yellow. And she was correcting him. Because what he said was obviously not true. He said eight. Her, Corvo, Daud, Delilah, and… four others. Which meant at least one of those four could easily still be out there.

Perhaps following the path of the storm? It would hit Dunwall, of course - and they would really have to come up with some tower defenses, if they were in need of them - but maybe there were other cities it was hitting especially hard. She could choose a few trusted agents to search — maybe Billie could help, with her… odd gifts. Send out agents, find the other four Marked - however many remained - and choose a sacrifice. She didn’t like the idea of sacrificing anyone, but if she had to do so it certainly wasn’t going to be anyone in this room.

She turned to Corvo, ready to issue the order, and found him looking at Oliver with narrowed eyes, face inscrutable. All traces of amusement were gone from his face, but so were all hints of anger. He couldn’t truly be considering this an option, could he? It wasn’t. It wasn’t an option; it was ridiculous. Oliver may have thought he knew everything, but he was a pessimist — a self-hating tortured soul with a martyr complex. A masochist. She’d find another way, and he couldn’t dissuade her. She was the Empress of the Isles. And if she needed to lock him up to keep him from his stupid suicidal savior plans, she would. Keep him safe. For as long as it took to find someone else.

Or until the world ends.

The thought was dismissed immediately. No. The world wasn’t going to end. This was a complex problem but it had a simple solution. They just needed to get started as soon as possible.

“We need agents to start searching for the other four Marked-”

“Three.”

She faltered. “Three?”

Corvo hadn’t looked away from Oliver. “The other three Marked. One of the four is dead already.”

He was disconcertingly certain of that fact.

“...Three, then. Find who we can. Choose a sacrifice. Start looking for other places of odd occurrences.” She turned to Oliver. “Who else did you Mark?” Her voice remained level — calm, self-assured. But in a corner of her mind she was already planning to make him promise. To promise her not to do it himself. To give it time. If he- ...If he felt about her, the way he claimed to - and she was very nearly positive he did - he would promise her. They may not have much time, but they had time. The storm wasn’t the end, just a harbinger. They had time.

Oliver quietly decided to himself that they most definitely did not have as much time as Emily most likely thought they did. The storm was the end. He could make no promises.

But he could entertain her. He could play her game, as it was more convenient than having her order him into a prison from which he'd have to escape. He knew how much she valued those close to her, as well as the lengths she'd go to keep them safe.

His eyes, pale green hues, shifted towards Corvo and an almost knowing expression painted his features. His voice was quieter, and took on a certain tone. It could have been defeat, or perhaps it was acceptance. He knew his fate. Emily had given him the literal time of his life. He owed her this much, to give her these final days in return. To express how deeply he felt for the Empress of the Isles, Emily Kaldwin. He was amused if anything, by how the most intriguing hero in all of the Isles could be so fundamentally flawed. Humans: such intricate little things.

"...Two," he clarified, glancing between them. He did not open his lips to talk of the lonely rat boy that spent his days wandering the streets of Gristol. Begging, knees knobby from the weight of himself against the pavement and clothing worn and tattered, falling apart where he stood while noble folk looked to him and tilted their chins skyward, scoffing in distaste. It was a story he didn't think they'd want him to recall, though he had many of those he kept locked away within him, relished memories of the past that he clung to even in this pitifully limited form he now took.

Instead, he settled with a moment of silence, reverence for the small child that he related to. He, a cold, calloused monstrosity of the Void, had been touched deeply by the scavenging little street urchin whose shoes hardly fit and creaked as he stepped. "...There is one who remains in Serkonos. A member of the Oracular Order. Her name is Sianna Devries and she hides a dirty secret from her sisters, shrouded by a cloak comprised of the Void itself, distant and weary. She ages now, faster than before, she notices that her bones aren't what they used to be, that her skin has begun to loosen along the shrinking muscles and tendons. She is your best bet at winning this race," he explained, leaning forward and setting his chin on clasped hands.

He was lying to her and it was genuinely painful, a deep aching at the center of his chest. But in her state of delusion she would likely grasp at any straw, or the very thought of that straw existing. He needed to get to Shindaerey Peak, he needed to seal the crack in the slab; he couldn't do that behind her bars. Finding his remaining Marked ones would be near impossible within the amount of time they had left, which was a little more than a week, week and a half at best. He wasn't even certain they were still alive.

Two. Just two. And from that, a single name. Her hope had dwindled to a small thread, but it rushed ever stronger for it: a river that could pass through the eye of a needle. She couldn’t give up now. She clung to this last scrap of information, mind already making plans. Pulling a blank piece of paper toward her, she scrabbled for a writing utensil and immediately began marking things down. “Then you’re off to Serkonos to find her.”

They’d need to take the fastest ships they had, as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, probably, just for the sake of acquiring a crew. She knew Corvo had some sailors on his payroll, though perhaps not enough to fully staff a ship, but this was a mission about speed. A small ship would do, if it was quick. She needed to make him promise as soon as possible. Even then… “Corvo, you’ll go with him.”

Corvo looked to her, blinking that intense concentration from his eyes as he took in what his daughter said. “Emily, I can’t leave you here alone-”

“I’ll be fine,” she snapped, before clamping teeth down on her lip and leveling her voice. “You’ll be quick - get in there, make the sacrifice, get back here as soon as possible - and everything will be fine.” She finished her quick notes and stilled her hand. One deep breath. Calm. Level. Don’t make this desperate. She glanced to her Royal Protector. “I’ve managed without you before, Father. I think I can survive a week or two.” She said it assuredly, but doubt did color the edges of her mind, no matter how much she refused to acknowledge it. Regardless: she’d live. She might suffer... but she’d live.

Corvo’s reluctance was undisguised, but the fire of her determination was visible enough that he seemed to bite his tongue. He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to Oliver before returning to Emily. Eyes held hers for a heavy moment before he nodded, and uncrossed his arms, taking the few steps to lift Emily’s notes from the table. “I’ll go make the arrangements.”

She stopped him with a hand on his wrist, and he looked to her with a sharply focused gaze, that softened at the warmth in her eyes. “Thank you.” I love you. They may not have said it as often as they could, especially not in the company of others, but they both knew it. She saw his jaw tense, and she could tell he was holding himself back.

And then she could feel the moment he thought ‘fuck it’ and just slung his free hand around her and leaned down to press a kiss firmly to the top of her head. Her face automatically scrunched the way it had when he’d done such things when she was younger, but the smile still spread over her lips. His voice was low and the rumble comforting as he added, “We have to talk later, Emily. Alone.” She didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was shooting a look at Oliver, though she could only assume the intention of that look. A warning? A knowing glance? Her eyes were fixed on her own hands, the small smile still lingering as she wondered.

Oliver did not move from his spot at the table. He had just signed his life away, officially. All of the aspirations he had, the hopes for the future, to make the Empire better, greater than it ever had been before, vanished before him. Turned to dust, floating aimlessly off in the distance as though they were nothing but a dream he had many nights ago. He knew once he met with the Void again, all of this would feel that way. A bittersweet memory to look back on, that last glimmering sliver of humanity he would cling to until the icy fixtures of oblivion devoured the last remaining hope tucked away within him. He would remember her.

Her scent, her skin, her lips and those piercing dark eyes of hers. The way her lashes fluttered against his neck so pleasantly, the darkness his kisses left behind along the expanse of chest. Her voice, hands prepped for the ensemble of noblemen and public figures she met with routinely. She wore many masks but he was one of few to look upon her face and see a grin. That, he hoped, would be enough to bare another few thousand years in the Void, or however long he'd need to be there.

Watching the two of them made him feel just the slightest bit better about the situation, eyes flickering between them with a small grin tugging at his lips. In some odd way he was proud of Corvo, of what he'd accomplished and the tribulations he had to overcome. Everything for the sake of the empire, everything for the sake of his daughter. He'd endured so much and even at his ripe old age he still managed to watch over her, a crow on her shoulder, better than any well learned, up and coming guardsmen ever could. He truly was a marvel.

When he caught Corvo's gaze however, he felt his stomach drop. He knew that the Royal Protector was onto him. Emily had a wild imagination, at her most desperate she could be blinded by hope. But Corvo? Corvo was a realist, he was gifted with the ability to see things for what they were. Oliver knew he'd been seen through, but he did not wear an expression of fear, regret, or even remorse.

He looked defeated but peaceful, giving a single, slow nod to the elder and turning to focus on the flames that licked at the bricks of the fireplace, studying the way they danced along the wood below. How fragile it was, a bucket of water would reduce it to nothing but embers and smoke.

Perhaps he would have to speak with Corvo too, alone.

Another squeeze around her shoulders and Corvo excused himself, off to ready a vessel and crew, prepare for a voyage the next day. As the door closed, Emily turned her attention to Oliver.

“You have to promise me.” Her eyes burned into him, fiercely willful, and she grabbed for his hands, holding them in hers. She could feel the newly-formed callouses from his training, so different - so much more human - than how they’d felt in the Void. If he could just stay human. “You have to promise that you won’t follow through on this- this martyrdom fantasy.” She spoke the words with scorn thickly covering her anxiety.

Heart pounding angrily in her chest, she summoned every bit of authority she could manage. Her eyes were bright, perhaps eerily so, a mix of determination and desperation. Her words were firm. “I forbid you from sacrificing yourself.” You’ve already suffered enough. She would make Corvo promise, too. Corvo would wield the blade. Oliver was there to locate and confirm the identity of their target, maybe perform any ritualistic bits and pieces that might be necessary, but nothing more. He would not touch the weapon. She wouldn’t let him. He was self-destructive, and she needed to protect him from himself.

It was her eyes that broke him. Not the firmness in her voice, the demanding tone it took. It was the look she gave him, desperate but certain, confident and trembling. Even if he was a bit offended by his actions being reduced down to some "martyrdom fantasy," he understood her. He knew she only wanted to protect the few people she held dearest to her. He respected that. But he could not put aside the Empire because of some inexplicable attraction he had to her. More than the Empire: he could not betray every living soul in this waking world for the selfish desires he had in mind.

He was hesitant, gaze flickering over her features, hand slowly reaching up to meet her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips as he silently thought of his next words. He wore a steady expression, but it always faltered just a bit in her presence. He didn't respond to her, didn't even open his mouth to speak.

Frankly, he didn't want to have to leave her on a broken promise. So he was at a crossroads, on one hand he could tell her he wouldn't do what she very damn well knew he would and he could play into her hands and entertain her fantasy, or he could risk being locked away and watch the world crumble around him as they desperately struggled to find the last remaining Marked ones in the very little time they had left.

His silence was off-putting, and the longer he didn’t speak the further her heart moved up her throat. She could sense the blade hanging over them — a twin-bladed guillotine poised to fall. Eyes darted between his, and she could feel her walls crumbling even as she tried to keep calm. “Please.” Her voice was low, quiet, almost with the tone of a warning. She wouldn’t lose him. She couldn’t. It was silly, frivolous, trivial — these feelings that shouldn’t be there but were.

Her grip tightened and she looked down at their hands, closing her eyes as she tried to keep her emotions at bay. “Please.” Desperation colored her whispered words and creased her brow. She clenched her jaw, finally opening her eyes again to stare into his. She held his gaze as she slipped from her chair, falling to her knees at his feet, shaking her head. You can’t put me through this. Don’t put me through this. Her chest ached, and her throat was sore as all her energy went toward keeping her composure. The breath she drew was shaky, and her mouth opened to speak. “I-” She quickly shut it as she felt her voice waver, and she ducked her face, pressing her forehead to their interlocked hands. She could feel the tremor of her skin, but stood no chance of stilling her hands.

He wouldn’t promise her. But she needed him to tell her — to tell her it would be okay. She felt pathetic. But she was too selfish, too needy, to hate herself for it.

He wouldn’t swear to her. But maybe she could buy them some time. “Just-” Her words caught in her throat, and when they returned they were hoarse. “Just come back alive.” She wouldn’t ask him to swear not to do it. But to give it a chance, to put it off, to at least attempt another solution. She knelt at his feet like it was his empire: supplicant. Begging. Her voice was just above a whisper. “Please, Lir — just come back alive.”

Seeing her unhinged like this was disconcerting. Untangling her, reducing her to her rawest, most vulnerable point was fun in the right context, but now? Where she sat on her knees with her heart open to him, eyes full of desperation, he couldn't deny her that trivial luxury. A falsehood, a promise made to be broken. They were both most certainly aware of that.

But he caved in, his chest aching in guilt and sympathy and remorse, every negative aspect of getting close to someone all bundled up and knotting at the core of him like a stab from the inside out. He took a deep breath that trembled on his lips. His eyes flickered over her and in the lighting of the flames only feet away they took on an almost golden hue. "...I won’t leave you, Emily. I will return with my life. I will return for you." He spoke carefully, brows upturned, hands tightening around hers.

"But there is a chance, Emily, that none of this will work. That the whole world will come crumbling down around us even if I do manage to find her. If that's the case, this will be our last night. And I want you to know that I couldn't think of a better person to spend my last peaceful night with than the Empress herself..." He smiled bittersweetly, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth nervously.

He didn't know if it was the pressure of the situation or just her in general that spiked his anxiety, but now she wasn't the only one with quivering hands.

He could be lying to her. If he was being sensible he was — she was being horribly selfish, destructively so, but she wanted so desperately to believe him. To clutch at the smallest possible spark of hope and fan it into a roaring flame. She felt sick. Angry at herself, and angry at the world, and so so angry at the Void for putting her in this situation to begin with. This was why she didn’t get attached. Too much of her needed him. It was too dangerous. It was affecting her decision-making, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it back. She was aching, her chest feeling hollow, anxiety bubbling up into her throat, and the guilt ate at her but she forced it away with sheer reckless hope. Her mind wouldn’t even consider the alternative. No - it couldn’t comprehend an alternative; no words, no images formed. It wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it.

...How could she possibly function for the rest of the day with this looming over her? Their last night? How was this fair? Her life had been completely overturned in less than a month. A whirlwind that had ripped through her and uprooted everything. Why was she feeling so damned much?

She had never been a pious person — to the Abbey, to the Outsider; she’d recited strictures to the satisfaction of her tutors, she’d plucked runes from altars but never knelt at them. But here, now, as the rage and sadness and loss and- ...and love devastated her, she averted her eyes and touched her lips to his hands like they were holy. She worshipped him for the briefest moment; not for being a god, but for being human.

Her eyes didn’t meet his as they struggled through the pain that throbbed in her. She strangled it. Destroyed it. Built up a levee of resolve and determined force that would endure. The small soft moment passed. She dropped his hands. Rising to her feet, raising her chin, there was fervent intensity in her set jaw and fierce gaze. She glanced down at him, every inch regal, and brought a hand to his cheek.

When she kissed him, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t yearning, it wasn’t hopeful, it wasn’t pleading. It was possessive. Protective. She wasn’t letting him go, and no one - nothing - could make her.

#the void devours #emsider #fanfic #dishonored fanfic #emily kaldwin #the outsider #rp #roleplay #co-op writing #collaboration #kaldwinqueen #corvo attano #dishonored #ANGST ANGST BABY #a storm is coming #team outsider #guess who added tags on ao3 #my writing

9 notes · View notes