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leiawritesstories · 3 years

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Speak To My Heart

Rowaelin Month, Day 15: A bad day

Word count: 3422

Warnings: language, bit of depression, fighting. In short, there is angst in this fic. Hope the ending makes up for the rest.

Linguistics and foreign languages are two of my personal passions, so please bear with the bits of language talk that I couldn’t resist including. Brief word of clarification: a lot of expressions we use in English either translate into something extremely rude or don’t make sense in other languages. Translation companies have been trying for quite some time to make sure they don’t accidentally send a client a translated instruction manual that reads “fuck your mother” instead of “for questions, contact your local energy department.” All right I’ll get off my soapbox. :)

The phrases in foreign languages, marked with *, are translated into English at the end. Enjoy!

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Rowan’s day had been shit. The second he walked through the door, he’d been bombarded with an endless slew of crash reports, malfunctioning equipment, faulty passwords, and best of all, having to rewrite half the security firewalls because one of the rash young idiots in his department couldn’t be bothered to check his work for errors before sending it to management. And management thought it was the department boss’s job to fix all of his employees’ fuckups.

He hated IT.

Even more so since being promoted to department chair.

All he wanted to do was the fun stuff--program design and development, fixing the flaws in his own designs, and of course making those who tried to break into his company’s systems regret their pitiful existence. But Cadre Tech’s bitch of a CEO refused to let the best software engineer on her staff actually do his job.

Most days, he could cope with the pile of useless shit she directed to his desk. Most days. Today was not one of those days. Probably because on top of all the meaningless tasks he’d had to field, he was also forced to sit through one of Maeve’s bullshit “department head strategy sessions,” where every department chair had to pretend they gave a single shit about any word coming from their CEO’s garishly red, pinched mouth.

As if she knew anything her staff actually did.

Thanks to the compulsory meeting, Rowan was stuck in his office at nearly ten o’clock, painstakingly combing through the final draft of the update to CT’s translation program. This program had shot the company to fame and fortune, or at least insane stock value. “A Google Translate that actually translates,” their marketing department called it, and by the gods, that stupid slogan worked. And made sense. Rowan knew the program was just as good as it claimed to be.

He’d put in the hours, alongside a team of linguists, software engineers, designers, and people fluent in at least one other language. Frequent were the sessions where the project whiteboard turned into a jumble of words in twenty or more languages, Spanish alongside Arabic next to a column of simplified Japanese characters spilling over into a row of Cyrillic lettering. Rowan himself spoke German and some Spanish, but even he was lost amid the cacophony of eighteen different people switching from language to language, trying to figure out how idiomatic expressions translated from one language to another and what words should never, ever be placed together.

It took the team well over a year of bickering, or as they called it, friendly linguistic disagreements, to make it from loosely mapped concept to functioning program. By the time it hit the market three years ago, the software had been so well promoted that companies all over the world snapped up their chance to finally communicate properly with the client they’d offended years ago with a bad translation.

At launch, of course, Maeve stood in front of a sea of shouting reporters brandishing microphones, smiling her serpentine smile, and proceeded to thank the creative team for all their “contributions” before taking all the credit herself.

Said creative team went to the bar that had become their usual gathering spot that night to get drunk and shit-talk their horrible boss, not necessarily in that order.

His favorite memory of that night was hearing the chief linguist, an outside contract with multiple advanced degrees who spoke eight separate languages besides English fluently, refer to Maeve as “quella puttana rugosa che non riusciva a convincere un cazzo a venire a dieci metri da lei se si vestiva da figa.*” The Italian speakers on the team were crying with laughter, and so was everyone else, once she translated it.

And then she downed another shot of vodka and hissed something that sounded like “sukya bliyad, no puedo mich betrinken con esta ordures.**” When everyone blinked in confusion, she sighed and relayed the sentiment in English.

Nobody had laughed as hard as Rowan. Aelin Galathynius just had that effect on him.

She brightened his darkest days.

But she couldn’t ease the strain of today.

And it was all his fault.

Aelin glanced up at the clock on her wall and cursed in three different languages when she saw that it was nearly eleven. Without meaning to, she’d spent all afternoon and evening writing lesson notes on idiomatic expressions. She really couldn’t help herself once she got into the topic; it was her pet project.

And the subject of one of her dissertations. Yes, she had multiple.

She’d worked her ass off for years to get through college, then through graduate and doctoral work while teaching at universities to offset costs, then earned a full-time teaching position at one of the top-ranked universities in the world. She got to teach linguistics, her lifetime love, and give guest lectures at other universities and at conferences, teaching people all over the world about the complexities and interrelatedness of language. Hell, she spoke ten; she’d be qualified to speak on linguistic relationships by virtue of that alone.

Gods, she was the chief linguist behind the most successful translation software ever produced. Even if the bitch who owned the rights to said software had literally threatened to sue over ownership rights if any of the people who’d poured their figurative blood and sweat and literal tears into building the program tried to claim a small piece of the credit each of them so richly deserved.

That software and her role in its creation--even though Maeve Ond had claimed the public credit, the creative team spoke at interviews and made news features for their work in Cadre Tech’s massive success--had solidified her credentials as a professor of linguistics, had boosted her into her lecturer spot.

Last year, her university granted her tenure.

She should have been overjoyed, and she was, but not as much as earning tenure deserved.

Because there was nobody to share her joy.

Three years ago, in the wake of CT’s overnight jump to worldwide fame, Aelin fled a love she did not and never would deserve.

She told herself she would never look back. But she did. Almost every day, she looked back at the life she’d shared with Rowan and tried to convince herself that she did the right thing.

Try as she might, she could never silence the whisper that echoed always in her mind.

“You broke both of your hearts”

Someday, she told herself, someday she would be back in Doranelle. Someday, she would have a chance to apologize. Someday, maybe she could fix the Rowan-shaped chasm that gaped wide in her heart.

Yet here she was, sitting in a very nicely appointed hotel room in the university district of Doranelle, typing furiously away as if burying herself in notes and prep for tomorrow’s lecture could make the urge to contact Rowan disappear.

Three years earlier. Doranelle.

“Knock, knock.”

Rowan’s head jerked up from where it had most definitely not been slumped on his desk. “Wha--Oh. Hi, Aelin.”

“You’re falling asleep, buzzard, let’s go home.” He heard laughter in her soft voice.

“As if you won’t just get home and start cross-checking every single one of the phrases on your ‘potential problem’ list.”

She chuckled, walking over to him. “Fine. We’re both perfectionist work whores. Doesn’t mean we don’t need sleep.”

“I know you too well to believe you’re actually going to sleep.”

“All right, you win. Come home now, I’ll make some food, and you can put me to bed.” She winked saucily at him, leaving very little doubt what putting her to bed would entail, and he was up out of his chair in seconds.

“Hand over your computer, Fireheart,” he grinned as they walked into the small house they shared on the outskirts of the city.

“What?”

“Your computer, love. I’m leaving both of our work bags on the shelf by the front door so we can actually catch some rest tonight.” He pressed a finger to her mouth to silence her protests. “Uh-uh, Ae, we have interviews tomorrow and I won’t let the genius behind this program’s flawless word-to-word be anything but well-rested.”

She sighed, but he saw the love in her eyes. “Here, then, my dear brilliant software engineer. Leave your notebook, too, because I know if it’s anywhere near you, you’ll be up at three in the morning scribbling blocks of gibberish and picking apart your faultless code until you go insane.”

Both of their work satisfactorily put aside, Aelin made good on her promise to cook Rowan dinner.

And then he made very good on his promise to put her to bed.

The next morning, they were both awake with the sunrise, content to lay curled in each other’s arms as the morning light spread across their room.

Rowan drifted back into sleep, waking for good when he caught a whiff of coffee from the kitchen’s direction.

“Morning, you sleepy buzzard,” Aelin grinned, sipping from her mug.

Rowan dropped a kiss on her head as he reached for his mug. He took a long drink, sighing as the milky, sweetened caffeine hit his mouth.

“I will never understand how you drink your coffee black, Fireheart.”

“Not all of us need to sweeten the hell out of coffee to drink it, Ro. Maybe if you can’t handle the real thing, you should go back to your pretty little cups of crappy cafe tea.”

“Mention my pretty little teacups again, Ae…”

She giggled. “You be quiet and drink your coffee-flavored milk, my love. We both know you’re impossibly grumpy until you have caffeine in your veins.”

He grumbled something unintelligible as he drank his coffee.

They were nearly late to work that morning, even having planned an extra half hour to arrive, thanks to Aelin wearing what Rowan dubbed her “sexy professor suit.” She fixed the pins in her French twist in the car, making herself once again a portrait of professionalism, and slipped Rowan’s hand from her leg.

“Two hands on the wheel, Whitethorn.”

He pouted. “But I’m a safe driver and I want to hold your hand.”

“My hands are over here, love, not down by my skirt.”

When he pulled into his spot, Aelin closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath.

“You good, Fireheart?”

Gods, she loved hearing him call her that. “Yeah. I just…needed a moment to settle myself. To tell myself the cameras aren’t here to tear apart what I say.”

Rowan wrapped his hands around hers. “Dr. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, the bland reporters are here to stand in awe of your expertise. Not a single word you say will come across as anything but brilliant and beautifully said.”

She squeezed his hands, her usual confidence returning. “I love you, buzzard.”

“I love you too, Fireheart. Let’s go talk about our amazing achievement.”

The day sped by in a blur of reporters, interviewers, teleprompters, practiced speeches, lights, cameras, and crew. When the last bleached-blonde anchor of the last interview of the day cut her crew’s cameras, Aelin flopped against her second-in-linguistic-command, Dr. Nehemia Ytger, the expert on ethnic African languages.

“If I never see a news crew again, it’ll be too soon,” she sighed. “I’m beat.”

Nehemia snickered. “But we’re done talking about how proud we are that Maeve and her marvelous company have done such a grand service to the world.”

Aelin snorted softly. “Right. And now we servicepeople want to go home and take off our heels.”

“Amen to that.”

As the team filed out of the studio, Rowan made his way over to Aelin. “Holding up?”

“Not anymore,” she said, leaning casually into his side. “My heels are killing me, there’s a hairpin stabbing into my scalp, and I really, really need to pee.”

Rowan laughed, deep and husky. “Let’s get you home, then.”

“I’m stopping in the bathroom first.”

Just before she left the ladies’ room, Aelin heard voices in the break area. Familiar voices--Rowan’s, Maeve’s, and the snippy, borderline whiny tones of Remelle Frelau, who worked in the marketing department and had a hell of a boner for Rowan.

“--looking at revenue over--” Maeve’s voice cut out, but from the gasps of the other two, the revenue was through the roof.

“And it’s all thanks to this genius here,” drawled Remelle, who if Aelin had her guess was probably clinging onto Rowan like a platinum-blonde leech.

“Ms. Frelau, this was the product of a team. No single person could possibly have made it happen alone.”

“Oh, call me Remelle, or even better Remy. And you’re the team leader, so you practically did create it by yourself.”

Aelin snickered to herself. Vapid bitch had no idea what she was saying.

“That’s not how teams work, Ms. Frelau. We wouldn’t be here without Dr. Galathynius and Dr. Ytger’s language expertise, not to mention the creative genius of the engineers, graphic designers, linguists, and programmers.”

“Ms. Frelau, though her judgment is clearly biased, has a point, Mr. Whitethorn,” Mave said. “You demonstrated remarkable collaborative leadership qualities throughout this project, and I fully expect that you will continue to do so.” Maeve’s heels clicked away. Rowan’s voice followed her.

“Thank you, Ms. Ond, but I have to credit Dr. Galathynius--”

“Will you stop kissing that woman’s ass?” snorted Remelle. “Gods, she’s not worth your time or your praise; all she does is translate words into different languages and you idiots drool over that like it means anything.”

Aelin jerked like she’d been slapped. She knew Remelle was a self-centered, shallow, spiteful bitch, but she hadn’t known she would do this.

“--did more for this project than you and your useless whiteboard of catchphrases,” growled Rowan.

“I don’t care what she ‘did for the project,’ Rowan, she’s never going to be good enough for you.”

“Thank you for caring about my welfare, Frelau, now please kindly fuck off.”

Aelin chose that moment to saunter out of the bathroom and head straight for Rowan, her face showing no hint of having heard that conversation. She did note with satisfaction Remelle’s vain attempt to march out of the room with some semblance of dignity. Too bad her heel caught on the seam of the hallway carpet and the break room’s tile flooring and she had to grab the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

“You’re awfully quiet, Aelin.”

“Just thinking. Processing, really. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Rowan nodded. “I bet.”

“And hearing fucking Remelle rip into me for being useless…didn’t make it better.”

“Shit, you heard that?”

“Yeah. I heard that.” Her voice was hollow.

Rowan pulled into their driveway and shut off the engine. Reaching across the console, he cupped Aelin’s face in his hands. “Aelin. You are brilliant. You are terrifyingly smart. You are a force of nature. Nothing, nothing you will ever do is useless. Don’t let that jealous bitch make you think you are less than the perfect woman.”

She smiled tentatively at him. “She…she told me before that last interview that I could never be enough for you. Because you--because of Lyria.”

Rowan raked a hand through his hair. “Ae, can we talk about this inside?”

That night, he told her about his former fiancé, Lyria. He told her about their whirlwind romance, their youthful dreams. He told her about the horrific crash that stole away Lyria’s life. A drunk trucker, a narrow pass in the mountains. He showed her the box in which he kept all the memories of that life. He cried. Aelin cried. He curled against her, let her comfort him.

“Sometimes, I wish she was still here. She’d understand everything. She always did.”

Aelin had no response. She let Rowan fall asleep, his weight shifting off her and into his bed, and looked through the box. Everything she saw served as another reminder that this was the first woman he loved, the woman who understood everything.

She was worthy of him.

But was Aelin?

The more she looked at Rowan and Lyria’s happiness, the more the answer solidified.

No.

When Rowan woke up the next morning, Lyria’s box sat on Aelin’s side of the bed, a side that had not held Aelin.

He glanced out the window.

Her car was gone.

He got up and frantically paced through the house.

Everything she’d brought into his home was gone.

As was she.

Present day.

Rowan opened his front door mechanically, pulled off his shoes, dropped his work backpack on its shelf, and was halfway to his bedroom before he realized he’d just opened his front door. His front door that was always locked.

Someone was in his house.

Someone who either had a duplicate key or insanely good lockpicking skills.

Exactly one person owned a duplicate key to his house.

Aelin.

That’s impossible, she lives in Orynth, she can’t be here, he told the traitorous part of his brain that leapt with joy at seeing Aelin’s face again.

He turned around and made his way through the kitchen--nobody there--to the living room. He flicked on a lamp, casting a soft light around the room.

And nearly had a heart attack.

Aelin Galathynius sat on his couch.

For a moment, he just gawked at her. She looked so…different. Older. Gone was the infectious smile that had captured his heart. Dark shadows smeared under her eyes, testament both to the long hours she devoted to her work and to recent sleepless nights. She was twisting a ring on her right hand, a familiar sign of her nerves. From his angle, Rowan could see a hint of dark script on her wrist. A tattoo. The Aelin he knew didn’t have tattoos.

“I’m not a ghost.” Her voice, weary and hollow, broke the tense silence.

Rowan crossed the room, propped an arm on the fireplace. “Why?”

“Why am I here? Why did I leave? Why did I cut you out of my life?”

“Everything.” He couldn’t keep the waver from his voice, but his eyes burned into hers.

She took a steadying breath. “I’m here to apologize, first of all. I’m here to face what I ruined and to try and start mending it. I’m here to come to terms with everything I broke when I left three years ago.”

Whatever he’d expected her to say, it certainly wasn’t that.

“I’m sorry, Rowan. I’m sorry I left like that. I was…I was scared.”

“You can’t just run away from your fears, Aelin!” He couldn’t keep the frustration from his tone. “You can’t just abandon someone when you have a bad day!”

“I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t have left! I know I can’t run from my fears; I’ve spent the last three years trying and fucking failing to do that! But I don’t know what else to do.”

“Saying something about it would have been a good first step.”

“I’m bad at emotions, Rowan. I tried. It wasn’t enough.”

“That’s not a good enough excuse.”

Aelin flicked a tear from her face. “I know.” Her shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry, Rowan. I should never have left. I let some stupid comment root into my head and make me doubt myself. I made myself believe I would never be good enough for you. I left you. I loved you, and I still left you. I still love you, even though I’ve tried to suppress it. I can never make up for that. I…I just wanted to tell you how much I’ve regretted that horrible decision all these years. I want you to be happy, Rowan, I--”

“How am I supposed to be happy without a source?” He’d dropped onto the couch, close enough to touch her but still keeping his distance.

“What?”

“You didn’t just take yourself away, Aelin. You were my happiness. I’ve spent three fucking years trying to make myself believe I’m better without you in my life, and I can’t.”

She was unabashedly crying by that point. “What do you want me to do? How can I make up for abandoning you?”

“Stay.”

Her gaze locked onto his, both of their eyes pooling with tears.

“Stay with me, Fireheart.”

“But--”

“I never stopped loving you either.”

A choked sob ripped out of Aelin. Rowan couldn’t hold himself in check any longer; he reached out and tugged her gently into his arms. To his shock, she didn’t resist, burying her face into his chest as sobs shook her shoulders. When she calmed, he tilted her chin up.

“Will you stay, Aelin?”

“Yes. Even though I will never deserve your forgiveness, yes.”

Translations:

* = “that pinched old whore who couldn’t convince a dick to come within ten metres of her if she dressed up provocatively” (Italian)

** = loosely translated as “Fucking hell, I can’t get drunk off this garbage.” (in order, Russian (badly phonetically spelled out because Rowan POV), Spanish, German, Spanish again, French) (the Russian doesn’t directly translate, so it could mean several different variations of expletive)

Might there be a second part? Perhaps......

#my writing #rowaelin month #aaaaaangst

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iero0 · 3 years

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A Love Like Oxygen

The warmer months are the worst. Around the time that the sun grows warmer, and the chipper of birds wake him before sunup, a darkness seizes Harry from deep within, one that worsens with every memorial, every birthday, every deathday along the line.

The grand finale, ultimately, is his own birthday.

He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so low. In contrast to Draco who despises the summer for its heat that he doesn’t deal well with, and loves it for the long hours of daylight, Harry enjoys the warmth on his skin, hopeful that it will permeate through to bones that feel so dead-cold at times, heavier than Harry thinks people ought to feel in their late twenties.

With his birthday fast approaching, Harry removes himself from get-togethers and barbeques and from life, just to indulge in the agonizing memory of birthdays spent secluded and unloved as a child.

The irony doesn’t escape him. When Ron says that it’s almost as if he wants to be a miserable loner, Harry answers that he might be just correct. They don’t fight about it, though, they don’t. The thing all of them learnt after the war is that sometimes, you help your friends by giving them some space.

Draco, however, is not good at granting space. Fortunately, Harry doesn’t mind, not with him. Draco always seems to be there, holding him through nightmares and reading next to him when Harry stares blankly ahead, incapable of making any sense of his world, stroking through his hair when Harry hadn’t realised how he craved the touch.

This year’s birthday is hardly different from others. He had hid away at home for the last two weeks, avoiding company like Dragon Pox. On the very day of his birthday, however, not even Draco lets him spend the day secluded. Instead, he’s served a huge pile of pancakes and is then shoved into the shower whilst he hears Draco rummaging through their bedroom.

Harry understands only later that Draco was packing a bag for them, when Hermione hands him a small box for his birthday. In it he finds a battered tin soldier of all things (well, she can’t know, he never told her about the cupboard), and it takes him a shocked moment to realise that it’s a Portkey, not some sort of twisted plot to make Harry talk about repressed trauma.

They spend the day at a beautiful wild beach. Ron, Hermione, and Draco travelled with Harry via Portkey, but once there, they meet up with Ginny and Luna, and Dean and Seamus, with Pansy and Theo, and with Blaise and with Neville. Caught up in chatter, splashing about, and playing a bumbling party of beach volleyball, time seems to race. It’s only when the sun changes from yellow to orange that Harry pauses, and his useless brain supplies him with thoughts from earlier, reminds him how exhausting this all is.

Draco’s hand finds Harry’s. He doesn’t look worried, only aware.

In his peripheral view, it doesn’t escape Harry how Neville’s gaze and mouth corners drop to their linked fingers, and something about that is almost too much for Harry to bear. They take a walk along the beach, only he and Draco. Ginny and Ron want to join, grinning and fierce as they are, but Harry hears Hermione tell them off without many words.

Harry smiles, grateful for ‘Mione and her unerring understanding of others. Harry’s smile grows wider when he looks at Draco at his side, clad only in his swim trunks. His delicate pallor is reddened on his cheek bones and the thin bridge of his nose. His shoulders almost gleam in an angry hue of red.

“What?” Draco asks, smiling and playfully shoving at Harry. In lieu of replying, he only shoves back, steps heavy in the uneven sand, and they end up walking arms around each other. Harry presses a careful kiss to Draco’s burnt skin.

“The sun goes down at last,” Draco remarks, eyes squinting against the fiery orb above the trees that line the beach. “Was rather aggressive today. I wouldn’t have endured a minute of it at home.”

“Not without complaining,” Harry says, teasing, and somehow feeling happy to have a moment alone together. They rather tussle instead of talking. Everything that needs to be said is communicated by mischievous glances, quirked mouth corners, and lingering touches. All this exposed skin, Harry thinks, unable to take his eyes off of Draco’s body. Laughter escapes him as he thinks how stupidly proud he has felt all day, having this opportunity to show Draco off to his friends, using every excuse that allowed him to get his hands on his partner. It’s a primitive, childish thought, Harry thinks. And yet he can’t help it.

“It’s just . . . you,” Harry answers Draco’s imploring gaze. “You have no idea what you do to me, Malfoy.”

Draco stops them to kiss properly, so deeply that it steals Harry’s breath away. “Happy birthday, Harry,” he says after, looking affectionate as he travels his hand through the hair on Harry’s chest, giving it a cheeky tug that sets off yet another round of their scrabbling and shoving and fingers boldly sneaking below the hem of their long-dried swim trunks.

They stop again after a while, far away from the others, eyes across the darkening sea as the sun sets at their backs. Harry feels touched by the beauty of this unfamiliar sight, wondering why they don’t Apparate to the seaside more often.

As though he can read his mind, Draco says, “Sometimes I could imagine moving to the coast. Some picturesque town with a beach like this.” He sounds more sincere than romanticising. Harry can’t help but picture the tranquillity of the nearby small towns, him and Draco amidst it all, familiar with the times to avoid tourists and with the unpredictable weather. It sounds like another life, except that only their surroundings would change.

Watching Draco, Harry leans his head against him. Nothing warms him like the look in Draco’s eyes, riveted by the beauty of the sea. “I could get used to seeing you like this,” Harry says.

“Like what?”

Harry chuckles, shrugs. “Happy.”

Something about his statement seems to please Draco. His smile is suave as he pulls Harry closer. “Because you are.”

“Sorry that I . . . needed to get away.”

“Don’t be.” Draco sounds calm and collected. “I don’t mind having you to myself for a while. Did you like the surprise? Did you enjoy your day?”

Harry wants to utter another excuse for feeling overwhelmed, instead he presses his lips together and nods. “It was good. I would have been impossibly moody all day, had we spent it home alone.”

“That’s not why we went out. I wouldn’t have minded spending the day in bed with our curtains drawn closed. I just thought you’d enjoy the beach more than you imagined you would.” Draco turns his head, only slightly to glimpse at Harry. The awe-stricken look in his eyes doesn’t falter. “Love you,” he mumbles, almost a whisper.

“And I you,” Harry replies, locking eyes with Draco. With moments like these, Harry thinks, watching Draco in the blushing light, the dark moments don’t seem brighter. But dragging himself out of the chasm seems so much more worth it.

Happy Birthday, Harry! thanks to my lovely @ladderofyears for beta’ing and being a brilliant friend.

♥ READ ON AO3 ♥

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry art #iero0 fics #iero0 art

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heyitssmiller · 3 years

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Clandestine: Chapter Fourteen

We’re here. The final chapter. Y’all. I’m gonna cry.

@lumosinlove thanks for these characters!!

@donttouchmycarrots thanks for being my partner in crime during this whole mess of a story <3

And thank you, lovely readers!! For sticking with me for this crazy rollercoaster of a story, for encouraging me when I felt like quitting, and for always being so, so wonderful. I appreciate y’all more than I can say.

CW: prison, food, anxiety

Clandestine Masterlist

The drive back was silent, punctuated sharply by the two empty seats in the van. It was something they should’ve seen coming, but yet were completely blindsided by. Sirius had been on their side for so long now, it seemed odd to picture him anywhere else. It was like he’d been there for years already, fitting in seamlessly and making friends fast, filling a gap that hadn’t been obvious before but felt like a chasm now. He belonged in Gryffindor with them. And Regulus, while more reserved and distant than his brother, didn’t seem to deserve the fate he’d found. The main motive that kickstarted this whole mission had been him – all for him – and he still couldn’t avoid being dragged down with the Snakes.

Remus was on the phone with a contact from the FBI – he had been since they’d taken Sirius away – trying his hardest to find any loopholes he could. He was… actually strangely calm. Methodically tackling one idea after the next, his analytic brain working overtime. Logan could understand, though. Being productive was helpful. It was when things settled down and got quiet, when all you could do was sit there and wait…

That was when things got tough.

His leg bounced up and down in anticipation the closer they got to the cabin, his one-track mind stuck on one thing and one thing only – getting a blond safe-cracker into his arms again. Not having Leo with them had been like missing a limb, making everything feel out of balance. And even thought he was safe, he was still too far away. Logan couldn’t stand it.

Finn reached over and placed a hand on Logan’s with a knowing smile. He was ready to be home, too.

Gravel crunching under their tires only fueled the eagerness. There were lights still on in the cabin, a warm, inviting pull. The front door was open before the cars had pulled to a complete stop, revealing Leo and Hope and Lyall. Julian was presumably asleep, given the hour. Logan’s seatbelt was thrown off and the door closest to him was yanked open, Finn hot on his heels.

Leo bounded down the steps of the porch and flung himself at the two of them, finding every inch of space between them and filling it, a soft sound escaping from his lips as he held on tight in a one-armed grip. Logan and Finn both stumbled back a few steps at the impact but quickly returned the embrace, Logan’s face buried in the junction between neck and shoulder and Finn’s forehead pressed against the blond’s. They seemed to take their next breaths in tandem, slow and steady, as they leaned into each other. Time slowed, everything in the periphery faded, and the world, previously off-kilter, evened out in equilibrium.

Finn suddenly realized he felt the coarse, scratchy texture of Leo’s sling pressed up against him and pulled back a little. “Careful, baby.”

That made Leo pull back. “Why?” He glanced over them nervously. “Are you hurt?”

Logan sighed long-sufferingly and cupped Leo’s face in his hands, looking him in the eyes with a fond expression that belied his exasperation. “No, but you are,” he moved his hands to smush Leo’s cheeks, causing Finn to laugh, “so take it easy.”

Leo smiled – a real one this time, not one of the fake ones he’d given them before they left – and relaxed. After a quick kiss from Logan he asked, “So it went well? Mission’s done?”

Logan and Finn both froze at that. Finn looked over to Remus, who was still on the phone (like he had been for the past hour at least) and frowned.

“Not quite.”

“We can talk inside,” Leo said, looking worried again. “there’s lots of food for y’all.”

He wasn’t wrong. Food covered pretty much every open surface of the countertops, ranging from pancakes to grilled cheese to the cinnamon swirl muffins Leo brought to their first briefing all those months ago. Finn smiled at the memories and instantly snagged one on their way to the kitchen table. His eyes landed on Talker, who was explaining something to Hope as she took a look at his leg. Nat, Kasey, and Alex were piled onto one couch, looking tired and each with a grilled cheese sandwich in hand. He could see Remus on the porch every once in a while when he passed by a window as he paced, phone pressed to his ear.

It didn’t bode well.

Logan sat down with a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup and started telling the story, voice a quiet murmur and only interrupted when he shoveled food into his mouth. Finn wondered how none of them had really seen this coming. In hindsight, it made sense that there would need to be a trial – after all, Sirius and his brother weren’t innocent. Finn wasn’t sure what happened next, though. Criminal trials and sentencing weren’t part of the job for them. He hoped they could get the brothers out of this mess, though. If anyone could find a way to do it, it would be Remus.

At least the Snakes were done for. The information on the flash drives was enough to lock them away for a very, very long time.

He took a bite of his muffin, no longer really hungry, and listened to Logan talk.

***

Remus sat down on the porch swing, tired and stressed and not at all ready to quit. He listened to Alice, his only contact in the FBI, rattle off some statistics that he couldn’t even begin to understand. And he wasn’t trying to be rude – that really wasn’t his intent – but he needed to act quickly about this. So he grimaced and cut her off. “Can we get them placed in another prison? Or even in solitary until we can figure something out? If the Snakes can get to them…”

Well. Remus didn’t think they’d show much mercy to the two people mainly responsible for putting them in jail.

Alice sighed, the sound of her rummaging around in her desk filtering through the phone. “We can try. Since they did help you guys, we should be able to swing it. If something jeopardizes their lives, it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Remus’ heart twisted – a deep, chronic ache under his ribcage that refused to let up. “Do it fast. I’m going to start reaching out to lawyers.”

“Lupin, it’s four in the morning.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair with a frustrated huff. “Thanks for all the help, Alice.”

He hung up, then braced his forearms on his knees, hands gripping his hair, and breathed.

If there was one thing Remus Lupin was good at, it was planning. It was his job, and a big part of the reason he’d switched from field work in the first place. He relied on structure to get through his days, needed the stability in order to function.

There was none of that.

This was being adrift at sea, constantly assaulted by the waves and the current without rescue in sight.

And Remus had no idea what to do.

His phone pinged, catching his attention. A text from Alice flashed across the screen.

I’ve got a friend who’s a lawyer, and she’s a damn good one. I know you’ll want to do your research on her yourself, but I can vouch for her too. Here’s her contact if you want to reach out.

The contact number and email were listed under the name Dorcas Meadowes.

***

Dorcas Meadowes was, to put it simply, awe-inspiring.

Black curls, a dark complexion, and a serious, no-funny-business expression on her face. Her office was neat and organized, a few pictures around the place of her and a blonde girl with a wide grin and freckles. There was a small pride flag on her desk. Without a word, she motioned for Remus to sit, cool and composed and ready to get to work.

That was all it took for Remus to instantly respect her.

“So I’ve heard some of the story from Alice, but I’ll need you to start at the very beginning. Don’t leave out any details, tell me everything.”

Remus did, settling into the chair and getting comfy. It was a long story, after all. When he was done he looked back up at Dorcas, whose face was expressionless except for a single, raised eyebrow.

“That’s…” she trailed off with a low whistle.

“Yeah.”

“Well, the good news is that, if we’ve got enough evidence to back your story up, we can reduce his sentence by a lot, maybe even get him released.”

Remus sagged back into the chair, relief taking over and wiping out the tension radiating through his muscles. “Great.”

He’d known, logically, that they’d be able to reduce his sentence. With all the work he put into taking the Snakes down, there was no way they’d give him a full sentence. But getting him out of there for good…

Remus had never wanted anything so much in his life.

Dorcas leaned forward, powering her laptop on. “We’ll go visit him in the next few days and tell him what’s going on, but first we need a plan. Here’s what I’m thinking…”

***

Sirius hated this.

He was bored, he was tired, and – more than anything – he was lonely.

In Gryffindor, he’d become so accustomed to always having at least someone with him at all times. It was usually Remus, but he’d also grown close to most of the team. And it was nice at the time – god, did he miss it. But it was painful now. He’d witnessed what his life could be like, happy and surrounded by friends and possibly in love, and now he was back to the way his life used to be. Alone and on the wrong side of the law.

He hadn’t seen Reg since they’d been escorted into isolation for their own safety. Which don’t get him wrong – he was grateful for it. Knowing Riddle, they wouldn’t have survived the night if they were all being held together. But it was too quiet now.

The door to his cell rattled and Sirius looked up sharply. A guard was standing there, unlocking his door and opening it.

“Come with me,” the guard said, sounding bored as he opened the door further and held out a pair of handcuffs. Sirius looked at him hesitantly, not moving an inch. The guard rolled his eyes. “You have visitors.”

Sirius perked up at that, the only thought running through his head being Remus. He knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t going to take this sitting down. He’d be fighting to get Sirius free, no doubt about it. He wasn’t sure who else would be visiting him, anyways – if someone was here, it was sure to be Remus.

So Sirius got up and held his wrists out to be cuffed, then watched as the officer pointed down the hall.

“This way.”

It took all the self-control Sirius had to not run, to slowly put one foot in front of the other until he finally reached his destination. The guard moved around him to open the door and then Sirius was moving again.

He spotted caramel curls as soon as the door opened to the visitation room and felt his shoulders sag with relief. “Remus.”

Worried brown eyes followed him as he crossed the room quickly to sit in front of him, separated by a thick wall of glass. The movies weren’t lying, apparently. But it was so good to see him that Sirius didn’t care.

Remus looked tired. Unfortunately, that didn’t surprise Sirius at all. He knew the tendency to overwork all too well at this point. More than anything, it made Sirius want to get out of there, to wrap him up in his arms and let him take a nap there, to make sure he was taking care of himself. He settled for giving him a stern look instead.

“You need to get some sleep.”

Sirius expected a sharp, witty retort. Some sass, a comeback of some kind. Instead, Remus did the unthinkable and just smiled. “I missed you.”

Sirius sighed, softening at the gentle admission. He’d missed Remus too, of course. More than he could really put into words, and it had barely been a day. The smell of his shampoo, the quiet, reassuring presence of him by Sirius’ side, those eyes that just seemed to see right through him and know even the things Sirius tried to keep hidden. He found he didn’t mind it too much - not when it was Remus.

“I missed you,” he echoed in agreement, refusing to look away until someone cleared their throat loudly. Sirius looked over to a woman sitting next to Remus, looking unimpressed. Sirius hadn’t even known she was there, as wrapped up in Remus as he was.

Remus, to Sirius’ endless delight, blushed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Remus blush before. It was cuter than it had any right to be. “Um, Sirius this is Dorcas. She’ll be representing you in court.”

Right.

He had to go on trial.

Dorcas took over from there. “We think, with the evidence we have, that we can get the charges reduced, maybe dropped if we’re lucky. If you can think of any evidence we don’t know about, we can use that to strengthen your case, too.”

Sirius nodded, relieved. That sounded better than he thought he’d get, to be honest. “What about Reg?” he asked, looking between the two.

Dorcas was very hard to read, Sirius realized. And Remus looked confident… until he looked over at the lawyer. Then his expression flickered.

And Sirius’ heart sank.

“That’s a bit trickier,” Dorcas stated slowly, treading carefully. “The thing is, he never tried to get out. He stayed with the Snakes. And I know it’s not easy to get out of situations like that,” she rushed to continue when she saw the look on Sirius’ face, “but the fact still stands. And he didn’t do as much to help take the Snakes down, not like you did. We can probably reduce his sentence, but he’ll be in prison longer than you. I don’t think we can fix that.”

Sirius felt himself being torn in two different directions. He wanted to be free, to be able to live his life again. Maybe make a home in Gryffindor (or maybe move in permanently with a certain spy), get a job as a consultant. He’d make sure the poor houseplant in Remus’ apartment survived, the poor thing, and he’d keep Remus’ favorite tea stocked in the cupboard. He’d be able to relax for – well, the first time in a very long time.

But his brother.

He was the main reason Sirius got out in the first place. The reason he ended up in Gryffindor, this entire mission was for him. To get him out, to make sure he was safe.

What was the point, if he was stuck in jail while Sirius got to walk free?

He could practically hear his brother telling him how stupid he was being in that dry voice of his, but he pushed the thought away. He’d made up his mind, and it was practically impossible to sway him when that happened.

Sweet, caramel eyes might test him, though.

Sirius looked up at Remus guiltily, dreading the response he was going to get. But yet again, Remus took him by surprise and smiled sadly.

“I understand.”

Those words hit Sirius like a freight train. He sucked in a deep breath, eyes stinging and throat getting tight. “I’m sorry.”

Remus just shook his head. “Don’t be.”

Sirius loved him.

Remus glanced over at a confused Dorcas. “He can’t leave his brother. Whatever sentence Reg gets, Sirius wants to do the same.”

She was silent for a long time, looking back and forth between the two of them. Then she sighed, seeming resolute. “Well then we’d better get those charges as low as we can.”

***

Four Weeks Later

Leo found Remus in the courthouse hallway during the trial recess before they were supposed to reconvene for the sentencing, looking seconds away from pacing from one side of the building to the other. The past few weeks had been hard on all of them. Between coming to terms with everything that had happened in the recent months, to trying to figure out the evidence they needed to bring forward to try and get the charges dropped against both Sirius and Regulus, to the strange feeling in the Agency brought forth by Sirius’ absence, it had been weird for all of them. Remus had been hit the hardest by all of it, though – and understandably so. That didn’t make it any easier to watch, though.

He’d been running himself to the bone the past four weeks, going above and beyond to make sure everything was in order for the trial. He looked ready to drop, if Leo was being honest.

But he understood. If it were Logan or Finn in Sirius’ place… well. He’d already figured out just how far he’d go for them.

He put a hand on Remus’ arm, trying to be as calming as possible. “You’re going to be ok,” he said carefully, choosing his words meticulously. He didn’t want to be cold, but he didn’t want to get Remus’ hopes up only for them to be dashed.

Carmel eyes met his own, and Leo sighed at the stress he saw there. He looked tired – so tired.

“What do you need?” Leo asked quietly, hoping for some sort of guidance on how to help him, how to get that look off of his face.

Remus just laughed under his breath, a sad sound. “There’s a lot of things I need.” He shuffled on his feet, gathering his sleeves in his hands. “But a hug would be a good start.”

Not hesitating, Leo gathered him into a hug, the stretch pulling at the scar tissue in his shoulder that was finally free of a sling. Remus was tense and still for a while, then relaxed into it. Leo wished he could do more, wished he could make any sort of difference in this situation. But everything was so far out of their control now; the only thing left to do was wait.

“Whatever happens, we’re here for both of you. You’re not alone in this.”

Remus stepped away with a fake attempt at a smile. “Yeah.”

There was a visual cue that neither of them seemed to catch and people started filtering back into the courtroom, making Remus’ face grow paler and more pinched. Leo stuck by his side as they walked back inside, trying to ignore the soft sound Remus made when he saw Sirius again – all the way in the front, in a jumpsuit that looked too big for him, hair longer and eyes a little duller than they remembered, fidgeting with something in his cuffed hands. Regulus was next to him, head down and avoiding everyone’s eyes. Leo just stuck to Remus’ side as they squeezed into the row of chairs with the rest of the Agency, making sure Remus was right in the middle, surrounded by so many of the people who cared about him most. Finn and Logan sat down next to him with grim smiles.

Leo reached over to tangle his fingers with Finn’s, feeling him squeeze back gently. The bruises were completely gone from his face, and he was walking limp-free now. He dropped his head onto Logan’s shoulder, having to angle his shoulders down to rest somewhat comfortably against the shorter man.

Leo would never get over the height difference.

“I’m taking a nap when we get home. This is so stressful, oh my god.” Finn sighed, making Leo smile.

Home.

That was still somewhat new for the three of them. After a few days back in their separate apartments in Gryffindor, they’d realized how incredibly codependent they’d become during their mission. Leo would find himself staring up at the ceiling most nights, worrying about the other two, until he’d get a phone call from one of them and they’d end up driving to each other and collapsing in bed together, squished together just like those hotel rooms they’d shared. And it had gotten to the point where there wasn’t any point living in different apartments when they ended up together most nights anyways, so Leo and Logan had packed up their things and moved in with Finn. He had the largest bed, anyways.

So yeah. They lived together now. And Leo was ridiculously pleased about it.

They were taking that vacation in a few weeks, too – the one Finn had first brought up in the back of a getaway car, tears in his eyes and blood on his hands. Somewhere warm, just like he’d promised. He’d get to watch Logan tan and Finn turn red like a lobster, only to go straight back to pale. They’d get some time to relax and not stress about work – just themselves and the vast expanse of beach and water in front of them.

Leo couldn’t wait.

“We’ll take that nap together.” Logan answered Finn quietly, turning his head to meet Leo’s eyes as he pressed an affectionate kiss to Finn’s head. Leo smiled at him, the sense of one chapter ending and the next beginning washing over him.

Whatever came their way, they’d be ok. They’d proven that already.

The crowd hushed as the judge sat back down, face impassive.

“We have reviewed the evidence and testaments brought forward in defense of Sirius and Regulus Black.” He started, looking down at the two in question critically as everyone in the courtroom seemed to hold their breath.

“It still doesn’t change the fact that they committed crimes while with the organization,” the judge stated firmly, then continued, “Regulus and Sirius Black are hereby sentenced to one year in prison.”

The gavel slammed.

Remus sat there in quiet disbelief.

They’d done… everything. They’d worked so hard for the past month in attempts to let Sirius and Regulus’ sentences reduced – and that was technically a reduced sentence – but it was still more than any of them had been expecting.

A year.

They hadn’t done enough.

Remus almost missed all the movement around him, too busy staring at the back of the seat directly in his line of vision, but his gaze snapped up when an achingly familiar voice called his name.

Sirius slowed to a stop as he passed Remus on his way out, eyes wide and frantic. Desperate. It broke Remus’ heart, more than it already was. “Wait for me?” He asked intently, like his sole focus was on Remus and his answer. He shoved his open palms out, revealing what he’d been fidgeting with during the entire trial. Remus looked down to find an origami flower, conveying all of Sirius’ hopes for the future within the delicate folds.

Remus wished more than anything that he could reach for him; to pull him in tight, hold him close, and refuse to let the guards take him away. He also had the half-formed plans of a jail break already in mind, even though he knew Sirius would never agree to it. It was then that his eyes locked with the gray ones he’d come to know better than his own and he knew – he knew that he’d wait, however long it took.

Remus loved him.

It wasn’t a grand revelation, it wasn’t sudden. In all honesty Remus had probably felt that way for a long time now, the truth prodding at the back of his head, nagging at his subconscious. He loved Sirius, plain and simple. Simple except for the fact that one of them was going to jail for a year. And yet, no matter how complicated it got, no matter how much time went by, it was the easiest decision Remus had ever made.

Well. If love made people crazy, Remus was certifiably insane.

He smiled a little tearfully at Sirius and nodded fiercely, picking up the paper flower delicately.

“You know I will.”

#lumosinlove #sweater weather #coast to coast #coops #sirius black #remus lupin #o'knutzy #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #leo knut #clandestine #cw: food #cw: prison #cw: anxiety

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xiaomomowrites · 3 years

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Genshin Impact | TartaLi/ZhongChi

Summary: “Home isn’t always a place,” he taps Zhongli’s chest, “home can mean a lot of things to different people. For me, my home is my family. Wherever they are is where my home is. And maybe that’s in Liyue, maybe it’s in Snezhnaya, or maybe it’s in Inazuma. Either way, wherever my mother is, wherever my siblings are, that’s what I call home.”

As Childe trails off, he’s suddenly aware of how he’s fidgeting with a button on Zhongli’s coat now. The tips of his ears turn red. He meets his gaze abashedly. “Does that answer your question?”

Zhongli smiles fondly at him. “I believe it does. Thank you for indulging me.”

Or; Zhongli struggles to define what exactly “home” means to him.

Find it on Ao3!

This part takes place between act V and Zhongli, Come Down. I know I posted this series totally out of order, please forgive me for my lack of organization :,D

A/N: First of all, I finally have a beta reader!! She’s helped me through the process of writing this and I’m incredibly thankful for her support. I accidentally made her cry with this fic though, even if it wasn’t necessarily sad?? Regardless I appreciate her feedback haha.

Oh my, I feel like I’ve been writing these two being really soft for too long. After this, I really need to face the music and write these two fighting. The time has come. They won’t be in the honeymoon phase forever!! I’m gonna vibe check all of you.

Also, do yourself a favor and listen to the songs Home by Michael Buble and Sparks by Coldplay after or during you read this. You’re welcome.

Lastly, you can find me on Twitter @/xiaoscribbles where I’m extremely active and talk too much about Genshin. I love making friends there!

Enjoy <3 -u.n.

Zhongli never had a place to call home.

Or rather, he never bothered to find one of his own and commit to it.

He was always too mobile, too nomadic. He had places to be, people and adepti to see, contracts to see through. Zhongli never found himself settling into one place for too long. Sure, when he was Rex Lapis, he had nested many times. He was a beast whose presence was too large to be confined into one space, so he would glide to the highest mountain in Liyue with ample space for a dragon like him, and settle. Zhongli remembered how he would make it as comfortable as possible for himself using all kinds of things he would pick up on his travels. A deep purr of satisfaction would rumble through him as his scaled belly would make contact with the coolness of the earth, and Rex Lapis would allow himself to relax against the stone, body sinking as if he were weightless. Although, no matter how he shifted, tossed and turned when he tried to rest, something was always missing.

Even the familiar feeling of the Liyuan ground was not enough to fill the void in his chest.

It was satisfying, sure, but never completing.

Hence, his lack of understanding of the human desire to settle down in one home for the rest of their short, yet meaningful lives.

Were they not itching to get up and go somewhere else? See the world? Appreciate the land beneath their feet in all its entirety? Zhongli failed to comprehend. Even an ancient being like him fell short in understanding the idea of a “home”.

Well, what consisted of a home, anyway? Four walls and a roof over their heads? A kitchen filled with food? A soft bed with layers and layers of sheets? What was the meaning of all that, when the true beauty of the world was beyond those four walls, high into the sky, and deep beneath the sea? What kind of pleasure could possibly come out of being domesticated?

Nevertheless, Zhongli did make an old promise to try to understand humans as they were. So sure, Zhongli supposed he could appreciate the art of architecture. He saw how hard people worked to build these beautiful houses with intricate designs to maximize safety for the residents excited to inhabit them. It was endearing, Zhongli thought, how enthusiastic humans got about a house. The idea of settling down with their loved ones would give them so much serotonin, so much drive. It was inspiring to him. Zhongli had always hoped that one day, he could feel the same way about someone.

So why couldn’t bring himself to understand the joy in this “home” everyone spoke of? What was he missing? Was he missing the duvet? The one thousand thread count sheets? Was he missing the fine China he saw peddlers selling on roads far from town? Because he had tried his best, living in his mortal form, to find the simple pleasure in decorating his home.

But no matter what he did, no matter how many throw pillows he placed on the couch, he simply could not deny the gaping hole in his chest when he went to bed at night. He had reached a point where even cooking for one every night upset him so, and he would go to bed disgruntled and hollow. The vast margins left on the king sized bed in the middle of the night kept Zhongli awake. Though he did not even need sleep, he had tried his best to form what the humans called a “proper sleeping schedule”. Apparently, according to Hu Tao, sleeping at four in the morning and waking at seven for work was “not suitable”.

But in truth, what was he supposed to do? Pray tell, what could he possibly do to absolve the issue of the chasm growing in his chest with each passing night?

“Xiansheng!” A jovial voice snaps him out of his reverie.

Zhongli looks up from his mundane paperwork to see a familiar head of red hair bounding toward him languidly. Oh, what a sight for sore eyes.

“Childe,” he greets, “did you pester Miss Hu Tao into letting you back here again?”

“Pester?” Childe brings a hand to his chest to mock his hurt, “I hardly have to bother her to come back here. A simple ‘you look fantastic today’ is always my ticket in.”

Zhongli scoffs fondly. “How can I help you, Childe?” He sets his pen down and leans back in his chair, amber eyes following the Harbinger curiously.

“Well your break is in ten minutes, so I figured I’d come grab you for lunch at Wanmin?” Childe plants two hands flat on the cherry red oak desk and leans forward into Zhongli’s space. There’s his signature teasing smile spreading slyly across his face, the one he knows Zhongli won’t be able to resist.

Zhongli hums in approval. “Sure, let me just wrap up this last form and I should be ready to go shortly.”

Childe drops down to his elbows in response and rests his face between his palms. “You sure? We could just go now, you know. I got Hu Tao consulting Ying’er about the new fragrance for the next hour or so.”

Zhongli leans forward and meets him in the middle. “I must be responsible, Childe. If my lunch break is at noon, then I will not leave my post until then.”

Childe pouts, jutting his bottom lip out cutely in an attempt to convince him otherwise. Zhongli, immovable as ever, simply leans forward and captures his lips between his own. The Harbinger makes a happy noise in the back of his throat and presses closer, positively humming when the ex-Archon reciprocates. But the older man is quick to get back to work, pulling away as quick as he came, but not before he nips at Childe’s bottom lip. The ginger whines petulantly at the loss of contact.

“Have a seat, Ajax.” Zhongli speaks, a hair’s width away from kissing him again. Childe grumbles, but agrees regardless. He seats himself in one of the plush armchairs located in the corner of the office and makes himself comfortable for the next ten minutes.

Zhongli readjusts himself in his seat and picks his pen back up, glancing back down at the form he had already completed. He blinked owlishly at it. He must have finished signing it while Childe was talking without realizing what he had done. Regardless, he moves onto the next document to peruse silently. Mid sentence, he scoffs playfully, shaking his head at the thought of the ginger distracting him so. Is he even surprised at this point? Not even a little bit. The ginger has an incomprehensible hold on his heart, one that he doesn’t really want to shake off.

“Something funny, Xiansheng?” Childe teases from his seat. He’s reclined in his chair, relaxed, head lolling against the cushioned headrest. His eyes are closed and his shoulders are drooping into the leather. He’s relaxed, for once, and the thought of Ajax allowing himself to let his guard down in his presence makes Zhongli’s heart thump happily in his chest.

“Not particularly,” Zhongli pushes himself up with a groan. Goodness, his joints are getting tired. He pads over to where Childe is seated and forcefully makes room for himself on a chair that is clearly made for one person. Childe lets out a surprised yelp at the sudden intrusion but scoots over to make room, anyway. Zhongli makes himself comfortable by angling his body to where it’s being cradled by the junction between the armrest and the back, and opens his arms as a silent invitation.

Childe takes it happily and launches forward to burrow into Zhongli’s chest. He rests a gloved hand over his heart and snuggles closer, inhaling the deep scent of silk flowers and leather. Zhongli’s arms come around to strap him against his chest, gloved hands petting his sides as he presses a kiss to red hair. The contact immediately vanquishes the discourse in his mind. He squeezes him tight for good measure, forcing a grunt out of his Tartaglia.

“Xiansheng,” he calls.

“Hm?”

“You’re working too hard again.”

“Am I?” He questions absentmindedly. “And here I thought I was pulling my weight just fine.”

Childe snorts. “Pulling your weight? You know I make enough for the both of us. You could retire and stay at home, relaxing and reading books, or whatever it is you do at home.”

Ah, there it is again.

Home.

For the second time that day, Zhongli is struck with confusion.

“What is home to you, Childe?” He asks, voice soft and far away. Childe frowns against his chest in confusion.

“Home?” He parrots.

“Yes, home. What is ‘home’ to you, Tartaglia?”

“Hmm,” the Harbinger hums, tapping a gloved finger against the ex-Archon’s chest idly as he speaks. “I suppose home is Snezhnaya. Home is what I grew up in. The unbearable cold and the old cottage house. Ice fishing with my siblings, massaging my mother’s back. Those things are all home to me.”

Zhongli ponders. Of course that is what home means. Familiarity, yes? So, technically, his home was Liyue. The hustle and bustle of trade by the harbor, the loud sizzling woks at the food stands, the loud marketers on the street that work hard day and night, the enthusiastic story tellers spewing exaggerated lies— that was all home to him.

So why, then, was Zhongli still dissatisfied with this conclusion? Home should obviously be Liyue. He created this land with his own two hands. Gave people the very drive that keeps them alive today; he gave the idea of mora and fair trade and economic prosperity. He’s watched countless faces pass him every day, every year, every century. He’s seen new faces, young faces, old faces, familiar faces, too, the ones he had seen on older souls. Reincarnated souls. Zhongli knew those souls. He’s had dinner with many of them on multiple occasions.

And it was no secret that Zhongli was well known in his hometown. Every business owner was familiar with his eloquent way of speaking and ambitious ways of buying. With the arrival of Childe, every business owner all but doubled their enthusiasm now that Mister Zhongli finally had a means to pay. People knew Zhongli, they adored him. They admired his amber eyes and long, beautiful hair, the ends of it looking like it had been dipped in melted mora. When he walked, people’s eyes followed. They would stare longingly at his beautifully crafted coat, his single earring, the fine leather gloves that cover his deft hands, and they would admire the way he walked with purpose, and with fire. A confidence so set in stone, it was almost difficult for one to even approach Mister Zhongli. For so long, he was considered Liyue’s most handsome bachelor, until of course Tartaglia came along and swept him off of his feet, capturing his attention in a way no one else could ever imagine imitating.

Yet, despite all the attention his people lavished upon him, there was always a nagging feeling of isolation nipping at him in the back of his mind. Despite creating the very ground beneath their feet, he simply felt like he did not fit in. Only when he was with Tartaglia did he truly feel like he belonged anywhere. It was rather inexplicable. There was something about the way Tartagali’s presence wrapped around him with a level of tenderness he had never experienced. It covered him like a gentle embrace, welcomed him without judgement, and loved him without expecting anything in return. The thought of Ajax himself made Zhongli’s heart swell

Speaking of which, the said man was now pressed tightly against his chest tracing lazy patterns into the fabric of his coat. Their long legs were tangled where they were dangling off the seat, with Tartaglia’s foot rubbing affectionately against the older man’s ankle.

Oh, how far they have come.

“But,” Tartaglia suddenly interjects, jolting Zhongli out of his thoughts. “If my family were to come here to Liyue to stay, then I suppose Liyue would be home, too.”

Zhongli hums. “Naturally. I’m sure they would find the variety of houses here in Liyue nice and peaceful, perfect for a new home.”

At that, Childe lets out a light laugh. “Honestly? They could live in a cardboard box in Inazuma, and I would still call that home.”

Zhongli frowns. Well now he’s even more confused than when he started. Since when was a cardboard box a suitable home for a human? It completely lacked all the appliances the houses here in Liyue had. Why would Childe settle for that? He of all people was aware of the love he holds for his family, there simply was no way he would call that a suitable home for his family.

“I don’t understand,” he says instead, “a cardboard box, Tartaglia? You do not strike me as the type to settle for such an...unbecoming home. Especially for your family.”

“No, no, Xiansheng,” the Harbinger chuckles, sitting up slightly so he can look Zhongli in the eye. “I was just exaggerating. And, home isn’t always supposed to be a house, you know. Those two things can be mutually exclusive. Maybe not all the time, but, definitely most of the time.”

Well this was certainly new. Now he truly did not understand what it meant to have a home.

“Apparently I do not know.”

Childe sits upright to look down at the ex-Archon.

“Home isn’t always a place,” he taps Zhongli’s chest, “home can mean a lot of things to different people. For me, my home is my family. Wherever they are is where my home is. And maybe that’s in Liyue, maybe it’s in Snezhnaya, or maybe it’s in Inazuma. Either way, wherever my mother is, wherever my siblings are, that’s what I call home.”

Childe is aware he’s rambling, but he can’t help it. Once he starts talking about his siblings, he simply cannot stop. “It wouldn’t matter where I was if I couldn’t hear my siblings from the other room. If I didn’t wake up to Tonia’s loud blow dryer every morning, or if I didn’t hear Anthon trying to talk to her over the blowing, then it isn’t home. If I can’t hear Teucer’s footsteps coming toward me asking about a new Mr. Cyclops toy, it isn’t home. Not to me. But like I said, it’s different for everyone.”

Zhongli smiles fondly at him. “I believe it does. Thank you for indulging me.”

Childe pushes himself up and off the chair, stretching and yawning obnoxiously. “Great,” he replies once his jaw finishes unhinging itself from that yawn, “let’s eat, I’m starving.”

—

To put it simply, Zhongli rethinks his definition of home all night. After he gets home from his dinner date (Tartaglia tugged on his sleeves until he agreed to leave his shift early in favor of a new restaurant that had popped up recently), he closes the door behind him to take in the composition of his home. Tartaglia had been the one to pick out most of the furniture, so although it lacked many of the traditional Liyuan decor Zhongli would have furnished the place with himself, it had a nice touch of Tartaglia everywhere he went.

His couch, for example, was a deep mahogany leather that stayed cool to the touch despite the hottest of summers. Zhongli’s dresser was nice and tall, a deep chestnut brown cut from the forests of Snezhnaya to match his bed frame. His bed was elevated by an incredibly grandiose four post frame that hung a beautiful golden translucent curtain all around the bed, draping the perimeter and creating an ethereal atmosphere for when he sleeps at night.

(“It’s kinda sexy, don’t you think?” Childe had asked one day, while he was pondering which bed frame to buy for his boyfriend. Not that he needed to, considering Zhongli finally has a stable salary, he just wanted to.

“Ajax,” Zhongli had said disapprovingly, “what about it is sexy to you?

“I don’t knowww,” the Harbinger hums, “maybe it looks like I would feel like I’m on cloud nine when we’re, you know…”

“You can say sex, Ajax, I believe in you.”

“Oh stop that!” Childe whacks him playfully with the catalogue, “I’m being a good boyfriend and getting you a beautiful bed frame cut from the finest oak tree and sheets woven with high quality silk! You could be nicer to me, you know.” He’s pouting, and he knows it. Zhongli’s eyes soften.

Zhongli shakes his head, laughing. “You know you don’t need to do that, you know.”

“I want to,” Ajax persists, “this is your first actual living space as a mortal! I want it to be perfect. I refuse to have my boyfriend, who is a literal god, sleeping on a bed with no bed frame. Unacceptable.”

Zhongli smiles and watches him as he continues to ramble about all the different bed frames he could buy. Oh, his love for this boy knows no end.)

The hints of Ajax everywhere he goes is how he keeps himself sane each night. His possessive urge to be around him every second of every day (courtesy of being a dragon deity his entire six thousand year life span) is soothed with the smell of him on his sheets and the extra toothbrush by the sink. One of Tartaglia’s scarves is folded neatly on the arm of his couch, and during those nights where he truly feels Ajax’s absence, he’ll hold the red fabric close and breathe the scent in deeply. The smell alone is enough to rock him to sleep on some nights, but on others, it simply is not enough. On those nights, he finds himself reading book after book about Snezhnaya culture until he passes out from exhaustion.

One would think that it would be better for them to just live together. Given that they spent every second outside of work with each other, even going so far as walking the long route home just to avoid saying goodbye, a person would look at the way they held each other close in public and think that they’ve been married for quite some time already.

But alas, they had agreed to take their relationship slow in the beginning. The both of them had much to adjust to, given that one of them was a notoriously fierce Harbinger, and the other was an ex-Archon adjusting to the world without his gnosis. They both had complex schedules that they were much too familiar and comfortable with to just up and leave for another person. There was a certain period of time that they had agreed to spend apart, well, as “apart” as they could be, before they decided to do anything drastic, like move in together.

There was too much to consider, anyway, Zhongli reflects as he gets ready for bed. Would their living habits even align? Would Tartaglia even be a good roommate? Would he take out the trash responsibly? As much as he loves the ginger with his entire heart, he doesn’t think he could do it for long if Tartaglia was the type to walk around with shoes on. Such an act should be considered illegal, anyway.

Waiting was the right thing to do.

Right?

The nights Tartaglia spent with him were the nights he could sleep a full, uninterrupted eight hours. They were the nights that Zhongli felt himself truly relax into the sheets and sink into a blissful sleep, knowing his beloved was being held impossibly close. And if nighttime was therapeutic for him, mornings felt ethereal. The mornings where he rose with the sun to be met with the sight of Tartaglia next to him were the mornings he felt like he could fly again, and soar through the open Liyue skies in his rawest form forever, so long as Tartaglia was with him.

In fact, more often than not, Zhongli thought about the way it would feel to have Childe by his side as he explored the skies again. He would think about the way he would have to strap him down, nice and close so he doesn’t fall off his back, and then take off high into the sky. Not too high, lest he accidentally give his boyfriend a heart attack, but high enough to hear those delightful shrieks Childe will let out when he’s excited. He thinks about the way Childe could grasp onto his mane for security, hands threading through golden locks, legs tightening around his torso to avoid falling. Oh, he thinks about this a lot.

But, waiting was the right thing to do. The last thing he wanted was for Childe to feel uncomfortable with the pace that their relationship was going and make him uneasy. Besides, just because he was a possessive dragon at heart, it didn’t mean Ajax was willing to cater to his needy tendencies. So, he promised himself that he would create a reasonable distance between them for the time being.

Why then, did he hate this distance with every fiber of his being?

Why is the distance so unbearable, especially at night?

Why is he so unsettled with the very few miles between them? It’s not like Zhongli is in Liyue and Childe is in Snezhnaya. Tartaglia is literally only at the inn.

Yet he craves nothing more but to be close to him at all times. Zhongli’s skin itches with the desperate desire to feel him by his side when he goes to bed, when he wakes up, and all the moments in between. Does that make him clingy? Maybe. But old habits die hard.

Zhongli huffs and looks down at his flattened pillow with disdain. No amount of fluffing will restore it to a state that is suitable for his likes. Even the elegantly woven silk night robe wrapped around his body offers little to no comfort.

He glances at the clock.

It’s only half past midnight. If all went well with Tartaglia’s shift, he should be home now, fresh out of the shower.

Without thinking twice, Zhongli throws together an overnight bag and rushes out the door.

—

“Coming, I’m coming,” Childe calls to the incessant knocks at his door. The knuckles continue to rap against the barrier, though, and Childe’s fingers itch to summon a water blade in the case that things go south. Considering that there is rarely anyone that would dare to disturb him at this time of night, Childe would say his precautionary measures are reasonable. He had summoned an angry water god, after all. It was only a matter of time before the angry mobs got to him.

The knocks sound again, and Childe angrily ruffles his hair against the towel. If they could just wait one second, he could answer the door with dry hair, but no. Peace was not an option, apparently, and neither was a perfectly fluffed head of hair.

He stomps toward the door and swings it open, ready to scold whoever had—

“Xiansheng!” He startles when he sees Zhongli standing in the doorway, donning a simple black t-shirt tucked into high waisted pants that were loose and slightly flared at the bottom, and his feet were covered by simple strappy sandals. Childe vaguely remembers purchasing those pants for him when he had mentioned wanting more loose and liberating clothes. The ex-Archon looks good like this. He looks… impossibly soft. Vulnerable, almost. There’s a distant look in his amber eyes that has Childe mildly concerned, though. Childe tries to ignore the sudden urge to protect him to his last dying breath.

“What are you doing here?” He sidesteps and reaches out to drag his boyfriend in. “I thought we had already discussed you sleeping so late! I know you’re an adeptus, you don’t require sleep, blah blah blah, but still, you—“

“I missed you,” Zhongli stated so matter of factly. “I wanted to see you. So I came here.”

Childe gawks at him and closes the door slowly. So he had just walked all the way here?! At this hour?! Goodness, the audacity—

“Xiansheng,” he whines instead, dragging the older man into an embrace. He wraps his arms around his neck and presses his cheek into his hair. “You can’t just say those things. It’s impossible for me to love you more.”

Zhongli holds him with desperation, welcoming the hug so enthusiastically that Childe knows there’s something to be said.

“Can I stay the night?” The adeptus asks once they pull apart.

Childe looks at him, dumbfounded. “You don’t even need to ask! Go, make yourself comfortable. Are you hungry? Have you had dinner?”

Zhongli drops his bag by his side of the bed and takes a seat, still watching Childe with careful eyes.

“I’ve eaten,” he answers carefully. “I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable at… home… so I came here.”

Childe frowns, and joins him on the bed. He flips the covers open and clambers in, resting back against the headboard. “Not comfortable? Is something wrong with your place?”

“Maybe,” Zhongli tries, “I really don’t know. Frankly I’ve been conflicted about… many things… recently, and I feel as if I have reached an impasse. I don’t know where to go from here.”

“Zhongli,” Tartaglia says, suddenly serious, “how come this is the first time I’m hearing of this?” His voice drops an octave, the worry seeping into his tone.

Zhongli reclines and rests against the headrest, too. “I did not know how to express my troubles to you, mainly because I’m having trouble defining it myself.”

Well, that’s fair enough. Tartaglia can’t find it in himself to be mad at that reasoning.

“Well,” Tartaglia begins, reaching for Zhongli’s hand and hugging his arm to his chest. He scoots closer and uses Zhongli’s shoulder as a pillow. “Why don’t you just start rambling and maybe it’ll come to you.”

“I think I have a vague idea, actually,” Zhongli adjusts himself to make himself more comfortable for Ajax. The both of them find themselves staring up at the ceiling as they converse. “Remember when I asked you what ‘home’ means to you?”

“Of course,” Tartaglia answers. Oh, he has an idea of where this is going.

“Well, I’m unsure of what it means to me.”

Bingo.

“What it means to you?” The Harbinger asks, craning his neck to look up at him. Zhongli hums, affirmative.

“Yes, I’ve been struggling to define the term for myself. I’ve been observing others much more closely and how they define their own home, but I’m afraid it has made me more confused.”

Tartaglia juts out his bottom lip in contemplation. “What do you mean?”

Zhongli takes a deep breath, a long explanation at the tip of his tongue. Tartaglia braces himself, as he usually does.

“Today you told me home was your family. Miss Xiangling told me home was her father, and the smell of their kitchen. Young Xingqiu told me his home was within whatever book he was reading, even describing it as his safe space. And Miss Ningguang, most peculiar of all, had told me home was when she was out at sea, but only when Captain Beidou was by her side. Mind you, I had fully expected it to be the Jade palace, considering the built it from the ground up.” Zhongli rambles, “and I just found it strange how so many humans find different definitions for the word home. Such a simple word, too, so imagine my surprise when I discover it’s true complexity.”

“I’ve encountered many things in my life, Ajax. I have met so many people in this lifetime and watched them grow, watched them die, and even watched some be reincarnated. But I think…” he trails off, and the warmth in his eyes glimmer as he reaches an epiphany. “I think I am struggling to define the term because I have never been presented with the idea of stability. Things are always changing. The world around me continues to warp and I have noticed, in my time so far, that humans find the need for stability and reassurance because of the nature of their short lives. That is where I am lacking.”

—

Try as he might, Tartaglia takes slight offense to his statement.

Lacking stability? The thought was bitter on his tongue.

Was… was Childe not enough?

No, no, he forcefully derailed that train of thought, he came here tonight because you’re the only thing he can rely on in his life right now. Show him that.

“Well,” Childe starts carefully, and thanks the stars that his voice is steady. “What about me?”

Zhongli makes a confused noise. “What about you?”

“Do you consider me as a stable thing in your life?” Childe prods, digging his cheek deeper into his shoulder.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Zhongli snorts.

Childe unironically feels an ache in his chest. He stills against Zhongli. Ouch.

Luckily, Zhongli is at least able to pick up on his sudden discomfort, and he’s quick to follow up his statement.

“You misunderstand, Ajax, you being wildly chaotic is a beautiful thing in and of itself.” Zhongli gently pries Childe off his arm to look at him directly. As expected, Childe is upset. He’s got the same glassy eyes he always dons when he’s upset, but doesn’t want to admit it, and his bottom lip is red and obviously bitten in an attempt to keep himself from feeling unreasonably angry.

“Oh,” Zhongli coos at the sight, “I’m sorry my love, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine,” Childe blinks hard, “I’m just being dumb.”

“You’re not being dumb,” Zhongli is quick to negate his self-deprecative tendencies, “I must have come off very harsh just now. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Childe thumps a fist against his chest, “it’s fine, really.”

“As I was saying,” the Archon continues, “nothing about my life so far has been stable, Ajax. Things are constantly changing. Time continuously flows, and it simply does not wait for any man. Unfortunately, I have seen many people come and go. And unfortunately, one day you will become one of them--”

“Zhongli stop,” Childe interrupts him. He’s angry, now. His brows are furrowed and there’s an evident frown on his face. There’s a slight scowl across his lips where there used to be a precious smile just moments ago. “What the hell?” He asks angrily.

“Ajax,” Zhongli scolds softly, “it would be in your best interests if you let me finish.”

“Well, not if you’re just gonna talk about death,” Childe retorts. He’s aware that he sounds childish, but such a topic is not to be taken to lightly. Especially when it revolves around him, and what he would be leaving behind. The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

“Whether or not you’re stable, whether or not you’ll be here forever, you are the most important thing to me, probably ever.” He speaks with a certainty that makes Childe shiver. “You are the first person in a very long time that has made me want to try to grasp at the fleeting seconds I have with you, Ajax. You drive me crazy. And I love you for it, because never in my six thousand years have I had as much fun as when I am with you.”

Dammit, Childe is crying now. Zhongli has such a way with words, how could he not? Dating him is just one, huge, glorified emotional rollercoaster. Zhongli brushes a stray, reluctant tear away with the pad of his ungloved hand.

“Frankly, stability is overrated,” the ex-Archon smiles at the soft giggle that escapes his beloved’s lips. “I have found, albeit slowly, that I would rather have someone loud and rambunctious than someone slow and settled. That is my role, if anything. There simply cannot be two of us, can there?”

A soft “no” is huffed as laughter from Childe. What a boring relationship that would be, truly.

“But if it is stability you seek, Ajax, let me be that for you. Let me be here, solid as stone and steadfast. Let me be the pillar of strength you need to turn to in times of trouble. Okay?” He brushes a knuckle gently across his skin.

Childe makes a sound that sounds a little broken and a little delirious. “When did this become about me, Xiansheng?”

“To me, it’s always been about you,” Zhongli smiles fondly. Childe feels as if he’s been shot in the heart.

Childe gives him a shaky smile and nods. He can’t seem to control his heart at the moment, so instead, he says, “You’re my home, Zhongli.”

The gears seemed to finally click somewhere in Zhongli’s chest. The hollow feeling inside suddenly swelled with a sense of nostalgia, bringing with it a feeling of peace and serenity. Zhongli’s eyes widen, and the ex-Archon looks down at Childe with a sudden air of solid certainty. Childe almost shrinks at the intensity of his gaze.

“Of course,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Of course it’s you.”

“What?”

“How could I be so blind?” Zhongli cups his face with both hands, and Childe reciprocates by placing both palms on his wrists. Confused, but following along. Cor lapis eyes stare straight into his soul, unforgiving as it digs deeper and deeper into what makes him whole.

“Xiansheng?” Ajax asks, dazed by the intensity of Zhongli’s stare. God, his eyes are so golden.

“It’s you, Ajax,” for once, his voice cracks and he loses composure, “you… are home. You are home. To me, that is my definition of home. I only ever feel-- I only ever feel like I belong when I am with you. It was so obvious, and I--”

“Zhongli,” Ajax gently pries off the hands cupped around his face. His heart can’t handle this right now. It’s too much. He’s too in love, he needs to do something or he’ll explode. He stares directly into those beautiful, mesmerizing golden eyes. Ajax cradles Zhongli’s hands in his own, petting over his knuckles, when he asks, “Marry me?”

His eyes widen comically, as if they weren’t already the size of saucepans with his first epiphany.

“Oh.”

So that’s what he was missing.

“I know we said we would take it slow, and I know I’m young, or whatever” Childe begins to ramble, “but fuck going slow, Xiansheng, it’s been months and all I want to do is go to sleep with you next to me. I know what I want and it seems like you do, too, but if I misread that then--”

Zhongli hushes him with an incessant press of his lips against Childe’s. It is a loving kiss, yes, but it is filled with a desperation that only the both of them understand. It is a kiss that is so different from the others; one full of certainty and ambition, a kiss full of overwhelming commitment. The longing behind the contact is an answer in and of itself, but he pulls away to speak regardless.

“Yes,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against Childe’s, “yes.”

That night, Zhongli finally comes to the conclusion that home does not have to mean four walls and a roof. It doesn’t pertain to any kind of fancy kitchen appliances, or four post bed frames. Zhongli quickly learns that it doesn’t have to be about a place, and all the stories it tells. It’s not even Liyue, the very land he built himself. It has nothing to do with any of that. In fact, the sheer ridiculousness of Zhongli’s inner conflict has him rolling.

Instead, it has everything to do with the red head beneath him. It has to do with the way he calls his name in the middle of the night, claws his hands down his back and juts his hips forward, desperately seeking friction. Home has everything to do with swollen lips, red from being kissed, cheeks hot pink from the heat slowly filling the room, and strong thighs clenching and unclenching around his waist. Home has to do with his precious Snezhnayan soulmate.

Simply, home is Ajax.

#genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #tartali #zhongchi #chili #tartaglia x zhongli #childe x zhongli #character study #zhongli struggles a lot...#childe #tartaglia #zhongli #rex lapis #help i want what they have

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bnhaoptr · 4 years

Text

Shanks | Shanks and S/O your first kiss

The red strands shone with the late afternoon light, becoming redder than usual in that dreary sunset light. His skin was lightly tanned, unshaven, and the smell of sea air that he brought with him came in perfectly with him.

Yes, you liked that. She liked to feel the sea odor embedded in every pore of him, to listen to his wonderful stories mixed with jokes, the way he drank and sang his favorite pirate songs, he loved the chill that ran throughout his body when he brushed his skin. She liked everything about him, even his flaws.

S / O never cared that Shanks was a pirate, or rather a Yonkou. It seemed that the danger and grandeur brought in his name, always tempered by a touch of good humor, excited her in every possible way. It was a dangerous attraction, one that makes you delirious, inventing stories of which many may never be realized. How many times did she find herself imagining rather spicy scenes with the redhead. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be held with one arm or how I would be loved with that little "disability", s/o was just curious.

She was always excited to see the imposing ship approaching the small island of the Grand Line. His village did not have much to offer any visitor, but he always made a point of stopping there, whenever he passed by, [your name] was never silly and hurriedly managed to find him. She combed her hair in a ponytail and wore light clothing since the summer heat is not so unforgiving to you. She never put on a lot of makeup, the most she used was a mascara and a gloss. Soon I was ready to find the said pirate. Before leaving his house, he took a flower and placed it between the hair strands and the ear in the form of an accessory. You were young, you had never left your little world surrounded by seas and creatures that lived hidden in waters so deep. He envied him a little for so many travel experiences, a white envy, he wanted to know at least what the island next door was like if he had the chance.

When walking slowly, you noticed an agitation near the waterfront bar, the spacious ship was standing there and people seemed to celebrate with the arrival of the almost routine visitors. Her eyes lit up when she saw him there, so imposing. In a nostalgic moment, his mind wandered away, he remembered the day he met him ... You were only sixteen years old and you had never seen such a great vessel before, the most you had ever seen were fishing boats. Then he came down the stairs however what caught his attention most was that vibrant red color in his head; you always loved red. After all, it was a warm, intense color and, as he believed, the color that defined destiny.

Before you know it your boss called saying that several customers arrived at the bar where you worked. It was a small bar, slightly dark, and it smelled of alcohol with several voices standing out between each other in laughter. You took a deep breath and entered that old trade when, at last, their eyes met. Those dark irises fixed on your irises | it was like a deep chasm that emanated strange energy. They seemed to be connected by a fine line only in the eye. His boss, a short, balding man with a protruding belly, ordered him to serve his table and three other colleagues. As soon as he reached the table holding the tray where the sake and rum lay, his hands began to shake. He was careful, with a lot of effort, not to get in the way any more and started pouring glass by glass, repeating this same process in all bottles. However, when it reached the last bottle of sake, the tremor made your fingers wobble, consequently almost dropped the alcoholic drink on the pirate. By pure luck and a quick reflex he took the drink, holding you by the hands. His rough and warm skin in contact with yours | your type of hand and skin | it was a comforting shock, funny how they both seemed to fit together perfectly.

He felt his cheeks heat up to a reddish tinge, as much as the hair of the man who wore a warm smile making his heart melt. You hurriedly apologized and disappeared into the kitchen; sometimes he spied this pirate through the doorway. And without realizing it, almost magically, you had managed to approach him. Enough to know his position in that group of pirates and his somewhat exotic name: Shanks. You didn't know how to say it precisely, but something about it attracts you, like a moth is attracted to light. In a few hours I could already feel the closeness between the two of you, in addition to what your trembling had gone through, your heart however continued to beat intensely, I had never felt the blood run so fast in your veins. You could only observe it, it was like a new species never seen before, even among so many other unusual pirates; like the fat guy who loved roasted meat.

A few years after that episode you had grown up, considering yourself much more mature since the first encounter with that man. You will even start wearing makeup. He put on his favorite outfit and tied his hair in the hope of cooling you off, given the high temperature of his home island that made the smaller strands stick to the back of his neck by sweat. You didn't dress up so much to work but seeing that immense ship made you feel immeasurable and unusual, so much so that you even applied your lipstick favorite. As soon as your feet touched the floor of the bar, a few glances were directed at you, although none of them were so interesting that it would hold your attention. He, strangely, was not there, unfortunately. A slight regret and discouragement made their home in his chest, his boss called him for help to serve the tables as usual. She couldn't complain, even without his presence there, her crewmates were just as excited, able to get laughter out of her lips.

Late in the afternoon, Ben Beckman ordered some barrels of drink and bottles of a specific sake. Your boss who suffered severe back pain asked you to help the pirate take the bottles while he took care of the establishment and some who had passed the alcohol quota. That made your animation come back, after all you could see it in its “natural habitat”. Ben Beckman next to you was a big man compared to his height, his body it was so small and delicate next to him. That man was able to carry large barrels without any problem or effort, unlike you who used a wheelbarrow to carry large quantities of bottles.

Arriving in front of the ship with scarlet and gold details, his legs swayed with such emotion. Beckman asked you to wait outside that soon he would be back to pick up the rest of the bottles, you agreed by sitting a little further back on the soft sand. Got your nails going | the way they are | while waiting. The sun was setting among the clouds as the sky turned orange, the tide was rising a little more than usual and the albatrosses were flying across the sky behind a school of defenseless fish. And in that moment of deconcentration, a slight cough made her turn her face to find that man who always instigated her. That scene, that man receiving the afternoon sun all over his body, filled his eyes with beauty and his body with mild excitement. With a jump you were on your feet wiping off excess sand with your hands.

- What are you doing here [your name]? - He asked surprised.

- Shanks! I came to help Ben with the sake bottles.

The redhead approached her and the wheelbarrow, he looked at the bottles and took one saying how good that sake was, second only to the one in his homeland. You used to serve it yourself, you were bewildered by the words of that conversation, you didn't know what to say about the quality of the sake since you didn't drink alcohol.

- [Your nickname]! World for [your name] - Called Shanks.

- A-Ah! I'm sorry, could you ask the question again?

- Do you want to drink with me?

In the strength of his impulse and instinct to be a little closer to that man, he accepted the invitation.

-Come, let's sit under those trees, it's cooler!

With your heart in your hands you followed him, sat down together and let him serve you, from a distance you saw Beckman taking the bottles and taking them into the boat. Shanks spoke animatedly to you, sometimes mentioning an adventure or other he had experienced. Alcohol made him lethargic, causing little sobs that made that red-haired pirate laugh and tease his alcoholic inexperience. Within minutes the sun was completely hidden behind the ship.

"Shanks, why didn't you go to the bar this time?" - You asked curiously.

- I had some obligations to resolve. Things I couldn't put off until later.

- I understand...

- Come [your nickname], it's getting late and your boss will be worried.

Shanks held out the hand in which you accepted immediately, without hesitating even a second, even though he had only one arm he had incredible strength that no effort needed to be made to pull you. However, you tripped over your own feet and ended up bumping into that man's body. I could see his defined abdomen against him, the scent of the sea intensified by how close he was and when he touched his muscles he felt how stiff they were. You looked up and saw that manly features that you always loved to admire, so with the shame that was present in a reddish color on your cheeks you whispered an "excuse" and in response you received a smile.

Shanks's hand came down from his arm to his waist, the feeling of that hand holding him was comforting and he never imagined how incredible that would be. Her mind seemed to lose focus a little, so she looked up again and saw that he was watching her too. Something inside of you started to boil, on impulse you ran your hands over the man's thick neck and slowly approached until your lips touched his; thin, dry lips tasted like sake mixed with salt. You were surprised when the kiss was returned by Shanks, he pulled your waist closer to the strong torso and further deepening the kiss.

When you were finished you slowly opened your eyelids trying to control your heartbeat. He felt his lips were slightly swollen and imagined that the lipstick was smudged because there were also traces of makeup in the redhead's mouth. Panting, her hand came down to Shanks's chest, feeling the heat that his skin emanated. Shanks was looking at you with a smile you've never seen before, so you smiled back and leaned your head against his chest.

- I waited so long for this ...

- I say the same. So I think we better take the delay.

In the blink of an eye, you were kissed again by Yonkou. The taste of sake accompanied by the sea air, both mixed with the coastal breeze that embraced him, kept them company. You had taken time to take courage, but when you did, you didn't regret it a bit.

#akagami no shanks #Shanks #one piece #One Piece headcanons #one piece scenario #one piece imagine #shanks x reader #op shanks #red haired shanks #one piece x reader #one piece oneshot

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katlyn1948 · 4 years

Note

#2. Makeup sex

Ooff... okay I gotta cheer y’all up

It had been a year since she’d last seen him; since their last night together ended with a morning of heartbreak.

Arya tried to move, and for a time, she did. Although she couldn’t bring herself to so much as glance at another person the way she looked at Gendry, didn’t mean she didn’t have fun.

There a few, no more than three, that she used to help quench her broken heart. An although they were great in bed, it did little calm her heart. They couldn’t fill the void that Gendry left behind.

And that void was extraordinarily great. It was like a chasm; her body on one side while her heart was on the other.

She had hoped that each new person she allowed herself with would help stitch the great chasm close, it only ripped it wider, throwing her heart further away.

So when she saw him lingering in a bar in Winter Town, she could feel that chasm shift close...even if a little.

“Gendry?” Her voice was soft, near inaudible, yet she still spoke. His name sounding foreign on her tongue.

His deep sea eyes shifted to her, drilling holes into her soul. He looked startled, but not surprised. Almost as if he was hoping to see her.

He looked rugged, worn.

As if their year apart rendered him sleepless.

His beard had grown and his was longer, bits falling into his eyes that he had to shake away.

“Arya.” He voice was like a vice; a wicked spell pulling her closer to him. It was intoxicating and everything Arya had craved for the last three hundred and seventy eight days.

Her feet move on their own, slipping onto the bar stool beside him.

The unspoken words between them yelled as their eyes searched one another. Not even the people around them could break the intoxication they had with each other.

He moved his hand to cover hers as it laid resting on the bar. Sparks of electricity bolted up her arm and when she looked into his eyes, Arya could see that he felt it too.

“What-what are you doing here?” She asked, a bit hesitant as she didn’t want to break the spell they were under.

His blue irises flickered as she watched him search his mind for an answer. “I was hoping to run into you. I heard from Sandor that you moved back up here to Winterfell a few months after...after we...”

She nodded, understanding his difficulties to say the words.

“I tried, Arya. Gods know that I tired.” He sighed. “But I just couldn’t do it anymore. I missed you. I need you. And I’m sorry.”

Arya grabbed his face, “No! Don’t be sorry. I was the idiot to say what I said. I was angry and I never meant them.”

“But I still left.”

“Because I told you to. We both made mistakes and we’ve both been idiots; too stubborn for our own good. I’ve been miserable without you, Gendry. I need you too.”

And she broke.

Arya pulled Gendry to her, crashing her lips to his.

They tasted of salt and whiskey, still very much like when she would kiss him when they were together. And they felt like home. She left safe and secure and she knew that he was it. He was the one she would be with until the end of her days.

They left the bar shortly after, with their hands clasped together as she weaved him through the streets of Winter Town to where her apartment was located.

The brisk winter air nipped at their faces, rendering their noses and ears read with cold, but when warmly behind her apartment door, their fevered kisses melted away the ice.

Their teeth scrapped at each other skin; their tongues savoring the taste of the sweat that had begun to perspire and his touches across her body sent her senses into a shock.

As their clothes were thrown from their bodies and the crashed atop her bed, Arya knew this was right.

He entered her with ease and he filled her perfectly, like he was made just for her. And where their last coupling had been rough and then soft, this coupling was about savoring.

It had been so long!

The last thing Arya wanted was to rush.

This was their apology; a symphony of unspoken words mingled with their passionate moans as they unrelentlessly devoured the other.

His slow thrusts bore into her being as stars danced behind her lids and the sweet cacophony of his words seeped into her ears.

“I’m sorry.”

Thrust.

“I love you.”

Thrust.

“Arry, come for me.”

And she did. Arya came with a gruntled cry as her chasm had finally filled.

“Gendry!” She reached for him, pulling his closer as her walls clenched around him. She needed him to crash with her, and before she could tell him to let go, she felt it, his seed as it seeped deep within her.

When they pulled apart, they just laid in each other’s arms, basking in the afterglow.

Arya knew, as she began to drift into slumber, the come morning Gendry would still be there.

#arya stark #gendrya #arya/gendry #got #gendry waters #mild smut #gendrya prompt #prompt #make up sex

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daredevile · 4 years

Text

A Second Here Another Gone

Summary: Blinded by the sweet raptures of a new relationship, Bucky lowers his guard around you - unaware of the real reason you found him.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, mentions of blood, bit of violence and one swear word

A/N: Hey! I know it’s been over two months since I posted something and I’m sorry! I was working on so many oneshots and never finished one until now. But, I promise I will try to update somewhat regularly from now on! Anyway, this one’s for Ayesha’s [ @browngirlmagic ] writing challenge and my prompt was ‘Echo’. Please reblog if you like it! :)

An angry crimson. A so-called scarlet elixir of the living trickles from its hearth beneath as if screaming a symbol of horror and impending doom. It surrenders with grace and elegance - a droplet of fresh blood tainting pristine white floors, smearing the Parthenon of life and death with an intensity of wrath and violence and -

"Hey." The sombre tone in his voice draws you into his weary stature. It looks worse than he'd assured over the phone. Raging clusters of purple and blue spread across his arms, broken lip, black eye, his jaw cast a scarlet tint. Not to mention the slight limp he'd tried masking from your stares.

"Thanks for coming so fast. Would've driven myself but..." He motions to the cast around his right arm, a light pink dusting over his cheeks. A nurse approaches him with a sympathetic expression, repeating a list of instructions and medication requirements for a quick recovery. Though you know Bucky's not following a word she's saying - she must've realised it too - giving you a moment for any questions before returning to her station.

The conversation in the car is non-existent, only a couple of instinctive glances towards the rear-view mirror to gauge each other's emotions. Soft tunes twirl in the background, Bucky lowers the volume with a grunt as his muscles sting with the movement. A sigh escapes from his lips, he angles himself towards your concentrated form but, you refuse to meet his gaze.

"Y'know it's not as bad as it looks. Should've seen the other guy." He says with a constrained laugh. An honest attempt to relieve the tensed wind and the crease between your eyebrows, alas, it fails its purpose. He sinks back into the cushioned seat, lingering his eyes over the neon streaks of passing vehicles.

The road seems never-ending, both sides merely converging at a distant imaginary point ahead. The traffic dissolves and scatters into several busy paths as Bucky directs you through far too many left and right turns before arriving at a rather calm and vacant neighbourhood.

Once the engines lull back into a soft purr, you open the passenger door and gently grasp his arms as he lifts himself from the seat. He releases a breath in relief, thankful your silence is replaced by concern. The two flights of stairs is another journey on its own, exchanging mumbles of apologies and groans, even the close proximity of him curves past your thoughts.

Bucky stumbles into his apartment, careful to avoid the loose floorboard right at the entrance - pushing a horrible reminder to the back of his mind - and you follow his footing. A chuckle from him pulls your attention, determined he's capable on his own, he leans away from your hold, mentioning something about taking a shower before retreating into the furthest room.

His house is spotless, every single object kept in a place for swift and efficient access. Somehow he'd made a rather confined area appear more spacious. You notice how foreign and hostile he maintained his home - a supposed personal bubble. His belongings danced around the hazy line between bare essentials and other items. Almost as if he was caught in the process of moving in or ready to move out within a matter of minutes.

A sharp buzz from your phone stops you from observing the rest of the apartment. Without sparing a glimpse at the caller, you swipe the green button. An instant thrust of shouting greets you, attacking your senses with great vigour. And it's patience, you've learned, an offensive strategy to appease the monster into a human you could better tolerate.

"I need time." It's not forceful, however, lacking a timbre of the usual intensity your words uphold. The shouting continues, each syllable seething with fury, demanding more answers while your fist clenches at the vulgar threats he hurls from the other end.

"I need more time."

There's dead silence on both ends. And for a second, you believe that he's accepted the command. As fast as it'd ignited, the little spark of surprise disintegrates when his deep laughter is all that's pounding in your ears.

"You're here!" Bucky says, grinning as he spots you in the balcony, "Thought you left me alone."

His sudden appearance turns your blood cold and you can feel the precise second your heart trips over a beat, shoving the phone back into your pocket. His smile drops, immediately regretting how he entered as soon as he saw the pained expression written all over your features. He sighs when your eyes witness the red wounds and scars - some more jarring than others - scattered across his body.

"Look, I know this isn't a good impression. I don't want you to see me like this, trust me, I wouldn't have called if I had - " A pause. Hesitant as he swallows back the words. "Anyone else."

"I'm sorry, Bucky. This is all just... difficult." He nods, fumbling with the loose bandage tied to his other arm. A smile tugs on your lips at his frustration, you grab the free end and wrap it securely around the wound.

"Could you maybe stay? I mean... if you want to." He struggles to suppress a grin when you look up at his eyes. It's hope that lingers behind them.

"Of course."

But the side where you slept is cold and empty when he wakes up.

---

O N E W E E K E A R L I E R

The restaurant was crowded, located right at the heart of the city, overlooking several busy streets that seemed to sink under all the hustle and bustle. The world appeared an innocent umber through the dark hue of your sunglasses, shielding yourself from unwanted enemies. Or so you thought.

Time. Time was precious and no amount of glancing at your watch appeared to have quickened the circular orbit of the dials. But this time, you were unsure - caught between the dichotomous chasm of want and need - a feeling that unsettled you to the core.

"Hope you don't mind, darling." A deep voice came from behind, the drinks spilt over the glasses as he slammed his hand on the table. The elderly couple sitting to your left flinched at his abrupt action. A fake smile was enough to have satisfied them, he returned to face your blank expression.

"So tell me, does it usually take this long or are you fucking him?" It was almost a growl that promptly simmered to a smirk when a waitress passed by, unaware of the evil she'd encountered.

"He'll figure it out, I'm being careful." You said, oblivious to the scorching hot liquid piercing your taste buds. Any shard of fun and pleasure that had emerged from his features earlier crumbled at that very second, he leaned closer and you saw the strain on his face when his jaw clenched. Rumlow was not one to adjust and compensate. You learned that the hard way.

"Listen l/n, I saved you from Volkov 'cause you'd be useful someday. And now you owe me. Gave you a week to do the job, it's been two and I still got nothing. And you know I don't like waiting. Get me the information and finish him or should I remind you what's at stake here."

His voice was dangerously low as if cautious of people overhearing but, you knew it would take mere seconds for the scene to resemble a massacre. Yet, he was right. Your past record highlighted the speed and efficiency of completing assignments - just one hit then delivered to the client and you walked away richer. No hesitation. Unfortunately, this time it was Bucky who had a price on his head and had obtained confidential information.

A folder was thrown at your direction, containing photographs of innocents at different viewpoints through what was unmistakably sniper scopes. Rumlow mimicked the sound of a gun cocking before standing up. He bent down to whisper in your ear, laughing while he pressed a brief kiss to your cheek and walked into the sea of people. His last words were all that you breathed.

Barnes or your family.

---

Bucky sidesteps the soldier-like stance of a grumpy looking man, clearing his throat to alleviate the embarrassment of breaking under his penetrating stare. He didn't know what the guy's problem was, Bucky ignores the annoyed tsk that's clearly targetted at him. On any other occasion, a meaningless interaction with strangers would've flown over his head. But, today he's confused. Scared, even.

Less than two weeks ago, he'd encountered and been drawn to an enigma. Strong yet intricately pieced together. Delicate yet resilient. He just couldn't figure it out. After all, he thought everything became normal once he'd spoken and apologised last night. Expecting to be woken up by sunshine and ruffled sheets from a good sleep and you sleeping soundly, but you were gone without a word - and he just doesn't understand.

And now, here he is, shuffling through busy routes to follow a briskly walking figure who's intrigued him for half an hour. They seem to have no destination, simply taking sharp turns and descending into valleys of crowds and streetside markets. In a hurry, Bucky thinks. He picks up his pace, there seem to be fewer people in this area. It's darker and easily hidden between the lanes of houses.

He turns the corner and realises there are no other paths. A dead-end. The figure spins around, eyes flitting around the narrow path. He panics and begins to retreat, but the all-too-familiar cock of the gun stills his movements. Nothing. No moment in his entire life scared him more than the person standing a few steps away -

It's you.

He freezes when your finger curls around the trigger and the innocence in your eyes dissolve. Every single instinct in his body is telling him to run. But he can't. He wants to know more, to know why. And he realises you're thinking the same when your hand begins to tremble.

"Whose orders?"

It's a tone he's never heard before. Cold and detached. A machine programmed to do one's bidding with no second thoughts. He raises both hands, swallowing the agonising feeling latching onto his throat as your grip tightens.

"Don't lie to me, Barnes. Who ordered you to kill me?"

There's no choice. His heart is clawing the insides of his chest, waiting to be free. A whisper is all it takes to conquer your feelings.

"Volkov."

Bucky knows the moment his name is released into the strangling air between you, the gun falters. He sees the rapid and minute shift of your eyes, composing all the information together until -

Your voice staggers, pleading almost. "They have my family, Bucky. He'll kill them if you don't tell me where Volkov is. Rumlow - "

Bucky stops listening. Rumlow, a name he'd left behind, buried within the depths of conscience along with Hydra. He understands your assignment, a simple extract and kill. What Volkov had promised in exchange for your life - Steve's whereabouts - seemed too good to be true, maybe a possible reality in a utopian world. But, this is his life and it's not paradise. He takes a few steps until his hands hover over your gun, angling it towards his heart.

"Then save them."

He whispers the location and you try to zone out, lose control so you don't hear his words. It's too late, two snipers emerge from buildings on command, both taking positions on either side of where you're standing. The chill that runs down Bucky's spine doesn't go unnoticed as he spots the red skull badge on their sleeves. Rumlow knew you wouldn't kill him.

Bucky nudges your chin with the tips of his fingers, reaching into his jacket, he slips his gun into your hands. No words are spoken but you know what has to be done.

Taking a much-needed breath, you pull the trigger at him, not witnessing the wine coloured liquid spreading across his chest instead, taking cover before shooting one of the snipers lurking near a thin pillar. The other one begins firing near the car you are ducking behind. You sprint into his blind spot and kill him with a shot to his head.

Without wasting another second, you spot Bucky clutching his chest in pain. It takes a frozen second for you to dial 911, shaking with dread before Rumlow sends any more of his men and the chances of Bucky surviving vanish. A concerned voice replies to your incohesive string of words, you're barely making sense, the nurse ends the call ensuring 'they're on the way'. Bucky grabs your hand amongst the turmoil, light-headed and pale from the blood seeping through his clothes.

"This isn't goodbye."

And you run.

---

E I G H T M O N T H S L A T E R

Even after weeks of desperately searching for him, he was nowhere to be found. You'd gone back to the hospital, the nurse gave you a distressed glance, saying he hadn't mentioned anywhere in particular. That he was gone once discharged.

You didn't give up though - he'd sacrificed himself for your family in a sheer heartbeat. Bucky was the wind to your storm - a second here another gone. He was mysterious beneath the layers of kindness and affection, tender yet deep like the lyrics of a love song - words you've yet to discover, only hoping you weren't wrong.

A few of your old confidantes were able to carry out under-the-ground operations in exchange for Bucky's location: Edinburgh.

Under the chilly winter winds, you walk along the snow-freckled pavement. Sitting at a dark wooden bench inspecting calming patterns of skate lines etched across the river's icy surface, puffs of crisp air revealing themselves as you sigh.

"I was right."

His voice beckons a long-awaited smile on your face. Sharp blue eyes gazing at a few younger skaters wobbling while they glide along. You begin to stammer out an apology, but he shakes his head, still not meeting your eyes.

"You had no choice."

"Did you find him?" You ask eagerly as he takes a seat next to you.

"Pulled a few strings with some old contacts." Bucky turns to face you, a genuine smile he hadn't felt in ages tugs his lips. He takes your gloved hand in his, entangling his fingers with yours with a dazed look washing over his features.

"He's here."

#ayesha1kwritingchallenge #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky angst #bucky fluff #winter soldier #marvel #mcu

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heli0s-writes · 5 years

Text

V. Exhibit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes Summary: After all your hard work, the day is finally here. A/N: Part 5 of Mystery of Love.

The following month passed by in a hurry, as your thoughts were dominated by the constant thrall of work. One month was truly not enough to prepare, but you knew the implications of waiting until June passed- those positions in the fall would likely not be available; June was late enough.

Tony eagerly sprang into action and helped you transform your guest room into a photography studio, begrudgingly folding to your “outrageous peasant demands” of simple lighting, and two solid backdrops. When it was fully set up, you held a meeting with the team and prepped them over procedure and your proposal. You spoke plainly.

The show to view your work post-travels was primarily a guise to get a glimpse into their lives more intimately; you were under no illusion that it was anything else but 1) a shrewd plan for elites to rub elbows with other elites and 2) an opportunity for you.

Honesty was the best policy, and you knew they would appreciate it.

“If you consent to have your posed portrait taken by me in a studio setting- something we haven’t done before, thank you. If you don’t, I don’t blame you or hold it against you. It can be unnatural, uncomfortable, and I understand. Be aware- these images will be auctioned off. They will not, however, be duplicated. They are single prints.”

“Please make me rich.” Tony grinned as he spun freely in the swivel chair, “I mean, richer. Please make me richer.” After a round of glares from the team, he fessed, “Oh fine. Yes, you’ll receive a portion of the payment. You greedy little assholes.”

It didn’t take much more convincing for everyone to be on board. You were eager to begin and spent the first few days of June taking note of the kinds of images you wanted from each member. You thought about the representation of duality of Avenger and “being” whether it was human, super soldier, or an enhanced- or in Thor’s case, a god. But in the end, you decided on listening to Bucky’s advice and give ‘em hell. They were going to play by your rules.

Halfway through the month, you were so engrossed in the work, you’d barely had time to spend with either Steve or Bucky. They were sweet enough to make sure you had plenty of coffee on your days at the compound and would try to call before bed if you were in the city. Other than the occasional dinners together and their own photo sessions (which you were adamant on keeping strictly professional-save for a very stubborn session with Bucky), you hardly saw them.

Steve was called away on a diplomatic assignment with Natasha in Paris on the 13th. You were happy to hear that he wouldn’t be in any foreseeable danger and a tiny bit glad that he’d be busy doing something other than worried about your sleeping and eating habits. By the 24th, everything was nearly complete, and the only thing left for you to do was buy a dress and set up for the night of. You felt like a pile of wet rags and had even lost a few pounds from the stress and exertion.

The morning of the 26th, Steve and Natasha landed at the compound, disembarking from the quinjet. You were taking the day off to find a dress in the city; Tony had given you his credit card. It was a tremendous gesture you wanted to refuse until he reminded you that truthfully, you were doing him just as big of a favor as he was doing you. He had even encouraged you to get a custom gown early in the month and even passed the message along to various designers, but you adamantly refused, reiterating once again that it was not about you. Tony would have to face the disappointment of being the only one in a custom-made ensemble.

At 11, while rifling through a rack of silk and lace beauties, you received a call from Bucky.

“Hey, you,” you smiled. He’d been texting you all morning, updating you on Steve’s jet lag. “Can I come to you for lunch?” You sucked in a deep breath. “Buck, you sure? I’m in Manhattan.” “Yeah. Send me your location.”

There was no arguing with him when he made up his mind.

When Bucky arrived on 5th Avenue, he wore a black long-sleeve and jeans with his usual combat boots. You couldn’t help but smile at the classic cap and sunglasses combo as he plodded through the throng of tourists- looking very much like one himself. His hair was tied back to avoid sticking to his neck in the heat. He kissed your shoulder at the entrance of the store and you grazed his stubbled chin with a finger in response.

The walk to your favorite sandwich shop was relatively short, and Bucky let you lead the way, keeping a hand on the small of your back to keep you close. The two of you sat at the bar near the window after your food arrived and you let him know your surprise at his offer to meet you in the city. He shrugged it off as he took the sunglasses off his face.

“When I was on the run, I placed myself in different locations, but it was often smartest to hide in plain sight. Bucharest has a population of over a million people ‘n they’re so busy they don’t pay attention to much else; I don’t go into the city mostly because I don’t like it, hon’.” He took a bite of his sub and you did the same, snorting in delight when a bit of lettuce hung from his chin. Bucky rolled his eyes and sent you a lopsided grin before closing his mouth again over the sub, muttering. “You’re a punk.”

You felt laughter bubbling up in your chest as he swiped off the lettuce and flung it at you.

This was the Bucky you liked the most- playful, mischievous, still sweet in the center. Not to say there were parts of him you disliked, but you were careful with his more jagged pieces. The Bucky who scanned every room he entered, who always strapped at least three knives to his body, who scowled on impulse, who automatically put himself in front of you in response to loud noises needed more tenderness. The Bucky who texted you at three in the morning “just to see if you were awake” needed more tenderness, too.

The first time you woke up to one of those messages, you joked that he reminded you of a college boy making a booty call. Only after seeing him bleary eyed and on-edge did you ponder more deeply about it and ventured to ask if he had trouble sleeping because of nightmares.

He admitted he truly saw little in his dreams, but felt chasms that threatened to swallow him up, and the terror of that blackness kept him awake. You knew what awaited him in that blackness. Since then, you’ve always kept your phone on loud.

“Stevie got you a dress from Paris,” Bucky mumbled, wiping the corners of his mouth with a brown napkin, hiding the slightest hint of a smirk. “I don’t think it’s your style, though.”

You raised an eyebrow, sweeping bits of crust into the empty wrapper of your lunch. “Oh yeah? Steve picked it out? What’s it like?”

“It’s red. ‘S real nice, but it’s also red.”

You scrunched up your nose in concern. “Oh… I hope it won’t hurt his feelings if I don’t wear it.”

Bucky went to throw both of your crumpled trash piles away and returned with an understanding smile, “Nah. He’s a big boy. Party’s in two days, though. If you don’t find anything you’re gonna get stuck with it, hon.”

Sighing, you stood up and brushed off your shirt, “Yeah. I’ll look some more. I put a dress on hold earlier so if I don’t find anything else, I’ll go back to that one. Thanks for having lunch with me, Bucky.” You pulled absentmindedly on his shirt sleeve and tugged the wrinkles out of the elbow. Bucky took the opportunity to bend down and plant a kiss on your jawline, whispering that he missed you into your cheek.

“I’m not leavin’,” he said, removing the sunglasses that were hanging from the collar of his shirt, “Haven’t seen you in days, doll. I’m not leavin’ yet.”

The definitive statement was punctuated by another one of his keen stares. You swallowed as his clear blue eyes flitted back and forth between your own, finally settling on your mouth as you nervously breathed out a soft “Okay”. Your heart swelled in your chest as he smiled. You couldn’t help but lovingly follow the sly arc of his lips across and up to those joyful creases you so adored running from his eyes. Happy Bucky was your favorite Bucky. You wanted to make him look like this all the time. You felt so terrible that you’d been so busy and avoiding him.

Impulsively, you reached up and kissed him on the lips.

It was quick, and you stood back flat on your feet, hand shooting up to cover your mouth. Fearfully, you took a chance to peek at him. The two of you stood there next to the window staring at each other for a few seconds before Bucky broke out into a wide toothy grin.

You flushed from head to toe. Your first kiss. In a sandwich shop. The banality of it all dawned on you and before you had the chance to say anything, Bucky broke the silence with a hearty laugh. Soon enough, you joined in, burying your face in both your hands. People were starting to glance over to the window and stare, so Bucky grabbed you by the hand and briskly stepped out into the street. He caught your waist to turn you to face him, pressing your back against the brick wall of the shop. The chatter of Manhattan whipped around both of you in the background, full of footsteps and yelling, honking, dogs barking, construction. Bucky Barnes held tight to your sides as if you might get torn into in the sea of people behind him.

Under the shade of his cap’s bill, you could hardly see his eyes, but the light illuminated his mouth, which was pressed into a thin line.

You squinted as sunlight fell over your face, “Buck?”

The intensity of Bucky crashing his lips to yours ripped the breath from your lungs. He stepped forward into your body, pressing his broad chest against you, flesh hand pushing your torso against his. In the middle of the sidewalk, he erased all the noise of Manhattan. You could only hear his breath on your mouth as he parted and returned again and again. Three deep kisses later, he let you go.

You gulped, heart stammering, lost completely in ragged breaths and desperately trying to ignore the eyes of passing strangers who’d witness your moment of public affection. You had seen this coming for a while now, but it was still a shock.

Ever since the day on the couch, you had been trying to avoid physical intimacy, but it had been difficult to experience growing closer with Bucky and simultaneously disregard his longing for your touch. He was always holding back, like a predator in the tall grass.

“I wanna do so much more than that…” He whispered in your ear. His voice was deep, and you could hear his throat clenching as he swallowed. The sound burrowed its way into your brain, sending currents scampering through your body.

Bucky ran his hand along your jaw, one final kiss landing on the shell of your ear as he muttered, “When you’re ready, I will. Come on, you lead the way.”

All you could do was nod in response as he guided you in front of him, one hand resting again on your back as you tried to stay calm in the crowd. In a few mere minutes, the street changed as you turned a corner. Your heart was beginning to slow down again.

“I’m curious, doll,” Bucky called from behind you, running a finger up and down the small of your back, “What color was that dress you put on hold?”

From the way his words sounded, you knew he was smirking. “It was black.” You swerved to the side to avoid a man pushing a stroller and Bucky followed suit. Craning your head back to see his expression, your heart sped up again either by his tightening grip or his subsequent praise:

“Atta girl.”

The last Saturday in June was the 28th. Pepper had demanded that you stayed at your apartment until the evening of, setting you up with a full-day spa appointment on Friday. According to her (and your very exhausted body) you needed rest and pampering before the big night. She also insinuated that Tony was being incredibly high-strung with setting up; he wanted it to be a surprise, and if you’d step foot on the campus before he was ready, he might completely “lose it Bridezilla-style”.

You’d been video-chatting Steve at night on the phone before bed since spending the day with Bucky. He was at first disappointed that you decided not to wear the dress he’d gotten you but ultimately understood why: red was a high-profile color. He sheepishly admitted that he was a bit old-fashioned, and was a sucker for women in red. It was cute. You suggested that he ask Natasha instead.

Your heart swelled any time his face came on the screen and you couldn’t help but stupidly grin every night into the phone. He told you about the trip and his desire to one day take you to the city, glossing over the details of the errand itself. You didn’t mind- it wasn’t your job, and you likely wouldn’t have understood its significance. He brought up how he was concerned at first that the distance would cause discomfort- but perhaps it was the consent to distance that changed the rules. You knew where he was going and accepted it, and so neither of you were pained by the separation.

“Maybe on the more peaceful missions, you might like to come with me? It’d be like travelling again, huh?” You agreed, eager to see another endearing smile break across his face. You loved the way Steve closed his eyes as he smiled, long lashes folding to graze against his raised cheeks- it was a habit of his, and it made you curious to wonder what he thought of during those blissful expressions.

After your long spa day you ended your night with another video call, feeling the excitement growing closer and closer, emboldened by Steve’s encouragements. More changes were coming on the horizon and you felt ready to face them. You were glad to have both men by your side.

Promptly at 5, Pepper sent a car outside to wait outside your apartment door. The invitation you’d proofread for Tony stated that doors opened at 6:30 with a cocktail hour and viewing period before any announcements were made. You would be giving a talk at 8, unveiling the main auction piece at the end and then there would be a bidding period before the night unwinds with dancing. The event supposedly ended at midnight, but you were sure that was Tony’s way of ushering out the guests. You weren’t going to assume he’d turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of 12.

Blotting on the final layer of your lip stain, you swept over it with a coat of high-shine gloss. Your make up was done simply: filled in, full, arching brows; barely-there contouring to emphasize your bone structure; peach blush; and a single smooth black line over both your eyelids. Your hair was brushed back and tucked behind your ears, flowing over your shoulder in neat waves.

You wanted to be sleek and able to blend in, with just a touch of red-lipped-conspicuous.

Stepping into the lobby, you felt as if transported into a different world. Tony had transformed the chamber into a flawless gallery setting with your photographs, framed and displayed along the perimeter of the open-spaced room. He’d put in wall panels here and there along with several benches where viewers could sit, arranging it perfectly to where there was plenty of walking space and room to mingle. Along the right wall was an elegant backlit bar manned by three sharply dressed bartenders with dazzling smiles. Close by was a stage with a band plucking a lazy acoustic tune in their warm-up routine, accompanied by a harpist. Gorgeous floral arrangements stood tall on pedestals, their sweet scent hanging in the air. Servers wandered casually, silver trays in hand topped with hor d'oeuvres and champagne.

The first few guests were arriving, picking up pamphlets from the stand near the door and meandering through the maze of photos. The team was scattered around the room, dressed beautifully, all smiles. Natasha hypnotized in the stunning red gown Steve picked out. It was striking with an elegant sweetheart neckline and brocade skirt. Pepper wore violet tulle. Wanda was smoldering in a lacy brown long-sleeved dress.

The men were simply dashing, in various dark suits offset by their own choices of silk bowties and shirts. Sam’s collar brooches glimmered- two mirroring silver wings clipped neatly to the points of his muted garnet shirt collar.

Halfway to the bar, you came face-to-face with Steve, who wore a fitted deep navy suit and dress shirt, complimented by a silk burgundy tie. His hair- which had grown longer since you’d last seen him in person was swept back and to one side. He was clean shaven for the event. You realized you were staring, but it helped that he was staring right back.

“You look...”

“Oh m...my” You attempted to finish the sentence for him. Steve laughed, shrugging one shoulder, the drink in his hand sloshing around.

“Not quite what I was going to say- but very close.” He paused, looking you up and down before sweeping you up in a one-armed hug and whispering in your ear “I’ve missed you so much. You look incredible.”

Once back on your feet, you smoothed the front of your black dress and shyly smiled in response, feeling your heart flutter. The snug gown was made of a satin blend, moving and shifting ethereally and just barely swept the floor. Two hair-thin spaghetti straps held it in place, crisscrossing over your back. The neckline was a darting V-shape, stopping just half an inch above Steve’s mark.

You’d convinced yourself to be calm and cool, playing the part of a professional artist giving a talk, but it was hard to not be giddy when Steve looked so damn good. His arms were practically bulging out from the sleeves of his jacket. And the lightly spiced cologne he wore was filling your head up with smoke.

“Where’s um, Bucky?” You ventured to ask, steeling your voice.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”

Bucky rolled the last ‘r’ into your ear as he placed his cool metal hand on your bare shoulder, middle finger drumming against the thin strap. You stirred at the temperature, burning against your back as he moved to your right side, smirking at Steve. They must have planned this, you thought, or perhaps brevity between old friends was enough to place them on the same dangerous wavelength. You felt like a fresh carcass, exposed under sunlight while two ravenous vultures circled overheard.

He was dressed completely in black, save for a blood-red pocket square neatly tucked into the breast of his suit. His hair was left loose, one side tucked behind his ear, and he donned his signature 5 o’clock shadow. He didn’t bother to cover his metal hand tonight, which made him all the more fearsome-looking. Bucky must have made it his mission to personify the word feral.

Half-lidded eyes drank in your figure, appreciatively scanning up and down before catching on your left bicep. “You’ve covered up your arm,” He noticed. “Why?” The was an edge of hurt he tried to hide.

The offending black cuff glimmered in the light. “Same reason why I didn’t wear the red.” You replied. You lifted your chin to regard Bucky and he raised his eyebrows in surprise at your declaration.

Steve bobbed his head, just enough to share the message that he understood before plucking a champagne flute from a passing server and placing it in your grasp. You sipped and signaled to the entrance of the exhibit with your stiletto-encased foot, where Kristopher Byrne had just entered with a pamphlet and Tony Stark. “I’ve got to go say hi. Thank you for supporting me.”

It was a conclusive statement, and the thanks, although sincere, was a comment of courtesy to lighten the mood. You quickly squeezed both of their arms before stepping away, straightening your back and squaring your shoulders. The show had just begun, and you were expected to be engaged and conversing all night; you couldn’t kick it off with a lovers’ quarrel in the middle of the floor as much as you wanted to resolve the matter. Bucky would have struggled and there were, unfortunately, other pressing concerns.

The band began to belt out a tune, mellow and full of slow, savory notes. The lobby was half-full at this point, and more were waiting by the door. The boys watched you go, exchanging glances. Bucky was scowling.

“Don’t be like that,” Steve warned, “You got to spend all day with her, pal.”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” He was being petulant, he knew. It was easier to be angry than to admit that his feelings were hurt. “Don’t lecture me, Stevie. Just wanna fuckin’ be with her. I’m tired of all this… shit.”

Steve chuckled into his glass as he took a sip, savoring the taste and looking at his friend through the curved angle of the rim. He’d experienced his fair share of Bucky’s seething tantrums; he knew it’d pass.

“Gotta admit, Buck. I liked seein’ ya miffed. You need a firm hand.”

Bucky scowled deeper at his friend’s cheeky comment as he watched your back make nice with a stranger. The itch inside of him was growing darker with every step you took away. He’d been good, played it safe and slow by your- and Steve’s rules, but every time it felt like you might scratch the surface of his desire, you’d backed off. Seeing his mark covered up on your arm only made it worse.

Sending Steve a pained look, Bucky quietly retreated to the bar.

Kristopher Byrne was a tall and lanky man with silver hair, fingers studded with multiple rings and designer glasses sitting low on his nose-bridge. The suit he wore matched Tony in embellishments, and it was obvious by that alone that they got along swimmingly. Immediately after introducing yourself to him, his solemn expression softened into an ecstatic one. He kissed your hand, raving about how he’d been a fan for years but that you’d always eluded his grasp. You immediately thanked him and asked if he was ready for a stroll through the displays.

Byrne was very interested in the photos you’d taken in Russia, pausing to talk about the social unrest there regarding sexuality. He applauded your shots in Thailand, complimenting the rich colors of Chiang Mai and the quiet moments you captured.

You spent the next half hour walking through the photos with Tony and Byrne, chatting here and there with other guests who had questions. The information cards next to each picture was brief and explained a little bit about the image but hearing it from your point of view was much more valuable to them.

Tony set up the exhibit to first show your Peculiar Pairs series from the travels before introducing the Avengers photos. The range of colors started at full spectrum and highly saturated with your travels before slowly changing into the black and white portraits you shot of each member.

Upon entering the space of black-and-white portraits, he was greeted with a three-by-four-foot framed photo of Steve in stark lighting. He stood in front of a black background in a white t-shirt, looking into the distance as a bright halo illuminated him from behind, catching the fine contour of his lashes and the tip of his sharp nose. The features of his face were lit by another light in front. His expression was almost angelic with parted lips and the barest hint of a smile.

Byrne’s eyes widened as he regarded it, eager to uncover more information about the man captured in the image. The info card in the corner simply read Steven Grant Rogers.

You watched on as Byrne rotated himself around the frame, pondering deeply at Steve’s aspects. Tony smirked and made a snarky comment about how he hoped Byrne was this excited about his own picture.

“Captain America,” Byrne finally exhaled, “Looks like … someone you could sit next to on the subway. Wow. Fantastic.”

You thanked him. Perhaps it was your bias speaking, but you casually mentioned that it was one of your personal favorites. Tony stifled a barking cough.

Byrne led the way down the path, soliciting your process with each session. You were tight-lipped but let loose of what was necessary to keep him interested. It didn’t take much; there was nowhere else neither he nor any other guest could find a close-up portrait of Natasha wrapped tight in a bathrobe, hair wrung-dry and damp, chin resting on her fist, making such fierce eye-contact as if challenging the gaze of the person who’d caught her in a private moment.

Or Tony, a face well-known to smirk, sneer, and blow kisses, suddenly severe and deep in thought, tinted glasses hanging from his teeth.

Thor grinned behind a half-empty glass of beer in his portrait. Sam was reading a book. Bruce was cutting up a breakfast of an omelet and potatoes.

Bucky’s photo elicited gasps from Byrne as well as the crowd he’d started to draw around him. The session you had with him was rather difficult, since he challenged you at every turn. So many images from your roll you’d deemed too stern, an aspect that you didn’t want captured of Bucky. The Winter Soldier was grim and ominous. Bucky, your Bucky (as hesitant as that statement was), was not. You refused to let him resign himself to the Soldier’s shadowy persona, especially not after knowing just how bright he could be.

It had taken almost two hours of careful conversation for him to let you turn off the lights and put on music. You chose to play one of your favorites- a collection of Bill Withers’ essential hits, letting the suave compositions fill the room. He was ready to argue when the first few notes came on, but you strictly shook your head and brushed out his hair with your fingers before moving on to massage his tense neck. Jagged edges, you chanted in your head, take care of those jagged edges.

It was an intimate moment from anyone else’s point of view- but you were so occupied with ensuring a good photo, you had willfully ignored all signs of pleasure from your subject. He leaned into your touch the harder you pressed, and when you reached down the round collar of his black shirt to feel the muscles of his back, he had started panting hard and fast.

You asked him to freeze and quickly ran back to snap a few shots. Then, certain you’d gotten what you needed, you ushered Bucky out of the room with a short apology before anything escalated.

The resulting photograph was Bucky’s side-profile leaning back on the palms of his hand on a stool, grey background blurred and out of focus. The collar of his shirt was stretched and warped around his neck under dense wavy hair. His eyes were half open, distracted by something in the distance, lips closed, corners turned down in a wanton pout. The muscles in his arms were thick and contracted as he gripped forcefully on the seat. There was a fuzzy shadow cast over him, just enough to obscure a corner of his shoulder and clenched jaw.

The card read, James Buchanan Barnes.

Kristopher Byrne clapped and ran the back of his hand over his forehead.

“This one… just takes my breath away. This is really Sergeant Barnes? The Winter Soldier? He looks so helpless… So unlike the image I have of him.”

You searched across the expanse of the room to find the sergeant in question. Next to him, Steve firmly patted his shoulder as they watched you stand beneath Bucky’s picture. With a slight swing of your hips, you unflinchingly moved on.

At 8, the band winded down their percussions and a spotlight found Tony at the center of the lobby, microphone in hand. Guests gathered around as he began to speak. Two workers wheeled out a display that was covered up by a black cloth.

“Everyone, may I please have your attention.” When the crowd settled down enough for his liking, he continued effortlessly. “I’d like to formally welcome you to the exhibition. The photographer of the night is a friend of mine; you might know her as the visionary behind the popular Soulmate Series and the subsequent Peculiar Pairs- wow, what a mouthful, huh?” A round of soft chuckles was raised.

You stood next to Natasha and Pepper, taking a final sip of your third champagne flute before handing it off to a server and thanking him. Your heart was picking up a rhythm in apprehension of your approaching time to speak. Tony was leaps and bounds more charming than you, and you could only hope you wouldn’t trip over your feet on your way up.

“She’s taken the world by storm with her humor, wit, and sensitivity on a subject we’ve all heard before, and continues to shed a novel light on Soulmates. To us here at the Avengers Facility, she’s our lovable Public Relations twerp, near and dear to our hearts.” He paused. You were positive you were tearing up as pinpricks burn your nasal passages.

“Please give a warm round of applause to the one, the only…”

Tony flourished his pointer finger over the crowd before finally settling on you, the spotlight zooming over to shine on the water pooling in your eyes. He finally called out a boisterous thundering of your name as the room erupted in applause.

The room blurred as you stepped towards Tony. Mechanical movements and muscle memory guided your actions when he gave you a loving hug and kiss on the cheek. The microphone was suddenly in your hands and you began to speak, praying for whatever god above (or here- Thor, if this might be your territory) to bless you with grace.

“Thank you everyone for coming out tonight. And thank you Tony and Pepper, who’ve made all of this possible for me.”

It felt like there were half a million eyes staring. You only needed to find your footing in four blue ones. Pressing onward, you continued, hoping the quiver of your throat would flatten itself out as you began to chronicle your body of work. It was a speech you’d given before in multiple interviews, you just needed a lead into the meat of the lecture.

“The photos you see tonight of the Avengers were taken with a simple message in mind: humanity. So often we regard them as these supernatural saviors- which they can be and frequently are; Thor, for one, is an Asgardian god.” The crowd lightly chuckled, and Thor, in the back, raised a sizable glass of wine in the air.

“I didn’t want to create more cults of personality around them, I wanted you to see the parts of them you could identify with, juxtaposing the abnormal with the normal. Your heroes eat breakfast, read books, take baths... just like you.” There was contemplation gazing back at you in the massive sea of unblinking eyes. Some people chewed on their lips pensively. Others were nodding along in agreeance.

“They hurt, like you.” You looked at Bucky, who met your gaze with a silent apology, “They love, like you.” You looked at Steve, who bit his lips in a smile. “They have soulmates, like you. And with that, we come full circle.”

You turned your body to face the shrouded display and pinch the cloth between two fingers.

“I’d like to start the auction period off with piece de resistance. As with all our photos tonight, when you bid on them, know that if won, they will be singularly yours. Forever. No duplicates will be made; the files have been destroyed.” Tugging on the sheet with a flourish, you swiftly pulled it off the polished stand to reveal a framed photo of the Maximoff twins. The discarded fabric tumbled to the floor with a flutter.

Pietro stood shirtless and defiant in the photo, black jeans hanging from his hips, the barest hint of his boxers peeking out. His body was smooth and hard, naturally flawless thanks to his inhuman healing abilities. Next to him, Wanda faced away from the camera in a black racerback, her head turned to regard her twin. Her hand drew a line across his chest, wrist relaxed on his far shoulder, polished black fingernails lovingly twirled a bleached curl. Their Marks were in full view, and the audience collectively sucked in a sharp breath of surprise.

“Wanda and Pietro Maximoff: Avengers, twins, soulmates.”

The room erupted once more in applause. You handed the microphone back to Tony and disappeared into the crowd.

You felt ill.

Clutching on the smooth marble countertop, you stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The dim yellow lighting from the shell-shaped wall scone flooded the room and made you look even more jaundiced. You had held it together for a whole three hours but now it was time to dump your entire stomach’s contents into the closest toilet. You barely made it before the champagne and bits of cheese ejected violently from your mouth.

You waited briefly for the nausea to pass and when it didn’t you returned to discharge the rest of your vomit into the bowl. In the stall a few spaces down, someone flushed before cautiously exiting. Three clicks of footsteps closer and there was a very light knock on the door that separated you from them.

Wanda stood over you, eyebrows tightly knitted in concern. She hoisted you up and the toilet flushed automatically upon registering movement. You wobbled to the counter again, opening the various cabinet doors before finding some mouthwash to gargle.

“Can I help you?” She asked, taking a cloth napkin from the wicker basket in the middle and dabbing around your red mouth after you’d spit into the sink. You sighed deeply, holding your hand over your torso. “It’s been a long month… that was actually more cathartic than traumatic.” She nodded in support.

You took the napkin from her and viciously wiped off the lipstick with it, peppermint smell lingering from your mouth. Your eyes began to focus and un-focus competitively and ghostly trails of color floated all around your head. Wanda followed your gaze with her eyes before pressing a warm palm to your temple.

“I can take it away, if you’d like,” she held up a splayed hand, fingers crackling with that ghostly energy of hers. Exhaling, you only nodded as she returned the heel of her palm to your forehead. A rush of tingles travelled up your body and into her hand, and you feel every inch of your skin crawling towards her. You’d forgotten how exhausted you’ve been for the past month as your head throbbed and ached against Wanda’s touch, mumbling what you hoped was a sincere-sounding thanks.

When she finishes, Wanda lifts up your head with her finger and smiles. “All better, no?” When she walks you into the lobby, you feel yourself renewed with each step.

Steve thinks he can find you in any universe out there. Any timeline. Any dream. He’s got the shape of your body branded inside his brain. Every eyelash, every fine line, every damn pore.

When you cross the room with Wanda on your arm, smiling, he notices the lipstick has been rubbed off and your mouth is pink and raw. When you catch sight of him watching, Wanda departs gracefully and whispers into your ear a sweet note, wishing you a fruitful night onward. Your mind stills at her words, and your heart picks up a slow, steady beat when your feet end up in front of Steve at the edge of the room.

Steve knows he can.

He bends over to pull a lock of wavy hair into his hand and kiss it. The room is silent, conversations have long muted because of auction taking place. You’re no longer present, long gone from the party and adrift only in the blue-green sea of his gaze.

Steve allows the strands back onto your shoulder and they cascade over your back. He lets the scent of clean shampoo and something that is purely you wash over him. The crisp smell of seafoam and orange peels, summer rain, warm laundry in the sun. There’s a sheen layer of sweat in the dip of your neck that he’d love to get a mouthful of. The flame in his chest triggers.

He’ll have to thank Wanda later. Your posture is the most relaxed he’s seen you all night. The stiff square shoulders and domineering gait was a side of you he hadn’t seen before, a sight he couldn’t help but feel proud of as you commanded the room. However, he loved the natural you in front of him now most.

He doesn’t have to hear your words to know how you feel, but listens anyway.

“Thank you,” You smile, looking only at him, vaguely gesturing to the room full of people. Your voice has dropped low and earnest and you squeeze his hand just a little bit before anyone else sees. “I... I couldn’t have done this without you. I would have never done it.”

He nods and bows his head ever so slightly, peering at you through lashes. “I’m happy to have helped. You know that, sweetheart. I know you’re capable of so many great things… I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He rubs the edge of your mouth with a finger.

“Yeah.. I guess you’re used to seeing me like this, huh?” You giggle, embarrassed and remembering all the times you’ve thrown up because of his presence.

“I think even then, I had a feeling. Just… too afraid to come forward. After I learned how to use a computer…” He’s smiling at the memory, “..I used to spend all night looking at your photos… trying to find a picture of you somewhere.”

The thought of Steve, back then, already captivated by anything to do with you causes your breathing to pick up. You suck in air through your nostrils quickly as if you might be suffocating. A long moment passes as you pinch your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Honey?” He asks with a smile. He knows what’s coming.

You’re spellbound in his gaze, trapped like a moth, wings already soldered off by the flame. “I’d like to stay the night, I think. With you... and … B-Bucky.”

Steve plucks your hand from your side and kisses each knuckle. “Of course. Tony already said he’ll handle the rest of the show and paperwork. Let me know when you’re ready to go. We’ll take it slow.”

It’s a promise, and he doesn’t have to wait for your next words to know what you want. But he does so anyway. He needs to hear it.

“I’m... ready now.”

When Steve slips his hand over yours and feels the familiar pulse of your thumbprint, he knows. In this universe, this lifetime, or the next, or the next after that, he’d be able to find you. He is yours; you are his. With every step, he lets the fantasies he’s been occupied with disperse, focusing his attention solely on your figure at his side. The hallway muffles the sounds of the party and each step grows louder as you depart hand-in-hand.

In the darkness of his room, your Soulmate kneels and unbuckles the strap of your stiletto, letting his fingers graze over your feet. He’s meticulous as he slips them off one at a time before trailing those calloused palms up your calves underneath the dress. The silky cool fabric brushes his knuckles, a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. You’re trembling against his hold as he continues upward, resting them on the back of your thighs, squeezing gently.

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking.” He presses two kisses to the top of each thigh underneath the dress. His hot breath sends tingles slinking upwards into the pit of your core. “We can stop any time. We can stay in bed together and just sleep. I’d love that.”

You shake your head and place your hands over his, pulling them up even higher, over the apex of your bottom, brushing over your underwear, and catching in the tightness of the fabric. The motion is all he needs, and Steve deftly reaches up to untie the knotted bow at the small of your back.

The satin falls off your shoulders and pools at your feet.

Next Chapter

#marvel #mcu #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #soumate au #Mystery of Love heli0s #reader insert #fanfiction

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the-fox-knows · 4 years

Text

‘I’ll Tell You A Story’

I’ll Tell You A Story (5)

“It was 2019; June to be precise when I traveled to the United Kingdom — or as you would know it, this island of divided kingdoms.” She paused, her gaze cautiously reading his features as his own gaze slipped away from hers. His eyes were narrowed and calculating, a single line marring his brow as he stared at the cave wall, seeing beyond their cramped shelter. Molly knew what he was seeing, for she was seeing it too. That Northumbrian wood; the confusion, the fear, and the ultimate determination that ruled them both that day. He had wanted her, but she had wanted her freedom. Her will had ruled.

“These lands: Wessex, Northumbria, Mercia, they do not endure as separate entities. They will combine into a single kingdom – England. That’s what it will be called,” she told him, thinking to influence his belief by offering tantalizing facts of the future she felt he would be unable to resist. She read him well, for his glazed eyes blinked into focus ere swiveling to the corner until they rested on her. A cautious grin quirked his lips, though she read little humor in his expression. She understood it was the façade he adopted when he wished to keep his true thoughts to himself; the flash of a grin only to be supplanted by a frown that conveyed the genuine depth of his interest.

“You claim to be from the future?” he asked quietly, his grin immediately dipping out of sight. The fire stood out like a live thing reflected in his stare. His eyes fixed on her while his posture appeared still, as if he wouldn’t take his next breath until he had riddled the puzzle that she was.

“Yes,” she nodded, holding his gaze.

“How?” he put to her. His expression was at once laced with a coating of cynicism, though, once settled into his question Molly recognized a gleam in his eye that gave her courage enough to believe in that questing wisdom she was relying on.

Recognizing this moment for what it was, she swallowed, gulping past her nerves as her fingers inched their way to her elbows where she held herself tightly. Only a beat of hesitation marked the moment when Molly Hatch decided to bridge the chasm that had yawned beneath her feet for so many years; to extend her hand and let somebody in. It somehow didn’t bother her that it was the Viking she was reaching for. During the past twenty-four hours he had lost his moniker and gained the identity of his person. He was Ragnar Lothbrok, a man she had a precarious history with, but the one who presently sat across from her willing to listen.

“I was on the shore,” she began, her voice thick, “in Scotland. You don’t that country because it hasn’t been formed yet, but it’s the land where you first found me.”

His head tilted as his narrowed eyes smoothed into a more pensive expression. He took his first breath.

“The rain had abated somewhat, and I don’t remember being concerned over lightning,” she continued. “My friends were waiting for me up in our rooms. There were three of them: Cathy, Ellie, and Gracie,” she said, taking care to say their names slowly, as if to savor the memory of what had once been a daily curl of her tongue. “We were visiting from our home - from America.”

She paused again, furrowing her brow as she tried to remember dates. “Do you know a Lief Erikson? Or perhaps know of him?” she wondered. She briefly remembered learning that that Viking had been one of the first, or maybe the only Northman to make it to North America before Christopher Colombus in 1492.

“I know many Lief’s,” he obliged, though looking uncertain of the question. “Why do you ask?”

“It is only that Lief Erikson will be a well-known explorer. He discovers North America. It’s the land that will eventually be my home,” she elaborated when she detected a hitch to his brow. “Do you know him?” she repeated.

“No, I cannot say that I do,” he answered. The ghost of his grin reappeared, hidden somewhat by his beard. And if Molly knew him better, knew all the quirks of his features and the glance of his expressions she would understand that the intensity of his stare was not mere focus, that the slight cant of his head no mere intrigue — but a growing triumph.

“It may be that he is after your time,” she shrugged a little disappointedly. She’d hoped that she’d unearthed a link that could be used to her advantage, unaware of the already shifting dynamic occurring between them in her favor. Molly believed that hers would be an uphill battle, trying to convince him of something she herself wouldn’t have believed in prior to experiencing it. In spite of her immersion with the culture of the time, she could not abandon the skepticism that belonged to her own culture, nor help apply it to what others would think of her story.

“This noorth umairika, you say it is the land you hail from? Where is it?” Ragnar wondered, drawing his good leg up and resting his elbow on it. He was leaning a little closer.

“Far from here,” she said, drawing her own knees up, though in a more protective stance as she hugged them to her chest. “It lies across the sea.”

“Which sea?”

“The Atlantic.”

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed again. “There is land beyond the Atlantic?”

Molly nodded, adding, “quite a lot of it. You Europeans think you’re the center of the world until the 1500’s. Or sometime around there. I was never good in history class,” she went on to explain, no doubt nonsensically to him.

“What other lands are there besides your home?” he continued with his inquiries, causing Molly to grimace slightly. She had wanted to sweeten the pot initially with these snippets of facts, but steadily she could feel her impatience mounting as the momentum she had gained for her own history was waning.

“There are many; too many to name presently, though I will tell you that there are three Americas. There is the North, Central, and South Americas and each is made up of countries . . . er, that is, a form of kingdom.”

“When does this Leif Erikson discover these lands?” he asked, already forgetting her ignorance on the dates.

“I told you, I don’t know. It must be after this time though as I’m sure you would’ve heard about him. And besides, he only landed on North America. He likely wasn’t aware of the expansiveness of the land.”

“What is the distance? How long will it take to reach your land?”

Molly blinked. “I don’t know! Months and months I’d assume.”

Ragnar’s brow furrowed. “How can you not know when you say you journeyed from that land?” His glance turned suspicious. Yet Molly could only indulge in a rueful smile as she envisioned a plane flying over his head as explanation.

“Travel does not remain the way you know it to be, Ragnar. Between the thousand years that mark your time to mine many things evolve into creations beyond imagining. I do not think you would understand even if I told you how I traveled to this island, for nothing of its kind exists today, save perhaps the winged beasts.”

Ragnar jerked his head back, his mouth wavering between that uncertain smirk and that curious frown as his eyes flicked to the mouth of the cave and back.

“You can fly?” he posed to her, clearly not believing. And Molly was glad to be able to shake her head.

“No, I cannot fly. But men have made machines that can.” And before he could ask another question, she ploughed on. “Whatever you wish to know, I will tell you - to the best of my knowledge,” she said, her voice deliberately low so that he would be inclined to listen and not speak. “I will tell you about America and all the countries that will be new to you. I will tell you of the plane, train, and automobile; how people can travel across the world in a day; how we can speak to those far, far away and hear their voices in our ear. I will tell you about Neil Armstrong and his famous footprint on the moon. I will tell you all this and more – but, first . . . first I need to tell you a story. My story.”

And she did.

Of that day she told him everything. It was either say it all, or maintain her silence – she could not imagine an in-between. As an outpouring, long bottled and static with energy waiting to be released, Molly found that the words she had mentally tripped over, prior to her decision of telling Ragnar, poured fluidly from her mouth and into his sponge-like mind – absorbing everything with ardor.

Occasionally, when her eyes would flick to his, she would watch him, noting his stillness that marked his absolute focus. He did not interrupt her again, not even to inquire over words she knew he couldn’t understand – words she couldn’t translate, though she did her best to explain. He was her audience, and as any good auditor, he knew what was required of him. When she paused to recollect a moment, or had to turn her face away to hide unbidden emotions, she was not hurried to continue.

In lieu of that courtesy, she indulged in speaking of events leading up to the trip, of bidding her parents a teary farewell at the airport; of her and her friends accidentally insulting one of the flight attendants by referring to them as English when they had, in fact, been Scottish; of landing in Heathrow and waiting over an hour for Gracie’s duffle bag. She spoke of a thousand and one things she had forgotten, lost somewhere in the hazy limbo of her interrupted life, but which now sprang forth as if resurrected.

While she spoke the night wearied, falling into shade and quiet. Hour followed hour, yet her soft tones did not dim in the presence of the watchful night. The only other companion to her voice was the snapping flames beneath the long-forgotten tea that bubbled in its neglect. It was only when the brew spilled passed the sides of the cauldron, hissing immediately at the contact with the flames, that attention was returned to it. Molly jerked out of her compact position, rising to her feet as she grabbed a fistful of her skirts to lift the cauldron from its perch, hissing herself at the heat. Quickly, she set it near the fire, releasing her grip and rubbing her hands together.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit burnt,” she told him, looking up from inspecting the brew. She swished it only to see the herbs shriveled and black.

“It is of no matter,” he said, unconcerned. “I would hear the rest of your story before soothing any stomach aches.”

From where she stood, Molly looked down at him, aware that a small smile tugged at her lips. A fanciful vision of a monk dressed as a nursemaid coming to serve out a stretched out Ragnar, undone by a serious tummy ache, distracted her momentarily as she remembered that the monk’s brew was for easing digestion. Her smile grew wider and threatened to morph into a chuckle.

Her heart was lighter. The burden of carrying her secret for so long no longer weighed on her even though she had yet to conclude her narrative. Yet, already she felt the ease of old manners returning to her as she remembered her old self. Intangible as it was, there was a certain amount of happiness that existed in simply being able to talk about her old life to another human being.

So as she resumed her seat, a tad closer to Ragnar than before, there was no pause or hesitation when she picked up the threads of her tale and continued.

“We were making a tour of the United Kingdom and Ireland, as I said, but I was always most excited to see Scotland. I’d dreamt of the Highlands and the heather, of the whiskey and kilts, of all the romantic associations with the place; my father even noted that I had an unhealthy interest in the pipes and drums.” She did stop then, only for a moment as she found what peace she could in the phantoms she’d summoned. She sighed. “I’m sure it’s best that I never got to see it in the end; it might not have lived up to my expectations.” Tentatively , she offered her companion — the one of flesh and blood, and the only one who could hear her — a glimpse of a smile that told a completely different story to the one that had just preceded it, and which forgot in that moment that he wouldn’t understand her silver-lining humor, as paltry as it was.

His eyes may be keen, either fixed as they were on her face or hovering just around her; brilliant in their intensity and strength yet, at that moment, lacking the spark of any recognition for anything she had just said.

Her face drooped suddenly, exposed as it was to the rawness of the many strong emotions required this night.

The relief that had belonged to the minute before was gone, usurped by the realization of reality. No matter the chances of ever getting close to anyone – and so far this Viking was the nearest to a heart-to-heart she’d had in six years – the nuances of her time would forever remain the property of its time; locked away behind the secrets of its knowledge that would always remain a barrier between her and others. The comfort of remembering home was hers; just not the comfort of home.

In a whirl of contained emotion, never flickering past the internal storm of her mind, Molly at once wanted to throw herself at Ragnar, cling to his chest and just be held as she sobbed and felt sorry for herself; yet in that same brand of impulsiveness she wanted to run – to run in a pointless direction, but one that took her far from the cave, far from him, and far from everything that resembled anything that had been her familiar for the past half-decade.

Swallowing, she steadied herself. Her thumbs were busy picking at each other’s nails, scoring her skin in a pattern of crescents.

She told him of the beach.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she told him of that landmark whose grey skies had blackened the water and appeared as the shores of superstition, serving as a portal that had opened for her unwilling passage.

The years spent serving Lady, then Lord Cyneric had been kind in one regard: never had she known her mind as well as she presently did. Despite her duties and chores, they claimed nothing of her time as the convenience of modern technology had. Days regularly burst at the seams with work, thoughts, and sometimes, even play. Boredom was no longer a constant in her vocabulary; indeed, she regularly forgot the word with how little she thought of it. What she did think of, however, and what had occupied her thoughts during her more menial tasks was the day in which she had stood on that shore. The tide had been low, and even then — ignorant as she had been — she had mused over thoughts of in-between places; crossroads, dusk, dawn, and of course that strip of sand, appearing only at its designated hours when the sea was low, so that that in-between area was not quite of the land, nor yet of the sea.

And that, she believed, had been her portal.

All this she told him; explaining her reasoning that found grounding in the very nature of the mystic land.

“There are stories – legends and myths, though, I don’t know their names in this speech – that tell of unwary travelers who find mischief done to them; the wanderer who does not heed the natural warnings of nature and find themselves in, what would be called, a fix. These stories are not so ancient as they once were to me, their narrative has more meaning as I now know that there is power in their messages,” she said, drawing her legs to her chest. She rested her hands atop her knees, picking at the fabric. “My sole regret is that I couldn’t have known that their significance endured even while my culture’s credence of them waned. I would not have stood on that shore otherwise.”

“Do people of your time not tell stories then?” Ragnar asked, speaking for the first time in many hours. He looked dubious, as if he was ready to argue her statements by using what he learned about her journal against her. Molly recognized it also as an admission. Despite his first hint of skepticism ere she began, and despite the natural aversion of Man’s to being fooled by seemingly impossible phenomenons, Molly had opened herself to him in a way that exposed her heart, showing him something precious and protected by unraveling her fabricated life.

Also – he had listened.

“For we have many that do much to warn the little ones away from danger,” he continued. “Maybe you did not listen as a child,” he said, pointing a finger at her nose in a playful, tsking manner. She resisted the urge to reach over and swat his hand back to his lap.

“Your people then have precautionary tales of traveling through time?” she said instead, partially rhetorical as she didn’t believe that the Norse did; though, also a little curious in case of the possibility.

Ragnar let his hand drop, adopting a rueful smile as he eyed her from under his brows. His quirked mouth turned thoughtful, however, and he gazed at her straight-on. She saw him only by the faint, ruddy glow of the now dwindled fire; more ember and ash then flame.

“You truly are from another time?” he asked quietly, almost marveling. His eyes were the only point of light on his face; two pricks of focus that somehow carried more expression than a torrent of voiced wonder.

“I am,” she answered simply. She wondered if he saw the same in her; two points of light staring back at him. The lights were disturbed when he blinked, turning his head away, looking forward as he had at the beginning. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, the formulating questions, and the now deepened curiosity that she must undeniably hold.

“Well,” he said with a grunt, adjusting his position so that he sat straighter against the wall. He returned his gaze to hers. “I suppose I must concede to your claim – you have traveled farther than me.”

“Yes,” she chuckled, “my adventurous desire of walking in the rain in a foreign country has inadvertently seen me outpace the ambitions of any Northman seeking new land.”

Molly only just caught his smile as he leaned forward, taking up one of the sticks to jab at the fire. A ripple of warmth spread suddenly, tempering the chill air of the night and reminding her that she was hugging herself tightly in defense against the cold.

“Have you ever tried to return?” Ragnar asked, keeping his eyes on his work.

“Once,” she replied after a pause. “A week after arriving in that town you and your men had sacked,” she interrupted herself in order to deliver a long-in-the-making glare. The Viking at least had sense enough to remain quiet. “I found my way back to that beach. I stayed out there until I couldn’t bear the hunger any longer. I don’t remember how many days, but nothing happened. The road that had vanished didn’t reappear, and when I returned to the village I found it immediately. It hadn’t worked.” Molly often wondered if it would if she could reach it on the anniversary date of her arrival. But as of yet, she’d never been able to make it.

“It sounds temperamental,” he remarked, uselessly twiddling the stick between his palms, working a hole through the fire.

“Extremely temperamental!” she heartily agreed. “At least with you – well, you are very consistent; I always know what to expect from you.”

“Do you think it is so? That you will always know what to expect from me,” he stopped his fiddling to stare up at her, a queer look in his eye. Molly visibly swallowed as she held herself tighter. She felt the mood turn in an instant; dangerous and intimidating.

“You said you wouldn’t force me,” she reminded him, doing her best to keep her voice steady. The knife he had given her was still somewhere near her.

“Aye, I did,” he nodded, resuming his work, and the tension lifted somewhat, “and if that is where your mind has gone it has done so on its own for I have made no mention of lying with you. I would not speak against such a proposition, but I have not suggested it,” he said, flicking his eyes up to hers once more. She felt her heart stutter.

“Then what was all that about with your, ‘do you think you’ll always know what to expect from me?’” she questioned, altering her voice to imitate his low timber.

Ragnar tossed the stick aside and rubbed his palms together, brushing away the soot and ash. His movements were leisurely, almost deliberately so, which only annoyed Molly further when she was already feeling embarrassed by his presumption that her mind had been in the gutters.

“Well?” she pressed.

Ragnar shrugged, incorporating his hands as well as his face in the movement. “Is it not the truth? Who can claim that they know another so completely that they will always know what the other will do? As, uh, sweet as our meetings have been,” he smiled at her scowl, “they have been brief. Do you really think you know me as well as you think you do?”

She opened her mouth to give a remark about first impressions or something of that nature, when she hesitated. Her own first impressions were swiftly being supplanted by more amenable notions of her . . . not friend . . . companion. Her posture loosened slightly and, guilelessly, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear unaware of the way it drew his eye.

“I feel I must know you enough to trust you with the truth,” she admitted. “You’re the first person to know . . . any of this,” she said, initially searching for a word that could encompass her facts of life. “I don’t understand it, but you’re the first person that I felt I could share it with; no one else would’ve have understood, but you, somehow, seem to.” She quirked her brows, appreciatively curios.

Through the gloom and dull, red glow a gleam of benign teeth glinted as he smiled at her. “I always knew you were something more than you appeared,” he said, sounding vindicated. “I knew there was a reason for my safe-guarding your book – for you to be present in my mind, even when time continued and the possibility of ever finding you diminished; you never left me.”

Molly looked away, running her hands up her arms to hug her shoulders. She did not care to admit that she had experienced the same magnetizing thoughts towards him, though far less complimentary. Though, she supposed it was natural to have looked back on him; their first encounter was one of the most frightening moments of her life.

Cautiously, she turned back to him and was immediately confronted with the urge to yawn as she saw him indulging in his own. He did not miss her joining him.

“The hour is late,” he relented, sounding almost bitter by the fact. “You should get some sleep,” he advised her. Night had been with them for many hours, yet they seemed only now to be aware of the time.

“What about you? You have not slept since waking this morning.”

“I may shut my eyes, but don’t concern yourself. I am used to this more than you. Besides, you will need the rest for tomorrow; I have a number of questions I would ask you.”

“And I will do my best to answer them, but at present, you are the one with an injury and I am not. I’ll watch for now. I do not mind,” she added when she saw him preparing to counter. She reasoned that the likelihood of either of them finding much sleep was slim, but the few hours remaining to the night promised quiet introspection which she yearned for ere the next round of revelations began.

Molly stood, intent on switching places with Ragnar, and showing no signs of hesitance in taking his hands to help him up as she had originally. Again he stumbled, but only slightly, regaining his balance in the next second. She released her grip on him, though when he moved to step past her, she automatically brought a hand up to stop him, just grazing his chest before she dropped it again.

“I – uh, I just want to thank you,” with an effort, she managed to bring her eyes up to his, meeting them and reading in them a softness she had not thought him capable of achieving. She swallowed, suddenly very aware that her last vestiges of fear were leaving her as a new, even more frightening, emotion took its place. He was not touching her, as he promised he would not, but his gaze may as well have been a caress for the warmth she felt under its gaze. She cleared her throat. “You listened to me when I know no one else would have. You can’t know what that means to me,” she confessed. “You returned to me a part of myself I’d forgotten about and I must thank you for that.”

In response, Ragnar leaned down, bringing his face level with hers, their noses inches apart. Molly thought for a moment that he would break his word, yet she found herself too curious to back away.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he posed to her instead.

Molly broke out into a wide grin, her teeth now the ones to gleam as she shook her head in amusement.

“Yes Ragnar Lothbrok, I suppose this means I must forgive you now – so long as you don’t try it again,” she added.

“Mmm,” he playfully groused, “that is a cruel thing to hold me to when you have made yourself even more valuable to me. You had better not smile too much,” he warned, “for I am want to lose all reason and do what I please should I see your smiling face near a boat.”

“You would have to tie me to the masthead for we both know I can swim,” she teased back.

“Don’t give me ideas. Where are you going?” he suddenly called when she abruptly turned to leave their cave.

“I thought I would search for the fairies and see if they know how I could return home.” At his arch brow she chuckled and told him truthfully that she had to relieve herself. When she returned, he was still standing, waiting. Without a word he limped past her and was swallowed by the night, likely to take care of a similar errand.

When he returned, she was already sitting, holding her legs close so that he could get by with as little difficulty as possible. From the darkened corners of the rear of the cave Molly heard his grunts, scuffles, and ultimate sighs as he lowered himself to the ground.

“Are you alright?” she felt compelled to ask.

“Fine,” he said, unconcerned.

A moment passed.

“Do you have songs from your time?” Ragnar’s voice came out from the gloom, contemplative, yet accommodating of a certain mischievous quality.

“I’m not going to sing one,” she replied immediately, not even bothering to look at him. She could, however, see his head perk up out of the corner of her eye.

“I did not ask you to,” a smile in his tone.

“You didn’t have to; I knew what you were leading to.”

“But you do have songs?” he urged, not giving up altogether.

“Of course we have songs,” she smiled at the ridiculousness. “A great many songs that would likely make you wish you were deaf. Music has evolved since the folk tune,” she told him wryly.

“You are not fond of music then?”

“On the contrary, I love music; in fact I used to love watching classic musicals with my mother. My father hated them!” she smiled, remembering. “He would walk in the room, hear Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire for a second, and make an about face. I think the only musical we ever managed to get him to sit down to was My Fair Lady. He knew Rex Harrison was in it and thought it would be a ‘decent’ movie as he termed it. He didn’t even get to ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly’.”

Lost in her own memories once again, and not to mention the shadows that now enveloped Ragnar, Molly missed his puzzled expression. “You excel at saying much while revealing little.”

Molly laughed softly, understanding his plight. “My apologies, but it is difficult to translate something that hasn’t been invented yet.”

“I imagine it would be,” he considered, then added, “I envy you your knowledge; to know what will come after once all this is gone; once we here have all played our parts and are done.”

A brief silence stretched between them. In the distance, an owl screeched.

“Don’t envy me, Ragnar,” Molly quietly said at last. “You have the comfort of your time, even if you don’t appreciate it, while I often am adrift with only the cold comfort of memory to sooth me. My fate is not something to yearn for.”

Another, shorter, silence ensued, concluded this time by Ragnar.

“I will do my best to heed your warning Molly Hatch,” he said, a curious note to his voice. An unspoken sentiment hung in the air, trailing from Ragnar’s words, and without meaning to Molly waited for its release. It came as sigh of the wind, soft and coaxing. “But it would be easier if you were to stay with me,” he whispered.

Molly looked over her shoulder, seeking his gaze, but not even those pinpricks could be seen now in the gloom. Looking forward, Molly rubbed her arms.

“Sleep Ragnar, I will watch.”

#vikings #vikingfic #fanfiction #ragnar/OC #timetravel #adventure #romance #veil of time #ragnar lothbrok #ITYAS #fey #fey aspects

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short-stories-club · 3 years

Text

The Entity

The silence of the night is broken by an agonized scream. Weston lurches up from his bed, sweat on his brow, breathing heavily. The pounding of his heart reverberates through his whole body as if the world is ripping itself apart with each beat. It’s his third nightmare this week. He lowers his head and sobs. It’s been just over a year since his wife and child were killed in a car accident. All it took was one driver checking his cellphone at the wrong time. The heap of twisted metal shone like an ember in the darkness as the wail of the approaching sirens grew to a deafening roar. His wife and child weren’t able to escape the flaming tomb.

He can’t sleep, so he rises and begins his drive to work. The car’s headlights cut through the darkness. A blood-red sun rises up behind him, gradually bathing all in a fiery glow. Red and orange light pours into the car and Weston sips a strong, black coffee to counter his nearly perpetual sleeplessness. Arriving at the worksite, he steps out into the crisp morning air and the frost-dusted earth crunches beneath his heavy boots with each step. Empty skeletons of new homes tower over the plain, each casting its own web of long, straining shadows across the freshly-turned ground. With each swing of a hammer or shovel Weston warms up, and sometimes, if he focuses enough on what he’s creating, he’s able to forget everything else. It’s a fleeting but true bliss.

Weston goes back to his car to have lunch. He turns on the car, starts the heater, and flips on the radio. The radio’s signal is bad; he only hears static. Weston changes the station- static still. The sound of a thumping heartbeat slowly rises above the white noise. The heartbeat grows louder and louder. The static starts to take shape as the whispering of strange voices. Weston’s face goes pale and he frantically hits the power button to try and turn it off. The voices grow louder and louder and the heartbeat is pounding. He keeps hitting the power button and suddenly music starts playing. He’s shaken and confused. Enough strange things have been happening to him lately- he’s starting to doubt his sanity. But maybe it was just the bad sleep he had, maybe it was just radio interference. He turns the radio on and off a few times- everything is normal. He finishes his lunch and goes back to work.

The sun is setting just as Weston arrives home. Each icy cloud of breath hangs in the air as he walks inside. After eating leftover takeout, Weston’s thoughts drift to his family. Sometimes thinking of them is too much to bear, other times their memory is the only thing that gives him the strength to carry on. He closes his eyes and dreams about his wife’s dazzling smile and his little son’s laugh. He knows they’d want him to keep living and to find happiness again- he resolves for the thousandth time to do so. Without warning the flaming wreckage and his wife’s screams rush into his mind’s eye- he winces and instinctively opens his eyes to escape the imagery.

Weston gets into bed and turns on the television. It’s dark out and the room is singularly illuminated by the shifting, electronic light. The artificial light darts out of the windows but quickly dies when it meets the heavy darkness enshrouding the house. As Weston drifts to sleep, the uncountable multitude of stars continue their unceasing circuits overhead and a pale crescent moon rises over the scattered clouds like a scythe before the harvest.

Weston opens his eyes, it’s still dark. He thinks he heard something, but in his slumbersome daze, he can’t be sure. A sea of static churns on the television screen and the room flickers with its sickly light. Weston turns off the television. The silence is perfect, but then Weston hears a distant boom, and a few moments later, another. The noise grows louder and more regular, like the heartbeat of a massive beast approaching its prey.

He moves cautiously down the hallway into the kitchen. He’s getting closer- the heartbeat seems like it’s coming from the cabinet under the sink. Shaking in fear, he slowly moves to the cabinet door, crouches down, and rips it open. It’s empty- but then he notices a faint red glow behind the trashcan. Pulling the trashcan out, he sees a small crack in the wall and a bright sliver of red light shining through. Weston rips into the wall and begins tearing it apart to reveal a narrow, cave-like passage glowing with an infernal light. A rush of hot, musty air pours over him. He crawls inside. The heartbeat grows louder as he goes deeper.

He finally exits the narrowest portion of the passage and finds himself in a vast cavern- cold, dark, and rocky. The full extent of the room is masked by the intense darkness, but straight ahead of him lies a deep chasm. An intense red glow emanates from it and a column of smoke, like an unholy citadel, rises out of the depths of the pit and into the darkness above. Weston slowly approaches and with great trepidation looks over the edge. He gasps- at the bottom of the pit the glowing wreckage of his wife’s car smolders. Surrounding the car are dozens of hooded figures- suddenly they see him. They turn and point at him in unison and with a terrible scream.

Weston screams and flails awake from the nightmare. It’s morning and he’s lying on the kitchen floor. He rips open the cabinet and throws the trashcan aside. He starts pounding on the wall, but nothing is there. It was just a dream. He breaks into tears. The mental strain must be too much. Weston calls his psychiatrist and is able to get in on quick notice. He’d be able to make it without him for some months, but he needs help now.

Weston arrives and greets his doctor, Dr. Frederick. The doctor asks Weston to lay down and tell him what’s been bothering him. Weston tells him about the nightmares. He tells him that’s he’s been seeing and hearing things. He tells him about the heartbeat that’s been haunting him.

“I’m going to turn these lights down, Weston. You just relax and I want to hear all the details”

The doctor asks him to try to remember any other details that he missed. He asks him about work and if he’s taken up any hobbies. Weston can’t see much in the dark, but he sees the Doctor’s silhouetted figure in front of him. Then, Weston hears the heartbeat again, slow and quiet.

“Dr. Frederick?!”

“I’m here. Keep telling me, Weston.”

“Do you hear that? That heartbeat?”

The doctor’s tone changes abruptly, “It was your fault, you know.”

“What? What do you-”

In a garbled, tortured voice the doctor slowly croaks out his next words, “It was all your fault…”

“Dr. Frederick?!”

He doesn’t reply- but the heartbeat grows.

The silhouette turns around. It’s not the doctor. The entity stands taller than any man, with elongated limbs and long, thin fingers. Weston tries to scream and to move away, but he can’t even make the slightest motion. The entity silently glides nearer. Weston is straining with everything he has to scream and run but his body isn’t under his control anymore- he’s completely paralyzed, his eyes fixed open. A twisted voice chanting in an otherworldly tongue rises up out of the entity. Many more figures emerge from the darkness and as they descend on Weston they join the unholy chorus. The heartbeat grows ever louder; it’s thunderous now. The entity moves forward to reveal its pale, mutilated face. It locks its blood-engorged eyes with Weston’s as the sinister cacophony threatens to shake the stars down from heaven.

The entity curls its spider-like fingers around Weston’s neck. Hooded figures surround him, all gazing singularly at Weston, droning in their malevolent language. The entity draws a long, gleaming blade, and raising it high above plunges it down into Weston’s stomach again and again. Blood runs from its eyes with each vicious thrust and it smiles at Weston with a bloodsoaked mouth. Weston’s paralyzed body doesn’t move or make a sound, but his mind is leaping out of his body from the torture and his entire being is screaming and straining as he watches his own vivisection, unable to look away or even resist. The calamitous heartbeat continues pounding even faster. Weston’s eyes roll back and he slips into darkness.

It’s perfectly dark and Weston has a sense of floating in the infinite emptiness and silence. He notices a pinprick of orange light in the blackness. It’s moving closer. It’s the burning wreck of his wife’s car. Weston is floating above the scene, he sees flames licking away at the gnarled metal frame. He sees a man laying on the ground, and moving closer, Weston sees that it’s him.

Memories come flooding back- Weston was driving the car that night. He glanced down for just a second at his cell phone, and somehow he knocked the steering wheel slightly- the car’s tire went off the edge of the road. It was a tiny mistake, but he overcorrected and the car rolled and rolled again, and again. Time slowed to a crawl as the car destroyed itself under the force of that terrible decision. The car came to rest upside down- Weston remembers hanging from his seat. The car was full of fire and the flames had already enveloped his son. His wife was screaming as the fire began to consume her body. He knew he would die, and he was too weak to resist, but just as he was about to close his eyes for the last time, he felt someone wrap their arms around him and pull him from the flaming wreck. He survived.

Sound comes into focus and Weston hears voices, normal human voices, around him. They sound muffled as if they’re behind a great barrier, but he can understand them. And Weston hears a heartbeat monitor steadily thumping out a beat in tune with his body. Weston hears another machine heaving back and forth with his breath.

“His body’s looking good. He was in surgery a few weeks ago and we successfully removed the last bits of metal from his abdomen. The majority of the skin grafts are completed now as well”

“No change in his cognitive state though; he’s still gone.”

“Well, what does his family want to do?”

“They don’t want to spend the money to keep him on life support any longer. Today was their decision point, and there hasn’t been any change in his state. So, we’ll have to turn it all off.”

Weston tries to scream, he tries to move, just one blink or groan, he has to let them know he’s still there- but nothing happens. The doctors talk together and clearly, nothing has changed. Weston is panicking, and straining with all his might to just make one move, and then he hears the heartbeat monitor in the room quicken its pace.

“He’s got an elevated heartbeat-”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes- it doesn’t mean anything. See the EEG? Nothing- he’s not coming back. We’ve done all the other tests.”

“Ok. You have the paperwork?”

The doctors shuffle papers and Weston can hear them discussing something and the distinct sound of a pen scribbling out a very practiced signature.

“Let’s go grab lunch. There’s this awesome new Mexican place on Broadway”

“Sounds great!”

“Ok, I’m turning off the machines.”

“Go ahead.”

Weston is weeping and pleading as he hears the doctors leave and the door shut. The rhythmic beat of the heartbeat monitor slows and then flatlines. His tears turn to horror as he realizes his body is fully dead but yet he is still alive in the vast darkness. The drone of the flatlined monitor shifts and warps strangely in pitch. At the edge of the darkness, he sees the hooded figures ringed around him once again. The entity approaches as the sickening drone of his stopped heart morphs into the wicked chant of the beings.

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rather-impertinent · 5 years

Text

Ignorance Is Bliss

A/N: I understand why there’s been no Carolight fluff/real affection the first 3 eps given their upcoming story arc and wanting to make that believable. But I wanted fluff so I wrote some, while attempting to touch on the obvious distance between them. I’m placing this between 5.03 and 5.04, enjoy friends xo

******

It was an unassuming Saturday morning in June when Dwight and Caroline Enys strolled through the marketplace in Truro, which was abuzz with locals selling and purchasing all manner of things from their dinner to their dignity.

Due to the appearance of the warm sun - which edged away the fluffy white clouds which seemed to be as much of a Cornish landmark as Stepper Point - the marketplace was bustling with people of all ranks vying for some of the fresh, local produce and products.

The Enyses, led by Dwight, slipped through the crowds in a single file, bound by their clasped hands. A man suddenly unceremoniously walked into Caroline and offered no apology for the collision, which earned the stranger an affronted glance from Dwight, who opened his mouth to protest, but was hastened on by Caroline’s hand pushing him onwards and out of trouble.

“Dr Enys, let us not spend your first day off in a month brawling in the street,” Caroline warned, a clear smile in her voice.

Dwight took a deep breath and relaxed as they continued their way through the crowded area; he found that, for whatever reason, his fuse was very short these days. “Agreed.”

The concentration of people grew thinner as they made their way out of what was widely considered as the centre of the town. The lessening crowd was fortunate for many grocers displayed their fruits and vegetables on the border of the area. The scent of fresh citrus filled in the air, recently unearthed potatoes demanded to be diced and boiled, and garlic hung like pearls on a string about the stalls.

“Ooh, those raspberries look delicious,” Caroline noticed as they passed them, licking her unpainted lips.

Dwight immediately halted their onward march and negotiated a price for a punnet with the stall-owner and offered him 3 shillings for a bountiful portion of the crimson berries. “Here you are, my love,” Dwight chirped, handing them to her.

Accepting them with muted glee, Caroline glanced at husband and carefully linked her arm through his. “Thank you. You spoil me, Dr Enys.” Her tone was sincere and not sarcastic.

A surprised laugh escaped his lips. “A small box of raspberries is akin to spoiling?” he wondered, thoughtfully creasing his face as they continued their way down the cobbled street. Perhaps he needn’t have nigh-on collapsed from stress in the jewellers or the tailors all these years.

Steering them to the left down a quiet alleyway which led to Boscowan park, Caroline placed a piece of the pink fruit in her mouth and hummed in pleasure. “Well, these raspberries certainly are akin to spoiling. Besides, it is the thought that counts, is it not?”

Dwight suspiciously creased his brows at her. “How unusually sentimental of you,” the doctor commented, the ghost of a smirk on his face as he eyed his wife out of the corner of his eye.

Caroline rolled her eyes at him and smothered a smile by placing several more raspberries into her mouth. She was making a more concentrated effort to show him her appreciation. There had been an unspoken distance between them since Sarah died - a chasm, even - which, for reasons unclear, had been exacerbated of late. The distance resulted in some bad days and some good days. Today felt like a good day. Once finished chewing, Caroline retorted: “Well, I cannot leave all the romantic moral high ground to you, lest you grow lonely up there.”

Dr Enys’ laughter bounced off the trees in the park, startling the slumbering geese which rested on the banks of the river, who then proceeded to fly away in search of a more peaceful sanctuary.

Having found a quiet and deserted yet beautiful spot after a short walk, Dwight removed his grey jacket for Caroline to sit on and took a seat next to her on the lush and undewed green grass.

Caroline smoothed the skirts of her favourite pink gown, taking care not to get any grass stains. She removed her bonnet and reclined comfortably on her husband’s jacket, enjoying the feeling of the soft grass beneath her.

With a twinge of guilt as he looked out at the river, Dwight realised that he could not recall the last time they spent an entire day alone together, each offering each other their undivided attention. It was his doing, that he knew for certain. He had been so busy of late and did not dare decline a single patient or opportunity which came his way, lest he have to confront the reality of his own mental health, or that of his wife’s, or the damage which had been done to their marriage by their avoidance of the subject. But today was too fine a day for such heavy subject matter, and the conversation could be avoided for another day or two. Or three or four. Ignorance is bliss, is it not?

Caroline sighed blissfully as the warm sun shone on her face; she blindly reached for the punnet of fruit and popped a raspberry into her mouth. Her actions distracted him from his more unpleasant thoughts, and he observed her with a grateful smile. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and tempered’,” Dwight quoted with adoring eyes.

Caroline brought her hand up to her brow bone to shield her eyes from the sun. A wry smile pulled on her mouth. “Temperate,” she corrected, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye, her teasing smirk barely contained.

With a grin, Dwight shuffled closer to his wife and propped himself up on his right elbow. “Ah, the error is no doubt the result of my not being educated at Eton or Harrow. Shall you hold it against me?” he asked her, his face leaning over hers.

Mrs Enys shook her head. “No, I think not,” she answered, meeting his gaze; it never failed to surprise her how blue his eyes truly were - they could rival the Cornish sea on a calm day.

Their faces were mere inches apart now, the sun’s rays only able to illuminate Caroline’s right ear. “Why ever not?” he murmured, his glance flickering to her lips.

Many witty retorts immediately sprang to her mind but given the serene summer’s day, Caroline decided to hold her teasing tongue and speak a little more from the heart; which she had been practicing more of late. “I like you well enough just as you are.” There had been prettier declarations of love, she knew, but one does not need to be a personified Shakespeare sonnet to get one’s feelings across.

Besides, Dwight had always understood her meaning - even when she did not even understand it herself - and the touched look in his eyes illustrated the fact. The sunlight became blocked from her ear. Their lips softly brushed as Dwight murmured: “I like you very much, too.”

Unsatisfied with the gentleness, Caroline put her hand to the nape of his neck and kissed him fiercely. It had been a long while - too long - since she had kissed him like this, since he had kissed her like this, and the world around them narrowed down to the feeling of their lips pressed together and the desire that coursed through their veins.

Dwight hummed thoughtfully against her lips. Caroline broke the kiss, opened her eyes and waited for him to speak. “You were correct; those raspberries are delicious,” he commented, mischievously licking his lips.

Caroline let out a scoff-laugh. “My love, you are quite scandalous - you forget yourself.” Dwight grinned in reply. “What am I to do with you?” she wondered, pursing her lips in mock consideration.

Dr Enys, too, feigned consideration. “Do I shock you?”

The sun rose higher in the sky, as though encouraging their banterous exchange. “You do,” Caroline told him, fingering with the ends of his slightly loosened neckcloth. “You need lessons in decorum.”

“An excellent idea,” enthused Dwight, caressing Caroline’s arm, “who better to teach me than a heiress?”

Caroline hummed and schooled a smile. “And are you acquainted with any?”

“I am. Though, I must ask her an important question.” Dwight smiled and put a raspberry into his mouth, the juices coating his tastebuds.

Her gaze distractedly focused on his lips, it only occurred to Caroline after several seconds to ask, “Pray, what is the question?”

Dwight leaned down and kissed her, his lips slightly sticky: they trailed the sharp line of her jaw before making their way to her throat. “Can we start my lessons tomorrow?” he breathed against her neck.

Caroline glanced about them trying to ensure no one else was there to see them behaving so improperly in public. Assured that they were indeed alone and concealed by the trees behind them, Caroline tilted her neck to allow Dwight better access to her sensitive spots. She sighed when his lips suckled on a spot behind her ear, and she combed her fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow,” she readily agreed.

#poldark #poldark fanfic #carolight #have I pulled this off?#we just don’t know

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walking-true-to-style · 5 years

Text

For My Life, Still Ahead, Pity Me || B.M.

Pairing: Gwilym Lee! Brian May x Reader (Can be read as Brian)

Song Fic: 39

Words: 2.55K (Not including lyrics)

Warnings: angst, suggested death

Gender: Unspecified

Synopsis: Brian has sent off with the other 19 volunteers to explore space and find new planets. He asks you to write of him while he is gone and promises to return in a year to marry you. This is one promise he may not be able to keep, though.

In the year of '39 assembled here the volunteers

In the days when the lands were few

Here the ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn

The sweetest sight ever seen

You awaken to the sound of your lover, Brian, packing his luggage. You grimace at the sight.

Right…. Today is the day.

You want to be happy for him, truly. He has been wanting to do this trip since he first began working with 19 other esteemed astrophysicists of the world on this space travel plan. However, you know it would leave your daughter, Emily, without her father for the first full year of her life.

Brian notices you watching him from the bed and comes to sit down by you.

“Go back to sleep, my love. There’s still some time before I must go.” he takes your hand gingerly. You hold it tighter, which makes Brian look up at you. Your solemn eyes say so much more than what you want to let on.

“I’m going to see you off.” you tell him firmly. He seems slightly alarmed at your reprimand, but he knows better than to protest. Instead he replies with a soft smile and a nod. As if on cue to break the tension, your daughter begins blubbering in the room over. You both chuckle.

Brian pulls you up. He aids you in dressing Emily, and you all have breakfast together. You eat in a comfortable silence for quite some time. That was, until Emily thought it would be funny to sputter all her food onto the table

“Messy, messy” you smirk. Right as you get up, Brian sets a hand over yours. “I’ll take care of it, darling.” he assures you. He grabs a napkin and wipes up the mess Emily made and cleans off her face. She giggles and reaches out for Brian. He picks her up and holds her close to him, humming a tune in her ear.

“You are more precious than anything in this world. I wish I could watch you grow.” he coos to her. You feel a weight in your chest as he utters those words. The reality is setting in once again today.

You finish up getting ready and head to the airship harbor on the edge of town. You make it in time for Brian to make his speech after the head of the committee.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he begins. “We, the volunteers, gather here to begin one of man’s greatest exhibitions through space history has to date. Our work has brought us so far, and it will only take us farther. Our mission is to explore past our solar system to the next over in search of intelligent life, new civilizations, and another planet with which we will expand our views to new horizons. Traveling at the rate we are, it should be a year-long trip. We thank you all for your support, and we will return with news of worlds newly born.”

There is a thunderous applause as Brian finishes his speech. He looks to you in the crowd for approval. Judging by your misty eyes, he feels confident in his words. He makes his way to you and wraps you in a warm embrace and places a kiss on Emily’s head.

“You’re going to do amazing things…” you whisper to him. He holds you a little tighter, taking in your scent one final time.

“So will you and Emily.” he replies. He smiles at the sleeping baby on your chest.

“I’m going to miss you.” You dare not look at him at this point, not waiting him to see your tears that threaten to fall with each second. Brian places a soft touch under your chin in silent permission to see your face. You look up at him and the tears that previously prick your eyes fall.

“It’s only a year. I promise I’ll be back not a moment later.” he assures you.

“And then you’ll marry me, right? You ask, half-jokingly. Brian laughs brightly.

“And then I’ll come back and marry you!” He pulls you and Emily into a tight hug, planting a big kiss on your temple. You chuckle back, but the moment is severed by the head of the committee giving the signal for everyone to board. You and Brian exchange a worried glance. You bit your lip as he slips away from you. His hand runs down your arm and grasps your hand last second.

“I’ll miss you. Write of me please?” he asks you before running to the ship.

“I will!” You call back.

“I love you!” his voice echoes through the crowd

Your feelings don’t matter to you any longer. You would not let them stop you from supporting Brian, as much as you will miss him. He is the love of your life, and nothing will separate you too.

Not even space travel.

And the night followed day

And the story tellers say

That the score brave souls inside

For many a lonely day sailed across the milky seas

Ne'er looked back, never feared, never cried

Don't you hear my call though you're many years away

Don't you hear me calling you

Write your letters in the sand

For the day I take your hand

In the land that our grandchildren knew

Days, weeks, and months pass since Brian’s departure. Not once does he cry. The thought of you and Emily keeps him going. Every day he looks back toward Earth where you would be, as if he can feel your doting gaze through the cosmos.

You remain faithful to him. You admit, there is a chasm in your chest as you sit each day without him at the dinner table. Each night though, you take Emily to the beach across town in case the airship comes back early. And each day you would write in the sand in silent prayer for Brian to be safe.

“Please be home soon… I love you.” you say toward the starry sky.

You cope with Brian’s absence by telling stories of your lover to Emily. Though you doubt she understands a word of what you are saying, you can see the same twinkle in her hazel eyes that Brian had whenever he told you about the cosmos.

“When daddy and I first met, he was playing guitar in a band called smile” you emphasize the word to Emily, giving her the biggest grin. She smiles back at you and giggles, sending a warm tingling feeling through your body.

“And the first time he and I danced together in that pub, I knew he was the one.” You sigh happily at the memory.

As a year came to pass, Emily began to say her first word. You sob as you hear her emit the word

“Brian”

Perhaps she does understand your stories.

A year came and passed, then another, then another. The town around you has shifted. People have passed, people have been born and grown….Still, there is no sign of the airship. It breaks your heart, but you can only think the worst has happened.

Your lover is gone.

Still, you return to the beach every day with Emily, who at this point has grown into a beautiful young lady, and write letters in the sand, praying that Brian would return and marry you and share the rest of your life together.

“Why do we still return?” Emily asks you as you sit, listening to the waves beneath the blanket of night. Your gaze remains fixed on the cosmos above. It felt as if, if you looked hard enough, maybe you can see the airship.

“I suppose,” you sigh. “I still have hope that Brian is still out there…” your eyes trail the cosmos as your finger traces in the sand idly. Emily deflates slightly.

“I admire your dedication.” she says, defeated. She gets up from the sand and offers you a hand.

“It’s late… we should go home.” she tells you. You look to her, and you swear you can see so much of her father in her.

“You go on ahead. I may stay here a little while longer.” you tell her. She wants to protest, but she understands what this means to you. She gives you a nod and backs up slightly.

“Don’t stay out too late.” Emily demands softly. You nod to her and bring your gaze back to the horizon.

“Be safe Brian.”

+++

Years and years follow still, and still you go to the beach at night to watch for the airship. Your hope and dedication never fade in your growing age. Emily has since moved out and married a young man and bares children. She passes down the stories you told her in her youth. By this point, 20 more years have come and gone. You haven’t seen Emily in years. She comes back to your home with her family, though, when she receives the news that you have fallen ill in your waning age.

There you lay in the town’s hospital. You feel like a cyborg what with all the machines they’ve hooked you into. You stare blankly out the window, still gazing at the sky. Your mind was numb from the medicine the doctors gave you. All was quiet until a knock came at the door, snapping you from your trance. “Come in.” you call hoarsely. The nurse that had knocked pokes her head into the room before slipping in.

“(Y/n), you have some visitors.” the nurse tells you. You look at her in confusion.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone, but send them in.” She nods and ushers to your mystery guest outside. Your jaw nearly drops to the floor as a familiar face poked its head around the corner.

“Emily…” you felt damn near a sheer heart attack.

Though older now, likely in her 40s at this point, Emily was still as beautiful as ever. Her belly is swollen. She must be expecting soon. One more person enters. A male, likely her husband.

“Hey there.” Emily smiles weakly at you. Her tone is hushed. You take in the sight of her beautiful family and a few tears fall from your eyes. Emily rushes over to you and envelopes you in a careful hug.

“Wha- What are you doing here?” you asked her, shocked. She almost snorts at your question. “You think I wouldn’t come see you when I got the news?” Emily looks between insulted and concerned for you.

“Well. I’m glad to see you.” you grin at her. Suddenly you break into a coughing fit.

“Are you okay? Do I need to call a nurse?” Emily blurts quickly. You put up a hand as to say “no”

“I don’t need to see them again. What are they gonna do? Shove more needles in me?” you ask between coughs. You mean it to be a joke, but it comes out much more bitter. Emily chuckles sympathetically. As your coughing dies down, Emily begins introductions.

“Oh, uh. This is… Tom, my husband. Tom, this is (y/n).” Emily motions to the man leaning in the door. He steps up and takes your hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” he offers. You nod.

“And who will this be?” you inquire, bringing a soft hand to Emily’s belly. She looks down fondly at the lump.

“We haven’t decided yet, but we’ll let you know.”

You spend the rest of the day chatting and catching up, learning what Emily was up to for the last 20 years after she left home. She seldom came to visit, not that you mind. You understand her duties were with her new family coming along, though, you still missed her, and you make sure to tell her. She apologizes to you, and you forgive. Then, it came time for Emily to return home.

“I’ll come back again in a few days. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

In the year of '39 came a ship in from the blue

The Volunteers came home that day

And they bring good news of a world so newly born

Though their hearts so heavily weigh

Years come and go once again. The Earth has passed around the sun many times more. Emily has born her child, affectionately named “Mercury” after one of Brian’s and your mutual friends that Emily had come to know while visiting you at the hospital. While you were there, she and her family kept your tradition of visiting the beach at the edge of town, looking into the sky for the airship that carries your lover through the cosmos. Emily passed down the same stories you once told her as a child to Mercury. Emily then grew old after you and so did Mercury, who then kept the tradition going with their family as well.

It was a cool autumn night when the day came that an airship sails back into the sky harbor. A tall man with curly brown hair stands at the front of the ship awaiting eagerly to touch the ground he has so dearly missed.

“Many changes happened to this city while we were gone, eh, Bri?” a scientist comes up from being him. Upon further speculation, Brian notices just how vastly different the cityscape below is. Buildings have shifted, plants have been cut down and grown elsewhere, cars look incredibly different than they did before. It weighs his chest slightly.

“I.. suppose it does, yes.” Brian replied, cocking a brow. Still, it is his home and he is relieved to see it, no matter how different it seems. The airship touches the ground and the volunteers file out.

“No one is waiting for us. Not to sound ungrateful, but I expected just a little pomp and circumstance!” a man grumbles to his friend by Brian. “Maybe we’re ahead of schedule?” another pipes up.

“No way! One year exactly. We’re fine.” says a third. Brian sifts through the crowd. He ends up by the beach. There he spots a familiar figure, drawing in the sand. Though, they look somewhat older.

For the earth is old and grey, little darlin' we'll away

But my love this cannot be

For so many years have gone though I'm older but a year

Your mother's eyes from your eyes cry to me

“(y/n)! Oh, my sweet! I’m back! I missed you!” he yells. The person looks to him and gets up to greet him. He brings them into a tight embrace, picking them up and spinning them in the process.

“Brian?” they say almost in disbelief. He sets them down, nodding ecstatically. “Yes! Yes, I’m back, my love. Oh, we found so many new planets! So many worlds! I’ll tell you over supper!” he plants a million kisses on them and they wriggle free. Brian lets them go in confusion.

“(y/n)? Love, what’s wrong?” he asks, hurt by the action.

“(y/n)... That was… Wait, You must be (y/n)’s husband, but I don’t understand- you’re so young I-”

“Wait,” Brian stops dead. “What do you mean? W- Who are you? You look just like my (y/n).” his eyes are wide in fear.

“I’m Mercury. Emily- your daughter- is… was… my mother.” Mercury states with worry in their eye.

“I don’t understand. I was only gone a year!” his hazel eyes are wide with anxiety and insanity, trying to process what Mercury is saying.

“Brian, it’s been 100 years since the volunteers set off. Everyone assumed you all died already. Well, everyone but (y/n).”

“I don’t understand.... So you would be.”

“Your grandchild, yes.”

Brian runs a shaky hand through his hair. He rubs his temple with his thumb.

“So that would mean…” he trails off. Mercury offers a sympathetic look and sets a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I’m sorry…” they offer. Brian falls to the ground, sobbing.

“Oh no…. No, no no…. (y/n)....” was all he could choke out between sobs. He gripped at Mercury’s coat, tears staining the fabric.

“I’m sorry.” Mercury says, rubbing his back. There they remain for a long while, as Brian processes the true length he has been gone.

He’d never see you again.

He’d never see Emily again.

All he has now is Mercury, the only remnant of your legacy. A spitting image of you.

Don't you hear my call though you're many years away

Don't you hear me calling you

Write your letters in the sand

For the day I take your hand

In the land that our grandchildren knew

Don't you hear my call though you're many years away

Don't you hear me calling you

All your letters in the sand cannot heal me like your hand

For my life

Still ahead

Pity me

A/N: Sorry it took so long! I really hope you enjoyed!

Taglist: @brianharoldmaysguitar

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maggotmouth · 4 years

Text

APHRODITE & ARES — no choir.

hllo!! this is a thread moosh ( @svlhouette ) n i started (bt never finished) for the gods event between aphrodite & ares. there’s only 4 replies / sections but i’ve put it below a read more bc i dont wanna clog the dash up! i didnt know wht to call it so i called it no choir, felt apt. listen to it if u like. its a song abt stillness n the temporary nature of love n ppl never remembering ur love story or smthn.

APHRODITE.

she smells of lavender, warm honey on the tongue, of summer. of the seasons, aphrodite most resembles summer – the warmth, the pristine happiness that seems to spread like a virus under the coppice of a heatwave, the long afternoons that seem endless in youth and so distant when looking back in later years.

“tell me what you were like when you were little…” she murmurs, her index finger tracing against the skin of ares' abdomen, bare beneath egyptian cotton, the sweat of both their bodies still ripe in the aftermath of a heated, burning love. neither had spoken for what felt like half an hour, their bodies entwined like rope, tender touches and the lingering feeling of weightlessness. her free hand toys with a stalk of grapes, fingers reaching to press one into his mouth, and her finger lingers against his lips. “what were your dreams, your hopes? who did you want to become?”

hands against his chest ripe with the purple juice of suckling grapes from greedy fingertips, she’s swinging her leg over to straddle him, the hot flesh of her thighs against his hips. as she takes him in her arms her chest drops against the hard muscle of his own. her lips find his, not in a kiss, more of a tickle, gliding against the rough skin in a way that makes her quiver, her hips rocking against his stomach, hands trailing over a scar that marks his torso. her beautiful soldier.

“i wish i’d met you when we were young. that we’d had more time.”

because despite the rare weekends when the god with whom she’s vowed to spend her life is gone from olympus, leaving her dutiless, free to roll her passion into the sweet pants of a feral love in their wedding bed with a man who could make her wet with just a look, it’s never enough. there’s always a hunger within her for more time, more love, more ways to unfurl his body into the sweet, tender shudder of ecstasy and memorise the twinge of every muscle, the way his face scrunches like a locked palm as he reaches it, and the way it feels to be the cause of that passion.

her nose slides along the arch of his own from her position perched above him, knees locking around his waist, her hands travelling to cup around his throat. “do you think you’ll ever run out of hunger? cease to want me? or will it just feed on you until there’s nothing left. nothing but the memory of my kiss.”

ARES.

just another taste, and he’s lit to life with a hunger that goes beyond his control, and an addiction that never seizes to dwindle in intensity. he knows not whether the ordered matrimony speaks of his father’s anger towards her, or his hatred towards him — all he knows is that it drives a wedge into the chasm of their relationship, one that had been hanging from a thread in the first place.

she asks him of his desires, of his youth, and he wishes he could speak words that mirror her essence of lavender, of the heat of july ... but all he’s ever known is the fever of bloodlust and the sea of loneliness he had been dropped into as a child. “more time,” he chooses to repeat, instead of allowing her the answer she searches for, calloused palms coming to press against the soft skin of her thighs and fingertips forming dips in her skin at his grip. oh, how she fits right in his grasp, as if his hands were formed for her and her alone.

“for you, my love? never.” he speaks the truth, his words grazing over plump lips that had graced him with her taste. she had fallen into his grasp before he had known tenderness, and in a touch, she had managed to melt away decades of grief, of suffering, of not knowing his hands were capable of more than taking lives. and just like how gracefully she had been gifted to him, she had been ripped away by a petty feud. how utterly childish of his father.

in a swift motion, he comes to roll across the expanse of his back, his grip tightening on her thighs as he effectively repositions the two of them, her back now pressed against the surface below and his hands now sinking into it. scarred hands gingerly push back locks cascading down her shoulder, revealing otherwise flawless skin marred by marks of his love. “and you? do you yearn for me while sleeping besides him every night? have you missed my touch against your skin?” dipping his head below, he comes to press his lips against the column of her neck, chaste kisses decorating her skin before he continues, “or do you call me here out of loneliness?”

APHRODITE.

they've learned to understand each other in half-translated languages, touch -- once so foreign to him unless in the carnage of war -- slowly becoming a tongue he can recognise, reciprocate, pluck apart the vowels of and mimic in his own voice. still there are secrets that stretch further than the valleys of olympus ever could, there are silences they cannot ignore, and their are childhoods and histories too bloodsoaked for him to unearth, even for her. "we don't have to talk about it," aphrodite utters, a kiss pressed against the softness of his lips, and this is what it means to be a part-time lover. it comes only with the understanding that despite their heavenly bodies and the tales that the mortals will sing of them, theirs will be a story riddled with strife. perhaps that's the saddest kind of tragedy -- when two people who love each other can't be together -- but tragedies have always been her favourite kinds of tales. they breed the best lovers.

he tells her that he'll never cease to want her, though she's seem the flame of zeus' love flicker and die, seen the ways he seeks out other women to quench his boredom, and she finds herself idly wondering if ares will be the same when she is not so new or exciting and there are younger nymphs whose love puts less at stake than the kingdoms their love could unmake.

"never is an awfully long time, fair ares," her breath escapes in a laugh, the roll of their skin made paramount as he places himself above her. there's always a push and pull when it comes to love and lust, so often the same thing when she's buried in his arms, the giving and taking of power like a rush to lovers that time can't compete with. "loneliness..." aphrodite utters, her lips twisting into a gasp as he meets her neck with his mouth. she hungers for the cut of his teeth. "you're just a body, at the end of the day... i'm sure a mortal could sate me as easily." she's toying with him like a cat does string, though it'll only make it more rewarding. games are a common tongue between them, hips rolled like they're dice in a constant battle of who'll crack first. "maybe moreso. there's something exhilarating about the futility of it. from dust they come and to dust they shall return. whereas you'll be here forever... less poignant." can he smell the lies on her teeth? a mortal could never match him. a god never could. the sun itself is no match for the heat he makes her feel.

ARES.

just a body. her words bite, seemingly with teeth sharp enough to pierce skin, but he’s become accustomed to such harmless words masquerading as sharp edged glass, meant to hurt him, meant to push him away. a slight curve of his lips take her words deep into his chest, turn them around, examine them and mull them over, before they’re spit out and labeled as unsatisfactory. “a mere mortal? then why not call upon one in your times of loneliness? why take the risk in angering zeus with our secret affairs when another could sate you just as well?” or perhaps that was exactly the reason why — out of spite for the one who had entrapped her in such a situation ... but then there are glances spared towards one another on days lacking such intimacy, when diplomacy is the setting and their love has no place to settle, and he swears she feels a love for him identical to the one that burns so brightly for her.

a kiss, one with much more strength parts his lips and attaches itself to her neck, drawn out by her gasp. the soft noises that slip past her wine tainted petals leave him wanting more, an unfortunate addiction he cannot seem to curb, despite the warnings that have been laid upon his neck by his father. did the risk push him further into her arms? or was it that while he overlooked the words lacking in what he truly desired to hear, there was a deep fear that she spoke the truth, and there was an urgency to change her mind?

he’s a fool, and he knows this. the mortals sing of it, though they do not know the depth of it, not when it comes to her. even through words that hold none of the feelings he desires, even kept hidden in the shadows, he’s still fully and wholly hers. tainted hands intertwined deeper within her locks, fingertips grazing against the width of them as they fall through like silk. “tell me. why do you return to me?”

#i wish i hd written more bt alas..... work is kicking my ass #⥂ a study of aphrodite ; thea delacroix. ╱ threads.#& ares / august.

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anonthenullifier · 6 years

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Achromatic - Chapter 4

Overall summary: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, sometimes this means you save the day, and other times it means your lover comes out of a fight a different person. After a battle leaves Vision as someone that is not-quite-Vision, Wanda and the team try to figure out what went wrong and how to get him back.Inspired by the White Vision storyline of the comics.

Chapter Title and Summary: Infinite Nightmares -- After an act of desperation, Dr. Strange attempts to reason with Wanda.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917372/chapters/33343659

Ch. 1-3 available at the link

For @theskyismadeofpenguins and @deathofink

Hope you enjoy!

Wanda sits on the lab table, eyes closed, legs crossed, and her hands resting on her knees, palms up and fingers steepled together. Scarlet billows around her, a nebulae of raw power that contains thin tendrils weaving in intricate patterns around a hexagonal, pinkish object. It is the only fragment they could recover from Q*bert, the last potential link she has to Vision, and Wanda will be damned if she doesn’t find some way to reach through it. Experimentally she prods at the shard, channelling sparks of power into it with each tentative touch, attempting to elicit some sort of response. Nothing transmits, however, not even a faint pulse of residual life, only silence and an eerie, discomfiting absence of fury and light.

She squeezes her eyes tighter, fighting back the tears that have been continually at the edge of her vision since her confrontation with the imposter. A steadying inhale and a mostly even exhale recenter her, her mind shifting to an awareness of her own body, tracking the rhythm of her pulse, the feel of the frigid metal biting into the exposed skin between the hem of her dress and the top of her stockings , and the gentle tapping against her sternum of the vibranium wedding ring that now hangs around her neck. It’s a technique Strange encouraged as a way to ground her to reality whilst her mind reaches beyond the scope of human awareness. Another breath and she pushes her powers deeper into the shard, seeking any remnant of existence, even a single atom that is marginally active. It’s all she needs, she thinks.

When there is still nothing, Wanda tips her head back in defeat, extinguishing the scarlet cloud with a tightening of her fingers and a slow, defeated exhale. “This isn’t working.” Nothing is working, actually. No one has found a solution yet, as far as she is aware, though Wanda hasn’t been particularly social to know exactly what the team is doing to find Vision. She knows she should seek their support, lean on their combined strength but the limited contact she has allowed is exhausting, the guilt in their eyes and the baseless reassurances that everything will turn out okay stoking a gradually building rage deep in her chest. Which is why she’s in Helen’s lab, unable to stand being in her own quarters surrounded by the memories and the smells of Vision, and also unwilling to go elsewhere, the absence of his presence haunting her every move.

Even though Vision spent much of his time helping Helen in the laboratory wing, Wanda, much like the rest of the non-science based members of the team, avoided it, overwhelmed by the equipment and the jargon. What this means is that she has almost no memories of Vision here, no chance of losing her veneer of control like she did while trying to cut an onion earlier in the day (Vision, for years, has served as her sous chef for such actions since his synthetic eyes seem insusceptible to the noxious task ). It also helps that Helen, much like Vision (Wanda’s Vision, the real Vision, not whatever is residing in his place) disregards the normative apologies and reassurances, including leaving Wanda alone when she wants to be.

The only issue with frequent solitude is the tendency to ruminate, Wanda’s mind sliding easily into reliving each moment of that day, considering how she should have stopped the destruction of the cube, should have held tighter to the Mindstone or even thrown Nefaria out of the way. Perhaps she could have fought harder to keep Vision at the compound instead of holding onto the foolish hope of a successful mission and a quick transfer of Vision’s consciousness from the cube. Sometimes she even pushes her blame to the initial event, chastising herself for not helping Vision with Nefaria or for even agreeing with the team that Vision should engage the cube. Hindsight, as always, is merciless and unforgiving. Now she is left with nothing but a lifeless shard, a husband that is not actually her husband, and no prospects beyond going back in time to stop either event, a proposition Strange has already vehemently turned down.

A shiver of despair rolls along her spine, carrying her muscles along with it into a subdued shudder and an uncontainable sob at the memory of the last time she was faced with such bleak options - standing on a half-destroyed battlefield, powers sparking haphazardly from her hands as she stared at the mad titan in front of her. There were no pathways that didn’t include destroying herself, the ground she stood on, her teammates, or the universe and for the first time in her life she didn’t feel the weight of responsibilities or guilt, only the freedom of accepting oblivion. That feeling builds at the memory, prickling at her fingertips as she stares at the lifeless shard on the table. Perhaps there is one more option.

Slowly Wanda lifts her wrists, arms separating as she pulls her hands farther apart. She closes her eyes, releases all thoughts unrelated to the task at hand and reverts her mind back to the battle, allowing her desperation and love to drive her. With a soothing dance-like movement, she pushes rods of scarlet into the ebony sea of spacetime in an attempt to parse out the invisible boundary of reality. Eventually she meets resistance, a devilish smirk drawing her lips up as her fingers mimic the prodding of her powers. It feels different this time, not as dense and fortified, almost like touching the skin of an onion, matter crinkling and crackling as she pokes at the seams. She’s uncertain what she’s looking for, still a novice at this task despite her pleading with Strange to show her how to harness this immense power.

Wanda pushes her palms gingerly into the air, an invisible crocodilian texture tickling her skin as she moves her way along the boundary of the universe, and then she stops, a pressure forming against her hands as if something is pushing back. A deep breath in collects her powers into a concentrated mass, an apple-sized orb rotating three feet in front of her, and then she swings her arms, bringing her hands back together, thumbs hooking to steady her trembling wrists as she sends the orb into the fabric of reality. An infinitesimal crack forms, a golden glow pouring into the darkness from the tear, and it is familiar and comforting like nimble fingers dancing through her hair on a sunny day.

“Wanda!”

Wanda startles, lungs spasming as her eyes snap open. Hanging in front of her is a partially reconstructed cube, one that begins deteriorating the longer she looks at it. Frantically she closes her eyes, shoving her powers in furious whips at the disappearing object but nothing remains, the space between her and reality rapidly forming a chasm she has no way of crossing.

A second, “Wanda,” causes her to flinch, this one not as desperate or pleading, fueled by anger and harmonized by the distinctive whistle of a whirling portal.

Her attention moves towards the new body in the room, Dr. Strange’s clothing always making him seem so out of place in high tech settings, regardless of the fact she knows he has a deep understanding of everything that happens in this room. Hesitantly she slides from the table, silently whispering to her lungs and heart to please slow down, regain some control so she can respond without inducing suspicion as to her activities. “Stephen, I wasn’t expecting you.”

The transparency of her cover is apparent in the quirked eyebrow and haughty sigh that he purposefully draws out for added emphasis. “I have been very clear in establishing rules for interacting with reality.”

“I was only looking,” the words are clearly a lie, her own voice unconvincing and the disappointed shake of his head confirming her failure at being nonchalant. So she switches her strategy to the truth. “I heard him,” Wanda sucks in a trembling breath at verbally admitting it, at solidifying the knowledge of hearing the unique and lovely way Vision’s accent rounds the syllables of her name, “I felt him.” The ghostly pressure forms on her palms at the memory.

Stephen’s face is blank, the gray flecking his hair adding to the air of unimpressed authority he carries around pretty much anyone, one that sometimes gives way to irreverent humor, but the sternness in the set of his mouth means that is unlikely to happen right now. “You can’t do this.”

The words Wanda had been preparing to use, ones explaining exactly how she is sure it was Vision tumble away, replaced by a creeping, oppressive shroud of suspicion around her shoulders. “Why aren't you surprised?”

Strange is not one to participate in tautological avoidance, erring on the side of speaking his mind almost all the time, yet the hesitation of his mouth and the quick glance away from her gaze concerns her. But he remains true to form with his eventual admission. “I discovered him two days ago.”

“What?” Her hands are ablaze with scarlet before the word is done, feet stepping out wide as she falls into the battle stance Natasha worked for months to ingrain into her muscle memory.

The caped man doesn’t respond in kind, a disinterested sniff at her threat a strong enough shield against her ire. “I have spent every second of my time trying to find a way to bring him back,” apologetic sorrow flashes across his face, “He’s unreachable, Wanda.”

She shakes her head, defiance crawling up her arms, “I touched him.”

“And you very well could have destroyed the universe with that touch.”

Wanda considers backing down, his voice laden with a steadfast direness, whatever he has seen appears to have shaken him. “It worked before, against Thanos.”

There is no immediate response to her rebuttal, instead Strange turns away from her, one arm reaching out, his index and middle finger held together by his sling ring, and his other hand rotating in a wide circle as he creates a new portal. Once it is formed he turns towards her, “If you won’t believe me, perhaps you will believe yourself.” A dip of his head indicates she should follow, a command she considers refusing, but intrigue at his offer begins to replace her anger, encouraging her feet to shuffle towards the portal.

As she steps through the golden portal, Wanda squints at the fluorescent lights overhead, blinking several times to slough away the floating dots from the bright assault. “Step back please,” the disorientation of portal traveling means she follows his order without thinking, her body meeting a slight resistance as she transitions into the same room only now there are faceted panels distorting the view. “We’re in the mirror realm.”

“Yeah. I figured.”* Now that her eyes have adjusted, Wanda scans the room, a sense of deja vu forming at the quiet, pristine lab, the only things marring the perfection of Helen’s organization are a mug of tea (a slight ring forming on the table underneath the ceramic cup), the small remnant of Q*bert, and Wanda sitting on a table, legs crossed and hands on her knees as scarlet billows around her. “Where are we?”

Strange joins her in scrutinizing the other Wanda, following along as she gives into despair and desperation, palms reaching out in search of Vision. “The multiverse.” It’s a word the team, primarily the science driven members, throw around, often while drunk and shooting the shit, but Vision has excitedly discussed it with her as well, the notion of an infinite number of universes where every possible outcome can play out a thrilling form of hypothetical contemplation to him. “I’ve been observing your various lives in search of answers.” Hope should attach itself to this information, yet his voice is low, almost terrified.

“What have you found?” His response is a shaky wave of his hand towards the other Wanda, her fingers wagging furiously as she pulls at the threads of reality, doing what Wanda failed to earlier, this Wanda’s connection to Vision still active. Just as a golden light comes through into the lab, as Wanda’s own heart begins pounding excitedly in her chest, there is a blinding, retina destroying, explosion of light and then utter darkness. “What…”

“She failed.” A new portal appears and Strange leads her through, allowing Wanda to watch a new version of herself again. “She fails over,” a new portal and an even brighter explosion, “and over,” attempt after attempt fly past until Strange remains long enough in one universe so Wanda can see the entirety of time implode as they stand in the safety of their spectator realm, “and over.”

“Why doesn’t it work?”

Stephen shifts into the casual, arrogant pose usually taken up by people tasked with explaining supposedly simple matters to someone who seems to not get it. His arms are pulled behind his body so that he can grip his hands behind his back and his hip juts out just enough to be condescending. “When you altered reality to defeat Thanos, you also weakened the stability of reality itself. Cracks formed, universes collided, and in amongst this damage pocket dimensions began to proliferate at the most chaotic and unstable points.” He shifts his hips, the cloak readjusting on his body until it is comfortable. “With the increased instability, there was also, from what I’ve gathered, an increase in using these rifts for personal gain, manipulating and utilizing the raw power seeping from these dimensions.”

“The cube?” The man nods, waiting for her to form the connection he’s been hinting at. “Vision is in one of these pocket dimensions.” Another nod and Wanda’s heart rejoices at the knowledge, wholly disregarding the apocalyptic realities they just observed. .

Strange’s hands release, arms falling back to his side, “Wanda,” the threat in his gaze and the admonishment in his tone chills her joy, his words shattering it into millions of pieces, “it is too dangerous to rescue him, even for me.”

A stray memory waltzes through her mind, a moment from a conversation with Vision concerning these other universes, a tearful, hopeful inquiry as to whether it meant there was a Wanda still with a Pietro at her side. “But some Wanda’s succeed. They have to.”

His “Yes,” is reluctant, fingers tightening into fists that suggest he hoped she wouldn’t understand the full breadth of the multiverse. “But it still never works.”

Wanda chooses to ignore everything after the yes , focusing instead on the possibilities. “How do they do it?”

The leather of his gloves squeak as the pressure of his curled fingers increases, the sound creating a slight crack in his calm demeanor. “Usually through using a relic to amplify her powers, but that is only in the small sampling of universes where it works.” Her eyes drift to the Eye of Agamotto, his own gaze following her silent question. “No, I won’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“Wanda,” the sincerity in his voice is concerning, pebbles of dread piling up in her body, starting at her feet, and holding her to the ground. “I have been through every single universe, even when you do succeed at saving him, your relationship always ends in tragedy.” Her lungs begin to fail, breath sputtering as her mind wages a war against his words, denying the notion because there is no reason her and Vision will not be happy so long as they are together. “It is not worth risking the entirety of reality for a brief time of happiness.”

The argument is the same as what the non-Vision used on the quinjet, the many should outweigh the few, it is futile and selfish for her to save Vision, but Wanda can’t accept this without proof, hearsay a dangerous and unreliable source of decision making. “Show me.”

Strange shrugs, opening a new portal and stepping halfway through it before he turns back towards her, “Tell me once you’ve seen enough.” It is both a warning and an apology, a downpour of frigid terror seizing her muscles as she steps hesitantly through the portal. “These first ones are the most,” he pauses while staring at the back of Vision, body hunched over a desk, and a different Wanda standing in the doorway, watching her husband with concerned eyes, “normal dissolutions.” Normal is a term that is barred from her relationship, a subjective perception that is typically hurled at them as an insult, yet she believes she gathers his meaning, biting back tears as she watches Vision ignore her pleas to talk with her, as she gives up, likely because this isn’t the first time he’s closed himself off, and it appears this Wanda is done. Strange grips Wanda’s hand as he walks her to a slightly different universe, this time she and Vision actually talk, voices deadly calm despite the anger vibrating in the air between them. They argue about irreparable harm to their relationship, of how Vision never quite felt right after coming back, of how she is a constant reminder of this difference, of how they don’t fit anymore. It’s this Wanda that makes the suggestion to split, and it takes everything in Wanda not to break through the mirror dimension and yell at these two idiots, force them to find a way to work it out. The next eight are almost identical, only minimal changes to the words used, the exact reasons for parting ways, and the volume of their voices.

It’s as they walk through the next portal that Wanda hears a difference, a surprising lullaby floating in the air wrapped up in the smooth tones of Vison’s voice. Stephen is about to pull her through another portal but Wanda places a hand on his arm to stop him, her body turning towards the world Strange deemed unimportant . She watches as Vision sways in the middle of a darkened room, faint outlines forming around him the more her eyes adjust to the low lighting, and Wanda begins to make out what appears to be a crib, a dresser, and a changing table. A sharp, high pitched cry solidifies her perceptions as she watches Vision run a soothing hand down the face of the baby in his arms. “We…” her and Vision had only recently tiptoed into discussions of the future, the flurry of excited ideas of buying a house and raising children decimated by three conclusive tests in Helen’s lab of Vision’s inability to procreate, and yet clearly some version of themselves figured it out, “had children?”

Strange’s arm tenses under her grip, “Wanda, we shouldn’t stay here.”

This universe’s Wanda comes in seconds later, another baby in her arms and Wanda finds her mouth lifting into a painfully ecstatic grin, not just one baby, twins. “I want to see this.”

“Wanda,” a tug of his arm rotates her face towards him where she can take in the hunted, petrified glean of his eyes and it momentarily stops her heart, “these universes are the most horrific.”

She ignores the warning, tossing a glare at him before turning back to watch the bedtime routine.

Once the babies are asleep, laid gently in the crib with a cloud of scarlet, Wanda and Vision leave the room. His hand still on the doorknob, this universe’s Vision quietly, in a placating tone, broaches a topic of conversation that has clearly come up before, “Wanda, I am still concerned about what Agatha told us.”

The unamused frown residing on her face is one Wanda has sent to Vision numerous times, it is meant to silence the ridiculous logical reasoning he is attempting to use, particularly on things they have already been discussed and left behind. “Our children are fine, Vizh.” The sharp emphasis of the zh is also a common tactic to silence unwanted dissent, one Vision rarely ever actually entertains, and this instance is no different.

“Wanda, our children might not be real.”

Wanda feels herself denying it right along with the one speaking to Vision, “How can they not be real, I carried them for almost nine months, I gave birth, we hold them, Vision, how can they not be real?”

The man wilts at the words, shoulders curving forward as his body shrinks, “Agatha says she has proof.”

She watches the other version of herself throw her hands into the air, a deep, annoyed sigh punctuating the anger forming in red sparks along her arms. “No she doesn’t.”

“Wanda,” Vision’s voice shakes as he proceeds, “no good can come of denying this.”

The next words cause Wanda to step closer to Strange, curl her fingers around his arm indicating she’s ready to be done with this universe, because even if it is in anger, she is horrified at her doppelganger’s response. The woman balls one hand into a fist and uses the other to point right at Vision’s chest, “And what the hell do you know about being real, you damn toaster.”

“Stephen, please,” her urgency is understood, a whirring portal opening that Wanda quickly steps through, glancing back long enough to see the mortification and betrayal settling on Vision’s face.

Unfortunately that’s not the worst universe, the next one forces her to relive the moment on the quinjet, only this time transported to a hallway, their children several years older, and Vision is completely white. His voice is even more flat and otherworldly as he informs them all they are no longer his family, that he is no longer their father. No matter how fast Wanda pushes Strange through the portals, however, the universes careen them along a trajectory beyond the scope of Wanda’s own imagination, each one more appalling than the last. It feels like being trapped in a horror movie, one with a cliched scene of stepping into a funhouse room filled with mirrors. Wanda finds herself standing at just the right angle to see infinite versions of herself, yet unlike the movies, it’s not just one reflection that diverges from her behavior, but all of them, some in subtle ways —just a blink or a flexing of fingers— and others are so unlike her she has to stare hard to ascertain if it is in fact her.

There’s the Wanda who, due the grief of their children not being real, erases a portion of the world with a whispered “No more.” There’s the Wanda who gifts her brainwaves to Vision as a parting gift in the relationship, who then proceeds to create his own family, which, unsurprisingly, does not go well. There are several where she is with other lovers, sometimes it’s Steve, sometimes Clint, sometimes people she doesn’t recognize from her own universe, yet, at least. Vision dies in several of these universes, sometimes because of her, sometimes not, occasionally he is rebuilt, never the same though, and sometimes they leave his body in a box, as if he is no more than scraps to maybe be refurbished at a later date. Wanda wants to deny the veracity of these universes, and yet they exist, the realness of them harrowing both in the consequences and the sheer breadth of possibilities, such as the strangest one where Vision even had a one night stand (she’d laugh at the thought if she had any energy left for derision) with an alien AI that resulted in hundreds of children.

All of these worlds, these actions amalgamate around her and she can’t breath, overwhelmed by the unmistakably bleak path of their fate. Wanda can barely muster the strength to speak, but manages a quiet, supplicating, “Please stop.”

Strange pauses, hands still lifted in his signature portal conjuring stance, and stares at her. “Have you seen enough?”

The tears running down her cheeks should be informative, yet she first tasted the salt of her sorrow at least twenty universes ago, so it is not an absolute sign of being done. Wanda wipes away the stains from her cheeks, which only makes way for more tears, and nods. “I’d like to go back to my room.”

Wanda wraps her arms around her waist, head bent down so that she only sees her her boots, the frayed ends of the laces a focal point to draw her attention away from the worlds around her. It’s only when she smells the faint lavender incense from before and hears the soft chiming of the metal strands looping along her bookshelf, that she inhales in relief and looks up. “That was,” Wanda’s thoughts move quickly, the images discombobulating as they buzz around her mind, so she keeps it brief, “Informative.”

A curt nod and a needlessly dramatic readjustment of his cloak (which could just be the cloak) goes along with the grim satisfaction of his, “I am glad it was informative, I hope you realize the correct path now.”

Wanda doesn’t watch him leave, can’t seem to muster any response, her heart bending in half, threatening to split in two, as the gravity of the various realities sink in. The process of grief had already started for her husband, a half-hearted pessimism of not saving him that was alleviated somewhat by long days in the lab with Helen, striving tirelessly to find a solution. Yet the truth was always tickling the back of her mind, urging her to consider the scope of what a destroyed cube meant. It’s impossible to hold back the barrage of sorrow now, when Wanda has not only her own grief but the grieving of infinite Wandas, each one offering a unique quality to the mourning of Vision, and it’s overwhelming, her limbs can barely move, lungs are functioning at the bare minimum capacity. The only part of her that is hyperactive are her lachrymose glands, churning out tear after tear for the finality of her loss, of all the Wandas’ losses.

With a great deal of effort, Wanda slides into the bed, scarlet whispering around her head as she cocoons herself in the duvet, blocking out the last of the lamplight that threatens to keep her in a world where she can look around and see the signs of Vision, ones that force her brain to recall his voice and his touch, the way he laughed when she hung up the painting of the monocle wearing dog on the wall (a gag gift from a team white elephant exchange, but Vision adores it far more than she thought imaginable). She breathes in and for a moment it is a mistake, to breathe, because she catches a waft of vibranium that somehow is still clinging to the pillowcase, her senses igniting so strongly that Wanda finds her eyes closing in a likely futile attempt to relive a moment with him, to summon him back to her, briefly chase away the specters of the multiverse, and pretend to have some level of futile hope of his return.

Her consciousness seamlessly transitions from reality to memory and for a time Wanda cannot parse out the differences, allowing herself to be consumed by recollection, of a night when she laid curled against Vision, her skin slightly slick with sweat, creating a pleasant sensation of oneness as her body adhered to him. If she moves her head just a bit, she can almost feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her, pushing her towards one heaven and then pulling her back towards another, over and over in a steady rhythm as his fingers play with the tips of her hair.

“Have I told you about the multiverse?” His voice is clear, playful, but contemplative, his pillow talk always an unpredictable but delightful endeavor.

Wanda rubs her face into the pillow, just as she did that night into his chest, “No.”

When she doesn’t feel his hand in her hair, Wanda sends a strand of scarlet out to mimic his behavior as she recalls his response. “It is a theoretical idea that there are infinite universes where an infinite number of possible outcomes can occur.”

“So there are multiple versions of us?” The words hurt her now, back then she grinned up at him, curiosity coursing through her, feeding her desire to watch his eyes light up as he talks about theoretical things, of possibilities that are only allowable at night, Vision the type of person that relishes the security of a dark room to share his deepest or sometimes most ridiculous thoughts.

“Infinite versions.”

Wanda knows these versions now, could answer her next question without Vision’s input, but she doesn’t stop the memory. “Give me an example.”

He smiled at her, a boyish, self-conscious half-arc that always does funny things to her stomach. His other hand lifted to caress her cheek, irises spinning counterclockwise as he contemplated, then he leaned in closer. “Some may not have this moment.”

“I feel bad for them.”

This elicited a short, delighted almost-but-not-quite snort, “As do I. For those who have this moment,” his hand traced down along her face, dipping beneath her jaw as he followed her neck, “one Vision may do this,” his hand continued to run along her body, skating along her shoulder before snaking down her arm. “Another might instead opt for another action, such as,” his hand rose to her head, fingertips burying deep within her hair to massage her scalp, and Wanda can feel the phantom touch, sighs at the pressure of his sure hands. “Yet another might decide to do something else,” the cool touch of his palm was pleasant but surprising, a gasp falling unrestrained from her mouth (both then and now) as he bent down and pressed his lips to hers. “Infinite possibilities.”

“I’m lucky then,” words she doesn’t regret, refuses to regret no matter how much they hurt, “to be in this universe where you do all of them.”

Wanda freezes, dispelling the memory before he can respond and bolts upright in bed, heart racing at the amorphous implication hanging in her mind. There are infinite possibilities, theoretically, which means that there has to be a universe for every single possibility. She scurries on her hands and knees across the mattress, yanking open her desk drawer to pull out her communicator. It takes five achingly long rings for Strange’s concerned and confused face to fill the screen. “Wanda?”

“You said they all failed, right?”

“Yes…”

“Every single one of them?”

Hesitation forms on his face, his goatee exaggerating his discomfort, eyes bouncing as he attempts to identify where she is going so he can counteract it before it gets too far. Yet he fails, simply responding with what he’s already told her, “Every last one of them.”

A thread of victory attaches itself to her lips, pulling her mouth up into, based on the color leaving his face, a devious smirk. “There are infinite universes, Stephen.”

“There are��”

Wanda stands from the bed, the hand not holding the phone scrunching in renewed purpose as her sympathetic system activates, selecting her fight response (Vision jokingly has informed her he doesn’t believe she has a flight response). “If every single one of them failed, that means this universe might be the one where I succeed.”

“Wanda that is dang-” the communicator goes silent as she ends the call, turning off the device so he can’t contact her immediately. The phone drops to the bed as she stands taller, prouder, and with reinvigorated purpose, an odd gratitude overtaking her body at the notion that because all the other Wandas endured endless tragedy, it means that maybe, just maybe, she won’t have to do the same.

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #doctor strange #achromatic #fanfic #mine #ao3 #almost out of the angst #almost #I hope Strange is written okay #i really have no idea how to write him #also just hope this makes sense #now I'm leaving Tumblr until I see Infinity War

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readingat3amisnormal · 3 years

Text

Hundreds of muntins transformed the dozens of scuffed panes of glass across from her into a singular entity taking up the front of the antechamber, offering a panoramic view onto the exterior of the ship and the ground far, far below her. Almost as an afterthought, the golden-hued rays of the setting sun cast rectangular shadows across the entire room.

She hated it. Despite the fact that the airbound behemoth was mostly metal and glass, the scent of the sea lurked about it not unlike the stench of antiseptic in a hospital.

For a split second, she felt bad for villainizing the craft. It was clearly an engineering masterpiece, given its remarkable tendency for staying in the air without crashing to the ground (unlike its predecessors).

Then she felt dumb for thinking that way. This was a ship that was stealing a part of her away. She didn’t have to justify her reasons for disliking it.

It was genuinely disconcerting how often she tried to rationalise her irrational feelings. Perhaps it was just a product of the times. Or her childhood. The two blended together in strange ways.

She could feel her arms trembling and decided to shift away from her position against the table. It wouldn’t do to have a fainting fit just before meeting the captain.

There was an odd feeling in her chest, like a chasm had opened up at the base of her heart. It was a slow, lingering dread that had plagued her for the full week and a half since she’d gotten the news.

As she straightened, dusting off her trousers, she realised that she was trembling.

A ragged inhale. She closed her eyes.

The door flying open behind her sent her heart rate spiking, and she gasped as though doused in cold water. The world dissolved into a blur as she spun around to find a grizzled deck hand trying his hardest not to hawk a spitball.

“Cap’n’ll see you now.” he drawled, not bothering to wait for an answer before he turned on h heel and strutted away.

A ragged exhale. The adrenaline sent surging through her veins by the intrusion was now settling into an icy blockade in her lungs.

She composed herself, tugged at her gloves, and walked through the door into the captain’s quarters, where millions of miniscule lanterns danced amongst the rafters like will of the wisps.

Her heart missed a step. She stopped dead and tilted her head back to take in the facsimile of the sky on the ceiling.

Almost involuntarily, her mind returned to memories of their childhood. A decade to the day, and they’d been lying on their shared bed, and he’d pointed to the skylight (the affectionate name they had for the hole in the ceiling) and pointed out the wonderful shapes the stars made…

…the constellations scattered like fine sand as his face came into focus; sharp jaw, stubble and smile taking up most of her view of him. He was always so youthful and bright.

He hadn’t seen her yet, bent over his writing desk as he was. His portmanteau was still open, dirty clothes scattered around the room. Almost out of pure instinct, she picked up a shirt draped over the back of an armchair and flung it at his face.

“Hey!” she called, unable to stop her grin.

He turned around just in time to get a faceful of filthy linen. The ensuing struggle was truly a sight to behold- a grown man screaming obscenities at an article of clothing as he tried to get it off his person, while simultaneously threatening whomsoever had thrown it at him with punishments ranging from a cold dinner to defenestration.

“…and when I find out who it was, I-”

The shirt came free, and suddenly they were facing each other.

He fell silent. She swallowed, feeling the dread slosh about in her chest like ale in stormy waters.

“Hello, brother.”

The smile returned to his face, though it was noticeably dimmer. “Ah. Hello. How’s my favourite sister?”

“Your only sister, but I’ll accept the compliment.” she closed the distance between them, ignoring the nausea. “Imagine my surprise when I found that your letter informing me that you were leaving on an overseas voyage post-haste got lost in the mail. Hmm?”

He froze up. She continued. “One assumes, naturally, that you did sent me a letter to get lost in the mail in the first place. Is that right?”

He was silent for a while, no doubt trying to think up excuses for his negligence.

“I don’t have all day, you know.” she mentioned, inspecting her nails. “I was told by your crew that castoff is in just over an hour.”

“Yes.” he sighed. “How was father?”

That caught her off guard. Suddenly, the persona she’d spent so long building shattered into billions of pieces that tinkled as they fell to the ground.

“…still resentful of how you left.” she settled, avoiding eye contact.

“How I left the forces, you mean.” he responded, and she could hear the undertones of disappointment in his voice. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it on my behalf.”

She slid her hand across her face. This wasn’t part of her plan. She’d had a script, she’d prepared for this. In an attempt to recoup her composure, she turned to look at the lanterns on the ceiling.

“Do you like it?” he asked, and as she stole a glance she realised he’d cocked his head back to better take it all in. “It’s the world’s cheapest planetarium.”

His eyes sparkled in the light, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away from them. She swallowed, finding her throat suddenly dry. “Impressive. I do wish you’d made it at home and not here, though.”

“This is home now.” he responded nonchalantly, as though he couldn’t see that there was a problem with that statement, as though he didn’t realise how wrong it was.

She bit her lip. It couldn’t hurt to just come out about why she was here.

“I do wish you weren’t leaving.”

His shoulders shook with a quiet laugh. “And so your ulterior motives are revealed to me.”

“Oh, come off it.” she argued. “My own brother is leaving on a fleet to explore the dark corners of the earth. I’d at least like to understand why before I’m waving my handkerchief at the horizon.”

“Adventure, I suppose.”

The words were like a slap to the face. She could scarcely believe them.

“You suppose?”

“Probably, yes.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “So that’s it then? You’re leaving your family behind for adventure?”

“It’s a greater calling, love.” he responded, and again, his lack of self-awareness was almost astounding. What had happened to him, to make him so unable or unwilling to empathise with any view but his own?

She stepped back involuntarily. “And you didn’t think to tell us? To tell me?”

“I tried, but-”

“But what?” she asked incredulously, “What of it?”

“I didn’t want to worry you!” he argued, and it became clear to her that he simply didn’t understand.

“Oh?” her voice rose with her temper, and she found herself advancing on him. “And so you would’ve simply left without saying a word to your family? Left them for greener pastures, thus rob-” she choked on the words, “thus robbing your sister of her only chance to say goodbye?”

“Greener pastures? Oh, that’s rich!” he snapped, and now he was getting louder too. “What of the greener pastures you left to pursue, leaving me at father’s mercy?”

“I’ve apologised for that!” she responded, though the words did send a sharp stab of ice through her veins and she wished he hadn’t brought it up. “And that doesn’t excuse you just leaving without telling me!”

He threw his arms up in frustration. “Well- well, shouldn’t you be happy that I’m leaving? You always resented me for being father’s favourite!”

The silence that came after those words spoke volumes. As the words finished echoing, he seemed to realise what he’d said, and regret flashed across his face.

Not that it mattered. She hung her head, cowed and defeated.

“…some part of me is happy, I suppose.” she began, “Happy that you’re finally leaving. That you can’t upstage me anymore. That you can’t cause me worry. That, for the first time in forever, I can have father’s affections to myself.”

She inhaled deeply, the crisp sea air burning her fragile lungs. “The other part of me just wants my brother back.”

The words caught in her throat, and she was ashamed. This was just typical of her, wasn’t it? Ruining everything for those close to her.

“Oh- oh lord, I wasn’t thinking, I’m so sorry-”

She could scarcely see for the dampness in her eyes, and as she fell forward into her brothers embrace she could feel him trembling with shame and sadness.

And neither of them could find the words to express what they wanted to say to each other, so that’s how they stayed.

After what felt like an eternity had passed she stepped back, wiping at her eyes and letting out a quiet sob.

“I- I’m sorry.” she whispered.

“I’m the one who should be sorry.” he responded, gently wiping at her face. “I wasn’t thinking, and- gods, would you forgive me?”

She nodded, stepping back, because what else could she say? She’d failed, in every sense of the word. He wasn’t coming back with her. He was going to leave forever, and she’d never see her brother again.

He sighed and collapsed onto his bed. Outside, the final vestiges of the day faded from the sky.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I suppose this is it, then.”

He was silent for a while.

“…don’t you understand?” he asked, and she felt like yelling again, telling him that he was the one that didn’t understand. She-

“My entire life I’ve been told what I am to do. I’ve had little to no authority, and subsequently little to no impact. If you asked most people who’ve met me, they won’t even know my name.

“But this… I could make an actual difference. I could learn new things, discover new worlds. The crew of this ship will make history. Isn’t it wonderful?”

…it wasn’t. Not really. Not to her.

But as she stood there and watched him look up at his creation, she realised that it would never be wonderful to her. And she would have to put that aside, because the joy in his eyes was undeniable.

And because that’s what siblings do.

It’s what he’d done for her, after all.

“Yes, I suppose.”

His smile was like the sun after heavy rain. And she found that it thawed the ice in her heart just a little bit. So, she smiled back.

“…do you want to at least sight Venus with me?” he asked as she prepared to leave, and somewhere in his sad smile she could see the fragmented remains of everything her brother had once been to her.

She mirrored his smile. “No. I’ll be saving that for when you return, because you will return, and if you don’t I swear to all that is holy I will steal an airship and come after you to personally shove my boot up your behind.”

He laughed, and she couldn’t help but join in.

And despite the fact that somewhere deep down she knew that he wasn’t coming back, that this would be her final chance to say everything she’d ever wanted to say to somebody she’d once held so dear…

…she hugged him, kissed him on the cheek once, and left the room.

As she walked down the gangplank, a singular beacon of order amongst the indiscriminate chaos of a crew preparing for castoff, she found a light smile crossing her face. Even as the tears blurred her vision and her breaths became short and frenzied…

She was at peace.

Far, far above the ship that would take her brother on his greatest adventure, the stars flared into life.

#this one was for a quickwrite challenge. it's not as good as i could've made it #but you know how it is

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