#he gets choked up sometimes halfway through (as indeed he does here)

[educatedinyellow]

Paul McCartney - Here Today (Live at Amoeba Records, Jun 27, 2007 / Rest...

[lyramundana]

Hello! Your request of Bang Chan being jealous/controlling is set to be written in August.

But since we are both a lover of soft smut, can I pls request inexperienced reader with Chan? Just something comforting and sweet.

Thank you :)

I'm incredibly, tremendously sorry for the long waiting. I'm the queen of procrastinating and I had zero ideas of how to proceed with this one, but mostly it was procrastinating. I'm not confident on writing soft smut scenes, but I'll try my best here:

Again, sorry for the waiting, and I hope this turned out decently. It's been on my drafts for a long while, but I never found the headspace to finish it:

When you were first starting to get to know Christopher, it was obvious he was experienced in that field, which made you slightly insecure about your own lack of it and it worried you that he might had find you less desirable.

Surprisingly, not only he was very understanding and sweet about it, but he seemed to want you even more.

He gladly took over everything. If you weren't sure, he guided you through it with his gentle voice and safe hands. Needless to say, your first time with him was mindblowing and better than you could've ever imagined. In fact, you enjoyed it so much that you felt yourself growing addicted to it.

You never thought you could grow so needy and horny for a man, and it made you feel a bit embarrassed sometimes, but he made clear how much he loved it.

You come home after an awful day. Everything seemed to go the opposite way of what you wanted, and added to the sexual frustration you are already carrying, you are beyond stressed. Your boyfriend is there, waiting for you to arrive, and as soon as he notices your mood, he hops you in his arms to comfort you.

-Hey, babygirl. What happened? Do I need to beat up someone? -he caressed your hair, kissing your forehead as he spoke in his gentle, loving voice. You felt yourself melt in his arms and the stress slowly leaving you.

-Just a bad day, that's all. I'm so sick of everything. -you murmur with your face buried in his shirt, and you happened to feel his strong pecks right under it.

Your skin feels hotter and it has nothing to do with the weather.

He rubbed your back, soothingly.

-You know what, baby? How about we take a long, warm bath and you try to relax? And maybe you can tell me about your day -he said as he left a kiss on the top of your head.

You stilted in his arms, lookin up with big doe eyes. A bath sounded great indeed...until you realized he intended to take it with you.

You would die.

And that's how minutes later, you found yourself buried in the warm water that reached your shoulders, with Chris' chest against your back and his arms surrounding your torso. Sometimes, his fingers draw circles on your sides and it drove you mad. How long has it been since your last intimate time together, after all? Weeks? A month?

-Try to relax, baby. I can see the steam coming out of your ears -he spoke against your temple. - You've been tense since I hugged you. Is it something I did?

-No, love. It's not about you. - well, partially yes, but it wasn't the main problem. - Its just..it feels like i'm doomed. No matter how hard I try or how much I improve myself, things go the opposite of how I want them to. I know i'm trying my best, but it doesn't feel enough. -you choked halfway through the words and you sniffed back your tears.

Your boyfriend was in silence for a bit. He pulled you closer to him as he noticed the strain in your voice.

-Oh, baby, it's okay. I understand what it's like, i've been there too. -he laid his head on top of yours, sighing. - It's fucking frustrating, I know, but we have to accept that, sometimes, it doesn't matter how hard we work, some stuff are out of our control and there are things we can't prevent. You're human, love, so you have limits. Don't be so harsh on yourself. -he kissed your neck- for what it's worth, you're more than enough in my eyes. You're perfect.

Your heart was melting as he said that, wanting to cry again but this time out of love. You can't know what you did to deserve for this man to devote himself to you, but you hope it lasts forever.

-I missed being with you like this - you muttered, looking up to him to kiss the corner of his mouth. He smiled and then kissed your lips, sucking your lower lip teasingly. You whined. - Don't do this to me, Christopher, or else..

-Or else what? Tell me, babygirl - he said with an annoyingly sexy grin. His hands descended slowly down to your hips, fingers brushing your inner thighs at times.

You gasped, grabbing his hands to stop them.

-Chris, please..

-What was the last time you had an orgasm, sweet thing? -your grip did nothing to him, as he continued tracing lines inside your thighs, now with his lips brushing your neck.

-I..dont't recall. Last month, I think? I don't know! -you cried as he started to drift closer to your core.

-Oh? You haven't been taking care of yourself, you mean? You know I don't like that, babe -he sounded serious now, pinching your skin to make your squeal.

-I know, it's just...-shit, you couldn't believe you were gonna say it. - I can't...only you can make me feel good. I don't know how do it without you!

His motions stopped suddenly and you whined at the loss. Before you could protest, he turned your whole body until you were facing him, sitting directly in his lap. You felt how hard he was and the words died in your throat.

-Fuck, baby, you can't say that shit to me like it's nothing. - he lunged at your neck and bite the skin harshly, making you moan as he left a mark. -You're so good for me. My good girl, who can't even pleasure herself without my help. You need me, don't you?

You struggled to find your voice with the sudden change of events.

-Y-yes -you gasped when his head brushed your clit. - I don't know-fuck-what to do without you.

His expression softened for a moment, right before acquiring a calculating gaze in his eyes.

-I hate it when you neglect yourself, pretty, but I understand you couldn't help it. I fuck you so good your little hand just can't compare, right? - he closed his eyes as he kept grinding your hips against his. -And you've been busy lately, haven't you? Poor baby must been so stressed. -he took your nipple in his mouth, licking and twirling it in his tongue, making you whimper and grip his shoulders. -You deserve a reward

You gulped. Last time he said you ended up cumming five times in a row, shaking in his sheets and under his mercy.

He raised your hips, lowering you slowly down his raging cock. You sighed at the sensation, throwing your head back. You felt so deliciously full. God, you've missed him so much, missed this. He let out a hiss once he was fully inside you, burying his face in your shoulders and nibbling the skin. When he attempted to roll your hips unto his, you whined and stopped him.

-Shit, Chris, give me a second. You're so big. - you wrapped his neck with your arms and laid your forehead against his, letting him feel your heavy breath.

-My size hasn't changed, baby, but maybe your pussy has forgotten about me. -he chuckled, caressing your cheek. - Guess we'll have to fix that.

You clenched around his lenght with those words and he groaned.

-Please, do. -you begged him, hiding your face in his neck out, flustered. -Fuck the stress away, Daddy. Fuck me until I can't think anymore.

He tensed under you. Holy shit, he was a breath away of wrecking you until you were crying out loud, but had to remind himself this was about you, about making you feel better. He closed his eyes forcefully, taking a deep breath to not fall for his instincts.

-Say less, my love. Let Daddy take care of everything, mm? -his vouce sounded deeper now, tender.

He gripped your hips and began to guide you up and down his lenght. It was a slow, steady pace, but it got you moaning in his chest at the so craved friction. His teeth traced your neck softly, leaving purple marks as he pulled your hair to make more room for his mouth. His hands lowered down to your ass cheeks, squeezing them as he thrusted into you.

You began to bounce unconsciously against him, doing your best to keep up with him. You moaned as his hips shifted and found another angle to hit you deeper, making you tremble in his hold. God, he made you feel so good, your eyes growing glassy.

His movements haltered once he heard you sniff.

-Babygirl? What is it? Want to stop? - you panicked and kept grinding against him.

-No! Don't stop, please - tears flowed your vision. You hugged him tightly, sniffing in his neck. - It's just..you don't know know much I missed this. I haven't stopped aching for you since the last time, but I didn't know how to tell without sounding desesperate and I.. - he silenced with your his lips, swallowing your next words. He bit your lower lip gently and pulled a bit before letting you go.

-My pretty, perfect baby, what did I do to deserve you? -he covered your face in kisses as he fastened his thrusts, making you whimper in surprise and pleasure. - You couldn't ever sound desesperate to me. I'll drop anything to give you what you need, so please, don't refrain yourself like that. -he toyed with your nipples again, making you moan loudly. - I'm here for you, princess. It's my job and biggest joy to give you what you want. -he groaned as you clenched around him again. - Now, let's fuck the stres out of you.

You went on like this for a while, with a quick but gentle pace. Your sounds of pleasure filling the room, for whoever happened to hear them. You needed this more than him, this relief and comfort only he could give you. His words encouraged you to just take what you needed.

The knot started to form in your stomach and you still reacted like the first time, eyes wide open and body tense as you took in the incredible sensation. Like he could feel it, his fingers drifted to your clit and began to rub it expertly, helping you chase your high. He felt his own climax come at him violently as he watched the addicting sight of you cumming with a high-pitched scream for him, because of him.

His other hand pulled your face closer by the neck and smashed your lips together, swallowing your beautiful moans as he kept thrusting his hips up roughly. You clenched again and he had to throw his back at the feeling, a deep moan escaping his lips.

-Fuck fuck FUCK! - he pressed his forehead in the conjucture of your neck. You whimpered as you felt his warm seed filling you, and he grabbed your hips with an iron vice grip, moving you to milk out the last drop of his climax - Take it, babygirl, fucking take it.

You rolled your eyes and let yourself fall entirely unto his hold. With a deep breath, he adjusted his position and laid his head back on the bathub wall. He massaged your back and left you occasional kisses on your face, his softening dick tupped inside you, preventing his cum from leaking out.

You basked in the silence for a few minutes, your breathing eventually going back to normal. Your head felt all mushy and your body completely relaxed. Everything was good, the world set itself right back again.

You stood there until the water grew cold, you growing sleepy with his cuddles and him watching you with a soft smile, pure and raw love sparkling in your eyes.

[thewritetofreespeech]

hello! can you write scenario for akashi, aomine, kise, and kagami where their s/o is jealous of all the attention they're getting from other girls?

awwww. adorbs! certainly ^_^ 🖤

Jealous S/O

Akashi

It’s not a surprise that he was popular.

Akashi was smart, handsome, rich. Great at academics, and sports, and the youngest student council president in the history of Rakuzan. You didn’t believe in people being perfect, but if ever someone was going to get close it would be Akashi. He really lived up to the ‘Emperor’ nickname.

And what was an Emperor without his court.

“What’s wrong [Y/N]?” You look up from the pavement as you walked to class to see Akashi staring at you. His gaze focused, but soft & concerned. “You seem distracted.”

“Oh…it’s nothing.” You tuck your hair behind your ear. Prepared to let this go. Of course, Akashi wouldn’t let it though. He continued to stare at you until you finally broke down and told him. “It’s just them.”

The red head turned to look where you had jutted your chin towards the girls, huddled behind one of the pillars in the court yard whispering & staring, and your boyfriend let out a sigh. “Ah yes. Them.” He doesn’t seem surprised by their presence. Nor their borderline stalking. You should have guessed that he knew they were there. “I just choose to ignore them. However, if they are making you uncomfortable, I can order them to stop.”

You shook your head. You didn’t want to cause trouble. And although it was annoying, you didn’t want to break another girl’s heart over their rejected feelings. “It’s not a big deal. It’s the burden of dating the ‘Emperor’ I guess.” His lips scrunch. Though the nickname stuck over time, you know he doesn’t actually care for that title. “I just feel a little bit like one of those women in a historical K-drama. You know, like someone is waiting in the wings to knock me off so they can take my place near the emperor.” Sometimes you kind of feel like I should start checking my lunch for poison or glass.

Akashi scoffed a little. Then leaned in to kiss your cheek. “That’s never going to happen.” He assured you. “My heart belongs to only you. And, if anyone were to hurt you, I’d gouge their eyes out.”

Perhaps it’s poor form to giggle at such a threat, but you do. He really was so protective of you. You really had no reason to be jealous, because no one was going to take Akashi away from you.

You continue on your way to class. The ‘court’ suspiciously hanging back more than usual after that day.

Aomine

The street ball court was a buzz as usual whenever Aomine played.

His ‘quick game’ with the challenges on the court had turned into a full basketball brawl that had lasted for hours. One-on-one after one after another.

Not that you minded. Watching Aomine play, and seeing him happy, was always thrilling. He always looked so cool when he played; giving his all, even against weaker players. You chuckle to yourself. He really was a terrible guy to take such joy in crushing people. But then what did that say about you when you were so turned on by it?

“That dark skin guy is so hot! Do you think he’s foreign?”

You turn away from the court to a gaggle of girls, some your age, some older, watching the game as well from the side lines. Some had noticed the game and come to watch. Others had come with their own boyfriends. You frown a little as they continue to whisper and gush over your boyfriend. Getting moodier by the second.

“Yo, what’s up?” You look up from glaring at the lines on the court; just in time to see Aomine place his ball he was holding in one hand against your head. “You look pissed. Are you not having fun?”

“Not really.” You confess, batting his hand away. You weren’t having fun now. He was talking to you, but those girls still couldn’t take their eyes off them. “Can we go now?”

“What?? But things are just getting started.” He lifted his shirt up as he whined to wipe the sweat from his brow and you could practically hear the siren like squeals from those thirsty ass bitches.

“I don’t like the crowd here.”

Aomine seemed to catch on, and looked to the side to see who was annoying you. You have to assume he expected to see some guy making you uncomfortable, based on his expression, but looked surprised when he saw it was just a bunch of girls; totally playing it off like they weren’t staring at him a moment ago. “What can I say babe? I can’t help it if girls think I’m super hot and junk.” His cockiness and smirk were not attractive at the moment.

You continue to pout, but just long enough for Aomine to lean in and give you a peck on said pout. “Let me kick this guys ass and then we can go. ‘Less you wanna stick around and make ‘em jealous back. We can do gross couple stuff until they get weirded out and leave.”

You chuckle again at the offer. Appreciating the gesture he was trying to make. “Go play your game and then we can go. If we’re going to do ‘gross couple stuff’, I’d rather do it in private where we can enjoy it.”

Aomine gave you a big grin, followed by a loud, “yes ma’m!”

Of course, he slaughtered the guy in the next game. Leaving him to sulk off back to his own girlfriend; who was indeed in the pack and not looking too happy about it. You both leave after that to finish your date. Aomine proud as a peacock for the rest of the afternoon from the ego boost.

Kise

It was hard, dating a model.

You knew of Kise’s profession before you started dating, of course, but you had no idea how hard it would be on your relationship.

Girls stopped him every chance they got to ask for his autograph, or gush over his new photobook. He of course was courteous and polite. Turning on that model charm. He always thanked them for their patronage of his work and they promised to always support him. It had been bad before, but ever since his game was televised this past season, it had grown into a circus. Not only was he the beautiful blonde-haired boy they all admired, but now he was also the super-hot jock they all drooled over. You could barely go out on a proper date anymore without being accosted by some female vying for his attention.

“[Y/N]-cchi, what’s wrong? You look upset.”

“This is ridiculous!” You told him, and you weren’t just talking about his huge sunglasses & stupid hat he was wearing to try and be ‘incognito’. It wasn’t working even a little bit, so now it was just doubly stupid. “Why can’t they leave you alone for 10 minutes?!”

“They’re my fans [Y/N]-cchi. I can’t disappoint them!”

“Right. Don’t disappoint them. Why don’t you hang out with them today then?” You mutter sullenly. Prepared to leave.

Kise seemed to realize what was going on, and just how upset you were, as he reached out to grab you hand. “I don’t want to hang out with them [Y/N].” You turn back around when he said your name like a real person. Not the cute little way he did it as part of his act. “I don’t want anyone else but you. They only like me because I’m handsome and a model.” Humble too, you think to yourself. “They don’t really care about me. You do! I don’t want to lose that. Please forgive me.”

He did genuinely look hurt, and you have to believe that he meant it. You sigh. It wasn’t totally Kise’s fault. “It’s alright Ryouta.” You tell him. He seemed to perk up a little at that. “If you could maybe not lay it on so thick for them in the future, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course [Y/N]-cchi!” He cheered with a beaming smile. Already back to his normal self. “I’d do anything for you!”

It doesn’t stop of course. But Kise kept true to his word and politely asked to be left in peace. Most respected that. Some weren’t as understanding of his needs. You just appreciated that he was trying to keep them at bay. Fangirls were weird.

Kagami

After practice, you and Kagami went to Maji Burger, as per usual. And, as per usual, people were staring at your table.

Most of the time they were staring at the loud, tall teen scarfing down his body weight in hamburgers. Amazed at his own personal eating contest. However, more recently, the people staring were girls from your school who had also come here. And they were staring at Kagami only.

He was completely oblivious to it, but Kagami was actually really popular; even before Serin started wining so much. He was tall, athletic, built. He’d come from America, which was so cool for a lot of the students around here. Plus, he had this whole ‘bad boy basketball star’ vibe going. If they only knew how much of a sweet heart he really was. Actually, scratch that. If they knew that would only make it worse.

“Hey, what’s up [Y/N]? You’re not eating. Do you not like your food?”

You look up from your own, normal portion on the tray, then back down as you play with your food. “It’s just hard to eat when people are staring.”

Kagami blinked. Then looked around to see what you were talking about. “I don’t see anybody.”

“Of course you don’t….” You mutter under your breath. He never did.

“What does it matter?” He asked. “It’s not like I can stop people from looking at me. They have eyeballs. It’s a free country.”

“That’s not the point Kagami. It’s not that they’re looking at you. It’s the fact that they’re looking at you.” You’re trying to be discrete here, but subtle or discretion never really got through to Kagami. “They wanna fuck you.”

Kagami choked on his burger halfway devoured in his mouth. “Don’t say that!” He scolded you. Once he’d recovered from his near-death experience.

“Well, it’s true. Maybe that’s a bit much, but they definitely look at you that way, and it’s annoying.”

“How can you even tell?”

“Because it’s how I look at you.” You muttered under our breath again. Fidgeting with our soda straw to avoid eye contact.

Kagami heard you again though and now you were both blushing in the booth. “Well…the only one I’m interested in looking at me that way is you.” He muttered back. “The only one I’m interested in looking at that way is you.” His leg moved forward under the table to touch yours. Simple, secret, intimate.

You smile softly as you realize it was stupid to be jealous. Kagami had no guile. He was honest to a fault, which was another of his amazing qualities. He genuinely didn’t see those other girls because he was only focused on you. So let them stare. There was no way they were going to take him away from you.

[pillage-and-lute]

The Courting Ways of Wolves (Part 2)

It’s back! Dumb boys in love! Also Grandpa Vesemir gets some feels and Geralt does some math. Part 1, (here) Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue

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Watching Winter at Kaer Morhen melt into early spring was always a beautiful process, but this year brought Geralt trepidation as well. Watching Ciri train had been wonderful, helping her learn the basics kept all the wolves on their toes, for the first time in many years actually thinking about motions that normally came from muscle memory. 

Yennefer had flourished into her role as “Aunty Yen,” not sweetly nurturing, the way one often thought about with children, but a clever tongue and tough love that Ciri, granddaughter of the Lioness, seemed completely at home with. 

Geralt was doing his best too. Ciri had started calling him dad about halfway through the winter, the first time happening at dinner and he’d very nearly choked on his ale. It sent something warm running through his veins every time, like good brandy that burned all the way down. 

He was trying, words still didn’t come naturally, but somehow Ciri always seemed to be able to see exactly what he meant. Maybe it was Destiny, maybe just a hurt, lost child clinging to whoever was consistent in her life, but Geralt hoped it was more. More than anything, he hoped Ciri truly understood how cared for she was, not just by himself, but all the wolves, Jaskier, and Yennefer.

Ciri had whispered to him one day, still panting after training, asking if he thought Yen would mind if she called her mom.

Geralt had replied that he didn’t think Yennefer would mind at all.

Yennefer came to him later, a tender look in her eyes. There was something, not fragile in her eyes, but Jaskier had pointed out in a marketplace once, a beautiful porcelain vase that had been broken and artfully repaired with gold. Yen’s expression reminded him of that. 

They sat for a while, then Yennefer said, “Will you be able to let go of her in the spring?” 

“Yes,” Geralt said, although he was less than sure that parting from Ciri would be so easy. “She needs you, and time away from me. And to be around women.”

Yennefer nodded, gave Geralt a pat on the shoulder, and left. Geralt stayed, cloak wrapped around him as he sat looking out over the walls. 

There was much that would happen in the spring, and his life, which had been pretty stagnant before, was changing more in these past few years than it ever had. He felt like Kaer Morhen itself, built to last and yet crumbling still, the weight of change and time and destiny tearing down walls. 

He watched the sun go down. 

Vesemir joined him, carrying two bowls of stew. Geralt took a bite of his and winced. It had been Eskel’s turn to cook. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vesemir’s mustache twitch with a hint of a smile. They ate the oversalted meal in silence.

“You know,” Vesemir said, and in the starlight the crags on his face looked carved in. “I come up here to think too.” 

Geralt knew, but Vesemir wasn’t interested in talking about the battlements, he could tell. 

“I think, most nights, about the ghosts within these walls. All of the little boys who died so that the School of the Wolf could be.” The wind picked up, howling like, with an excellent sense of the dramatic, a wolf. 

“The Trials haunt me, Geralt. More than anything in my life, and it has been a long life indeed.” 

“You saved me,” Geralt said. “Saved Eskel.” But he too remembered the still bodies carried out and buried in the night. How few boys remained. Remembered the screaming in the night, unsure how much of the sound was torn from his own throat, and what came from his brothers dying around him.

“I let them put you through it twice. That wasn’t salvation, lad.” Vesemir sighed. “I couldn’t have put a stop to the Trials, don’t know if I would have if it were possible, there have to be Trials to be witchers, and the world needs us, whatever it may believe. But maybe there was a better way. A kinder way. You were boys, little lads who went through so much pain.”

Geralt was startled to see a tear fall down the craggy face, burying in the moustache. Witchers could cry, but it happened rarely, tears could blur vision in a fight, and only very strong emotion, the sort they had been taught to suppress,  could override the mutations. 

And then Vesemir put an arm around Geralt’s shoulder and gave him an oddly nice hug. It could have cracked a boulder.

“Someone should have held you boys more,” Vesemir said, a touch abashedly. They looked out over the walls some more and Geralt wondered if the conversation was over, but Vesemir didn’t take the arm away.

“Ciri called me Grandpa today.”

Ah. That would explain a lot. Watching Vesemir interact with Ciri over the winter had been a delight and a surprise to the wolves. He’d even sat her on his knee and told her stories of when Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt were young like a, well, like a doting grandfather. Jaskier had been enthralled as well, naturally, but seeing Vesemir so soft, and sometimes looking a little sad, around Ciri, had been an education for the men who would always think of themselves as ‘Vesemir’s Little Lads’.

“She won’t be a witcher,” Vesemir said. “Couldn’t be even if we would want it, and I never would.”

“No,” Geralt said.

No,” agreed Vesemir. They looked out over the darkened landscape.

“I never wanted a family,” Vesemir said after a while where their breaths hung in the air before them. “‘O course, witchers aren’t supposed to, but you’ve built a nice little family for yourself, laddie. It’s not as may be, not like you’d find in villages or in your pet bard’s fancy songs. But you’ve a brave and rather headstrong daughter, and she has a mum, and a dad, and two already very protective uncles.”

“And a grandpa,” Geralt cut in.

“And a grandpa,” Vesemir agreed. “But a family needs a little more than that. There’s gotta be someone to teach the lass how to love.”

Geralt was about to protest that he’d seen plenty of loveless marriages, but then considered the results in the children. Jaskier was one, he knew. The sort of lost way Jaskier sucked up approval, when they’d first met, the way he’d drank up compliments like a man with water in the desert, whenever Geralt thought on it there was a sort of humming ache. He’d consulted with Eskel on the feeling, concerned it was illness. Apparently, it was just what happened when someone you loved was hurting and it wasn’t something you could kill or fix.

“It doesn’t need to be romantic love,” Vesemir said, obviously seeing Geralt’s face. “And she’ll know how to love family fine, and how to love friends, as you and Yennefer figure that out between the two of you. But your bard loves you, and the way you love him can teach her how to love others and herself. And if Ciri has another dad maybe you can worry less.”

Geralt chuckled. Ciri could have fifty parents, and Geralt would still lose sleep worrying. Vesemir smiled back at him, eyes crinkling and moustache lifting like a bristle brush that had learned to fly. Then he slapped Geralt on the back, and Geralt, the White Wolf of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, the witcher who had twice survived the Trials, felt his spine compress like a spring and he was sure he felt a rib creak.

“Love Jaskier, lad. Hold tight to him. We rarely get good things.”

Then Vesemir walked back inside and Geralt stared after him. There weren’t many old witchers, dangers of the job and all that, but Vesemir was proof that witchers, like oak wood, only solidified with age. 

Geralt followed him inside. 

The next days passed in a flurry of activity. Ciri had been let off of training with the wolves to pack for her journey with Yennefer, and to be quickly given the rundown of the basics of magic. The wolves were packing as well, preparing to leave Kaer Morhen. In between final preparations and weapon repair, Geralt checked over The List.

The List was supposed to help him court Jaskier. It was the combined brainchild of everyone (except Jaskier, of course) at Kaer Morhen. More importantly, his intention to court Jaskier met with Ciri’s approval. 

When the day arrived, Geralt felt a curious lump in his throat. He watched Ciri say goodbye to Eskel and Lambert, the latter picking her up and swinging her in an arc, letting her joyful whoop echo about the courtyard. Then she hugged Vesemir, and he crushed her very gently to him. And then she turned to him and Jaskier. 

He was thankful that Ciri bade Jaskier goodbye first, watching the bard wipe a surupticious tear away as he held the blonde girl. It was Geralt’s turn and he didn’t know what to do. He cleared his throat.

“Follow Yennefer’s instructions,” he said. That didn’t seem like enough. “And don’t talk to strangers,” he said. It still seemed insufficient but he was out of advice so he stuck out his hand to shake. Ciri laughed and leapt at him, throwing her arms around his neck.

He held her there, reveling in hugging his daughter, his child surprise, who was so full of surprises and he felt, for the first time in many years, the feeling of rather full tear ducts. He blinked them away. 

“Good luck,” Ciri whispered in his ear. Jaskier wouldn’t have heard, but the witchers with their enhanced hearing surely had. Geralt nodded and set her down.

He coughed awkwardly and pulled out a little packet wrapped in burlap and some rough twine. Ciri beamed and pulled at the string so that the packaging fell away. A long piece of metal, bent into a thin U shape lay in his palm, the ends were surprisingly sharp. Ciri picked it up and examined it, then looked up at him questioningly. 

“Hair pin,” Geralt said gruffly. “For your hair. And stabbing.” He mimed a clumsy, underhanded stab. “Eskel helped me silver plate it. For monsters. But also men, if they’re close enough.” He trailed off, knowing he sounded awkward. Who gave a self defense implement as a gift?

Ciri beamed at him again. “I love it,” she said, also miming a few stabs. He supposed that as a parent he shouldn’t be so proud of the light in his daughter’s eyes when she talked about stabbing, but he was almost certain that she got that trait from Jaskier, who tended to get...pointed about disagreements in pubs.

Yennefer stepped forward and carefully took the hair pin from their daughter, swooping her silver blonde hair back into a twist and sliding it in place. She placed a hand on Ciri’s shoulder and smiled at Geralt, and he was reminded again of that vase, stronger and more beautiful for the cracks in the facade. She then gave him a quick side hug and and even one for Jaskier, and opened a portal.

Geralt stared after his friend and his daughter long after the portal closed, until Jaskier, hand wrapped in a heavy mitten, gently took his wrist. They waved to the other wolves, and left, Roach walking obediently alongside. 

And then it was just the two of them. Again. Just like the last twenty years. That thought occupied him as they made it down the Killer. The path down from Kaer Morhen was deadly, but that year Geralt made it down without thinking, keeping half a thought to Jaskier’s ambling form as he went.

How old was Jaskier? 

He’d been eighteen or so when they met. Eighteen plus twenty-two was forty. Forty wasn’t that old for a human but Jaskier didn’t look too much different than he had at...Geralt did the math. Twenty-five? But there were signs. A few lines here and there, although Jaskier was insistent about his skincare. A line of silver, just a few hairs, probably unnoticable except to Geralt’s enhanced eyes. He was aging better than a human should.

Or perhaps not. Time was tricky for witchers, never staying in one place, never knowing people long enough to watch them age, he didn’t really know what to compare Jaskier to. 

He did know how long humans lived though. And at the base of the mountain he came to a resolution, felt it settle in to his bones as deep as his mutations, deeper, even. 

Twenty years, or nearly, where he hadn’t known Jaskier. Twenty more where he hadn’t admitted they were friends, or that he loved him. Eighty years in a human life span. And Geralt would love Jaskier, and make sure he knew he was loved, for the next four decades, give or take. He looked at his companion, paused as they were to give their feet and Roach a rest. The weak, watery sun of the early spring day fell on Jaskier’s face, dappled through the branches, which as of yet held no buds.

He pictured lines appearing, laugh lines, smile lines, crinkles carving themselves into the landscape of the familiar features. He pictured silver through the hair, more, in thicker streaks at the temples. Geralt saw a lifetime, Jaskier’s lifetime, in an instant. Silver covered warm brown, strong legs grew shakey, lines crowned a forehead and swept about clear eyes. 

What would happen, Geralt thought, when Jaskier could no longer keep up? But Geralt knew what would happen. He’d take Jaskier to Kaer Morhen, or go with him to Oxenfurt, and spend his days with him. It had been a few short months since he’d realized he was in love with Jaskier, but that was only because Geralt’s skill with emotions was roughly similar to Jaskier’s apparent self preservation. Why had he let the lad talk to him in a pub? Had he loved him then? He remembered the shock of not being feared, of looking into clear, bright eyes and seeing admiration, the fierce protectiveness that had flared when he woke and saw the fool tied to him in an elven lair. Had it been love? 

Watching Jaskier whisper softly to Roach as snow melted around him, Geralt was sure it had been. Destiny, Fate, the two bit tart who kept fucking him over, had given him his greatest blessing in a form that Geralt, up until that very second had considered a myth. Love at first sight. Love had brought him Jaskier, and Ciri, and a fast friendship with the most powerful mage on the Continent. Love had brought him a family in the form of a wayward bard with bread in his pants. And Geralt had forty more years to cherish him. 

Step One the list had said in Eskel’s clear writing. Kiss his hand. Being mindful of Step Two, to mind his manners, Geralt crossed the clearing to Jaskier and took the thick woolen mitten in his gloved hand. 

“May I?” he said. Jaskier gave him a baffled look, but nodded.

Geralt pressed chapped lips to a palm wrapped in knitted wool, and Jaskier smiled, albeit a little confusedly. It didn’t matter. Geralt wanted to spend the next forty years wrapped in that smile. 

Then Jaskier asked him if he was feeling well.

[iamakiller]

Zoom call with Henry

Today, Mom talks with Dad for ages. She makes Henry leave the room like always, ordering him to go play, and she closes the door behind him.  As if that ever stops Henry from being able to hear everything she says.  She always talks in such a loud voice to Dad.

But today, her voice is really quiet.  Even with his ear pressed flat against the door, the only words he can make out are right at the end of the conversation: “I just don’t want you to tell him yet, Charlie.  We both know what you’re like.  He’ll only be disappointed.”

Henry knows she’s talking about him, but he doesn’t understand what she means.

When Mom opens the door again, he’s sitting in the middle of the hallway with his colored pencils and sketchpad, deeply engrossed in his latest masterpiece.

“Henry? Do you want to talk to Dad?”

Henry’s heart leaps with excitement.  He tears off the page he’s been working on and brings it with him, leaving the rest of his mess on the floor.  He bounds into the office and climbs into the comfy leather chair, wiggling around until he’s comfortable.  His feet almost but not quite touch the ground. Grandma said the other day that he’ll be as tall as Dad soon, and Mom gave her a look that Henry didn’t get.

There’s a lot he doesn’t understand sometimes.  Grownups are strange, he thinks.  Especially his parents.

“Hi Dad!”

“Hello, Henry.”  Dad’s little smile is the same as ever, but he looks tired today.  The same kind of tired as when he was sleeping on the couch, when him and Mom thought Henry didn’t know.  “How are you today?”

“GOOD!” Henry happily rattles off a list of all the fun things he did.  A playdate at the park with Josh.  Frozen yogurt on the way home.  Helping to bake cookies to take to Grandma’s tomorrow.  Mom even let him lick the spoon because he’d done such a good job of measuring out the ingredients without making a mess.  The only dark spot on the horizon is the bath that Mom has been threatening him with since this morning, but Henry thinks he can probably sweet-talk her into an hour of video games if he goes without protest, so it’s not all bad.  

He has to take a big gulp of air at the end, because he’s forgotten to breathe in his excitement to tell Dad everything all at once.  “How about you, Dad?  It’s late there, right?  Did you and Britt do something fun today?  Is she there?  Can I talk to her?”

Something weird happens.  Dad flinches, like Henry does when Mom catches him doing something he knows he shouldn’t do.  But when he starts talking, it’s completely normal.  “Britt’s not here, honey.  We were both very busy doing different things today.  She’s been … planning something.  And I’ve been working on my writing.  Well, trying to.”

Dad picks up a funny-shaped glass of something red, and takes a long swig of it.  He told Henry once that it’s grape juice for adults.  Henry asked Mom about it afterwards, and she said something about Dad being just like his parents.  But that can’t be right, because Dad doesn’t have any parents.  That’s why Henry only has one grandma, right?

Dad likes to write like Henry likes to draw.  It’s his favorite thing to do, and he does it a lot. Henry can sit silently so much better than any of his friends, because he learned very early on that if he could be still and quiet, he could sit with his dad for as long as he wanted to.  He loves visiting Dad in New York.  Going out and doing a million different activities is so much fun!  But the best times are when they’re in Dad’s study, and Henry is sprawled out on the rug with his pencils and sketchpad, doodling whatever comes into his imagination.  He likes hearing the sound of Dad’s fingers flying over the laptop keyboard, and the way he occasionally mutters to himself while he thinks.  And he really likes the way Dad will often close his laptop with a frustrated sigh, and come sit on on the floor next to Henry, and listen to him talk for hours about whatever he’s been working on.

Speaking of which, Henry has something he wants to show him. “Dad, look!  I drew this for you!”  He holds up the picture he finished only moments ago.

Dad peers at the screen, makes an impatient sound, and then reaches off to the side, retrieving his glasses and putting them on.  For a moment, he tilts his head to one side, and then the other.  “Why don’t you talk me through it,” he suggests eventually, his voice very kind.

Henry huffs.  Isn’t it obvious? Dad must have really bad eyesight.  Probably because he’s so old. “This is you,” he says, pointing at the tallest figure, who has very long legs.  “You’re wearing black, of course.” He points to the next largest person, with long hair.  “This is Britt.  She’s wearing her favorite big cardigan.  And in the middle, it’s me.”

Dad nods slowly and appreciatively.  “Very nice.  Your grasp of proportions is improving, and everyone has the correct number of fingers this time.  But can you explain why we are surrounded by so many dinosaurs?”

“Because we’re at the Museum of Natural History!”  It’s Henry’s favorite place in New York, aside from Dad’s study, and maybe that pizza place they go to every time he visits.

“Ah. Of course.  Silly me.  And … what is that strange looking dinosaur in the middle between you and Britt?”

Henry rolls his eyes.  “DAD!” he complains.  “That’s not a dinosaur!  That’s the baby!”

There’s a spluttering sound as Dad, who is halfway through another mouthful of his “juice”, begins to choke.  “W-what?” he stutters eventually, grabbing a tissue and wiping frantically at the front of his sweater.

This is it.  Henry’s big chance.  

“Well … Josh’s Mom had a baby during lockdown.  She brought it to the park today and it was so cute, and Josh says it’s annoying and cries all night, but I think he’s just jealous because HE still wants to be the baby, and I actually think it would be really fun to be a big brother, so I asked Mom but she said absolutely not, so basically you and Britt should have a baby so I can play with it and teach it all about dinosaurs and show it how to read and write and draw.” 

Henry runs completely out of steam at the end of his big speech, and has to take another of his massive gasps of air as he’s started to feel a bit lightheaded.

Just for a moment, there’s a strange expression on Dad’s face.  He almost looks sad.  But then he’s smiling again, although he still looks tired.  “Now, Henry.  That’s rather a big ask.  There’s an awful lot more to take into account than you wanting a sibling, I’m afraid.”

“But Dad – I asked Mom where babies come from, and she said that when a man and a woman love each other very much, they can have a baby.  And you and Britt love each other very much, right?  So you can have a baby, RIGHT?  By Christmas would be great.  It can be my present, instead of a replacement for the Nintendo Switch I lost last time I was there.”

Dad is laughing now.  Properly laughing, like he hardly ever does.  It’s hard to imagine how sad he looked a minute ago.  Maybe Henry just imagined it … “Henry, it takes an entire nine months for a baby to grow in a woman’s tummy.  Even if we were to acquiesce to your request immediately, there’s no way we could produce a baby by December.  Indeed, at the very most, Britt would merely be looking slightly round in the middle by Christmas …”  He tails off for a moment, as if lost in thought, with a little smile on his face.  But then he shakes his head slightly and continues talking.  “The answer’s no, honey.  You will get your new Nintendo Switch, and that Goose game you’ve been talking about nonstop, and you will be grateful.”

Henry pouts.  “BUT DAD …”

“No.”

Henry tries a different approach.  “I love you, Dad.  I miss you …”

“Nice try.”  Dad folds his arms across his chest.  “But that pout you wield originated with me, and you should know by now that it holds no power over me.  The answer’s still no.  However, I do love you an immense amount.  And I miss you. Very, very much.”

Dad looks a little bit sad again.  Henry feels sad now, too.  He really does miss him.  Mom is great, but Dad gives the best hugs.

Suddenly, Mom’s voice calls out from the hallway, loud enough for him and Dad to both hear. “Henry?  It’s getting late.  You need to finish up and take a bath before bedtime.”

NOOOOOOOO.  

Henry doesn’t want any hecking bath!  And he isn’t done talking, either.  He casts his mind around, trying to think of a way to stall for time.  Finally, something strange Dad said earlier comes back to him, and he decides to ask for further clarification.  “Dad? I have a question.”

He knows Dad knows that he’s stalling because Dad’s super smart.  But he also knows that he doesn’t mind.  He never wants their calls to end, either.  “Yes, honey?”

“How exactly does the baby get into the woman’s tummy?”

Dad’s eyes widen for a second.  Then he grins.  “Why don’t you ask your mother,” he suggests, voice loud enough for Mom to hear him from the hallway.  “She knows all about it.”

***

Twenty minutes later, Henry is wallowing in the bath.  It isn’t as bad as he thought it would be.  (It never is.)  Mom let him choose one of her Lush bath bombs, so the water is pink and sparkly, and covered in a thick layer of foam.  At least twelve of his dinosaur figurines have joined him for moral support.

As he lines them up along the side of the tub in alphabetical order, his mind wanders to something Mom shouted just as Dad finished the call.  What’s a bastard? he wonders.  She uses that word a lot when she talks about Dad.  

Mom said that when a man and a woman love each other very much, they can have a baby.  But Mom and Dad haven’t ever seemed to even like each other very much.  So Henry can’t help but wonder how he came to be.  Maybe Mom got it wrong, though that doesn’t seem likely.  Maybe Henry misunderstood.  That’s probably right.

There’s a lot he doesn’t understand sometimes.  Grownups are strange, he thinks.  

Especially his parents.

[divinespill]

dark magic in those deep brown eyes

Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma, Diedre Vance, Nina Damfino

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Read on Ao3 here.

—

“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me bring the girls along,” Edward sighs.

“I don’t believe even Query and Echo could rein in your stupid decisions.” Jonathan replies coldly.

“I see, so this is my fault now!”

“You’re the one who got us locked in the fucking closet,” Jonathan snaps.

“What else was I supposed to do? It was this or Arkham,” Edward replies, wrinkling his nose. “You really should be thanking me. I don’t know how I managed to fit us both in here, what with your ridiculous limbs.”

“How sweet of you,” Jonathan says dryly. He doesn’t argue the fact though, most likely because he does in fact take up most of the space thanks to his height, arms crossed lest they hit the cold piping that runs along the back wall.

“You’d think the Gotham Museum of Antiquities would have bigger storage rooms, given their grandiosity in everything else,” Edward muses. “Alas.”

Edward had teamed up with the Scarecrow to take over the museum for logical reasons; the doctor wanted to test a new strain of his toxin, and Edward wanted the new emerald on display that had been unveiled last week. Jonathan had scoffed at him for that, of course. Anyhow, it had all been going quite smoothly until Batman showed up to ruin their fun as he was wont to do. With no time to get to the ground floor and unwilling to risk a broken leg by jumping out the window, Edward had made the split second decision to grab Jonathan and pull them both into a storage closet, flinging a smoke bomb—green, obviously—through the window he refused to jump out of for good measure, hoping the police and the caped crusader would assume they’d made their escape.

And in fact it had worked, as they waited with bated breath until the sounds of gruff voices and heavy boots faded away. It was quite brilliant, really. Perfect improvisation.

…Except for the fact that the closet was apparently able to lock on its own.

When Edward had been sure that the coast was clear he’d gone to turn the doorknob, casually at first, then more and more frantically as the reality of the situation dawned on him.

Jonathan had snapped at him to hurry up and let him out, and Edward had shot right back that if Jonathan wanted to try, he was welcome to.

Jonathan did so, and when he failed to produce results either a great deal of arguing ensued, continuing all the way to the present.

“Look, let me call the girls and we’ll be out of here before you know it.” Edward digs into his pocket for his phone, dialing up Query but unable to resist rolling his eyes at Jonathan, who huffs.

“Childish,” Jonathan grumbles.

“Oh, whatever.”

“Boss?” Query’s voice is a welcome sound. “I was about to call you. You’re late for poker. Heist went wrong?”

Ah, in his emotional duress Edward had nearly forgotten about their weekly game night. “Indeed, I'm afraid we might have to postpone. Our favorite vigliante showed up and we had to improvise. He thinks we’re halfway across the city by now.”

“I’m going to take a guess and say that they’re wrong about that.”

“Correct. We are in a closet.”

There’s a pause. Edward thinks he hears a snicker in the background, a distinctly Echo noise. He’ll have to have a word with her later about proper respect. He pays them too much to be laughed at.

“Sorry, what?” Query asks.

“We’re locked in a storage closet in the museum,” Edward repeats. “Second floor, left wing. So, if you would be so kind as to come assist us in getting out of said closet, it would be appreciated. Do not ask how it happened.”

Murmuring on the other end of the line. “Alright, but it might be a minute.”

Edward can feel dread creeping up his spine. “Query, exactly how long is a minute?”

“Well, several minutes.” Query pauses, the way she does when delivering news she knows Edward won’t be happy to hear. “Probably… twenty.”

Edward makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a frustrated whine. “You can’t get here any faster?”

“Going off what you said, Bat’s on the prowl, boss,” Query says, and Edward can practically hear her shrug of what can I do? “We gotta take the long way round if you don’t want to be stuck there for days while we sit around behind bars.”

“Fine.” Edward pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just make it as quick as you can.”

“You got it.”

He hangs up, cursing under his breath. Jonathan raises a brow. “Trouble?”

“They’re taking a detour,” Edward says snippily. “We’ll have to coexist a while longer yet.”

“Coño,” Jonathan hisses.

“Oh, now that's just vulgar,” Edward complains. “Where’s you learn that? You’re Colombian.” He’s still unused to hearing Jonathan’s Spanish—he pitches his voice differently than when he speaks English, and it’s more attractive than Edward will ever admit aloud.

“Colombian-Ecuadorian,” Jonathan corrects, “but if you must know, I picked it up during a brief and awful stay in Miami.”

“What on Earth were you doing in Miami?” Edward is thoroughly taken aback.

“Had a new formula and wanted to see how it interacted with heat,” Jonathan explains. “Gotham isn’t very conductive for that, and Batman was on my tail that month anyway, so I took a… vacation, you could call it.”

“Ah, a nice relaxation vacation of terrorizing the good Cubans of Florida. And picking up their slang, it seems.”

Jonathan sighs.

They lapse into silence for the first time since discovering they were trapped. In this proximity Edward is hyper aware of every movement the other makes, every time the rhythm of his breathing changes. He’s worked with Jonathan before, sometimes successfully and sometimes not, but this is new. It’s not odd for them to argue, but the circumstances have set them both on edge, forced them closer—literally. Though being crammed in this closet isn’t ideal, Edward finds that despite the snark and cold attitude the man exudes, he isn’t at all opposed to Jonathan’s presence. It’s rather nice to have someone match him wit for wit.

At this point the quiet has grown uncomfortable, so Edward does what he does best: he talks.

“I should be collecting my winnings from Query and Echo right now,” he says wistfully. Jonathan raises an eyebrow, and though it was likely unintentional Edward jumps at the opportunity to elaborate. “It’s game night. Poker, blackjack, the whole nine yards. They can hold their own against me, but of course I stay one step ahead at all times.”

“Should’ve known you gamble,” Jonathan remarks.

“On occasion.” Edward shrugs. “Most people are hopeless at it, though, so I’m rather selective.” He tilts his head. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take that chance.”

Jonathan steps forward. “I think you’d find that I am not so easily defeated.”

He’s close enough now that Edward has to tilt his head up to meet his eyes, barely visible in the darkness. Still, he can see how they burn, intense and almost—but only almost—warm.

Edward shifts slightly and manages to knock over a broom, startling him enough that he unconsciously moves toward Jonathan, which means he is now pressed up against him. He realizes quite suddenly that they’ve never touched before. He swallows, able to feel every slow breath that Jonathan takes. He’s awfully thin, his ribs practically protrude, and Edward sort of wants to run his hands across them—

Jonathan makes a choked sound, and Edward is yanked back into reality with the revelation that he has, in fact, begun to trail his hands up Jonathan’s sides.

Shit. He hadn’t meant to actually do that. “Um,” he says intelligently, removing his fingers from where they were brushing against the itchy burlap of Jonathan’s costume. He doesn’t get far, however, before Jonathan’s own hands come up to encircle his wrists, holding them in place.

Edward shivers.

“How long did those ladies of yours say they’d be?” Jonathan asks, tone level as always but laced with something darker.

“Oh, about ten more minutes or so,” Edward hums thoughtfully.

In unison, they look at the storage closet door.

They look back at each other.

—

Diedre Vance is having a thoroughly interesting night.

She’d been worried when Edward hadn’t shown up for game night, but for the first few minutes she’d simply assumed he was held up by some sort of complication. It was a known fact that working with Scarecrow came with quite the risk. After a while, though, she and Nina had both realized that something more was going on.

Edward’s call had confirmed that, so here she is, parking the car and stepping out with a crowbar and a length of rope slung over her shoulder. Nina follows behind, shotgun in hand, because one can never be too prepared. There are guards all over the place, probably from paranoia that the Riddler and the Scarecrow will return to finish the job, but it’s easy enough to sneak past the fools and they only have to knock out two. Diedre and Nina have barely broken a sweat by the time they start scaling the museum wall.

Hoisting herself up into the spacious room on the second floor, Diedre looks around for the closet her unfortunate boss is trapped in. She catches sight of it to the left, barely visible in the darkness, and she notes with some alarm that it clearly wasn’t built to fit even one person comfortably, and certainly not two.

She wonders if either of them are still alive, or if she’ll open the door to find two corpses choked to death by their own egos.

“Boss?” She calls out.

“Query!” Comes the muffled reply. “There you are. Now get us out of here.”

Diedre passes the rope off to Nina so that she can tie it around the windowsill for an easier descent. Turning back to the door, she grips the crowbar in both hands.

“I’m breaking this shit,” she warns Edward and Jonathan. Adjusting her stance, she brings the crowbar down on the doorknob and hears the satisfying crunch of a cylinder breaking. Her boss and the Scarecrow come tumbling out, suspiciously sweaty and unkempt.

“Well,” Edward pants, trying to be discreet about buttoning his shirt back up and failing extraordinarily, “that was an illuminating experience.”

“About damn time,” Jonathan grumbles, though the gruffness is somewhat negated by the way his hair is mussed in a way that could only have resulted from it being pulled on.

“Sorry for the wait, boss,” Nina says, having finished with the rope, and Diedre notices how her shoulders shake with the effort of holding back laughter.

Jonathan at least has the decency to nod in their direction. “Query. Echo.” It’s likely the most thanks they’ll get tonight, Diedre thinks bemusedly.

“Hi Doctor Crane,” she and Nina reply together. Edward is already clambering down from the window, and Diedre knows he only moves that awkwardly and quickly when he’s flustered.

The rope holds for all of them, thankfully, and once they’re safely on the ground again Jonathan immediately begins walking in the opposite direction of Diedre’s car.

“Are you really going to walk all the way back?” Edward asks incredulously. Diedre’s head whips around to look at him, quite shocked. Is he… offering the Scarecrow a ride? Her boss is many things, but being generous is not one of them. If there was any doubt of what happened in that storage closet, it’s gone now. Nina must have come to the same conclusion, if the elbow digging into Diedre’s side and the snicker by her ear is any indication.

Jonathan stops, turning back to look at the trio and shrugging. “Why not?”

Edward scoffs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s freezing out.”

“And?”

Edward frowns. “Don’t be stubborn. Get in the car.”

Jonathan runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Have a good night, Edward.” He stalks off quickly before Edward can protest.

Diedre glances between his retreating form and her boss, who is standing still as she’s ever seen him. He blinks, coming back to himself with a visible jolt.

“Have a good night,” he mutters. “Really. As if he… means that.” He gestures at Diedre and Nina. “Alright, let’s go. I was promised poker and I intend to collect.”

Diedre tosses her keys in the air and catches them, then acquiesces. No use in getting the Riddler any more riled up, especially not if she wants a chance at winning the betting pool tonight.

Edward sniffs as he slides into the passenger seat, Jonathan’s words clearly still affecting him. “See if I work with that man again. Of all the infuriating, self-righteous…”

Diedre catches Nina’s eye through the rear-view mirror and mouths the word idiots, affectionate and exasperated as always.

[fantasticstoryteller]

New Dynasty Chapter 24

The old folks home (assisted living facility) that Aunt May lived in was built like a mansion with two wings. One wing was full of apartments for people who were (mostly) able to look after themselves. The other was for those whose health was so bad they couldn't even try. Wade checked in at the desk, because he wasn’t sure which side Aunt May would be in.

The woman working the desk stared at him. Most people did—but he didn’t mind it as much wearing his mask. “You’re related to Mrs. Parker?” demanded the woman, her lip curling up.

“Yup,” Wade said with a fake grin plastered to his face. “I’m her nephew and this is my daughter.” He hoped they didn’t ask what the girl’s age was. Or her name. He had no idea and didn’t know how to explain it.

The girl looked at the woman behind the desk and gave a wave. A wave that was, Wade noticed, almost exactly like the one she gave Spiderman earlier. The woman’s face softened. “Oh, what a cutie!” she said.

The girl turned and buried her head in Wade’s jacket as he grinned. “She’s a little shy,” he explained.

“It’s safer that way,” the woman said cryptically as she typed quickly into her computer. “Mrs. Parker is in the Adams wing, room 342.”

The Adams wing was the one for people doing well enough to support themselves, mostly. He nodded, relieved that she wasn’t in the Donner wing, and walked away from the desk. The place looked like a fancy hotel, but it smelled like a hospital.

The room was opened by a sour faced woman who frowned at him. Wade was about to apologize for getting the wrong room when he heard Aunt May behind her. “Wade!” the woman said as she hobbled forwards. She had a huge boot on one foot and was leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ma’am,” the sour-faced woman said respectfully, “you shouldn't be pushing yourself.”

“Nonsense,” breezed May. “My foot is in a boot, and boots were made for walking!”

“And just last week that boot was a cast,” the woman said tersely.

Aunt May just waved that off as she walked over to Wade. She grinned at the child on his chest. “And who might you be, dear?” she asked gently. The child turned and looked at her and Aunt May gave a low whistle. “Oh, you look like the spitting image of your father!” She turned to the sour-faced woman. “Adelina, please be a dear and get some snacks together for these two.” The sour-faced woman nodded and then stalked off, into the apartment.

Wade put the little girl down and she looked up at Aunt May with wide eyes. Her thumb went to her mouth. “None of that now,” Aunt May said gently smack the hand away. “You’re getting too big for that, and you need to stop. The girl paused, as if considering. She hugged the tablet (miraculously unharmed) to herself.

[Given this author I don’t think “miraculous” is the right word.]

Shush.

“Good girl,” Aunt May said. The girl gave her a tentative smile. “Come in, come in,” she said as she hobbled back to the couch.

The sour-faced woman came in and put a huge plate with apple slices and a small bowl of peanut butter on the table. The girl looked at the food. “Say ‘thank you’,” Aunt May prompted.

The girl looked up, eyes wide and timid. “Thank you?” she asked hesitantly.

Aunt May reached over and tousled the girl’s hair. “Good girl,” she approved. The girl touched her hair, beamed at Wade, beamed at Aunt May, and even smiled at the sour-faced woman before digging into the food.

Wade smiled at Adelina too. “Did you know your name means ‘graceful and noble’?” he asked.

She sneered at him before turning to Aunt May. “I’m going to to the kitchens. Page me if you need anything.” She left with one last glare for Wade.

“Who shoved a stick up her ass?” asked Wade glaring at the woman.

Aunt May laughed. “Sometimes,” she confessed, “I wonder the same thing. Child,” she said addressing the little girl. The girl paused, apple slice with peanut butter on it halfway to her mouth. “Please go down that hall into the room on the left and bring out the large plastic tote with the bright red and blue lid,” she said. The girl put the apple slice down and tottered off to comply with the old woman’s wishes.

“Where did she come from Wade?” Aunt May asked quietly. “This child who’s the spitting image of Peter and has no name?”

[How does she know the girl doesn’t have a name?]

{It’s Aunt May. Her powers of observation are scary beyond belief.}

So, Wade told her everything. He started with Peter being stalked, getting kidnapped (again), being rescued, and finding the child who led them to the other children. “Old Tin Can kind of—uh, went into the system,” he finished. If his skin hadn’t been so badly scarred he would have flushed. “Uh—Peter and I—we’re married now.”

Aunt May whooped with laughter again. The girl came into the room holding a thirty gallon plastic tote that was full of books. She gently put it on the floor and looked at Aunt May. “Good girl,” she approved. “Now, open it up and bring me the flower printed binder.” The girl complied and Wade, curious, drifted over. “This,” Aunt May said with satisfaction as she opened it show some pictures, “is Peter when he was your—size.”

Wade looked at the picture, a boy in front of a snowman that was partially made with dirty snow and both hands in the air like he was cheering. Aside from the length of the hair (Peter’s was shorter in the picture than the girl’s was) and the clothing, the two could have easily been the same kid. Something about the happy amber eyes in the picture, compared to the somber amber eyes of the girl, made Wade choke up.

Aunt May turned the pages showing them snapshots of Peter growing up. Peter with his first camera. Peter with his glasses broken, taped together, and sporting both a huge black eye and a wide smile.

[The fuck happened there?]

{He looks so proud of—whatever he did.}

Wade hovered his finger over the picture. “What happened here?” he asked.

Aunt May chuckled. “A bully at school pushed down another student and Peter went swinging to her rescue.” She smiled fondly at the picture. “He got beaten up and became the target of all the bullies, but he was so proud that he saved that little girl.”

Wade chuckled as well. “Sounds like Peter,” he said with a smile.

[Uh, speaking of little girls, what is she doing?]

Wade turned his head to see the girl going through the tote. Aunt May peered around him. “See anything interesting in there?” she asked. The girl pulled out an old, yellowed spiral-bound notebook and brought it over. Opening it to show page after page of blankness that didn’t even have lines in it, she frowned. “Oh, it’s Peter’s old sketchbook,” Aunt May said with a smile.

Wade blinked. “Peter—draws?” he asked, confused. It was the first he’d heard of it.

Aunt May chuckled. “No,” she said, amused. “Peter never drew. It was a present from someone who didn’t know him well.” She looked at the girl. “Would you like the sketchbook?” she asked. The girl nodded, timidly. “Say please.” The girl looked confused. “When you want something,” Aunt May continued, “you say, please. If you’re being formal, you say, ‘may I please have it’. And when someone gives you what you want, you say ‘thank you’.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed and Wade watched, wondering what she’d do. “May I please have the sketchbook, Aunt May?” asked the girl timidly. Wade felt his eyes go wide.

Aunt May’s narrowed in satisfaction—looking eerily similar to the girl when she was considering something. “Indeed you may, good girl. Since you have been such a good girl, I’ll give you something else. Inside that tote is a box of colored pencils you can also have—if you can find it.”

“Thank you,” the girl said timidly. When Aunt May smiled at her she smiled back and then went to dig through the tote—neatly, making sure not to make a mess.

“That’s a good girl,” Aunt May said with satisfaction. She looked at Wade. “Now, I’m grateful for this visit and all, but why are you here Wade?” she asked.

Wade sighed and rubbed his hands over his bald head. “I’m terrified,” he admitted to the older woman. “I’m so scared that I’m going to fu—mess this up.”

Aunt May smiled. “Welcome to everyone who has ever been a parent,” she told him.

[derireo]

Let’s Talk Feelings (TSK)

A series where Izumi gets confessed to five times.

Tasuku ↦ It’s Just Practice.

Tasuku gets a little carried away.

Izumi's ignorant enough to not notice his slip up.

warnings: pining. one sided attraction.

「 read here on ao3 」   「 1.6k words 」        IT. TSM. SK. OM. 

If Tasuku had to answer a question about how he managed to find himself in his current predicament he would have trouble finding the right words to say.

In fact, he didn't have a clue.

He just... he was reciting lines for this upcoming play he was guest starring in and before he knew it, he had Izumi trapped against his desk.

Seriously. He didn't know when or how they got to this point in his practice with her adorable little face all squished in his hand as he gripped her cheeks, but... that's where they were at.

Neither of them were complaining, but Tasuku was embarrassed to say that sometimes he got a little too into character; probably the reason why he was tilting Izumi's face side to side to examine her.

As if possessed by his character, he started uttering his lines with a devilishly salacious smile, fingers digging into her soft cheeks.

"...And what's an adorable little creature like you doing here?"

He crooned lowly, unable to stop himself from pinning her to his desk with his hips. His heart was racing in his chest since it seemed like his body wasn't under his control anymore, and the sweet stammer that fell from rosy lips spurred Tasuku on to resume his lines.

"Everyone knows not to enter a dragon's den all on their lonesome.." He hissed, grinning crookedly at the startled blink he received. "...so I must be lucky to receive such an innocent, delicious little snack on this dreary evening."

Izumi's hands were braced against the edge of his desk, script dangling from the ends of her fingers. Tasuku was a great actor indeed; truly making her feel unsettled with his character as he held her with no opening to an escape.

"I was told you had... powers." Izumi gritted through her pinched cheeks, her own character being an ardent, bright spirited woman who was on the search for someone who would bring healing to the village she called her home.

At the mention of his powers, Tasuku clicked his tongue and released Izumi from his grasp, pulling away from her body as if he had been burned.

"So you are one of those..."

He's disappointed from the looks of it and both Tasuku and Izumi try to ignore the loss of contact as they proceed with the scene.

"I am not interested in healing your sick family member, so please kindly leave—"

"No, ah.. My– my village. My village is in danger. A malevolent being is said to leave chaos in our wake soon." Izumi cut him off, unoccupied hand shooting out to grab the man by the front of his shirt to keep him close. (Her blocking could use some work, but it was effective in shutting him up).

"I was hoping you would give me a blessing," she breathed, pulling Tasuku back into her vicinity after taking a quick glance at the script, "we don't need you there, but I only ask for a small fraction of what you have. If only for a little while."

The man bristled, digging his foot into the floor to prevent himself from knocking into Izumi when she tugged him forward, palms held against her shoulders.

Her acting was still a bit choppy and Tasuku was pretty sure she was getting the essence of her character wrong, but he couldn't help but admire how intent she was on helping him practice despite all of that.

His body went on auto-pilot again, but this time it wasn't his character making him do it as he framed Izumi's face in his hands, tipping her chin up with a smile.

Ah.. the number of times he's wanted to do this.

"...You're quite somethin', pulling me around like that." He mutters softly, pinching her cheek. It's affectionate, the way he holds her, but the rough treatment to her face causes Izumi to grumble out of character and punch Tasuku in the chest, hitting him with the rolled up script in her hand next.

He was unfazed by the blows, but grinned nonetheless, teasingly squishing her face in his hand once more just to annoy her. "You dare hit the dragon that watches over your village?"

Another swat from Izumi makes Tasuku laugh and he pulls her into a headlock, the sound of the woman's startled yelp making him ruffle her hair. "I do dare! You didn't even know our village was in trouble!" Izumi complained while struggling to escape the burly arms that kept her in place, scrunching her nose with a helpless whine when her mussed up hair fell in front of her face.

"And to think you were but a mere human. A docile little thing."

His voice goes back to that low whisper when Izumi halts her squirming to brush her hair away and it elicits a subtle shiver to run up her spine. Tasuku's breath is warm against her reddening ear as she pulls at the arm that's tucked under her neck, but he doesn't budge, instead tugging her flush against his chest while tilting her head back to make her look at his towering frame.

"Why... I think I like you." He said, hand gentle around her throat when his arm went to curl around her waist.

And it was at that moment, realizing what he said, that Tasuku felt his stomach drop.

Izumi blinks once, not once moving her head when she lifts the script up into her periphery to scan over the words on the paper in front of her. She frowns at the incorrect line being spoken, then realizes that for the past few exchanges they were going totally off script.

Huh. Who knew she could pull off some pretty good improv?

"Is this your take on the bond between the dragon and the hero?" She asked, innocent. "I didn't know there was... subtle romantic undertones."

And well. Tasuku didn't know whether he should feel relieved or disappointed. On the other hand he was pretty endeared by her density, but he knew that he wasn't any better when it came to other's emotions either. He's been told he was quite the heartbreaker because of that.

Now it was Tasuku's turn to feel helpless even as Izumi smiled up at him with his hand still on her throat, eagerly showing him the spot where they left off on the script.

"Sorry.. I got carried away with the improv." He muttered sheepishly, releasing the director from his embrace to give each other some room to breathe. Was it getting hot in here or was it just him?

He took off his zip up with a heavy exhale and aired out his t-shirt while watching Izumi nod as she took a glance at her watch. He watched as her eyebrows rose, saw how her head snapped back up to look at him with bright, sparkling eyes; let her doe-eyed gaze make his heart thrum a panicked beat as she shoved the script back into his hands with a bow.

"That's okay.. This was fun." She grinned, rubbing the area where his hand was seconds earlier to erase the lingering warmth from his fingertips.

"Maybe you should try that improv with your actual practice partner next time? Maybe the director and scriptwriter will like the change!" Izumi offered, not noticing the way Tasuku bristled at the idea. He didn't really like it. Touching someone other than Izumi in that way. It wouldn't feel natural, and it was just so easy to have Izumi trapped in his hold.

...Tasuku wants to act with her some more. More and more until she gets better. Maybe until they get the chance to stand on the same stage together.

But all Tasuku could do was force a smile on his face when Izumi gave his chest a pat. He took too long to respond.

"I promised to help out this other troupe tonight so I have to go. Thanks for helping me pass time." She grinned and started to walk towards Tasuku's bedroom door, ignorant to the thoughts that raced through his mind as he followed her steps with unfocused pupils, body moving in the direction she was going.

He stuttered on his breath as he trailed after her like a lost puppy, but willed himself to stop when she reached for his doorknob, hand running through his hair as he agonized over what he should do next.

"I can drive you." He choked when she was halfway through the door, the tight feeling in his chest alleviating just the slightest when she turned back to look at him; curious. Tasuku was losing his mind, the realization that he actually had these thoughts about Izumi making him lose his rationale. God, he knew he wanted to hold her sometimes and maybe even squish her face in his hands when she would be all cute for no reason, but to think he liked her enough to want to act with her.

It was a sobering thought. He had fun acting with her despite her skills and it made him want to hold his head in his hands.

And while he was thinking, the cogs turning in his head almost visible to Izumi, the director smiled and shook her head.

"I can get there just fine, but if I need a ride home I'll make sure to contact you." She lifted her hand to her ear as if there was a telephone in her grip and waited for Tasuku to nod in acknowledgement.

"Wait for my call, okay~?" Her eyes smiled at him and Tasuku swore that it felt like he was going to combust on the spot.

"...Okay." He echoed dumbly, watching with uncharacteristic puppy eyes as she finally left his room.

He waited a few more seconds before shutting his door and hit his forehead against the wood to release his frustrations, brows furrowed with gritted teeth.

Maybe he'll confess to her again tonight.

The motorcycle will up his chances with her.. right?

[swaps55]

Toccata

Pairing: mShenko

Word Count: 3,226

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Post-War, Injury & Recovery, They Got Their Happy Ending. This story exists because I wanted to put Shepard on a horse. 

Ao3 link if you prefer

Even the darkness has arms But they ain't got you Baby, I have it And I have you, too

x

Shepard doesn’t see the deer spring up from the brush on the side of the trail, but the horse does. Maybe if he’d been sitting on Bravo, who rides more like the Mako drives, it would have gone better. But it’s Echo he’d been sitting on when he’d galloped towards the fence line and sailed her right over it.

Echo’s good for getting away from things. That’s why they make such a good team. Sometimes, even after all this time, Shepard just needs to get away.

But she’s better at it.

She shies sideways. For half a second he thinks he might stay with her this time, but his foot is already out of the stirrup and there’s no saving it. Mrs. Alenko is right. The hothead mare is quicker than he’ll ever be.  

He manages one loud “Fuck!” before sailing into a tree. There’s a crunch that can’t be a good thing, and when he comes to rest and rolls over on his back there’s no breath in his lungs. He can’t coax any back in.

There was a time when Shepard would have scoffed at the idea that an abrupt arboreal halt could slow him down, but that was back when his bones were made of something more akin to rubber bands and he’d had the benefit of combat armor to soften a blow.

He lays still for a moment, fingers clawing the weeds as he tries in vain to gulp in some air. Eventually he manages a wheeze. Better than nothing. Close by, nervous hooves prance about in the grass. At least she hasn’t gone far.

Shepard pushes himself up on an elbow. A sharp, burning pain explodes out from his collar bone as he discovers a new, immediate problem. Apparently, the crunch he’d heard was indeed not a good thing.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, which only wastes what little air he’s managed to draw in. He flops back down and clutches his collar bone. Blackness threatens the edge of his vision, but eventually retreats so long as he stays still.

This is not good.

He shouldn’t even be out here. Wouldn’t be, if he hadn’t gone and done exactly what Kaidan had asked him not to do.

(It’s ok to disappear for a little while, Shepard, if that’s what you need. Just try not to ride out a bad day on a horse that’s got less sense than you.)

Should have stayed in the field down by the barn. Should have listened. He’s never been good at listening.

Ok. Triage. That’s what Kaidan would tell him. First thing’s first. Breathe. Breathe, soldier.

He gulps down some air. Even once it starts coming a little better he’s still not getting enough, but at least he’s not about to pass out.

Right. First problem patched. Next on the list.

He’s interrupted by a velvet nose whuffling his forehead. He reaches up a hand to give Echo a pat, groping for the reins in the process. They’re bunched up by her ears, but by some kind of luck she hasn’t stepped through them. That’s another problem sorted – the horse isn’t in immediate danger of hanging herself.

“Please. Do not pull,” he begs her. In response, she lips at his ear. It’s about a close to an apology as he’s going to get.

Ok. Two problems patched. Now onto the next one. He doesn’t have a comm. While he likes to think that Kaidan has a sixth sense for Shepard’s idiocy, it’s a little unfair to assume he’ll divine what’s happened and come find him.

He’s done it before. Almost a decade ago now. In the ruins of London.

(I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m never letting go again.)

Shepard wheezes. The late afternoon sun is taking on a golden sheen. No groves in sight. He’s beyond the orchard property lines, but probably only a few kilometers from the barn. A busted collar bone is going to make it feel more like a few lightyears.

Two options, marine. Walk it or ride it.

Nope. Before he can tackle either he needs to get up off the ground. Something else that might be easier said than done.

He looks up at the horse, who’s taken to picking the grass while she waits for her human to figure things out. Her shoulder quivers as she shakes off a fly.

“I’m going to need your help,” he croaks. “And you better not be a shithead about it.”

She swishes her tail.

He tugs gently on the reins until her nose returns to his head. “Ok. I’m going to haul myself up on that fucking tree that just tried to kill me. Your job is to not do anything stupid until I’m on my feet. And preferably not after, either. Can you handle that Cadet?”

She blinks at him. He takes in another shallow breath and reaches out with his free hand until he finds the bark of the offending tree. It’s broad, but he can at least hook his arm around it enough to get some leverage. “Ok. Here goes nothing.”

With a sharp cry he hauls himself up into a sitting position. Tears spring to his eyes, the shortness of breath in his chest more acute. Echo dances nervously, but the reins stay slack in his other hand.

“Ok,” Shepard chokes out. “Ok. Halfway there. I can do this. Right?”

Echo snorts.

Shepard braces against the tree, takes as deep a breath as he can manage and staggers to his feet. The pain from his collar bone hits like a white-hot lance that brings back memories of the pressure injury on Sharjila. He cries out. Echo throws up her head and crabsteps to the left, but doesn’t bolt.

“Easy,” Shepard whispers hoarsely. “Easy.”

Not sure about you sometimes, Mrs. Alenko had said to him once. You take an awful lot of chances for someone with nothing left to fight and everything to lose.

Echo settles again, and he manages to reel her back in without having to move. He wavers on his feet until she’s close enough for him to lean against. He wraps fingers in her long, black mane and rests his head against her neck, the red hairs of her coat soft against his cheek.

“There. No so bad, right? Which is good, because now comes the hard part.”

Now he has to figure out how to get back on. If it’s not bad enough to be out here with a high-strung mare, he’s got an English saddle on her. Better for jumping, which is how the afternoon had started. Not so great for hauling yourself up from the ground. The idea of contorting enough to even get a foot in the stirrup is enough to bring on a wave of nausea, and there’s nothing around to give him a boost. Echo isn’t exactly known for her willingness to stand still, either.

No wonder you like her so much, Kaidan had said. She’s you, in a horse’s body. As Mrs. Alenko put it, he had a preference for the headcases who went too fast.

He rubs a palm over her forehead, tracing white hairs that form the shape of a pinwheel.

“Ok. Remember that part where I said you need to not be a shithead? That’s still in play.”

He flips the reins up over her head, accidentally flicking her ear in the process. She jerks her head in irritation, hind end swinging in a half circle. When she comes to a stop Shepard eyes the stirrup. With a wince he tugs at the leather strap until the buckle slides into view, then lengthens it to the last hole to make the stirrup as long as possible. That’ll help a little, at least.

“Here goes nothing,” Shepard mutters. With a tight fist of mane in one hand and the cantle of his saddle in the other he sticks a foot in the stirrup. Tears come back to his eyes and his vision blackens once more. He yanks the foot out and lets it come to rest on the ground again. Echo swings her hindquarters once more, dragging him a half step with her. He swears, grips the mane even harder, resting his forehead against the saddle until his vision clears. What he wouldn’t give for a combat suit with a good mexo and a shuttle evac right about now.

“You can do this, N7,” he whispers. “You promised him you would always come home.”

(You sure I’m not one of things you’re trying to get away from?)

(Kaidan…you’re what I always come back to.)

He tries again. This time Echo spins in a full circle, eliciting a string of expletives that’s worth losing some of his hard-fought air.  

“Ok. Let’s try this.”

He manages to line her up beside the tree, so if she wants to swing her butt around there’s nowhere to go except into the tree or into him.

Maybe not his wisest idea. She’s proven more than willing to steamroll him before. “Remember our deal,” he says.

The third time he makes it into the saddle. Agony shoots out from the burning knot of his collar bone in waves that make it impossible to think about anything else. His balance wavers but he manages to keep it. For several minutes, staying on the horse and continuing to breathe is all he can manage.

Echo shifts uneasily beneath him. Full of kinetic energy just looking for a release valve.

(Just like you.)

He can see Kaidan’s smile. Feel it.

He still can’t take a deep breath. The dizziness isn’t going away. I’m in trouble here.

“Ok kiddo,” he manages. “We have to get home.”

He nudges her with his heels, hoping she doesn’t throw one of her fits and take off. Echo has two modes. Bat out of hell and standing still. Neither are very helpful to him at the moment.

(It’s almost like she makes it really hard to predict what she’s going to do next. Sound like anyone else we know?)

The mare takes a few quick steps forward, but settles quickly into an even gait. “There’s extra hay in this for you if you can autopilot,” Shepard grunts.

He bridges the reins in one hand and grabs hold of the long hairs of her mane. The other clutches his shoulder.

The sun’s dipped below the horizon by the time they find their way into the lane leading down to the barn, the sky deepening into a deeper, twilight blue. Apple trees run away to his left. The redcurrant bushes on his right. Echo breaks into a trot. The extra bounce brings fresh agony to his collar bone, but breathing is becoming more difficult some actual panic is setting in.

Kaidan, please be there.

Funny how a little time and distance from the routine of danger makes it feel more acute when it manages to find him.

(I can’t lose you again.)

Maybe that’s where the fear comes from. The war is over, but the stakes are so much higher now.

Every light in the barn is on when he crests the last hill. A lone figure paces anxiously along the paddock fence.

“Kaidan,” Shepard murmurs.

Echo picks up a lope as she cruises down the hill. All Shepard can do is hold onto the reins and hope he stays upright, but at this point even if he falls it won’t matter. Kaidan is here.

“Shepard!”

Echo barrels up to the barn, Shepard helpless to stop her. Kaidan’s eyes widen and he ducks out of the way, but as she whips past he reaches out to snatch one of the reins. For someone who’d rather wrestle a varren than get on a horse, he’s surprisingly adept with them. Growing up as the son of Lora Alenko doesn’t leave him much choice.

Echo comes to a halt, Shepard already sliding out of the saddle. Kaidan manages to get an arm around him before he hits the ground.

“It’s ok, you’re ok, I’ve got you.” There’s alarm in his eyes, but his voice is steady, reassuring. He calls over his shoulder for his mother to come get Echo. She runs out of the barn, eyes wide when she sees Shepard’s sorry state.

“Goodness, what happened?”

“I’ve got it. Can you take care of the horse?”

She nods and takes the reins, leading Echo away into the barn. Kaidan shifts until Shepard’s more comfortably nestled into his lap, omnitool already out, medical scanner running. Shepard reaches his arm up and presses his fingers against Kaidan’s neck.

“I can’t breathe.”

A soft smile curves Kaidan’s lips. “That’s because you collapsed your lung. Somehow. What the hell did you do?”

“Unexpected encounter with a tree.”

Shepard’s hand slides to Kaidan’s chest, where he feels the rumble of his laugh under his palm.  

“Snapped your collar bone, too. How the hell did you get back on?”

“Only way to get to you.”

Kaidan pauses his scans long enough to trap Shepard’s hand under his. “I’d have found you, you know. We have the technology.”

Shepard closes his eyes, resting his cheek against Kaidan’s chest. “I know. Didn’t want to put you through that again.”

Kaidan’s arm tightens around him. He leans down and presses a kiss to Shepard’s forehead. “Let’s get you to a clinic. Ok? Need you to be able to breathe. I’d rather be the only one who takes your breath away.”

Shepard smiles. “I love you. You know that?”

Kaidan brushes a thumb across his cheek. “I do.”

~

Shepard’s not sure what’s worse. The pain of the broken collar bone, or the unrelenting, unassuageable itch of the bone knitter that will linger for days afterwards. Dr. Chakwas had always called it a temporary, minor discomfort. Not the first difference of opinion they’d had over the years.

It’s almost 0200 by the time they get back home. Kaidan’s mother has left a light on for them. Thankfully Kaidan had convinced her to go on to bed without waiting up. Kaidan loops Shepard’s arm around his shoulder and escorts him to their bedroom. It’s not strictly necessary – he can walk just fine – but he doesn’t argue with a little overprotectiveness.

Turns out Shepard doesn’t mind being taken care of, sometimes. Just took finding the right person to do it.

“Thank you, he murmurs when they both crawl in bed. The window’s still open on the opposite side of the room, a cool breeze wafting through backed by the pale gleam of the moon. His collar bone still aches, but it’s fading.

Kaidan pulls Shepard’s back into his chest and wraps his arms around him, surrounding him with warmth. No matter how much time passes, Shepard still marvels at how easily, how perfectly they fit together.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kaidan murmurs in his ear.

Shepard finds Kaidan’s fingers and laces them in his. “You mean how I’m getting slower in my old age?”

“No.” Shepard can feel Kaidan’s smile against his neck. “About why you jumped the fence and took off in the first place.”

Shepard exhales. “Was afraid you were going to ask about that.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” He kisses softly up and down Shepard’s neck, between his shoulder blades. Shepard sighs, soft sound of pleasure rumbling in his throat.

“No. It’s fine.”

Kaidan presses his nose against Shepard’s neck. “Something trigger you?”

“No. Not this time.”

Kaidan waits, ever so patient, trailing his lips against Shepard’s skin. Shepard inhales, a full, deep breath this time into lungs that work.

“Sometimes,” Shepard murmurs, tilting his head back to give Kaidan better access, “sometimes…it’s like I don’t know who I am unless the odds are against me. I have everything I want right here with you…but I guess I still can’t shake the feeling I have to keep fighting for it.”

“So you jumped the fence with a green horse and took off into the woods.”

Shepard chuckles, then itches at his collar bone. “You asked why I did it. Didn’t say it made sense.”

Kaidan strokes the side of Shepard’s face. “No. I think I get it.”

“Really? Can you explain it to me, then?”

“Mmm.” Kaidan moves his hand into Shepard’s hair. He still shaves his head more often than not – it’s just easier – but he knows Kaidan likes it when he lets it go too long.

“Your entire life has been about taking risks,” Kaidan says. “Taking on the impossible to save the galaxy. Fighting against all odds to hold on to the people you love. Being on a horse isn’t exactly taking down a cannibal, but it sure is an adrenaline hit.” He chuckles. “At least it is for me. You scared the hell out of me. Echo came flying down that hill I knew something was wrong.”

Shepard grabs Kaidan’s hand and draws it to his chest. “I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” He almost says he won’t do it again, but it would be a lie and they both know it.  

They lay silent for a while. Kaidan’s breathing deepens, the steady rise and fall of his chest still like a miracle even after nearly a decade of feeling it. They’d fought so hard for this, for time, but he’d never stopped to figure out what to do once they got it.

Forging an identity that didn’t revolve around a pair of dog tags was harder than he’d thought it would be. That’s where the horses had come in. It started as physical therapy. But Kaidan’s right – the thrill of being on the back of something with only an illusion of control triggers an adrenaline rush that feels familiar, in some small way giving him back something he’d lost when the war ended.

(You take an awful lot of chances for someone with nothing left to fight and everything to lose.)

Shepard just never learned how to do it any other way. Probably never will. Some part of Kaidan will always have to worry, always have to wonder in the back of his mind if they really will grow old together.

“You deserve better than me, you know,” Shepard whispers into the dark.

Kaidan stirs, pulling him even closer, his voice a drowsy rumble against Shepard’s ear. “What does better have to do with anything? I want you. Whether I deserve you or not.”

When Shepard doesn’t answer Kaidan rolls him over until he’s lying on his back and runs light fingers across the ridge of his collar bone. “Every day you’ll have me makes me the luckiest man alive.”

Shepard cups his cheek, stroking it with a thumb.

“That reckless side is part of you,” Kaidan says with a soft smile. “All I can do is love you through it. Always have. Always will.”

Shepard’s eyes sting. He loops his arm around Kaidan’s neck and draws him in, kissing him deep, long, and utterly slow, in place of all the things he wants to say and might one day figure out how.

“Just promise you’ll keep coming back to me,” Kaidan murmurs against his mouth.

“Always,” Shepard whispers back, before losing himself in Kaidan’s arms.  

~

Author’s note: 

I started this on a whim, because I missed riding and wanted to put Shepard on a horse. Halfway through writing it, I lost my equine best friend of almost 30 years to colic. She was a spunky little red mare with a white spot on a her forehead in the shape of a pinwheel. While Echo is not my little mare, there is certainly a lot of my little mare in Echo.

I have no idea if the "plot" makes sense. That wasn't the important part to me. Normally I would have worked harder to make sure all the pieces fit together even in something this short, but I didn't this time. I will for the next one. This one will just have to be more for "me" than usual. Call it my own equine therapy. Hope you enjoyed it anyway. :)

[wanderingworldwarrior]

Of Twisted Emotions - Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Mountain’s Peak

The trek with Loki is long and arduous. It’s filled with pitfalls, icy slopes, and avalanches of blue. It’s a tricky climb, which you had both anticipated.

Some conversations send each of you plummeting towards the mountain’s base. Sometimes one of you pushes the other down, unintentionally or otherwise. They are unavoidable – these accusations and careless words. There’s an undercurrent of pain that will forever flow through both of your lives.

The slate isn’t clean. It never can be.

But you climb, inevitably helping one another over each treacherous danger, intent on moving towards normal, towards familiar. Building on what is left.

You start with periodic conversations. And when things don’t hurt as much – when staying in touch begins to feel natural – you find that the prince’s voice fills your head every day.

And while it isn’t always easy, it is at least easier.

- - - 

You catch wind of the plans for Thor’s coronation from the other soldiers in the camp, although you do not dare to hope. You’re hesitant to bring it up with Loki, but the topic is inevitable. A lot rides on this event for the both of you.

I wonder if Thor’s advisors will convince him to keep me imprisoned, Loki ponders one night. Even he can’t deny the danger I pose after… everything.

You roll onto your back and stare up at the star-dotted sky. One of Asgard’s moons is full, and the light doesn’t lend itself to sleep. But Loki is always ready to talk. What else is he to do?

And everyone knows he loves to talk.

I think it’d take a lot of convincing, you reply. Thor’s been trying to get Odin to let him talk to you. I figure he’ll take the throne and then come knocking. You purse your lips and then ask, Can someone knock on the cell barrier? Or would it zap them, or something?

You can’t hear Loki sigh, but you know he does. Insufferable, he says at last. I sit here fretting over my freedom, and you have nothing to offer but unimportant musings.

You grin at the stars, although you have to admit he has a point. Yeah, yeah, sorry. Look, I know you have your doubts, but I… I don’t know, I think it’ll be okay.

You don’t give voice to the fact that this foolish hope is all the two of you have left.

And perhaps such a thing is not so foolish after all. Because things do indeed change under Thor Odinson’s rule. They change swiftly.

The very evening Thor becomes king, Loki is moved from the dungeons to his old rooms. Although still confined to his quarters, it is a vast improvement, for which he’s grateful.

Loki runs his fingers across one of his bookshelves, tracing each novel’s familiar spine, and shakes his head at the notion. Grateful to his brother, the king…. These are strange times indeed.

 It is the day after Thor is crowned that a blue raven flies into your camp with a royal scroll in its beak. It searches for your unit’s leader, and when its message is delivered, the bird fades into the dark blue magic it was birthed from.

Then, at last, Destin hands you the scroll, its wax seal unbroken. Your pardon from Thor, King of Asgard.

It doesn’t truly set in at first. You reach the end of the message and realize your chest hurts. Every bit of emotion you’ve been carrying has decided to ball up right behind your rib cage.

You read it again. And again. And once more, so that you’re certain you’ll never forget the words. It’s in the middle of your last readthrough that you realize there’s tears in your eyes. Your hands shake, making the words harder to follow. Asgardian speech is full of long sentences with flowery language, but you know exactly what these paragraphs mean.

You’re going home.

- - -

As you enter the city, you pass a troop of soldiers heading out. You spot familiar faces, although none you wish to speak with. You return your attention to the gate, but have yet to walk through when you hear your name from a familiar and welcome voice.

“Bjorn!” You can hardly believe your eyes, and you move to meet him halfway when he breaks from the group.

“Warrior!” he greets you, his tone as warm as his smile. You briefly clasp forearms and grin at one another as he states, “Oh, it is good to see you alive and well! You know how rumors spread.”

“Boy, do I,” you say with a grimace. “Although, I guess a lot of it may not be rumors this time.”

“Unfortunately, our paths haven’t crossed at a time for conversation,” Bjorn says, sounding a bit miffed at the situation. He pauses and covers a cough with his arm, then frowns as he says, “We march to quell a small rebellion in the west.”

“We should talk when you get back,” you tell him. “I know you had a lot go on while I was away. And… well… there’s a lot from my end, too. If you want the whole story.”

“I very much want the whole story,” Bjorn states. He glances towards the tail end of his troop, which is slowly growing further and further away. He rests his hand on his sword hilt as he turns back to you. “Warrior. I want to apologize.”

The kiss.

“No need,” you tell him, not unkindly.

People act on impulses, especially under tense and urgent circumstances. You know this more than most.

The kiss was a frantic “what if”. What if you wanted to start over? What if you could let go? What if it was something more than friendship?

But it wasn’t. It isn’t. You both know this.

Bjorn acknowledges these unsaid things with a nod. “I hold you in high esteem, my friend. You’ve fought by my side. Saved my life. I do not care what Asgard whispers.”

You hold Bjorn’s gaze, and at long last, truly match his smile.

- - -

None care to visit Loki, save for Thor and Frigga. Occasionally Odin.

And now you.

The first time you’re allowed to see him, you feel snakes writhe in your stomach. Even the sight of his door is overwhelming.

Thor had instructed the guards to let you speak to Loki alone, and although they aren’t pleased, they do allow you to step over the threshold without them.

You feel your breath catch in your throat when you see him.

Loki stands across the sitting room, clothed in royal garb once more, which further pushes the feeling of familiarity. Your footsteps die six feet away as you search his gaze.

Gone is the burning man with a stranger’s face.

In his place is your Loki. Perhaps thinner than he should be, and he could undoubtedly use some more sleep, but he seems… alive again. His eyes, you can’t stop yourself from studying them; that shrewd, green gaze you know so well.

Your mind calls up varying memories of the Loki you’d found on Earth, comparing each to the man in front of you and discarding them one by one. There is no blue. No twisted hatred. You know he’s not the same as his old self, but you decide to cross that bridge when you get there. Neither of you can go back to who you were before it all. You’ve made your peace with it.

Hopefully, he can, too.

Loki says your name, scrutinizing you as much as you are him. He’s guarded, but you know him well enough to see he’s nervous. The realization makes your shoulders relax, although the tension in the room remains.

You take a tentative step forward. Then another. When you keep moving, he steps forward as well.

And when you meet, you’re wrapped in his embrace. He’s rigid and unsure, but his hands still gather you close. You press your face against his chest and your fingers tighten in the back of his shirt.

“You’re home.” His voice is hushed, meant only for you to hear.

“You’re an asshole,” you choke out, your voice strained from withholding tears. “I fucking missed you.”

And he laughs softly in your ear.

- - -

Talking it out is neither fast nor fun. It takes days, weeks. It’ll take more. But each step forward gives you both a bit more closure than before.

Your chosen place for these talks is the fancy settee. Your legs dangle over its edge, your boots lightly tapping on the side of one of Loki’s many bookcases as you stare at the sitting room’s ceiling. You’re surprised there aren’t books up there, too.

You both talk of the scepter. Its voice. Its impact. Loki explains what he can recall of the Other, and you tell him of the voice you heard in New York and Asgard’s infirmary.

You both talk about Willow and The Avengers. Loki’s chaotic plan and the meaning behind it.

“I wanted it all,” he says one day, pacing past the settee as he explains. You vaguely remember when he’d said the same thing at the top of Stark’s tower. “The cube. The scepter. Earth. Asgard.” He pauses, and when you look up, you find him staring at you. He blinks and starts to pace again. “You.”

“Oh,” you say.

“All of it,” Loki tells you. “It seemed possible, as mad as it sounds. It seemed… simple.”

“It did make things seem really simple,” you agree, turning away to frown at the ceiling again.

After some more discussion, there’s a lull in the conversation. Loki walks to the chair closest to you and sits. He leans forward and rubs a hand across his face.

You see the gesture from the corner of your eye, and it worries you. It’s no secret that he’s not sleeping well. You sit up and stretch your arms, arcing your back until it pops. “It’s late,” you tell him.

When he doesn’t reply, you look over and realize his eyes are caught on your glove.

“It’s late,” you say again, softer this time, dropping your arms and breaking his gaze.

You don’t think he’s going to reply, but then….

“Don’t go.”

The following silence is heavy, but you know you have to break it.

“I’ve got my own prison rooms to report to,” you say, habitually tugging at your glove as you stand.

He doesn’t say anything until you get to the door.

“I’m sorry.”

You hesitate at the door… and then open it. “Me, too.”

- - -

Periodically you meet with Thor, who has wholeheartedly welcomed you back.

“The council is perhaps a bit displeased that I’ve allowed you within our walls,” he tells you. “But I am king, so they may stay displeased.”

As precautious as Thor’s advisors are, they have convinced him to keep guards posted in the passages between the guest wing and the rest of the palace. It wouldn’t bother you, but you hate having to ask to go to the training grounds every day.

Because you know you need to train.

“The threat is real,” Loki tells you one night. “This ‘peace’, it’s not a reprieve. Thanos and those that follow him continue to plot in the shadows.”

It is your turn to pace Loki’s sitting room. “We have to be ready.”

“We aren’t,” he tells you flatly.

You bite your lip, worrying the skin until it hurts. Your hands ball into fists and then relax, over and over as you walk. The magnitude of it all, the lack of control… it’s daunting.

Your pacing lands you close to the settee, and so you force yourself to sit. “It feels like we’re sitting ducks.” Loki only stares at you from his chair, which makes you sigh. “You said that… that Thanos and the Other thought we’d be dangerous if we worked together. Which is why they pushed that separation.” You ponder in silence for a moment, and then ask, “Does that still count? Like, will it make any difference?”

“That was when we had the scepter and the Tesseract,” Loki reminds you. “Now, we’re removed from both, and you’re….”

He falls silent. You thread your fingers together and lean over, propping your elbows on your thighs and resting your forehead against your hands. You can feel the leather glove against your skin, cold, and now (unfortunately) familiar.

You hear Loki get up, and you figure he’s about to start pacing now that you’ve stilled. Instead, you feel him sit beside you on the settee.

He’s kept his distance since your initial embrace, but now you feel the light touch of his fingers on your forearm.

Your chest hurts. “It’s late,” you say, voice hushed.

“It is,” he agrees.

His fingers travel towards your wrist, the sensation leaving chill bumps in its wake. When his touch finally reaches your hand, you slowly lower your arm until it lays across Loki’s thigh, palm up.

Instead of pulling off your glove, he slips his fingers through yours. The pressure makes your wrist ache, but it isn’t as bad a pain as it has been.

“Don’t go,” Loki asks of you.

You’re silent for a long moment, staring at your hand in his. You sigh and lean your head on his shoulder. Time passes, although you’re not sure how long you sit with him.

But inevitably, you squeeze his hand, rise, and walk to the door.

- - -

You feel like you’re talking in circles. Thinking in circles. There’s too many questions, too many problems, and not enough answers. Not even close.

Training doesn’t help quiet your mind tonight, and instead of walking the familiar halls towards your room, you walk instead a different set of familiar halls.

“This is pointless,” your cranky guard states. “He’s no doubt asleep at this hour.”

“He’s not,” you reply, and knock on Loki’s door.

He is indeed awake.

Loki must have been in his sitting room, because he answers within a few, short seconds. You don’t miss the guard’s huff of annoyance as Loki closes the door behind you.

The prince says your name as you walk towards the settee.

“My mind won’t shut up,” you tell him. When you sit, you realize your heartbeat’s running on useless adrenaline, and your nerves are making your leg bounce. You run a hand through your hair and suck in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“I can relate,” Loki says, taking his seat beside you.

You look around the room and realize the only light is coming from a candle next to the chair Loki likes to read in. “Where’s your book?” you ask.

“I… wasn’t reading tonight,” he tells you.

“What were you doing?”

There’s a stretch of silence, and then he nods. “Reflecting,” he finally decides.

“You should be sleeping, you know,” you tell him.

“Hypocrite,” he names you.

You run a hand through your hair again, mind still scattered. You realize there’s pressure on your thigh, and you find Loki’s placed his hand on your leg to stop its bouncing.

It works. Even with your leg still, his hand stays.

You know you need to calm down. The threat isn’t here, after all, and there’s no way for you to physically fight this feeling of trepidation.

You take another deep breath. “What were you reflecting on?” you ask him.

He’s quiet for a while, long enough for you to regret asking. But then he sighs and says, “On us.”

“Yeah?” you ask. “Got any specifics?”

You watch him as he stares at the flickering candle next to his vacant chair. Shadows play across his face, changing his features with every shift of the small flame. The silence is strangely comforting, and you can feel your heartbeat slow as it decides it no longer wants to break free of your ribs.

“Specifically,” Loki finally says, his words slow and laden with exhaustion, “how neither of us could kill the other. Even at our lowest. Even when it was the most beneficial, the most logical solution… neither of us did it.”

He turns to face you, candlelight reflected in his eyes. You can’t read his expression, especially not in the dancing shadows. You think on his words, and then say, “I’m glad. Guess it says something, huh?”

“I suppose it must,” he says softly, breaking from your gaze to stare across the room once more. He absentmindedly traces imaginary lines across your thigh as his mind chases different trains of thought.

You catch his attention again when you take his hand. He stares, frown pronounced as his fingers interlace with leather. “Do you wear this to sleep?” he asks, thumb skating across your glove.

“Yeah,” you say. “It kinda… glows. So… yeah. Sig got me a pair of cloth gloves, so I use one of them instead of this leather one when I need to sleep. They’re thinner.”

“I see,” Loki says.

You extract your hand from his, hesitate, and then carefully pull on each of the glove’s fingers. You slip it off and set it aside, and then offer your dimly glowing hand to Loki.

“Does it hurt?” he asks you, morbidly curious.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” you say, hoping to wipe the pained look off his face.

“Had I not –”

“Don’t,” you warn him. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

His lips press into a thin line, but he acquiesces.

Loki holds your hand in both of his, feeling the strange, solid magic that hums beneath his fingers. You aren’t used to the sensation of touch with your hand of light, as you try to keep a glove on when at all possible. It’s almost… cathartic to feel Loki gently press his fingers against your palm, his thumb carefully sliding across the back of your hand.

“Are you…” he begins, but seems at a loss for words.

“Am I?” you ask. His troubled look prompts you to guess, “Am I… okay?” When he subtly nods his head, you let out a short laugh. “Kind of? I’m… fine. Eventually, I’ll be okay. It’s a part of me. That’s it. It’s just a part of me now.” You stare at your hand, Loki’s fingers a black silhouette against the light. “Are you okay?” you ask him.

“As you’ve said,” he tells you smoothly, “I will be.”

Loki releases your hand so you can slip on your glove, and when it’s in place, you flex your fingers out of habit. You glance at him and then say, “Glad we didn’t kill each other.”

You stand up, Loki following suit. You’re already turning towards the door when you say, “It’s la–”

“Late,” Loki finishes as he catches your wrist.

You look back at him, at his fingers closed around the cuff of your glove.

“I know I’ve no right to ask,” he says quietly. “And yet, I ask.” Loki closes the distance between the two of you, and your heart stutters as his nose brushes yours. “Don’t go.”

Maybe it’s because it’s late.

Maybe it’s because you didn’t kill each other.

Or maybe it’s because you still love him.

But ultimately, you figure the reason doesn’t really matter.

This time, you kiss him.

- - -

You and Loki can walk the city, so long as guards shadow your steps. You don’t really care for it, but to some extent, it does help soothe your restless spirit.

At first, the public was confused. The rumors that had spread through Asgard were undoubtedly exaggerated, and they certainly misconstrued parts of the truth (although the truth itself doesn’t paint either of you in a good light). But it is not as if the two of you have ever been especially beloved by Asgard, not nearly on the level to which the people hold Thor. And Thor has freed you, the Asgardians tell themselves, so surely you must be able to keep that murderous nature in check. The both of you have been held accountable for crimes against Midgard, not Asgard.

So, as the people grow accustomed to seeing the two of you, while many still cut unsavory glances, the hatred has somewhat dulled. Indifference is mostly what you see. You have not impacted their lives, and so they continue living.

The whispers are worth being free of the palace. They’re worth the trips to Sigrid and Asmund’s, where you feel normal and welcome. They’re worth dropping by the sorcerers’ guild, where none of the members seem to think any different of Loki – if anything, they’re eager to learn what secrets he’s gathered from his morbid misadventure.

However, these pleasant bubbles of the past cannot mask the grim situation brewing in the galaxy. One of which Thor’s council has now been made aware of and are eager to discuss. And on this day, they want you there.

You thought you’d be more nervous as you step into the council’s war room. It’s a large room, like most are in the palace, with a long table in its center. Thor’s at its head, and while he’s kept Odin’s council intact, he’s added Sif and what remains of The Warriors Three to his circle of advisors.

“Warrior,” Thor greets you with a smile.

“Hey,” you answer, offering him a weak grin as you waver near the door. “You, um, wanted to see me?”

Hogun crosses his arms, the expression on his face mirrored by the members of Thor’s council, save for Sif and Volstagg.

“Aye,” Thor says, motioning you forward and nodding his head towards one of the empty chairs. “I’ve something to ask of you, my friend.”

And as you listen, you realize that Thor does have a plan for you, after all. He’d pardoned you for his own personal reasons, you have no doubt, but now he’s found a way to truly free you. One with which none on his council can argue.

“Okay,” you state, and you’re pretty sure your body feels significantly lighter. “Yeah. I accept.”

 That night, when you visit the prince, you repeat Thor’s words with an eagerness that stems from your desire to do something. At last, you can stop agonizing over circumstances beyond your control. You no longer have to be a faux prisoner in Asgard’s halls.

Loki doesn’t seem particularly pleased with the plan, though you know he will not stop you. But when you reach the end of your explanation, and silence reigns, you abruptly cease your pacing and hold his gaze. “Come with me.”

His thoughts seem to pause, shift gears, and rapidly head down a different path. “Truly?” he asks you.

“Yes,” you answer, as if it’s simple.

And maybe this time, it is.

“You could no doubt accomplish such a task alone,” Loki says, his tone nonchalant as he considers the idea.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face, one you aren’t sure you’ve seen in over a year. At last, he says, “Neither do I.”

- - -

At the mountain’s peak, you find yourself in a ceremony.

Your dress is emerald green, the fabric silky against your skin. You’re glad there’s a slit in its long skirt, so you can actually walk. The bodice fastens around your neck, leaving your arms and back exposed. The dress belt has thin, silver spirals and swirls that are interspersed with small gems.

The dress makes you more nervous than the ceremony itself, but Frigga is the one that had it made for you, so there’s no way in hell you can refuse to wear it. She’s gifted you a piece of jewelry to go with it; a golden bracelet winds up your wrist, forming a snake with green, jeweled eyes. On your other hand is a lace glove, your hand of light showing through its intricate design.

The queen has even given you a scabbard that fits the dagger you made for the ceremony. The dark leather is embossed with geometric patterns and swirls, and it sits comfortably on your hip, attached to your dress belt.

At least you have that part of the wedding to look forward to.

You figure most of the people gathered are attending for the feast rather than the ceremony, and you don’t blame them. You aren’t keen on a wedding, either. But you said you’d do it, so here you are.

You end up alone with Sigrid in one of the palace’s dressing rooms, which allows you a brief moment of relief after the whirlwind of Frigga’s servants, who had assisted you in dressing. Sigrid makes a fuss about your hair when she helps you don your bridal crown. You had no plans on wearing one, which Sig had apparently foreseen and set about correcting over the past week. And while you know next to nothing about plants and flowers, you can tell Sigrid’s put a lot of care into the ceremonial crown.

“It’s perfect,” you tell her warmly, taking her hands in yours so she’ll stop fretting over your appearance. “Love you, Siggy. Thank you. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

Sigrid knows you mean everything. She has stayed with you through the worst and the best of it – from that ugly blue dress to this gorgeous bridal crown. Sigrid’s smile is dazzling, and when she hugs you, you’re struck by the fact that she’s almost taller than you are. She laughs pleasantly and tells you, “I love you, too.”

“You look gorgeous,” Willow’s voice states from near the door, and you turn to find your best friend has finally arrived. “Sorry I’m late!”

Will’s tired eyes hint at too many restless nights, but her broad smile is genuine as she crosses the room to hug you. A lot of hugs today, you think. Hopefully it’s not a trend that will continue throughout the rest of the evening.

“Are you ready?” Will asks as she releases you.

“No. Yes?” You sigh heavily and shake your head. “This ceremony shit means a lot to people here, so I’ll go ahead and… participate.”

“Oh, you’re going to dislike it, I’m sure,” Sigrid pipes up, hiding a little laugh behind her hand. “But it’s going to be lovely.”

“Agreed,” Will says with a grin, and she gently pats you on the arm in a show of comfort. At least you think it’s comfort, until you see a mischievous shift in her expression, and she says, “Come on, Princess, it’s wedding time!”

Sigrid has to hide her face, either from trying to hold in laughter or from the look you’re giving Willow.

 You’re nervous until you see him.

You walk through the crowd of Asgardians, the evening breeze ruffling the ribbons and flowers in your crown. The sound right next to your ears drowns out the murmurs of the people gathered, although you can still feel too many pairs of eyes on you.

One eye is especially heavy; Odin is present, although you’re sure his attendance is by Queen Frigga’s design. Most of this wedding is, after all.

The sight of Will at the front of the crowd gives you something to focus on and further assuages your fears as you make your way towards the center of the courtyard.

The circular wedding pavilion is large, crafted of white marble that seems to gleam in the evening sun. Golden fabric flows down the structure’s pillars, and vibrant flowers line its sides. Soft lights bob through the air, and while they remind you of fireflies, you realize they’re made of magic. A wide, flat dais sits in the pavilion’s center, which is where Loki waits.

You feel like you can finally breathe when you reach him. He looks… regal. Like true royalty. In classic Asgardian fashion, his ceremonial outfit is (in your opinion) overly intricate and detailed, yet today you can’t be bothered to pretend you don’t notice how well he wears it. You note the sword belt around Loki’s waist, and you subconsciously brush your arm against the sheathed dagger at your hip.

Loki looks sharp. He looks dangerous.

He looks happy to see you.

 Loki has known from the beginning that you are a foreigner, not only to Asgard, but to the entire realm itself. But you fit in amongst the humans and Asgardians, so much so that he hasn’t dwelled on the fact in quite a while. But you don’t look anything like a human in this moment – not to him. You’re otherworldly. And he’s admittedly a bit stunned.

As you draw closer, Loki notices belladonna in your bridal crown, woven with ribbons and nestled next to dark, red roses. The crown’s metalwork is carefully detailed, although the design is simpler than some he’s seen. His mother must have asked it of the makers, knowing such a thing would be more suited to your tastes.

When you join him on the dais it’s clear to him that you’re uncomfortable, but you’re smiling at him anyway. This ceremony isn’t going to mean much to you – your bond with him has been long established within your own culture, after all – but the fact that you’re going through it all for him is incredibly satisfying.

Upsetting Odin is also satisfying, that Loki will concede.

Thor is officiating, which Loki had been adamantly against during the wedding planning. He relented only when it was pointed out that nothing could make the union more official in the eyes of the law than if the law himself was officiating. And so, Thor stands with the two of you on the dais.

You think the ceremony is similar to Sigrid and Asmund’s, aside from Thor’s excited, booming voice. You quote the same texts they did, and you ask for the same kind of blessings from the fates. Whether you think said fates are listening or not doesn’t seem to matter.

There are holes in the wedding where your family should be, so you’ve asked Willow to give her blessing instead. She’s closer than family to you, anyway. You’re surprised when Thor himself chimes in with his blessing during this part of the ceremony, and when you look over at him, you have to blink a few times to stop any tears from falling.

Queen Frigga voices her approval when it is time for Loki’s family to speak, although Odin is notably silent. Thor carries on and gives his blessing again, completely unbothered.

“Aye, this is the part I’m sure you’re excited for, Warrior,” Thor tells you, and then loudly proclaims that it’s time for you and Loki to present one another with the blades of your ancestors.

Loki meets your eyes and draws his sword, and for a moment, you’re taken back to your fight against him in Stark Tower. The difference between the memory and the present is truly astonishing.

What a journey it has been, Loki’s voice says in your mind.

Aloud, he states, “I chose this one for you.”

Your eyes are drawn to the sword – silver, of course. Its hilt ends in a sizable, pointed diamond, which catches the light in interesting ways has Loki turns the blade towards the wedding guests. Its hand guard is sleek, the metal sweeping back over its grip, and you note that it seems surprisingly functional for a decorative, old sword.

“I present to you one of the swords of the family Odinson,” Loki says, although you can feel flashes of… somethingwhen he says the family name. “It is to be a symbol of our union.”

He passes you the blade, and you realize… it’s sharp. He’s had it sharpened. This isn’t something to hang on a wall, meant for decoration, this is something you can strap to your hip and actually use.

“It is to show that while I may wish to protect you, I am well aware that you can protect yourself,” Loki says, and although the smile on his face is dangerously close to a smirk, you can hear the sincerity in his tone. “It is to show that I will fight at your side, and that your battles are mine as well.”

You can feel your face flush, but that doesn’t seem to dissuade him. Loki’s smile widens, the expression playing with your heartbeat as he continues. “You are stronger and fiercer than any woman I’ve known.” He pauses and considers his words, and then takes your free hand. “I love you. My vow is ever the same. While you live, I want you. Be it through Ragnarok or rapture, by the bite of a blade or the soft touch of time. It matters not. It never has.”

You stare at him, overwhelmed with… feelings. You’ve never been good with them, but right now they’re culminating in a mantra that parades through your thoughts: I love you. I love you. I love you.

Fucking hell.

Loki squeezes your hand and then releases it, and you realize it’s your turn.

How am I supposed to follow that up, jackass?! you think to him.

He watches you, completely settling into smirk territory as you unsheathe the dagger you’ve made for him. You’re careful, ensuring your hand of light doesn’t touch it – if you accidentally destroy the weapon, you’re going to lose your mind, you just know it.

It took forever to craft the blade with your powers on the fritz. You had almost given up at least three times, although your determination won out in the end.

You’d tried to make it fancy, since you’re literally giving it to a prince – specifically a prince of one of the most stupid, fancy worlds you’ve ever been to. The black dagger has a curved, sharp tip, and its hilt holds the spirals you’ve seen on other Asgardian weapons. Wrapped across the guard and down towards the blade is a snake, the blade itself seemingly jutting from the snake’s jaws.

Okay, now you have to talk. You stare at Loki for a moment and then suck in a breath. “So, I, uh, don’t have a family sword, or whatever, and I know you don’t even use a sword. And I wanted to make you something you could use, so I made this dagger.”

You flip the dagger and hold it by the flat of the blade to show Loki the handle, which he appraises with a raised eyebrow.

Oh, right, there’s like a script to this ceremony stuff. “I present to you this dagger,” you state. “It is to be a symbol of our union.”

You offer him the handle again, and this time he takes it. Loki gives the dagger an experimental spin, and the familiar sight makes you grin. Now, what were you supposed to say, again? “I guess it’s… to show….” You can’t think of the words, and everything you’ve practiced before sounds dumb now.

You glance at the crowd, and then at Thor. The silence is stretching, and you can’t stand it anymore, so you just speak.

“I chose you,” you tell Loki, and the truth of it sets in after you say it. “Repeatedly.”

By deciding to live. By refusing Odin’s ultimatum, and staying in Asgard.

By agreeing to marry Loki, and then waiting for word after he vanished.

By sparing his life.

“And… well… I think we both fought hard to get here today,” you say.

Loki’s green eyes…. You never thought they’d mean so much to you. Especially when he’s looking at you like this.

“I chose to love you,” you tell him at last. “And I’m glad I did.”

- - -

The two of you had decided against rings. You can remember that conversation clearly.

And yet at the feast table, Loki hands you a golden ring strung through a silver chain. “To wear, if you want,” he explains nonchalantly. “I know you said your people have no outward signs of these ‘bonds’, so I thought it easier to tuck a ring out of sight around your neck rather than on your hand.”

“I don’t have a ring for you,” you tell him, frowning. “You weren’t supposed to –”

He pats the center of his chest, and your frown grows more pronounced. “But… isn’t each person supposed to get a ring for the other?”

“Indeed,” Loki agrees with a sly smile. “The lack of reciprocation has undoubtedly wounded me. What a slight, having to procure my own wedding band! Although,” he adds, dropping his voice and losing the dramatic sarcasm. “I’ve thought of some ways you could make it up to me.”

And he kisses you, slow and purposeful, until you clue into the cheers and whistles from the rest of the feast hall. “Oh, my God,” you tell him in a hushed whisper, pushing on his chest.

“Yes?” he asks, his eyes glinting mischievously.

You groan, fight back a smile, and grab your glass, truly glad that honeyed mead goes down smoothly.

- - -

Willow catches up to you after the dancing starts. Loki has broken away to speak with his mother, and you’re chatting with Sigrid and Asmund.

Will taps you on the shoulder and has to speak louder to be heard over the music. “I have to go soon!”

Sigrid and Asmund hear her, and bid you both farewell so the two of you can say goodbye without an audience.

“I’m glad you came,” you tell her, and you wrap her in final a hug. “I’ve missed you! And I’ll keep missing you.”

“I miss you, too, friend,” she says as she pulls away. “I’m happy for you.”

“I’ll write to you once we make it,” you tell her. “My power’s still all weird, but I think we should be good if I make some stops along the way.”

“Let me know if you need me,” Will says. “Seriously. I don’t like trooping through your portals, but I’ll come drag you both out of that dark place if I have to.”

“Thanks,” you tell her with a smile.

Will readjusts her bag strap, and then seems to realize something. “Oh!”

“Oh?” you ask as she digs around in her bag.

“Here!” she states, and promptly hands you a… bracelet?

You hold it up, a bit lost. It’s made of a bunch of beads on a black elastic band, and when you turn it over you realize there’s letters on some of the beads.

‘BEST FRIENDS’

“It’s from Tony,” Will explains. “He said it’s a wedding gift? And that he ‘sends his congrats to the pair of penthouse destroyers’.”

You’re torn between laughter and guilt, which inevitably comes out as a snort. Before you can respond, you feel Loki’s hand on your arm, and he reads aloud, “Best friends?”

“It’s from Tony,” Will says again, her voice pitching upward in an almost-question this time.

“Healer, why are you giving us garbage on our wedding day?” Loki asks. He goes to grab the bracelet, but you pull it away.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t get anything,” you tell him, not for the first time.

“Oh, actually, he did send you something,” Willow tells Loki, and she extracts a piece of paper from her bag. “Here.”

“What is this?” Loki asks, frowning as he turns the paper over to read it.

“An itemized bill,” Willow says.

All right, guilt is winning out this time. “Did he charge me, too?” you ask, leaning closer.

“No,” Will says. “It’s addressed to,” she pauses as Loki crumples the “bill”, “Emerald City.”

You can’t help but laugh, Will chuckling along with you. Loki scoffs, not nearly as amused.

If it wasn’t your wedding day, you’d slip the ‘BEST FRIENDS’ bracelet around your wrist just to spite him.

But it is your wedding day, so you tuck it into your dress pocket.

“Write soon,” Will says. “Be careful. And at least try to stay out of trouble.”

“I promise we’ll do our best?” you tell her, which makes Loki roll his eyes.

Willow turns to go, but hesitates and looks back at you. With a sad smile, she says, “Tell them ‘hi’ for me, okay?”

When you nod, she returns the gesture and walks away.

- - -

Back at your table, food finished and glass empty, you prop your head on your hand and turn to Loki. “So, we’re married.”

“We are,” he agrees.

You consider it for a moment, and then ask, “Do you feel any different?”

Loki thinks it over, and you watch as his eyes flit across your face. After a moment, he says, “It pleases me.”

You laugh. The feast hall is slowly emptying, so the sound seems louder than it should.

“Do you?” he asks.

“I guess it pleases me, too.”

- - -

It is Thor’s orders that give him freedom, yet a part of Loki still resents it. At this point, this resentment is almost a reflex, and he figures he’ll never be rid of it. Not anytime soon, at least.

You, on the other hand, are eager; the weight of your travel pack is like an old friend, one you only now realize how dearly you’ve missed.

“Gather warriors,” Thor urges you at the end of the rainbow bridge. “Anyone you can trust. Any who wish to fight for their lives, for the lives of those they love, or for the good of all worlds.” When you nod, Thor looks to his brother. “If what you speak of Thanos is true –”

“It is.”

“– then we need assistance. From anywhere and everywhere.”

You nod again, and Thor briefly clasps his brother’s shoulder before watching you and Loki disappear into Heimdall’s golden observatory.

- - -

The Bifrost has never been kind to you, and this trip is no different.

Loki helps you to your feet once the colors stop swirling, and you lean on him as the two of you peer around the area. You’re in a forest, with towering trees and a canopy that almost completely obscures the sun.

Camping out for a few days is necessary for you to regain your strength. Reaching your planet is not an easy task, especially not with the Ordinat rebuilding. They’ll have surveillance set up on as many worlds as they can, so you can’t be flashy with a Bifrost entrance. Heimdall has sent the two of you as close to your world as is feasible, but the rest of the venture is on your shoulders.

 Fully rested at last, with everything packed up, you stand beside your extinguished fire and look over at Loki.

“Are you ready?” you ask. “We have to make a few stops along the way. I don’t want to risk going such a large distance all at once.”

“Am I ready?” he asks slowly, pretending to think on the question.

You nudge him with your shoulder, and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious,” you insist. “My world is… dangerous. There’s powerful, scary things and people, and a lot of them will want to murder us on sight, so….”

“Powerful, hmm?” Loki asks, and you recognize the brief look of hunger on his face.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “There may be opportunities to acquire some interesting stuff, but I make no promises. Probably not cube or scepter powerful, but still.”

Your sentence is lost on Loki as a twinge of anxiety hits his chest. His ambitious expression fades as he searches your face. The realization that you’re nervous to return to your world, so much so that it’s bleeding into his own emotions, unsettles him more than your warnings of dangerous beings. Adversity does await, yes, but he’s ready.

“Are you?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“Are you ready?”

You roll your shoulders and adjust your travel bag, then tug your glove further up your wrist. The sword Loki gave you is in its scabbard, belted to your hip. You can feel your golden ring on its chain, sitting against your chest.

You reach for Loki’s hand, and he takes it.

Everything’s as it should be.

Your nerves fade, which puts you both at ease. You stretch out your hand and tear a rift through reality.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “I am.”

As the two of you walk into the dark, a journey ends.

And another begins.

---

Thanks for going on this adventure with me! This officially marks the end of the "Of Different Emotions" series. Can you believe that? Wowsa If you have any questions, I'm happy to answer them! I'll be slowly replying to comments on this chapter and the last chapter, so be patient with me! So much in my life has changed since the beginning of this series, and I'm honestly both sad and happy to see it end. Thanks again to all of you who have supported me through this, whether you joined this wild journey from the beginning, middle, or end! Love you guys

-W

@littlemisssyreid @thedoctorlivesthroughbooks @imthinkingaboutthis @verryfuckingpunny @shadows-echoes @auria223 @white-chocolate-mocha-fan @agentpiku @bookscoffeeandracoons @lokibarncs​

Masterlist

Discord

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Sick Little Games: Twenty- Six

When they let you out of medical, Clint tucks you into bed carefully and tucks himself in next to you. You don’t want visitors right now, you want to sleep and a giant cuddle pile. 

Clint wants to find Bucky and beat the holy hell out of him. But he didn’t. He stayed close to you and resolved to never let go of you. Surrounded by pets and with your face tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. It was what he needed to remind himself that everything was okay.

He’d meant what he said in his moment of desperation, trying to keep you with him. He already had plans for adding on to your house to add fun things. A new Dining room. Maybe a little training room. New bookshelves. A finished basement with a game room for the boys. He liked those ideas. And the idea of having a home with you in it and waiting for him. Or maybe sometimes being home waiting for you. With kids someday. He’d like that too. He’d like a couple rugrats with your eyes and his smart mouth. That thought was enough to lull him off to sleep. Now that he had a ring on your finger, it was all so close he could taste it. And that felt nice. 

______

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said, folding his arms across his chest. 

“What?” He answered, looking up from the gun he was cleaning. 

“Thought you might like to know Y/N is going to make a full recovery,”  Steve said, eyes narrowing. He didn’t think Bucky had been the one to hit you with a toxin and try to get you exsanguinated. But he certainly hadn’t helped you. At least laid you out flat or stayed nearby. 

Bucky shrugged, “Medical wasn’t gonna let her die. SHIELD paid a lot of money, keeping tabs on her.”

Steve said a prayer for patience and sighed. “Bucky, she’s your teammate,” he sighed.

“And?”

“And she was injured, and you left her to bleed out on the ground,” he half yelled, exasperated.

“I figured if anyone caught me anywhere near her, someone would assume I was trying to kill her,” he said. 

Steve took a deep breath, “Maybe she was right.”

“About what?”

Steve raked his fingers through his hair and leaned against the wall, “She’s planning on getting custody of her brothers. And leaving. Clint too. She told me that maybe if she left, you’d quit being... this way.” 

“I don’t care if she’s here or not,” Bucky said, looking away. He didn’t want to think about you being gone as often as he wanted to choke the life out of you, you brought weird stability to things. “But Nat will care,” he said.

“She and Nat talked before she talked to me,” Steve said, shrugging, “Nat knows where she’s gonna be. And she agrees with Y/n that it might be better if she does go.” Steve sighed, “We don’t want her to go. None of us do, but. She’s earned the right to walk away when she wants. And even if I don’t agree, we’ve got no recourse to make her stay.”

“Who’s gonna clean up all the magical bullshit?”

“She told us she’s handing all that over to Strange, but we can call her if we need her,” Steve clarified.

Bucky grunted and turned to pick up his water bottle. He hated magic. And you. But he might hate Strange more. Strange and his attitude problem tended to rub Bucky the wrong way. At least when you were handling shit, there was no pretense. You just looked at them all and told them how to kill it efficiently. And perhaps issued a necessary precaution to take. Strange always had to tell them a whole fucking story from the beginning of time. The exact origin of the thing and what arcane bullshit that had summoned it. 3/4 of the time, you didn’t know any of that and further, didn’t fucking care. All you needed to know is what it was and how to kill it. 

“Stange isn’t happy about it either,” Steve sighed, “But we can’t make her stay.”

Bucky snorted, “What happens if she doesn’t get custody?”

Steve shrugs, “I don’t know, but. With her and Clint engaged now and Tony loaning her a couple good lawyers, it’s unlikely she won’t get it.”

“Especially in New York,” Bucky agreed.

“Not New York. Missouri,” Steve clarified, “It has to go through the DCFS there.”

“Missouri?”

“Where her family is from,” Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Bucky nodded. That. That put another piece of his plan in place. It gave him a bit of something else to work with. 

__________

“Boys,” you say sternly, “I’m okay. Everything is fine.”

“Clint said you’d been hurt,” Eli said anxiously.

“Damn near bled to death,” you say, laughing softly, “But it takes more than that to keep me down.”

On the other end of the phone, you can hear then having a quiet conference, “You’re gonna be at the hearing, right?”

“Of course I am,” you reassure them, “Clint and I will both be there, okay? This is gonna turn out.”

“What if it doesn’t?” they say together.

“One way or another, I’ll make sure you’re okay. Even if you don’t come home with me, okay?”

“Okay- Shit. Dad.” and the line goes dead. You hope they’re okay. They probably are okay. Good at stashing their phones. You know it’ll be okay, but you really hope they take the legal team's advice and let Stirling think it was all your doing and not theirs. 

Clint lopes over to you and wipes sweat off his forehead on his shirt. “Everything okay?” he asks, touching your arm. 

“Fine,” you say, nodding, “Just some jitters.”

Clint shakes his head, “How are you doing?”

“Same jitters,” you admit, exhaling slowly. 

He grins and kisses your cheek, “It’ll be fine, baby. One way or the other. We’re gonna get you your boys back.”

“Indeed,” Thor rumbled, “Anyone could see they’ll be better off with you.”

Sam snorted softly, and you half-turn, “Comment, Sam?”

“Nope,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I just wanna know what’s gonna happen the first time they piss you off. You gonna snap and try to strangle them too?”

“You piss me off plenty, and your windpipe is still intact,” you say calmly. 

“Sam-” Clint said dangerously.

“Babe,” you say quietly, lacing your fingers through his, “It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving. With the boys or without them.”

Clint grips your hand tighter and turns to look at you, he opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t get the chance to answer before the doors crash open.

“Barton, you son of a bitch,” Tony yelled.

“Aww, moment,” Clint sighed.

“I believe,” Thor rumbled, winking at you, “he recently discovered that Lady Natasha won a good deal of money.”

You roll your eyes as Tony strides over and smacks Clint on the head with a rolled-up newspaper, “You couldn’t wait till Christmas to get engaged?”

Clint grinned and pulled you into his side, “I just didn’t want to give anyone else a chance.”

“A wise move,” Thor agreed, “Though Bruce was irritated that you didn’t tell us.”

“And you weren’t?” you asked him.

Thor grinned, “Midgardian Courting is a strange thing. I was only surprised he didn’t wait until you were with child to remember to ask.”

Clint’s cheeks colored, and Tony choked, “Wait, you’re not right?”

“No,” you groan, “Jesus, fuck.”

“Oh, thank god. Pepper sent me down here to ask what colors you were using for your wedding, so she knew what to use for your Engagement party. She’d shit if she had to do a baby shower too,” Tony said stretching. 

“Colors?” you ask, confused.

Tony gave you a look that was horrified and entertained by equal measure and pulled out his phone, “Pepper, help this child. I said colors, and she just... she doesn’t have a clue.”

Over the phone, you can hear the muffled “Oh my god,” from Pepper, and your stomach drops to somewhere around your feet. Your only experience with weddings comes from movies. And on TV. And the weird cult weddings in the church of life where everyone wore yellow and spent hours praying then all the adults disappeared for a while,, and you all prayed some more for the couple to have a ton of children. You hadn’t really even thought about the actual wedding. Too busy worrying about the boys.

“Don’t worry,” Tony said, pulling his phone back in his pocket, “Pepper can take care of everything. But you,” he broke off, pointing at Clint, “Have rookies to break in.”

Clint sighed, “Fine,” he said,��“But I’m not taking it easy on ‘em.”

You watch them go and watch Sam go too, mildly distressed by what he’d said. It was a lot of emotions for a few minutes, and you felt like you had whiplash.

“Witchling,” Thor rumbled, slipping your arm through his, “I’m- I’m proud of you.”

“For what?” you ask, turning to look up at him.

“It’s no easy thing to change courses halfway down the river,” he said, cupping your cheek in his other hand, “You had a path, winding though it might be. And now you’re going to leave it to cut a new one. I- that takes courage.”

“Then why am I always so scared?”

He smiles a little, “Because, witchling,” he said gently, “Life taught you to fear. But courage is more than the absence of fear. It’s carrying on despite it.”

“Or because you’re too stupid to know when to quit,” you murmur, looking away.

“A healthy dose of that too,” he laughed. “In another life, Witchling, you would have made a fine Valkyrie... and Battle won’t be the same without you. But, Bruce and I will come to visit.”

You smile, “I’d like that. I think the boys would too.”

“And all your eventual children,” Thor teases. 

You know he means it kindly. You do. But that doesn’t stop a cold feeling of dread that spreads through your body from the pit of your stomach. Not as you remember sitting in a classroom with 30 other kids. All of you being told that the one crucial thing you could ever do was have babies. A lot of them. It’s different listening to Clint gush about babies. That’s cute. It’s reassuring somehow. This just... it feels gross. Like sitting in the classroom. Like being told about sex. And purity. And how to keep the boys around you pure too. You feel too hot. And Cold. And dizzy. So Dizzy. Your pulse is pounding in your ears, and you can’t hear anything but drums and symbols and prayers with words you don’t really understand but sound like you shouldn’t be saying them. It sits wrong in your mouth. And the couple on the altar steps. In Yellow, like everyone else has been on their knees so long, tears are leaving tracks on their cheeks from the pain. But to celebrate, we must feel pain. Because God wills it. You don’t remember the chapter or verse anymore. But you remember the words. The same way you remember the sting of the belt on the backs of your legs.

You don’t register pulling away from Thor and staggering towards the nearest trashcan before you throw up. But the chill of the wall under your hand feels good, even as the contents of your stomach spill out. And the calloused hand that pats your back. It’s reassuring too. Thor makes a soft distressed sound and catches Natasha’s eye, willing her to come to help him. He doesn’t know what happened. 

She trots over and looks at Thor is askance and the large man can only shrug. “Easy, princess,” she soothes. You’re crying now as you dry heave into a trashcan. Trembling and terrified. It’s not the first time she’s seen you have a breakdown. 

Once, not long after New York, a man had followed you down the street, quoting the bible at you. You’d calmly told him off and threatened to throw him into a bus but. The second he was gone, you’d just broken. An unexplained terror had swept through you so quickly and severely that she’d hardly had time to bend you over a trashcan.

“Water,” she tells Thor gently, “Get me water and call us a car. We’re gonna go out for a little bit.”

Thor nods, giving you a worried glance before he goes to do as Natasha had told him. Hopefully, the spy knew something he didn’t.

Tags:

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[mrs-dragneel-stark-solo]

Made for Me (part 1)

18+ content!!!!

Part 1 of Made for Me

Pairing:  Hayden Christensen x Lexi!OFC

Word count: 3480

Warning: choking, hair pulling, oral (M/F) receiving, smoking , tied down, master/pet, blindfolded, ice use, toy use, unprotected sex.

Note: this is a fic I created for the amazing @thorne93​ since she’s been such an amazing friend and because she wrote me a steamy professor! Tony x reader/ Bruce x reader. I hope this lives up to the standards of smut seeing as it's my first time writing it! Enjoy!  Send me some feedback or some love.

Songs played while writing this:

Sexy Dirty Love- Demi Lovato

Come and get it- Selena Gomez

Boyfriend- Ariana Grande

Be Mean- DNCE

Addicted- Saving Abel

We all have that one celebrity crush from when you were a child and for Lexi  that person was  Hayden Christensen, having grown up watching him be Anakin was amazing the work he does as that character was always something that she  admired and not to forget how gorgeous he was.  The one thing that we all have fantasies about is being able to meet our crush and be with them, what she didn’t know was that her biggest fantasies were just about to all come true.

Lexi has been looking forward to the Star Wars convention all summer long and it was finally here. She went  alone as her best friend hadn’t been able to make it. 

After getting to the convention center she had grabbed her poster and a few other things.  Lexi had a good feeling about today. 

“Woah! There’s so many cosplayers here!” She exclaimed to herself. 

She walked around looking at all the booths. There were a few things she would go back to get later on in the day there had been a replica of Anakin’s saber that she had been looking to get for sometime and knew she would get it before the autograph signings. 

New to being a  cosplayer she had created a gender-bent version of Anakin when he had been turning to the dark side.

The corset was a dark brown and the skirt was dark brown fading to black. She had the hood on and wore contact lenses to show the red eyes . Many other people came up to her asking for pictures. This made her more confident and when she got the replica lightsaber  she knew she was ready for when she met Hayden Christensen.   She’d gone to get in like pretty early but was still surprised to see how long the line was.

A few more people were in front of her before getting to him. 

“Ahhh I can’t believe I’m about to meet Hayden!” She squeals. And a person behind her agrees. They chat to pass the time until she’s next.

“Next!” Said the person who was passing the fans in. 

Lexi walked up to the table and was met with a very smiley Hayden and her heart skipped a beat getting to be this close to him. 

 “Wow! Can you give me a turn please? That cosplay is spectacular” he said to her completely blown away by how beautiful she looked in the female version of his character. 

“Umm… s-sure” she blushed. 

He could tell she was a bit flustered and he liked it. Not getting to see her eyes clearly he went around the table. 

“Do you mind if I pull the hood back?”

“N-no not at all Hayden.”

Getting closer Lexi was able to see his blue-gray eyes she was completely entranced by them. 

He’s a lot closer than she thought he’d be. Lexi felt the warmth of his breathing as he took off her hood. 

“Whoa neat! Your wearing contact is similar to the one I wore.” 

“Really? I looked everywhere for some that look the closest to them.”

 “Well I gotta say you did some great work with this, mind if we get a picture?”

“I would love to Hayden”

He pulled out his phone and took a selfie and then had someone do a full body for him. 

“Hey do you have an Instagram? I’d like to send these to you so you can have a copy.” 

“Yeah umm here let me type it into your phone.” 

He handed her his phone and he can’t seem to stop looking at her. Or that  when they met at  the convention they would hit it off and there was something that he found mesmerizing about Her. 

 “Here let me sign the light saber and anything else you have.”

“Thank you so much!”

“Hey can you tell me your name?”

“ Its Lexi”

“That's a cool name, to Lexi the greatest female  Anakin I’ve ever met”

“Thanks again this means a lot.”

“I’m glad I got to meet you Lexi” he goes and hugs her and kisses her cheek. Taking a step back he sees she’s blushing. He winks at her and walks back behind the booth. 

Lexi has never been this flustered and quickly pulls the hood back on to hide her reddening cheeks.  What she hadn’t noticed was that he had written his number on the back of her poster.

 That very night Lexi and her friend Shannon shared screens to watch a movie and they talked about what happened at the convention. 

“You're not gonna believe this but Hayden asked for my Instagram”

“No way! Omfg lucky you, now I really wish I'd been there to see your reaction’

“ Remember that cosplay said I was gonna do for the gender bent Anakin”

“You actually took it nice what did he say”

“He actually wrote a little message on my poster saying that  I was the best female Anakin he’s ever met. “

“Why did he want your Instagram for though?”

“He took a picture of me with him as a selfie and then he asked someone to take a full body picture both of us together and he wanted me to have a copy”

“Lucky girl I bet you were freaking out.”

“I couldn’t stop blushing he was really close to me like upfront he took off my hood so you can see my contacts”

“You sound so smitten right now Lexi gosh I bet all the others were jealous”

They’d  finished watching the movie and  had a long conversation. Lexi went back to working on some of her things for her blog when she got a little notification on her phone.  She picked up the phone to see what it was only to discover that it was a following request by none other  than Hayden Christensen. Lexi couldn’t believe she was seeing this, he really did follow her.  she was wondering whether she was dreaming or not so she clicked confirm. 

 Soon  a message popped up  saying “ Hey Lexi I hope you don’t mind me just here to send you the pictures. It was really great seeing you and in the cosplay. I hope I get to see you some other time” 

She was  shocked he wanted to see her again but he’s a famous actor and thought  she’s a simple fan now he’s probably saying that just to be nice so she texted back “Thank you for the pictures I hope I see you at the next convention.” 

After that Lexi put her phone down and turned it off going back to what she was working on. She wanted to talk to him  but she didn’t know if Hayden would actually respond so she said to herself, “I think I’ll just continue working on what I was writing, I doubt he actually wants to talk to me just another one of his million fans”

Hayden didn’t really know how he would start off his message so he sort of went out on a whim and sent that he  “Cannot believe he met her, she is such a gorgeous woman and the  cosplay was unbelievable there was just something about her that he couldn’t quite stop thinking about, in a way she was very unique” and there was just this little feeling he had what he needed to see her again, although his work schedule may not allow it this soon he knew he’d find a way to see her.

Few months pass and nothing happened he didn’t text her because of filming but that maybe she would text him first to be honest he was very nervous he didn’t know exactly how he would start off a conversation with her he really wanted to get to know her but he felt that through text won’t  be the same he wanted to see her talk about herself and see how she reacted and how she expresses herself.

Lexi was a little bummed out that she never heard back from him after the last thing he texted her. She hadn’t replied because she just didn’t know how to reply. After a while she really believed that just maybe he won’t want to talk to her but seeing as she hasn't given  a single reply she went back to her  life being a blogger, go to school doing her thing until she her phone dinged “Lexi I wanted to know if you were free sometime tonight I’d like to meet up.” It said but quickly he added “if that’s OK with you” 

She was thrilled and scared because Hayden is one of her favorite actors ever and to just simply be texting him was a dream come true. Not wanting to leave him hanging  again she replied “I’m free at 7 tonight. Where do you want to meet?”

“Great I’ll see you then ;)”

“Wait how will we meet up, I live  in  Tennessee?”

“Don’t you worry about that I’ll have everything ready.”

 A little confused she went along with it. She had faith in him and whatever it was he was planning. Lexi was beyond thrilled and nervous because she was gonna meet up with Hayden Christensen! Her forever actor crush. 

Even though she still had 3 hours until they meet up she began planning what she would wear. She wanted something casual but also cute. So she went for one of her go to outfits. Having her current hair color  be pink, blue and purple she just washed  and let it air dry in  it’s cascade. As for her makeup she kept it simple with some blush, mascara and some matte lipstick.

As she finished getting ready she was screen sharing with her friend and co-writing partner so as not to fangirl so much in front of him. They were watching Awake a movie he happens to be in, her friend hasn't seen it so Lexi showed it to her while commenting throughout the movie Lexi kept her phone nearby so that she could see if she got a text. About halfway through the movie she finally got a text saying that she should come out that there’s a car waiting for her. She was getting excited again and would have to ask him how he knew where she lived. 

“Omfg! I just got a text from him saying there’s a car waiting for me!” 

“Good luck have fun and tell me all about it!” Shannon told her. 

Lexi stepped out of her house and indeed there was a car parked waiting for her. The moment she walked down  the stairs she was greeted by a  chauffeur. He went around and got the door for her and helped her in and she thanked the man.  The ride  had a bit of a calming silence which had been a big help since Lexi was still very nervous about what the night would bring. 

The car had stopped at a new food place that had been opened a few days prior to you going to the convention. The chauffeur got out of the car and opened your door and soon had taken you to the entrance where Lexi was met with Hayden holding some flowers.

“Hey Lexi I hope you liked these I didn’t know if you had a favorite flower so I got a variety of them.”

“Thank you Hayden they look beautiful.”

 “They look as beautiful as you do tonight.”

He made her blush with that compliment. “So Hayden, I was wondering how did you ever figure out where I live?”

“Well I actually saw some of the things you posted on Instagram and had some help figuring out where in Tennessee you lived” he said sheepishly. “Don’t tell your friend but she was  a big help too.” he smiled

Lexi was really at a loss of words because he went to all this trouble just to want to hang out with her.  The night was spent getting to know each other as if they’ve been friends for years. Throughout the night he  just couldn’t stop smiling at the way that Lexi spoke about her writing and the things she does.  It had been over 4 hours since they were at the restaurant, not wanting the night to end just yet Lexi got bold enough to ask  where he’s planning to stay,

There’s a little hotel not far from here that I was planning to get a room at.”

“Well after such a great time tonight I wanted to invite you to my home I have a spare bedroom there that you could use,” she shyly said. “The least I can do is make your stay here in Tennessee relaxing.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you, I was actually hoping to get a chance to do some sight seeing here, I was hoping you could show me around?”

“I would love to do that, how about we head home for now and we can make a list of what you might want to see?” 

“Sure, lead the way darling” he moved to the side so that she could get back to the car. He put his hand on her lower back as they walked out of the restaurant.

 Once they arrived at her house she led him to the guest room that was right next to hers and left him alone so that he could get set up and comfy. While that happened she changed into a big shirt and some shorts that she normally wore around the house. Meanwhile in the other room Hayden had gotten settled and changed from his outfit into a plain t-shirt and some sweatpants. After that he walked to what he assumed was the living room and looked around, there were many pictures of Lexi with her friends and family.

 He was admiring her book collection when she walked in and asked, “Is there anything I can get for you?” 

“No, I'm fine thanks for asking” he headed for the couch and sat down.

Lexi couldn’t help but watch him walk over to the couch. He looked so good in sweatpants. She stifled a groan at how turned on she was getting by the way he was dressed or how relaxed he looked in her home.

“I noticed you were looking at my book collection anything in there that caught your attention?”

“Yeah there were a few that I might take a look at later on if you don’t mind”

“Not at all, you’re welcome to borrow whichever you find most interesting.”

“That’s very kind of you Lexi, for tonight and everything”

“It’s no problem at all, but I should be thanking you for such an amazing night”

"You don’t mind if I open this window for a quick smoke do you?” he seemed a little nervous about asking.

"Go right ahead, make yourself at home" she waved at him. feeling less nervous now that they seem comfortable around each other.

He walked over to the window seat and opened the one window, there was a nice breeze out and he pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and his lighter, but what he doesn’t know is that Lexi loves seeing him smoke  in movies and knowing that he actually smokes is  even more nerve wracking. He notices that she’s started to rub her thighs together and figures out that she likes his little bad habit and he’s enjoying that it’s the little things that he does can easily get her turned on. She doesn't even know that he actually heard her moan when he walked over to the couch.

he turned back over to the window to blow the smoke out. he walked back to the couch where Lexi was now sitting at and sat close by her, being this close to her he could see the shade of brown that her eyes were a mix between milk and  dark chocolate and even though they've known each other for a few hours he has this urge to pin her to the couch and mark her  so everyone knows who she belongs to. He knew however he would have to wait and hope that he can show her that he wants to be a part of her life. He wasn't really sure if she would feel the same about him the way he feels about her.

He rubbed his hand on his chin and felt the small beard he was growing he would need to shave soon or else it would begin to bother him, plus the film he was going to be a part of required he have a clean shaven face. Lexi however thought he looked good with the beard, it was a nice change to always seeing him have a baby face on screen or at conventions.

“So what brought you to this quiet little town?” he started asking hoping to get to know her more.

“My family lived here for most of my childhood and I’ve never really considered leaving this place” she played with her hair and looks up “don’t get me wrong I do wish I could travel more but there’s ever really been a chance to do that.”

“Sounds like this place is your little slice of heaven, I’d be lucky if I had a place like that myself.” He places his arm behind her and his fingertips lightly brush her shoulders

“If you could go to one place in the world where and why?”

She shivered feeling his fingers ghost over her shoulder. “If I could go somewhere I think it would be Venice because I love the culture and the food too,” she blushed. “I think it would be an amazing place.”

This gave him an idea as to where he could take her next time, he hoped there would be  more things he’ll be able to plan with her or for her. 

“So tell me Mr. Celebrity, what’s it really like?” Lexi teased him. “Is it really like they say?”

“And what exactly do they say?” 

“That's mostly paparazzi, glitz and glam?” she cocked her head. 

“Well for the most part it can be but I'm not really one for that I like to keep my life as simple as possible.” he smiles at her. He can’t help but feel so relaxed around her. “That’s why you hardly see anything about me on tv”

“Well if anything the moments you are on tv are the best.” she blushes.

The rest of the time was spent talking about anything and everything. There were moments of silence but they weren’t awkward. She felt as if she’d already gotten to know him so much more than she’d ever expect and he felt the same way there was so much they both still wanted to know about each other but this wasn't the time for that. Later on they’d both come to find that they equally had the same interests sexually. They talked for hours on end that night till Lexi realized that it was 3 am and they still planned on going out to do some sightseeing. 

It had been hard for Lexi to fall asleep knowing she had her childhood crush sleeping in her guest room let alone knowing she’d be spending the whole day with him seeing all over the place she called home.  Sleep finally found her and all she could dream about was Hayden sitting at the window smoking looking so gorgeous under the light of the moon. She woke up pretty early and headed out for a quick jog hoping that would bring her some energy for the day.

Hayden had woken up a little after she had gone on her run so he had taken his time trying to figure out what they could do. He laid in bed for a bit searching for things nearby hoping he might get to see some exciting stuff or even get to see her favorite places here. Once he had an idea on what to do he tossed his shirt on the bed and grabbed some fresh clothes and headed to the bathroom and turned on the shower letting it steam up for a bit. Neither of them had realized that the other was in the apartment.

“Hmm looks like he might still be sleeping, Oh I hope I didn’t keep him up too late” she said to herself as she headed to the kitchen to drink some water, Meanwhile Hayden was getting his things in order to shower. Unaware of him being in the bathroom she went to her room to grab some fresh clothes for the day and headed for the bathroom the door was pretty thick so she couldn't hear the water running. She walked in and was surprised when she bumped right into a very much naked Hayden.

[spencer-quinn]

Invisible things (2005 - 2008, 2011)

The way this is set out is different scenes of Q and Brad's past in chronological order but split up by snippets of a scene that takes place a little before he’s taken away. Please bear in mind that the flashback scenes are set when he’s between the ages of 12 & 14 so I obviously wrote little-to-no detail for the sexual scenes because, ew, who wants to read that?

So yeah anyway please add Brad to your hate lists and appreciate the way Spencer goes from wanting to impress him from wanting to deck him xo

“Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” - Matthew 26:41.

Did you know that disguising any act that contradicts the faith and morals of the Catechism can be masked as an act of the spirit? No, it’s true, ask any reputable priest; any curate; any child of God and they’ll tell you the same thing. Probably.

“I’m glad you’re feeling yourself again. I hate to see you acting out of terms.” Bradley speaks like this sometimes; when he’s trying to feel clean. He reaches across to the passenger side, where his hand graces the side of Spencer’s face, who isn’t particularly interested in what he has to say but knows that staying silent and humouring the man will bring him to where he wants to be a whole lot quicker.

He nods. “Me too. Thanks.”

Because there’s no better way to mask the flesh as it’s adversary than pretending to be thankful for it. He’ll even thank him again, at the end when what’s done is done, if he’s feeling kind.

Bradley’s thumb slides over his lower lip, and he smiles at Spencer with sad eyes, as if he’s making a martyr of himself; like having sex with him is the man’s own version of self-sacrifice.

Spencer suck’s the thumb into his mouth, and it wipes the condescending look right off his face.

***

“I’m really glad that you could speak to me, Spencer.” Bradley’s smiling kindly as he lowers himself into the free seat beside him.

He’s pretty sure he’s not really meant to talk about what’s said within confession time, outside of the box, but he’s pretty new to it all (albeit several years older than Father Quinn when he’d become a Curate) so Spencer decides to let him off.

Besides, he kind of really dislikes the atmosphere of a confessional anyway, which is why it’s such a relief when Bradley adds, “you know, if you ever have anything else to talk about, I’ll always be open to listen. I know it can be difficult to have some conversations with your father.”

“Thanks,” he says simply as he tries to hold their eye contact but can’t help but let his vision trail over to Melanie Briggs.

She’s helping some other girl that he doesn’t know from school to cover their cake stand with plastic wrap. They didn’t sell too well today, but Spencer spent an extra dollar on a second cupcake, just for another chance to spark up a conversation with the girls. They usually try to sell a few boxed goods at the end of the morning service, then return in the evening if they can.

If he had the money, he’d go over again. He’d offer to buy a whole plate full before the rest of the girls get here to count up their earnings, but he doesn’t, so he can’t.

Bradley must follow his line of sight, because he reiterates, “the thoughts you had are normal.”

Spencer really doesn’t think they should be talking about this right now. He says, “I know,” because Bradley told him already.

“In a few months’ time, you’ll be in your last year before high school. A lot of kids there will have a lot to say about that stuff.” His cheeks feel hot. “But you know where your morals lie, and the flesh—”

“I better find my dad before the rest of the girls get here.”

***

They’re parked around fifteen minutes away from Brad’s place - and God bless his dad for making Spencer stay with Brad to “help him prepare tomorrow’s reading” - but Spencer couldn’t even hazard a guess as to which direction they went in. He was too busy spending the drive there bickering with Beth over text about who’s been ignoring who for the past two months.

There’s parked up now, anyway -fuck knows where- with the headlights off but the interior light on, casting a warm glow over both of them and making the darkness outside impossible to see through. It’s easy to forget that there’s much happening outside the car. It’s why he likes doing this as much as he does – and has been more often lately, come to think of it.

It’s not the best set-up. Brad drives a stick because his car’s a hand-me-down, meaning the gearstick is digging into Spencer’s thigh, and the arm keeping him balanced is beginning to ache as he leans across the console.

Still, though, his hand is warm between the man’s legs, pressed against denim, as Bradley breathes hotly over his cheek between kisses; one arm draped on the back of his seat as he meets him halfway, the other hand curling into the back of his hair.

***

There was an accident last night; Spencer’s dad trying to fix something, Spencer trying to help. It ended with a trip to the emergency room and his dad, out of guilt, telling him he could have today off (“take a three-day weekend,” he’d said).

He’d usually only just be leaving for school now, but today he’s helping Bradley set out programs for today’s funeral service. The lady was so popular that her service is going to run directly after mass, so everybody can be there.

As the man approaches, Spencer says, “hey Bradley, are you staying for the funeral?”

“Brad,” the guy corrects, pointing a finger gun at him as he passes, taking the extra programs from atop the organ behind Spencer. “And yeah, of course I am.” He slips the spares into his back pocket. “How’s your arm?”

Spencer shrugs, glancing down at the bandage just above the inside of his elbow. “Aches, kind of, like—”

But Brad’s already saying, “I bet,” as he takes Spencer’s wrist into his hand and brings his arm up for a better look as if he could somehow see the damage through the bandage. “Bet the girls are missing you at school, huh kid?”

He shrugs. Definitely not.

“And the guys.” Brad raises an eyebrow, but Spencer just pulls his arm away. Hates when he talks about the stuff he tells him, in environments like this.

“Not really. They’re all assholes.”

“Language,” Brad warns, but he’s chuckling as he smacks Spencer’s backside playfully (fondly?) before plopping down onto the bench that they’re stood beside. “Sit. We’ve got time.”

He does. He sits close enough that the arm Brad’s got draped over the back of the bench stretches out behind him now, ‘cause he knows that if he sat further away, Bradley would only slide over anyway. Not that he minds; Brad’s always doing shit like this recently, and Spencer’s old enough now to know what means something and what doesn’t.

Sometimes he catches the way Bradley ducks in to speak to him as he straightens Spencer’s collar, or the way he crowds him into the pantry sometimes with his arms caging him against the wall, or how he smacks his ass as a joke and swings an arm around his back… He knows that these all mean something, the same way he knows that Oliver’s hand on his leg isn’t nothing anymore.

He’s a teenager for goodness sake, he’s not an idiot.

But, innocent or not, Brad’s a nice guy – a really nice guy – and that’s the difference.

Sometimes he reminds him of Dan. Or-- How Dan could be, if he wanted to be. When Brad’s scruffing his hair as he passes or squeezing his shoulders or pulling faces across the room. It’s nice: feeling like maybe Brad enjoys his company; seeks it out, even.

“Nice seeing you dressed up like this,” the man comments and swipes two fingers beneath Spencer’s lapels as he leans in like he always does. Like he’s telling a secret. He’s twisted in his seat a little, angled in his direction.

Spencer hums, unimpressed. “I hate funerals.”

The first time Spencer went to a funeral was just about the most traumatic experience of his life. All the genuflects and synchronising and crying… He’s avoided them at all costs since, today being his first exception.

And to think his dad thought he was doing him a favour. Spencer didn’t even know the woman.

Brad taps a finger beneath Spencer’s chin as he suggests, “how about afterwards, I take you out to eat. You choose where.”

He can’t really argue with that. Really likes the sound of it actually. “Okay.” He nods, only just looking up to return the eye contact Brad’s been looking for. “I’ll think of a place.”

“Cool.” His hand lands on his thigh; squeezes before he stands. “It’s a date.”

***

Brad grunts, head tipped back against his seat, no longer leaning over the console to meet him half-way.

He’s still got one hand in Spencer’s hair, the other down the back of his pants now as he rolls his hips up, pushes himself deeper into Spencer’s mouth, who’s mostly glad of the more comfortable position (one elbow on the edge of Brad’s seat and the other arm splayed over his thighs) although he’s never one to complain about a cock in his mouth either, he supposes.

They buried Curly three days ago, and here, in this car with his dad’s apprentice, is the nearest he’s been to the church since. Jordan keeps asking to see him, but the world feels like nothingness in here, and it’s how he likes it.

“Tomorrow morning,” he’d told his friend; “I’ll come by tomorrow morning”

The only trace of the world, in fact, is the cool breeze against the back of his neck and lower back where his shirt rides up in his hunches position. The windows on both sides are open just a touch because they were cold when they got into the car but Brad’s heater takes a lifetime to cool down again, so they’re stuck with it now. He’ll let the world creep in for the sake of not wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

Spencer pulls one arm away only for a moment; just long enough to get his pants undone, because Brad’s been so close to where he needs him for so long, but the restriction won’t let it be. His fly’s not even half-way down before Brad’s hands sliding down, and Spencer’s choking out a gasp around him.

“Sh-shit, Spencer, that's so good, you’re—” For half a second Brad goes from tugging to patting his hair, trying his hand at a softer kind of intimacy. That is until Spencer hums a moan, and the man’s fingers are buried deep again as his knuckles press into the back of Spencer’s head. Thank God.

***

The younger kids are too engrossed in juice, milk and sandwiches to bother them for a while, as they sit together at a table; small compared to the rest, in the corner of the large room. The best top 40 is playing over the speakers but the quality is so bad that it takes about half of each song for Spencer to actually distinguish what it actually is from the bass-line alone.

“Where did you do it, then?” Brad’s whispering, but he doesn’t need to, not over the squawking children and gritty music.

He really enjoys speaking to Brad now that he’s older and experiencing more things to make him feel… Well, a little more grown-up, he supposes. Brad for sure feels the same though. Spencer can tell by the conversations they have that Bradley sees how mature he is now.

He hums around his sandwich, stalling for a second to swallow before he shrugs. “In the bathroom.”

“At school? Jeeze, Spencer, I—”

“No.” Spencer air-bats him away with his empty hand, but Brad doesn’t look disgusted anyway. Elated, if anything. “At his house. No, I told you I wouldn’t do stuff at school. S’too weird.”

The man seems to contemplate this for a while, mushing ham and bread between his teeth as he thinks. “It’s only been two months; how did you manage that? I mean—” He waves a hand, then places it on his chest earnestly, although there’s a hint of jest in his voice as he says, “I get it: a good-looking guy like you and all. But two months and you’re already—”

“High school guys are way different,” Spencer interrupts. “You know, there’s two fags in m—”

“Spencer.”

“Sorry—two… Gay kids in my grade. Nobody even cares.” He shrugs. A lot of the kids at school throw around words like that. Spencer’s learnt to do it to protect himself. Makes him wonder who else is doing the same.

The man’s knee knocks his own under the table as he wiggles his brows. “Is that who it was? One of the gay kids?”

And God, he feels so damn smug. “Nope. Some music kid. Plays the piano. Hot, right?”

Brad hums, lips curled upward as he nods, but it falls when Jamie, one of the younger kids in the group -stark blonde-white hair and little to no weight on him- stumbles to a stop after sprinting toward their table. He looks teary, blubbers something incoherent about an apple that was actually a pear and something being squidgy and bad. Brad must make sense of it because he picks his apple up from the table and hand sit over, and just like that, Jamie’s smiling again and scampering off.

“Did he do it back,” the man asks once they’re alone again, fidgeting in his seat as he leans towards him a little, finding his hushed tone again. “I bet he did, didn’t he?”

And whatever was left of Spencer’s previous smug expression is wiped away as he shakes his head. Brad looks just as disappointed as Spencer had felt -still feels, a little- as the boy tells him, “freaked out letting a boy touch him.” Brad’s knee is slotted between his own now. He adds, “doesn’t stop me, does it?”

“You’re still on that?”

Spencer shrugs again. “I like girls.”

Bradley is quiet for a while, squinting accusingly, but Spencer doesn’t let it shake him. He takes another bite of his sandwich and returns the way the man’s leg seems to brush over his own, then back again. It’s clear that Brad’s trying to put words together in his head; trying to be smart about it. This usually comes right before he says something like--

“I think you like me.”

Something like that.

He shrugs again. What is there to say? Bradley is handsome and Spencer feels comfortable around him; more than the kind of comfort you feel around a curate of your father’s church - or a brother, even, despite how he’d originally been so desperate to find one in him. The kind of comfort that allows him to tell Bradley about his struggles with his faith on a Sunday morning, and then tell him about touching a guy from his high school in the kid’s mom’s en suite come Saturday evening.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Spencer nearly laughs. Brad can get a bit needy sometimes. He thinks he’s leading a conversation, but he ends up trying to cram words into Spencer’s mouth. It makes Spencer feel quite powerful, really. “It depends.” The man gives him a look, as if it say, ‘on?’ “Depends if you’d have done it back, I suppose.”

Somehow Bradley manages not to change his expression at all, but something happens to his eyes. They glass over or unfocus or… Something. Spencer feels like he’s lost him for a second as those eyes trail away from Spencer’s, and he thinks they trail down to his mouth, but then they carry on, and the man is just watching the table for a minute before he chuckles.

“Would you have?” Now Spencer’s doing the cramming, still smiling a little -can’t help it- as he watches Brad shake his head in amusement.

But then his friend’s not laughing. He’s looking around the room as he clears his throat, before slipping his knee from between Spencer’s and standing. He clears his throat again, mumbles, “you can’t ask that,” before he walks away like Spencer’s just said something to hurt his feelings.

***

The music’s on. Probably has been the whole time, but Spencer’s only now realising, now his mouths on Brad’s instead of his dick. His breath stutters against Brad’s lips, the man’s hand still slipped down the back of his pants and working, and it feels vulgar, even to Spencer; on his knees in the passenger side as he leans over to press his tongue between the teeth of the man behind the wheel. But it’s leading them to greater things.

Spencer pulls away, mouth trailing over Brad’s chin, down his throat, skipping his torso because his shirt is still on and, frankly, he’s not got the patience. His hand’s still around him and his lips are barely on him again before he’s being pulled back up by his hair, the man telling him, “hang on,” through a gasp as he pulls Spencer’s face back toward his own.

“Too good,” the man adds. “Still wanna fuck you.” He’s only recently started getting bold like that. “Can I—” If there was more to the question, he doesn’t bother to add it.

Already impatient again, Spencer’s mouth strays to his jaw, his breath soon against Brad’s ear as he says, between hiccups of breath, “yes please.”

***

“I finally did it.” He can’t even bite back his smile, head tilted against the wall behind him, up towards where Bradley towers.

The man surely doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he’s smiling too, chuckling from low in his chest as he taps his fingertip against the wall where his hand rests beside Spencer’s head. The other is tugging the boy’s tie—a pure gesture intending not to loosen it, but to straighten it.

Brad tries to huff through his smile, eyes rolling as he asks, “what? What did you finally do?”

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, waiting a while for Brad to figure it out for himself as he watches his face, only inches from his own. Bradley makes no guesses though, even as his eyes trail down to Spencer’s mouth, who eventually says, “sucked off the biology guy.”

And he swears he sees Brad’s eyes lose focus, his pupils dilating before he drags his gaze from Spencer’s lips to the upper half of his face. He sways a little - or maybe Spencer arches from the wall; he’s not sure but, either way, they get so close for half a second that Brad’s crotch brushes against him, before the man seems to snap out of it; clears his throat and asks, “did he like it?”

He giggles. “What would you bet?”

The kids have only been gone for twenty minutes or so, but the canteen is almost clean; they’re in no rush, and it’s a good job, with the way Bradley takes his time to consider this, his hand coming up to brush his knuckles over the boy’s throat.

“Bet you’re good at it,” he decides, finally.

“Yeah? How’d you know?” He might be fishing, but it’s not as if he got a lot of feedback after the act. A rushed blowjob in a scrawny redhead’s bedroom whilst his mother vacuums the hallways outside wasn’t the best chance he could have had for a review.

Brad shrugs as he tells him, “you can just tell when someone’s good at it,” as his thumb catches Spencer’s chin and presses until his lips part.

He’s young but he’s not stupid; he gets the message.

Spencer raises his chin, doesn’t want to look nervous as he extends an arm to press his hand to the front of the man’s pants, and Brad’s eyes slip shut as he swallows, movements froze for a second until the very hand that had parted Spencer’s lips pushes the side of his head so far that he sends the boy to the floor.

“What are you doing?” He looks ill as he takes a few steps back before he turns and paces towards the exit.

**

“Sh-shit,” Brad’s moaning into Spencer’s hair, who gasps in turn as the man’s hips snap, pressing the back of his shoulders deeper into the car door.

The rough back seat burns a little as he’s pushed up with each thrust, but it’s not of great concern as the man above him groans into his ear and hooks an arm behind his leg to push closer, somehow managing to shift in the small space into a near-kneeling position and--

“Oh, fuck, there,” Spencer wines, short nails curling into his back to pull the man against him.

Brad straightens up (as much as one can in the back seat of a car) in favour of getting a view of Spencer’s face again as he reaches out to press his thumb to his lips like he’s so obsessed with doing. Spencer opens his mouth, humouring the man as he moans above him like it’s somehow more obscene than anything else they’ve done this evening.

**

His skin’s on fire. He fights the urge to press a hand between his legs, where he aches from having the man’s palm cup him only for a moment before Spencer had made the mistake of acknowledging it, hips raising from the passages seat as he whispered his name.

Spencer’s arm is aching now, in this new position. His palm slips against the car seat but it only brings them closer as Brad pants, “we can’t.”

Except his other hand is already in the man’s pants and has been for the past few minutes. He’s not sure how that happened really since it had started the other way around; making small talk as Brad’s hand wandered. He’d said, “don’t tell anybody,” before anything at all really happened, and the boy nodded.

Spencer asks, “can’t what,” as his nose bumps Brad’s, who turns his head away because they haven’t kissed yet, and apparently that’s where he draws the line. He tries to chase his mouth, but the man repeats the words; “please, we can’t,” even after reminding Spencer of how good he bets he’d look with his head in someone’s lap. Reminding being the keyword, because Lord knows they’ve had that conversation before.

He’s about to give up, retreat back to his own seat in defeat when the man says it again –“we can’t”- but then there’s a hand on the back of Spencer’s head, guiding him down as Brad repeats the same two words.

***

The friction burn had proven to be too much and, at some point, they’d switched places, now in Brad’s lap where the man sits in the right-hand back seat of the car, hands splayed over Spencer’s thighs or waist or throat.

They’re just catching their breaths now, Spencer’s hips just barely rolling, only a minute or so post-orgasm but still fighting the hum that creeps like it does. He’s leaning back, the back of the passenger headrest pressed to the base of his skull as he breathes.

“How d’you feel?”

‘Here we go,’ he thinks, but says, “good,” through a long sigh. He feels Brad’s fingers grace over his chest; feels his eyes on him, and Spencer’s feeling generous, so he adds, “thanks,” to put him out of his misery.

“You’re welcome.” He must have been waiting for it because the reply comes instantly. His arms wrap around Spencer’s waist and he pulls him back into his chest as he catches his breath.

***

“I don’t care, Spencer. It can’t happen again. It’s not right, it—”

“You started it,” Spencer argues, loud enough to drown Bradley out. “You—”

“I only did it for you!” Bradley must forget that they’re only parked at the end of Spencer’s driveway because he shouts so loud that it throws them both a little off-guard as he slams his palm into the wheel. “How could you be so— So- So selfish, Spencer? Gosh, do you really…” He’s whispering suddenly, glancing toward the house for any trace of a flickering light or twitching curtain, then continues when nothing happens. “Do you really think I’d just… Do that, for myself? What must you think of me.”

God knows why he feels so embarrassed about it all. He still feels it on his lips, in his mouth… He just wants to brush his teeth, take a shower, change his clothes.

He says, “you said…” but then shakes his head. “You touched me. First- you touched me first and I just--”

“Please.” Brad shakes his head, rubbing shaky hands over his face. He glances at the house again, then reaches over to switch off the engine. “I care about you, alright? I care about you so just. Please don’t make me regret… What we did.”

Spencer frowns—swallows and cringes. “Why would we do it if you didn’t… I mean you’re the one who.” He stops. Why repeat himself? “I’m confused.”

“I put you out of your misery, okay? This… Obsession you have, with sex, o-or with me, or associating sex with me, I don’t—I don’t know what it is, but it’s gotta end now. It’s done, so you can move on.”

Spencer gets out and slams the door so hard that the upstairs curtains do twitch as he storms up the driveway.

***

“We should get some food. There’s a twenty-four-hour place just past that—”

“I should get home. I’ve gotta meet a friend in the morning,” Spencer interrupts apologetically, back in the passage seat now with his clothes back on, save for the blazer in his lap. Good job it’s a Friday or his dad would have his head if he walked into the house still in his uniform at this hour. “But thanks.”

“Oh, c’mon, we’ll get it to go.”

Spencer shakes his head. “I’m not even hungry.”

Bradley sighs, slumping into his seat as he taps the steering wheel of the still-static car. “C’mon. After that, you won’t even get a bite to eat?”

He checks his phone briefly (11:24 pm) and shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Hey, you own me after that amaz—"

“I don’t owe you shit, Brad.” He doesn’t mean to snap, but he really doesn’t have the energy to be stuck here again, and the guy can be so fucking stubborn sometimes. “You wanted to have sex tonight, so did I, so we did. Now I’m tried.”

***

He’s not sure why he hadn’t expected it to hurt, but he hadn’t and it did.

It’s fine, obviously. It was good -kinda, he thinks- just… Not what he expected; on his feet; his palms imprinted with the backs of drawing pins; his pants still on and his ribs hitting the cabinet every other second. When Spencer called from his dad’s phone last week, a little drunk on the beer Oliver had snuck him, Brad had told him how fucking him from behind would be a waste; had said if he didn’t see his face, he’d be missing half the point. Then he’d laughed and said, “I’m only joking.”

It was hot though, he decides as he fixes his belt, leaning back against the storage unit and watching Brad as he does the same. They’re both catching their breaths and Spencer can’t fight his smile – tries to bite it away but ends up having to look down at his shoes instead. Brad’s already doing the same anyway, head down and shoulders up as he hurries to make himself decent.

“Was good,” he decides. He managed an orgasm and so did Brad, so it must have been good.

Bradley nods firmly, clearing his throat for some reason. “Better now?”

Spencer frowns. “Sure,” he tells him although he’s not sure what he’s referring to. He steps towards him, on his toes and with his fingers catching the back of his hair to pull the man in, who just turns his face away and presses both palms to Spencer’s chest, gently sending him back again. “What?”

“It’s out of our system.” He’s got his back to him next, starting to collect what they’d come in here for; cups, plates, tablecloths; check, check, check… “I’ve got this handled. The water cooler’s empty if you wanna…” He trails off.

“What?” What else if he meant to say?

He watches the man’s back as he reaches up and a damp patch on the back of his shirt clings to his skin as the rest of the cotton ripples. He pretends to forget Spencer’s there, clicking his tongue as he fills his arms; mumbles, “where’s the… ah, gotcha,” to himself. Then his hands are full and he doesn’t turn around, just… Fucking stands there facing the shelves, waiting.

“Stop it,” Spencer demands.

“The water cooler, Spencer.” His voice is so even, so patronising and slow.

The boy stammers a little, mouth opening and shutting, lost for words. “We just fucked,” he reminds him since he seems to want to pretend that they hadn’t.

“Don’t be vulgar, Spencer.”

“Quit saying my name like that. We just had sex, right here-“ He knocks the top of the cabinet, the metal shaking beneath his fist. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid if we—”

The pile of plastic plates and cups and cloths and whatever else he pretended to need slams onto the nearest box. Spencer jolts, elbow hitting the cabinet and rattling it harder than his knuckles had. “You are a kid.”

“Hardly. If I was a kid, I wouldn’t have—”

Brad leaves the crockery in the storage room with Spencer and lets the door slam behind him.

***

“You gonna eat that?” Brad’s side of the tray is empty, save from the tomatoes which he always refuses to eat. Spencer looks down at the last quarter of his burger and shakes his head, sliding it towards the man. Go ahead. Never was hungry anyway. “Thanks.”

He’s tempted to ask to get dropped off at J’s house after this. If he’s not at his door by nine tomorrow morning, the guy will sleep right through his alarm and, as a result, visiting hours. Then he’ll spend the rest of the day in bed -because why not?- and decided he’ll put off seeing his mom for yet another week, and drink himself into another pity party. No, Spencer doesn’t have the patience for that.

“After this, I gotta go through Westgate,” he mentions around his straw, leaning over to sip from it as he warms his hands between his thighs. It’s colder in here than it is outside. “That alright?”

“Thought you had to go home.”

Spencer looks at the digital clock over at the counter, glowing but flickering beside the ancient till. He tries not to make eye contact with the woman that’s stood over there, looking impatient as if the place isn’t open twenty-four hours. “No point – almost twelve anyway.”

He just shrugs. Nods. Swallows Spencer’s burger down. “How far past Westgate?

“Just off Oak Street? Where the gas station—”

“Oak Street? Who lives that way?”

Bradley accepts Spencer’s vague shrug, clearly not overly interested as he polishes off the rest of the food and tells Spencer to bring his coffee back to the car with him which, thankfully, is still a hell of a lot warmer than it was in the café. He takes back all the mental curses he’d made about the slow-cooling heater when the slight crack of the windows wasn’t even close to satisfying twenty minute ago. Still, though, he’s got his sleeves pulled over his hands as he holds his ice coffee with a little less security than Brad would probably have liked, but the car really is old, and the man can’t care that much, with only one idle hand on the wheel as the other moves conspicuously over his own thigh.

He’s hard again. Spencer rolls his eyes.

[blancheludis]

A/N: @iron-man-bingo​ square: Hanahaki Disease

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Relationship: Tony Stark / Steve Rogers / Bucky Barnes Words: 8.332 Tags: Unrequited Love, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Sick Tony, Angst, Happy Ending

Summary: A whole bouquet worth of flowers ends up on their bed the night of the wedding, the colours almost sombre. “Well,” Steve says and stops unbuttoning his shirt, “I guess we married for nothing.”

- Tony is dying from unrequited love for Captain America, who is first a dead hero and then a very alive one just as disinterested in Tony as Howard had always promised.

---

A whole bouquet worth of flowers ends up on their bed the night of the wedding, the colours almost sombre.

“Well,” Steve says and stops unbuttoning his shirt, “I guess we married for nothing.”

He leaves the room, careful not to touch any of the petals, not looking back when Tony’s breathing becomes laboured.

There is nothing he could do anyway. Love cannot be forced, not even for a dying man.

---

Tony is a special case. Once he is old enough to realize that, it does not even surprise him anymore. Starks are always held to a different standard.

His mother takes him to a doctor when he develops breathing problems at just five years old. The inhaler does not help but being away from Howard does.

He is eight the first time he coughs up a flower. It is the day he finally begins believing his father when he says that someone as brilliant as Captain America could never love someone as pathetic as Tony.

Tony knows what is happening, but he is not yet cynical enough to laugh about it. Instead, he locks himself into his room and cries, cradling the perfect blue forget-me-not.

People have always been saying he is special. He just did not think that would mean he would die from unrequited love for a dead man.

---

Tony turns ten and physicians call him a miracle. He turns twelve and fifteen and eighteen, and people call him an abomination.

His lungs do not get progressively worse. Some days he can barely breathe, choking up flowers of every colour. Some days his throat barely scratches.

Once he moves out of the mansion, Tony almost feels like a normal boy, not meant to wither before he has managed to grow roots. It is the little things that throw him back; nightmares or anniversaries or articles about World War II. Sometimes the American flag is enough to steal the air from his lungs.

He does not make sense. His chest is growing ever tighter, but he fights it. He gives up just as often but this disease has never been about what he wants.

Tony has always been Death’s favoured child. It is life that does not seem to know what to do with him.

---

The day they find Captain America in the ice, the air has never tasted sweeter. Tony feels like soaring, only marginally worrying about the crash. His heart beats strongly, pushing enough oxygen through his veins that he has the energy to smile, to hope.

The next morning, he reads an article in the newspaper, showing a picture of Howard and the Captain shaking hands. Howard is staring directly at the camera. His smile is happy enough, but his eyes seem to look at Tony alone, holding the familiar disdain.

This is not for you, he seems to say, and while Tony’s brain fights that thought, his lungs feel already on the verge of collapsing.

If only Tony could have gotten there before Howard. If only he could have managed to make his own first impression. Howard likes to say that Tony ruins everything he touches. This time, it seems, he will not even be allowed to touch.

Well, he is equally good at ruining himself. And it would be a shame for all that practice to go to waste.

---

“That is one hell of a favour, Howard.”

Tony does not mean to eavesdrop, but Captain America is in their house, and the physical need to catch a glimpse or at least to hear his voice is overwhelming. He has been wheezing all evening, unable to get enough air into his lungs. He is so used to the lack of oxygen that it is the easiest thing in the world to hold his breath as he lingers outside his father’s office.

“I know, and I wouldn’t ask if –” That is Howard. Tony would know his voice anywhere, if not this tone. It holds the usual annoyance it does when it comes to discussing Tony, but it is also so much gentler than Tony has ever heard it.

“He’s your son, I know.”  Captain America sighs. Nothing good has ever come of people reminding Howard that he is related to Tony.

“It’s more of a hero worship thing anyway,” Howard scoffs, as if it is nothing. “This has been going on forever. But it’s getting worse lately.”

Captain America hums, and Tony wishes he could see his face, just to know how bad the contempt is. “Since you found me.”

Tony thinks of finding out that Captain America has been found alongside the rest of the public, although his father must have known. He thinks of all the mornings spent wheezing and clawing at his chest, and that he cannot get to the second floor of the mansion without taking a break halfway up.

It is getting worse, indeed. Even now, he feels his insides congealing and spreading roots locking his diaphragm in place.

“He is the reason I never stopped looking,” Howard says, revealing the only reason he suffered Tony’s antics at all. “It meant you couldn’t be dead, yes?”

A long moment of silence follows, in which Tony wants nothing more than to sneak forward and catch a glance. He does not know exactly what favour Howard is asking for, but it cannot be good, it never is when it involves Tony.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Captain America finally says but sounds like a man sent to his execution.

It is funny, how Tony’s lungs react to that as if someone has reached out to strangle him. All his sneaking around will not save him if he gets into a coughing fit right now, so Tony turns around to hurry back to his room, both satisfied to have at least heard the man he somehow loves, but utterly dejected that everything is already in ruins.

“Don’t force anything,” Howard says right before Tony is out of earshot. “He’s an entitled brat, he’ll have to get over it.”

He has tried so very hard. That has only ever made everything worse.

Steve does come to see him the next day, his face hard and his shoulders tense. It is obvious he is only here as a favour for Howard, and as much as Tony is thrilled to actually meet Captain America, he does not like pity. He might be dying, but he is not a charity case.

It is no surprise then that he ruins his own chances, whatever little there had been.

The first thing he tells Steve is, “My, those World War II posters did not exaggerate your shoulders-to-waist ratio.”

That just speeds up their never coming together.

Death is what they make their money with. They put weapons into people’s hands and they complain about the way the earth gets stained red. There is always a bigger stick to be had, though, and they have a knack for building that.

Tony is not afraid of dying. Death has always been a part of his life. He is afraid of dying alone, although that is what he has always known. Mostly, he is afraid of waiting for it.

It has been almost a decade since he has couched up his first petal, and he has long since given up on collecting them. He could have filled his room ten times over with that collection of tangible grief.

He has once laid out Captain America’s shield, life-sized and blood-specked. At the sight of it, he could not help but laugh. Long enough and hard enough that he could almost convince himself he was choking on laughter instead of love.

---

Half a year into their ill-advised marriage, Howard does Tony the favour of getting himself killed. There is some poetic justice to the fact that Tony outlives him after all, despite having been declared all but dead by Howard the moment he was diagnosed.

This way, he can stand next to his father’s grave and enjoy the way the air flows freely into his lungs. Tony has not contributed a single petal to the dozens of bouquets brought in Howard’s honour.

Less satisfying is the actual grief on Steve’s face, who is at the very front of the men volunteering to carry Howard’s body to its last resting place. That red-eyed expression holds more love than Steve ever showed for Tony. He can only imagine how different his own funeral will be.

It does not matter. He has outrun fate for so long already, he does not mind it coming ever closer anymore. For now, life has become so much sweeter.

“You really are heartless,” Steve hisses to him later, when the guests are gone and Tony is ready to fall into bed for the rewarding sleep of the fatherless.

“If I didn’t have a heart, I’d have so many less problems,” Tony replies lightly, looking his husband up and down to make it clear what he means. “So I’m all for getting rid of it.”

For a moment, Steve looks ready to help him with that. And he could. Those hands would be able to pry Tony’s ribcage open. He is already turning the inside of his chest into a wasteland. It is all just taking too long.

“You disgust me,” Steve says, facing him square-shouldered and unmoveable.

“I know.” That has been obvious from the very beginning.

With a shrug, Tony turns away. He has more important things to do. He now has one father-shaped problem less. At the same time, however, he gains a new one: the Winter Soldier.

He is sure that is going to blow up in his face.

---

“I found your friend,” Tony blurts out one night.

He is on his way down to the workshop and has not seen Steve in over a week. Tony makes it easy to avoid each other, which is in both their interest.

“What?” Steve grunts, not happy with being stopped in the hallway. Living together is only bearable when they pretend there is no one else in the house. “Who?”

Immediately, Tony curses himself. This is not something he actually wants to get into with Steve. It is not exactly his secret to keep, but things are easier when they do not talk.

“Barnes?” he asks more than tells. “Well, he’s calling himself the Asset these days. You know, the guy who tried to kill you?”

Steve is on him without warning, cutting off Tony’s babbling with an angry arm against Tony’s throat. “What did you do?”

Tony barely even flinches. This is the closes he has been to Steve since the wedding ceremony. He hates himself for it, but it feels good, like coming home, even with Steve’s anger pushing all the air out of his lungs.

“Careful with the throat, husband,” Tony says. Sometimes it seems like sarcasm is the only weapon he has left against the world, and even that is quickly fading, since his voice is giving out. “Didn’t anyone tell you I have breathing problems even without you threatening to beat me up?”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes,” Steve snarls, coming even closer.

“Funny, neither am I.” Black spots appear in Tony’s vision, but he has fought past that before. He goes limp in Steve’s hold, signals defeat, because he is going to end up being beaten down anyway. If not by Steve, then by his own body betraying him. “Barnes is in a secure facility. He was wounded. And I’m vetting psychiatrists to help him.”

This is obviously not what Steve expected him to say. In his surprise, he backs up a bit, enough to release the pressure on Tony’s windpipe. Breathing does not get any easier.

“Why would you do that?” Steve asks, staring down at Tony as if he is the reason for everything bad in his life.

Tony smirks. He knows that look and latches onto it with all he has. It is better than that wounded expression in Steve’s eyes, that fragile hope that has never been for Tony. Never will be either.

“Because, in my all-encompassing love for you,” he shows his teeth, mocking himself, “I can’t stand the thought of you withering away once I’m dead, so I thought I’d give you your best friend back.”

That is enough to destroy whatever goodwill Steve might have momentarily had for Tony, for he leans down, hand hovering threateningly over Tony’s throat again.

“If you’ve harmed a single hair on his head –”

Tony has heard so many variants of what comes after the pregnant pause that he chokes out a laugh. He is unbelievably glad when no petals come up with it.

“My, you don’t sound grateful,” Tony says with fake cheer. His voice is too high to pretend that he is not half-suffocating.

“Where is he?” Steve asks, his breath warm on Tony’s skin. It flows so freely, making Tony stare in wonder.

“I’ll send you the coordinates,” he promises quietly. As much as Tony yearns for Steve’s presence, being this close to him is unbearable. “Pack something warm, honey.”

---

In the early days after being diagnosed, Tony was interested in the science of all this. How can he be dying from something inevitable? A dead man cannot love him back. It does not make sense.

And yet.

He should be dead ten times over by now. Unwanted, unloved, never good enough.

And yet.

He wants to be dead, too. Dead people do not need to breathe. He has practiced that for most of his life already.

 And yet.

---

For a ghost, Barnes looks good. He has long washed off any visible traces of having been in HYDRA’s care. His hair is cut, his clothes are neat, his arm is repaired. The terror still sits deep in his eyes, but time will deal with that.

“Who’re you?” Barnes asks when Tony strolls into the room.

He sounds curious more than defensive, and Tony revels in the anonymity.

“Tony,” he says shortly, waiting for recognition that never comes. Perhaps Steve has not told his best friend about his pathetic excuse of a husband. “I helped working on BARF.”

That is the simplest explanation he can give without saying that he pulled Barnes away from HYDRA and then stayed up day and night to create something that could deal with both their nightmares, imagined and real.

“So you’re here to collect some data?” Barnes shifts uncomfortably but makes no move to stop Tony when he sits down on the couch, a good few feet away.

“No.” Tony shrugs. The data he needs is not something he can measure. It has more to do with how much Steve loves this man, enough to be almost civil to Tony, even though he can usually not stand to even look at him. “I can see that it worked. I wanted to ask if you need anything.”

Barnes’ face darkens. Somehow, Tony has managed to upset him within moments of meeting him. That truly is a specialty of his.

“People are asking me that all day.”

Tony shrugs, pretending that it does not become hard to breathe already. “Must be because you look so lost all the time.” He knows a bit about that, but he is not here to bond with Barnes, even if that were possible. Steve would never forgive him.

“Do you –”

Three things happen simultaneously. Barnes’ face grows soft and guarded at the same time. Tony’s windpipe fills up with dread and flowers. Then steps grow loud and Steve comes into view, his expression pinched and ready to start shouting.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks, sidling up to Barnes, ready to jump in front of him.

What do they think? That Tony would go to all this trouble only to harm Barnes right in front of Steve? People say he is petty, but all Tony has ever been trying to do is to survive. Hurting others on purpose has never helped with that.

“Hello to you too, darling,” Tony greets with burning sweetness. “I was just having a chat with our guest.”

He leans back in his seat, making it look like insolence instead of a means to hide his trembling muscles. Steve’s hate is always making him so weak.

“How about you stay away from him?” Steve snarls. Tony would not be surprised if Steve reached out to throw him bodily out of the room.

Ironically, it is Barnes who saves him. He reaches up to lay his hand on Steve’s arm. That touch works like a miracle. “Steve, what is going on?”

When they look at each other, Tony barely recognizes Steve. He has never seen his face so open, vulnerable, loving. If he would look at Tony like that even one time, Tony is sure he would be cured. At the very least, he would die a happy man.

“Stark has a habit of ruining everything he touches,” Steve explains in a dismissive tone, reducing Tony to nothing more than his failures – not that there is much more to show anyway.

Barnes frowns and glances at Tony briefly. “I heard he found me and brought me back.”

That sounds close enough to someone standing up for Tony that he misses his chance to speak up.

“And I’m still trying to find out why,” Steve says, ruining whatever first impression Tony might have made with Barnes.

Tony’s anger is a living thing, much like the grief growing in his lungs. He does not attempt to hold it back when it roars.

“Is that how you won the war?” Tony asks, voice cutting. “By suspecting everyone is the enemy and simply punching anything that moved?” Sometimes all the derision he has for himself can be channelled against whoever is in his way. It does not help making him feel better, but he does not need any more scars either.

Getting to his feet in as smooth a motion as he manages with how weak his legs are, Tony adds, “I don’t mean Barnes any harm. Otherwise I would have hardly gone to all this effort.”

It is simple logic, but Steve is naturally immune to that. “You’re desperate,” he spits out, almost causing Tony to laugh.

Desperation is for those who still have hopes to be stripped away from them.

“Why? Because I’m dying?” Tony questions gently. He is not quite sure how he remains steady on his feet while being numb all over. “I’ve known that for over two decades. I’m just waiting for my lungs to hurry up and give out.” Oh, how long he has waited.

Turning, Tony fixes his eyes on the door. He will leave. He does not know where he will go, but it does not matter. There is no such thing as a right place to die in.

“Who are you?” Barnes’ voice stops him just before he can escape the scene.

“Tony Stark. Sorry for omitting the last name.” Just about everyone would be happier if he had a different one. If he were a different person or simply no one at all.

Barnes clears his throat, clearly aware of the minefield he is navigating. “I mean, who are you to each other?”

Steve opens his mouth, but Tony cannot bear to listen to him.

“Captain Spangles and I? Nothing,” he hurries to say. “We’re married, but Howard did that most likely so Steve could inherit.” Tony straightens. He has always met his fate with his head unbowed. “Smile. Once I’m gone the two of you will be dizzyingly rich.”

Sooner rather than later now. Then again, Tony has been hoping so for years.

Once he is in the privacy of his own room, Tony coughs up enough flowers to drown himself in them. He buries his face in them, smells their sweetness, and wishes he could disappear.

---

For all that they can go weeks without seeing each other, Steve on a warpath always finds Tony. There is no hiding from Steve’s temper. It is almost as if they are connected after all, pulled together but only when emotions are running high.

Tony has his own alarm system, though, and for once he does not mean JARVIS. A whole minute before the door to his study is thrown open, Tony’s throat constricts and he knows he will not get any more work done this evening.

The knee-jerk reaction of Tony’s body to Steve’s presence is immediate and terrifying. As soon as Steve fills out the doorway, Tony’s spine straightens and he leans forward, as if one inch less of physical distance will actually bring them closer together. Tony’s head might be yelling at him to call it quits, to leave and try to save of himself what he can, but his life has not actually been dictated by his head for a very long time.

Even with fury filling his eyes, Steve looks glorious. Lately, Tony has been looking more again, because Steve’s qualities are only enhanced with Barnes there to balance them out. The more often he shows himself, the more time he spends coughing up his lungs piece by piece. He used to be better at secluding himself, but something about Steve and Barnes together makes it impossible to stay away.

“What are you even still doing here?” Steve spats after glaring at Tony for long seconds.

Tony wonders what prompted this – and, a bitter voice in his head adds, whether Steve means what he is still doing here in the house or why he is still alive. Tony only has an answer to one of these questions.

“This is still my home, darling. I’m not yet dead,” Tony answers. He would be proud of how calm his voice is, if it were not due to the sudden dryness of his mouth, courtesy of the mounting pressure inside his chest.

Steve takes a step forward but then thinks better of it, as if Tony is contagious, and remains hovering in front of the only exit of the room. “You have other houses.”

Tony’s lips pull up into something that wants to be a smirk, but he is too exhausted for it. “And I like the view from this one.”

He likes the view inside it much more, but he does not say that. The fastest way to stop his lungs from cooperating at all, is to make Steve even angrier at him. Funny, how that works.

“We don’t want you here,” Steve argues stubbornly, as if want has ever made anything right. Tony is the walking definition of want gone awry.

“First off, you should stop talking for Barnes as if he doesn’t have a voice of his own. HYDRA did that long enough,” Tony says, although defending Barnes should not be at the top of his priorities. He knows what it is like to not be able to make decisions for himself. “And second, you agreed to living with me in the marriage contract you made with Howard. That means here, in one house. Deal with it.”

Right in front of him, Steve becomes livid. His hands curl into fists that Tony imagines he can already feel sinking into his flesh. It might be nice to feel some pain that does not generate from the disease growing inside his chest, to blame his misery on something not of his own making for once.

“Stay away from Bucky,” Steve orders, the words coming out flat and threatening.

“Perhaps you should tell your buddy to stay away from me,” Tony says, somehow managing to make his tone mocking, despite being almost out of air. “I’m hardly in running shape.”

“I mean it,” Steve says darkly, taking that step forward now as if he needs to loom over Tony to prove his superiority. “Leave us alone.”

Tony smiles, feels the skin stretching over his bones. “Patience is a virtue, Captain, and it’s not going to be that much longer.”

Without missing a beat, Steve says, “You’ve been promising that for a while now.”

Tony cannot help but flinch. As much as he has been waiting for release for years now, it hits much harder to hear the man he somehow loves wish him dead. “Get out.”

“You have to –”

The pressure inside Tony’s chest becomes unbearable, but he does not want to break down in front of Steve, does not want to cough out the proof of his unmet desire for Steve to see. Eyes watering, he bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste is familiar enough to ground him a bit.

“Get. Out,” he snarls. Maybe it is the ferocity in his choked voice or the blood staining his lips, but Steve turns around and leaves.

He does not have the courtesy to close the door behind him, allowing everyone passing by a perfect view of Tony dissolving into a wheezing bundle of pain.

Death should definitely hurry up, Tony decides as he lies on the floor of his study, a sea of petals around him, because this life is not one he cares to have anymore.

---

Barnes has been sitting in Tony’s workshop for hours now. Allowing him in might not be the best idea Tony ever had – his ears are already ringing from simply imagining Steve’s shouting about it – but there was no way he could turn Barnes away when he came down here, shoulders slumped and exhaustion radiating off him in waves.

Tony can immerse himself in his work easily enough to ignore someone else’s presence, but that it is Barnes of all people is just as unnerving as the fact that his throat is already scratching with the threat of coughing, even though Steve is nowhere in sight.

“You built my arm, yes?” Barnes asks after what could have been hours of simply watching in wonder – or judgement. Tony is not sure which.

Tony nods and wipes sweat from his forehead, using the motion to rub at his sternum, willing the building pressure away. “Your old one was shit.”

“That’s not –” A frown flickers over Barnes’ face. “Why?”

This is a loaded question, and Tony is not getting into that with Barnes. “Building is about the only thing I’m good at. So why wouldn’t I?” he asks flippantly, hoping to deflect.

The frown is back, harder now. “You don’t like me.”

“Wrong,” Tony says but allows himself a small smile. “I don’t know you enough to like or dislike you. Steve loves you, though. He usually has a good instinct where it comes to people.”

With some serious exceptions, of course. Howard is not a good person, no matter who says it. He might have been once, but something turned him into a mess. Perhaps that is Tony’s fault too. He is so good at that.

“And yet he doesn’t seem to like you,” Barnes says, sounding contemplative.

“Your point being?” Tony asks, turning away to hide the irritation on his face. He does not need to be reminded of that. “Anyway, does Steve know you’re here?”

To Tony’s utter surprise, Barnes’ answer is prompt and firm. “No.” It almost sounds like he is running from something too.

When Tony looks at his expression, though, it does not betray anything.

“Don’t mind me denying all responsibility for your coming here,” he says slowly, hoping to not offend. “I might be tired of living, but I don’t want to go out being crushed by a supersoldier.”

Instead of reacting with a smile or simply more of that blank expression, Barnes looks unhappy, staring at Tony like he wants to decipher him but does not know where to start.

“You love him.”

Laughter bursts over Tony’s lips, scratching as much on the way up as the flowers do that he coughs up so regularly.

“I guess so,” Tony says, mouth stretching into a dead man’s grin. “I mean, otherwise that whole suffocating from unrequited love thing would be even more ironic.”

Barnes does not say anything to that, although he looks like he wants to. Then he lowers his head and stares at the metal fingers curled in his lap.

“Do you mind if I stay for a bit?” he asks an eternity later, sounding small.

Tony knows all about sanctuaries, about safe places to hide away in. He cannot begin to explain why Barnes would choose this, meaning he has to put up with Tony’s presence, but he would not deny it to him. “Knock yourself out.”

For the entirety of the time that Barnes spends down in the workshop with him after that, Tony does not have trouble breathing even once.

---

Tony finds them making out in his living room. He does not need to see Steve’s face to recognize the shape of his back, and Bucky’s arm stands out darkly against Steve’s bare skin.

The thing is, Tony thinks first about hygiene and the poor staff that might be stumbling over the sight, before he realizes his husband is cheating on him right in front of his eyes. It is not unsurprising, nor does it hurt him worse than a thousand other things Steve has done ever since they married. The shock slams into him with unforeseen strength, though. Where he has just been breathing, his lungs are now filled with the scratching stuffiness of a sea of flowers.

The practical part of Tony’s brain finds the reaction a little exaggerated but the rest of him is rendered helpless, unable to turn his stare away from the two men moving in perfect synchrony. They compliment each other so well, it belies all of Tony’s little fantasies about being a good counterpart to Steve.

The scene before him makes him obsolete. Neither of them needs him. Nobody does in the whole wide world. Anthony Edward Stark, heir to the greatest weapons manufacturing company in the world, genius in his own right – and nobody will even notice once he is gone.

“Wanna join?” Bucky’s voice washes like dark velvet over Tony’s skin. His gaze is on Tony with a relaxed leisure of a predator already satiated.

Tony is not a danger to them. Still, when Steve looks up, there is a hunger in his eyes that has Tony shivering. If only Steve would look at him like that once. He does not, though. But his scowl does not look very intimidating in his current state, naked and utterly at home.

“Don’t tempt him,” he says, his sneer just a necessity instead of something actually felt. “Stark doesn’t have any shame.”

And Tony has not. He would give one of his limbs, perhaps all of them, if he could slip between these two men and have them hold him like they mean it.

“As far as I remember, you don’t have either,” Bucky purrs, speaking to Steve but never taking his eyes off Tony. “I’m sure you have enough energy for both of us.”

“The though alone works better than a cold shower.”

It is banter between lovers. For once, Tony is sure Steve does not aim to hurt. It still does, of course, but Tony is used to that. What is new is the longing shooting through him, not only at the thought of Steve, but at watching Bucky sprawl out right next to him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says hastily and turns around to run.

In his back he hears the rumbling voice of Steve and Bucky’s resounding laughter. It stays with him for days.

---

The first time Bucky kisses Tony, it knocks the air out of his lungs in an entirely pleasant way. Breathlessness has always been tinged with fear or panic before. Now, however, it tastes distinctly of hope – not to be cured, Tony is not as naïve as that, but perhaps to die not completely unloved.

“What was that?” Tony asks when they separate, trying not to sound ungrateful but needing to know.

“You –”

Steve bursts in, showing that Tony might not be the only one with a talent for bad timing. He stops short in the doorway, looking suspiciously at how close Tony and Bucky are standing.

“What is going on?” he asks,

This time, Bucky does not hesitate to answer. “Nothing.”

It is not nothing that Tony coughs up that night.

---

The first time Steve kisses Tony, they are being watched.

“This is just an experiment,” Steve growls, looking like he would prefer being anywhere but here.

His lips are hard and unforgiving when he presses them on Tony’s, but Tony melts into the touch nonetheless. They have not even kissed at the wedding, since Steve was too busy getting out of there as soon as the priest had stopped talking.

Tony feels something move inside his chest, and while he is used to all kinds of pains and pressures, he cannot be sure what it means.

“And?” Bucky asks when they part.

Steve’s expression says more than words. He wipes his mouth and hastily takes a step back. “Nothing.”

This has become the ultimate answer between the three of them. Still, Bucky does not react how Tony would have expected, does not turn away and take Steve with him, considering this particular matter dealt with. Instead, he looks at Tony, waiting for an answer from him.

“I don’t –” Tony starts, stumbling over the words because he cannot get his mind to stop racing. “It doesn’t react to touch alone.”

It is easier to hold onto scientific facts than to make sense of feelings. Although Tony has always been an anomaly

“I told you so,” Steve says shortly and finally turns to go. Bucky lingers as if to make sure that Tony will be all right, but leaves when Tony shakes his head.

Then they are gone and Tony allows himself to try to take a deep breath. The air catches the way he is used to but – no buts. Everything is the same. Thinking anything else would be foolish, just because he does not lie on the ground, coughing his lungs up at this newest development. That will come again soon enough.

---

Sometimes, Steve scares Tony just by being able to sneak up on him. It is not normally a problem, considering they do their best to stay out of each other’s way, but it also makes it impossible for Tony to know when Steve is coming for him.

(Sometimes, Steve does not have to do anything to scare Tony. His mere existence is enough to strike an unearthly fear in his heart.)

This time, Tony does hear Steve’s steps coming closer. He does not know that it is Steve at first, but he would recognize Bucky’s, and barely anyone else comes here. Still, it is a surprise to see Steve appearing at the door to the workshop, raising his hand to knock.

All of that has Tony immediately on edge.

Still, he lets Steve in. He is not in the habit of making things unnecessarily harder on himself, and rejecting the man he is dying for would certainly fall into that category.

“Let him in, J,” he orders quietly, making sure to keep a workbench between himself and the door. That is nothing more than an illusion of safety, considering that even without his lungs being as they are, he could never outrun Captain America.

Steve step into the workshop but stays within a hasty stride from the door. Neither of them expects this to go well then.

“Bucky told me I should apologize to you,” Steve then says, the usual derision absent from his tone.

Bucky then. Tony should have known that much. For the past weeks, Bucky has assigned himself as the peacekeeper of the house, taking on the thankless job of trying to get Tony and Steve to get along. Sending Steve here like they are in elementary school and a forced handshake would make them friends again is just sad.

“What for?” Tony asks warily, still ready for the blows that are surely to follow.

“You –” Steve pauses and looks away. Tony envies him for the deep breath he takes. “You have done a lot for us.”

A humourless smiles spreads on Tony’s lips. He and his condition have make everyone he comes in contact with miserable.

“If you mean building that arm for Buc- Barnes, he has already thanked me for it,” Tony says, biting his tongue at his near blunder. Bucky is already too friendly to him when they meet. If Steve finds out, thing will only get worse. “Even though he didn’t need to.”

“It’s not just that,” Steve replies quickly. He looks uncomfortable of all things. “You – we didn’t get off on a good start, and you still let me move in with you, even if I didn’t even speak to you.” That was a clause in their marriage contract to make Tony’s death a little more comfortable, not that it really works out this way. “You made this Bucky’s home too. You’re a better person than –” He shrugs helpless.

Better than what? Than Howard said? Or the gossip rags? Better than Steve feared? Better than the horrible disaster of a human being everyone thinks him to be?

“Don’t,” Tony cuts him off almost gently. “You’ll think differently again soon enough. Let’s just keep things how they are.”

He does not think he could take it if they tried to turn this into something better and failed. Tony likes to know where he is at, and he can deal better with Steve’s hate than this uncertainty, ready to backfire on them any moment now.

When Tony turns back to his word, breathing as shallowly as possible to not get a coughing fit right here, Steve uses his opportunity to flee. It is bad that the walls are transparent. This way, Tony sees that Steve does not look back at him.

---

“Captain Rogers is asking whether you have time to come up for lunch,” JARVIS asks, interrupting Tony’s work.

Putting the soldering iron down, Tony frowns at the nearest camera. “Did someone break into the server room and munch at your cables?” he asks, wiping some sweat from his forehead. He does not take the request serious for a single minute.

“Not at all,” JARVIS replies lightly. With a hint of scolding in his tone, he adds, “I heard that human bodies need regular nutrition, although that might be a foreign concept for you. That is why I relayed the request.”

Tony loves how nuanced JARVIS is getting, how he uses sarcasm and trickery. Sometimes he feels more like a human being than Tony manages to be on his good days.

“You got the names confused,” he cautions, wondering whether the latest update might have done more damage than good. “You meant Sergeant Barnes.”

“No, sir,” JARVIS says without hesitation, causing Tony’s frown to grow. “Captain Rogers asked for your presence.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Tony repeats stubbornly because, frankly, nothing else makes sense. “Bucky. Dark hair, metal arm. You should have seen him around down here. Do I have to do maintenance on your sensors?”

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS answers, endlessly patient but also slightly amused. “Tall, blond and, to quote you, unbearably muscular, I’m positive.”

Tony stares. “That makes no sense,” he mutters as he waits for his racing thoughts to form into something useful, something to explain this sudden turn of events.

“Perhaps you should go upstairs and find out for yourself.”

JARVIS sounds so sure, but there is no way that Steve, who hates him, would ever invite him for lunch, not even if Bucky pushed him to do so. Steve has registered all of Bucky’s small kindnesses over the past weeks with growing discomfort.

“You wouldn’t prank me, right?” Tony asks his AI.

Entirely unhelpful, JARVIS answers, “Your well-being is my highest priority.”

Because Tony made it so. Sometimes he feels guilty for it. He created a thinking and arguably feeling person, body or not, and then commanded him to care for Tony. He would not trade JARVIS’ company for anything, but it sometimes makes him wonder whether Steve’s assessment of him might just be right.

“That could also mean you want me to smile more, which would make a prank more than possible,” Tony says dryly, not hinting at his thoughts. His kid deserves better than to be pulled into his doubts.

“Only one way to find out,” JARVIS replies cheekily.

There are more, of course. Tony could watch the camera feed from the kitchen or turn on the intercom. He even has some miniature drones lying around he could send out to spy for him. He does not.

Instead, he saves his progress and puts his tools away safely, and takes a leap of faith.

The way to the kitchen is both too long and too short. Several times, Tony has to force himself not to turn around, and yet he has not nearly prepared himself enough for whatever he might find when he is already standing in front of the door. Gathering the last bits of his confidence, he goes in.

They are sitting at the table, lunch in front of them, but they have not yet started eating. There really is a third plate, and neither of them look surprised at his sudden arrival. Still, the atmosphere is tense and not exactly welcoming.

Tony does not dare to step farther into the room. He sees everything he needs to just fine from the doorway.

“There you are,” Bucky greets him as if they have lunch together all the time.

Tony only glances at him before his eyes fall on Steve and refuse to leave him again Everything stands and falls with Steve’s reaction He already feels a slight scratchiness in his throat.

“JARVIS said you –” want is the wrong word and it does not pass over Tony’s lips, “requested my presence.”

“He told us you haven’t had lunch yet,” Steve says cautiously, “so I thought we might eat together.”

It feels stilted and formal and wrong, the way they face each other and take so much care with what they say. Tony does not move closer to the table – at least he is not running away either, although he still cannot make sense of the situation.

“Just sit down, Tony,” Bucky sighs exaggeratedly, as if Tony is the one who has suddenly turned mad. “It’s just lunch, not rocket science.”

Building a functioning rocket from scratch would still be a better prospect than sitting down to eat with his husband.

“It’s Italian,” Steve adds quietly, “Howard told me your mother was from Italy.”

Irrational anger rises in Tony at the mentions of his mother. Steve has already taken his father from him, he cannot lay claim to Maria too. Still, there is something earnest to Steve’s expression, something that has, up until now, usually been tinged with disdain but is now uncertain. Tony chances a look at Bucky and receives a small nod – which should not be reassuring, considering that Bucky is Steve’s friend not his, but gets Tony moving to the table nonetheless.

He sits and the proximity to the other man is overwhelming. All other times they have been in a room together have ended in yelling and more heartbreak. Now, they keep their heads down and their hands occupied. It is horrible, and yet the most peaceful they have ever been together.

“So,” Bucky draws out the word and waits until they are both turning towards him. “What are you working on in the moment, Tony?” he then asks, too cheerful, earning himself two incredulous looks from Steve and Tony.  

Even stranger, Steve glances at Tony afterwards, almost conspiratorial, as if it is them against the sudden insanity of his best friend. The moment passes quickly, but Steve’s face still contains a trace of curiosity.

“I –” Tony clears his throat, but for once, it is not a flower making his voice hoarse, just nerves. “I’m thinking about making a phone. A mobile one.”

Nobody says anything for a long moment. They look, though, but Tony does not feel entirely uncomfortable under their gaze.

“As a weapon?” Bucky asks. He is still the spokesperson, but his incredulous expression matches Steve’s.

Howard’s entire legacy is death. Even Tony himself has never been free of it, from the world outside and within. He does not want that to be his legacy too.

“No,” he says firmly, not letting his own doubt show. “As a phone. For everyone.”

Uncertain silence falls over them, but after just a moment, a smile spreads on Bucky’s lips that has to be real, considering the way his eyes grow warm.

“And how’s that going?”

All throughout lunch, they carry on a conversation and never get stuck on complaints or accusations. If not for the ever present heaviness inside Tony’s chest, it could have been a normal meal between new acquaintances testing whether they could be friends.

Afterwards, Tony goes a whole day without the threat of suffocating on his own stupid love.

---

The first time Steve calls him Tony, the world stops turning. It feels like a punch to the gut, and yet as if he has never breathed more easily than this. 

---

Sometimes it feels like a dream. Not because it is all nice and easy-going – on the contrary. But every time Steve looks at him, first with neutrality then a smile, every time he says Tony’s name or they make it through an entire conversation without hurting each other, Tony expects to wake up.

He has seen Steve sneer at him so often that every other expression looks foreign on his face. Tony cannot help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

Only it does not.

Bucky comes more often to the workshop and sometimes Steve comes to drag them both up to eat, explicitly including Tony. Despite his expectations, his meal is never poisoned. Conversation turn from stilted to engaged. One night, Tony finds Steve cradling a flower picked out of the trash.

Then Steve starts joining them in the workshop. Other than Bucky, he is not interested in helping. First, he simply watches them, then he draws them. Later, the room feels empty when the couch is not occupied by Steve.

They spend so much time together, go out together, laugh together. Together is a concept that Tony is experiencing for the first time in his life. He does not want to lose that again.  Miraculously, they do not seem inclined to let go of him either.

This is not the story Tony has always been told would be his. It is not perfect either. He would not change it for anything in the world.

His breathing does not get easier per se, but life does.

---

When Bucky kisses him again, Steve is there, watching with something of a smile.

Tony reciprocates before he remembers himself and draws back as if burned. “What?”

They were sitting on the couch together, watching some movie Tony has already forgotten all about. By now, he has become used to Bucky’s wandering hands and has not thought much about being drawn in. People always liked to get handsy with him, the multi-million dollar heir dying from a mysterious disease. Despite being a wreck, everyone thinks he has always more to give.

“Tell us to stop,” Bucky says in a low voice.

Before Tony can even register his use of us, Steve is closing in from the back, melting against Tony’s body as if they have always fit together, and leans his cheek against Tony’s. He feels trapped before he realizes that this is what he has been hoping for all his life; Steve and he so close that they could almost be one.

“What are you doing?” Tony asks, panic in his tone. He expects to dissolve into a wheezing mess any moment now. His lungs are traitorously silent, though, not caring for once that he is obviously being led on.

“What I should have done from the very beginning,” Steve says.

Tony does not believe him, even though he cannot help but believe the lips touching the sensitive skin of his neck.

The knot of despair in Tony’s chest does not dissolve after this. All is not well. He feels happy, though. For the first time in almost two decades, Death does not loom over Tony’s shoulder but watches from across the room instead.

It is almost like being free.

---

“I love you.” Bucky is the first to say it.

They are sitting on the terrace together, watching the slow descent of the sun. They are not holding hands or prepare to go to bed. A few minutes ago, they have been talking about starting a small garden.

The scene is so full of domestic bliss that Bucky’s words hit Tony like a punch to the stomach. He closes his eyes and forces his face to be still. He will not take this moment from Steve and Bucky.

“You’d think the chattiest person alive would have something to say to that,” Steve teases, but falls silent when Tony still does not look, does not say anything. “Tony?” he asks quietly, nudging him.

Tony resists for a long moment longer before he blinks against the brightness of the sun and focuses on the two men beside him. They are looking at him, both smiling, although Bucky’s is tinged with trepidation and Steve’s with worry.

“I love you,” Bucky repeats slowly, never once looking away from Tony.

“And I love you too,” Steve adds, offering his hand for Tony to take, which he does, albeit hesitantly.

“I –” Tony clears his throat, his stomach dropping. That is when he realizes that he does not feel the scratching of a petal climbing up his windpipe. He has not coughed up a flower in weeks.

Taking a deep breath, he smells nothing sweet, only sea salt and drying stone. Smiling, he stares at his hand in Steve’s, and Bucky’s eyes on him.

“I love you too.”

[polynymph]

What Once Was Chapter 4

This chapter took waaaay longer than it should of, but I kept getting stuck. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for reading!

As the sun drops below the horizon, the palace is illuminated with gold. The tallest towers seemed to kiss the stars. Across the alabaster bridge is Portia, the Countess’s servant who Armyah ran into at the market earlier that day. She walks toward the magician, meeting her halfway.

“If you told me you were Armyah I would’ve escorted you to the palace!” she teased. Armyah simply smiled back, but then, movement caught the corner of her eye. Corkscrewing through the swirling waters below was come sort of creature. She leaned over the edge of the bridge to get a better look. Whatever it is, it’s glowing like a bloodless ghost in the sparkling moat. Its body was long and rippling, almost ribbon-like. “Something catch your eye?” Portia asked, catching up with the other woman. She leans over the edge next to the fortune-teller. Her eyes light up when she spots the wriggling creature in the water below. “Oh! Do you like animals?” she inquired excitedly. Armyah smiled at her and nodded. “Oh good! You’ll definitely enjoy your stay here.” She loops her arm through the magician’s and leads her the rest of the way across the bridge. “The palace is home to all kinds of exotic pets! But you don’t want to get too friendly with that one.” She jabbed her thumb in the direction of the creature they just saw. “That’s a vampire eel, imported from faraway swamps. No eyes or ears, but they’re still pretty graceful, don’t you think?” Armyah doesn’t say anything. Even she wanted to, she didn’t think she’d be able to get a word in edgewise. “Unless you splash around a lot, they won’t even bother you. But you wouldn’t want to catch a bite. If they bite, they don’t stop drinking until the body is dry…” The fortune-teller nods slowly, peering just over the parapet at the creature as it spirals into the billowing silt. Graceful isn’t a word she’d use for the eel…terrifying seemed pretty fitting, though. Portia occupies them both with meaningless conversation all the way to the intricate doors. As they get closer, Armyah’s stomach starts twisting. Uncertainties start to bubble like water coming to a boil over a fire. Was this a mistake?

“We’ve arrived,” Portia smiles brightly. For some reason, the other woman settles Arymah’s nerves with the most simplistic of gestures. She swings her fists against the copper plating on the doors resulting in three skull-rattling rings. The pendulous doors swing open after the last echo fades and she sweeps the magician inside the radiantly lit hallways. Inside is like a different world, everything is gleaming; the floors, the walls, steep ceilings, all clean-cut and polished stone. Lining the hall on either side are many servants, standing at attention in brilliant uniform. Armyah winces slightly, she suddenly feels underdressed in her dirty, hand-made clothing. The servant just inside the door reaches out to take her bag, but Armyah clutches it close to her, unwilling to let the cards out of her possession. A chorus of welcomes chime from the smiling faces in all directions, the magician’s eyes flick left and right uneasily at the greetings. When they reached the end of the line, one servant slips away to join the pair. A kind face with exaggerated features beams up at them as they bow deeply. Barely four feet tall, a brilliant cerulean feather stands proudly from their hat of purple velvet. “How are we doing on time?” Portia asks them.

“Impeccable timing!” they exclaimed, “the first course will be served shortly. Her ladyship has yet to descend.” Portia heaves a sigh of relief.

“Perfect, run and tell the kitchen that our guest has arrived,” she directs. The funny, small person salutes dramatically and slips away behind a panel in the wall which slides seamlessly shut behind them. “Well, well! It looks like we’ll be arriving right on time!” Portia gives the magician a knowing wink and gestures for her to follow, “Her ladyship will be joining us soon. I’ll show you to the dining room.” Armyah stopped dead in her tracks.

“Dining?” she gulped, audibly, “as in…me? Dining? With the Countess?” Portia only looks at the young woman a moment before barking out a hearty laugh.

“What? Don’t tell me you thought we wouldn’t feed you!” She giggles and pats Armyah on the shoulders in sympathy. “Don’t be shy. You’re the guest of honor!” Her words make the apprentice’s stomach flutter with everything but hunger. Nevertheless, she follows the servant’s purposeful stride to the dining room. Soon, they were standing before a fine, mahogany door and Portia turns to face her. “We’ll go in together, okay?” Not looking at her, Armyah takes a deep breath and nods. She heaves open the heavy doors and leads the fortune-teller inside.

Rich scents fill her senses, unfamiliar and tantalizing. A quintet dressed in gauzy evening gowns are playing a pleasant, ambling melody. Before her, an impossibly long table laid heavy with platters of the most careful delicacies. There are foods that Armyah has never seen nor dreamed of right here in front of her. Portia pulls out a chair for her and she sinks down into the plush seat, clutching her bag to her chest anxiously. Now that the food was right in front of her, teasing her, her stomach knots. She wants to dig in, but the Countess had yet to arrive…and everyone was watching her. It takes every ounce of her effort to tear her eyes away from the table, trying to focus on anything but the delicious spread inches away. Her gaze falls on a strange painting on the wall across from her. The scene is that of a meal shared among a host of figures with the heads of beasts. The table is laden with smaller animals, provided by a central character with the head of a goat. Rays of gold glitter around its head, and its red eyes are strikingly lifelike.

“Do you like the painting?” a sonorous voice asks.

“No…” Armyah replies dreamily, without thinking. A chiming laugh pulls her from her thoughts, whipping her head to the voice’s owner. The Countess takes her seat, just as graceful as she remembers from last night. She smiles at the magician placidly.

“Such honesty!” she proclaims, “I must confess that I do not like it either.” She sneers in the direction on the offending décor. “I find it sometimes spoils my appetite. So why does it remain on the wall, where I must look at it always, you ask?” A servant appears at Armyah’s side and presents a bowl of yogurt and cucumber soup before her. She lifts the bowl to her lips and drinks generously. “Sentimental value, I suppose,” the Countess continued, “It was one of my husband’s favorites.” The magician is taken aback at the mention of the late Count. She looks back to the painting, the goat-like character in the center somehow seems familiar. Its ruby eyes so vivid it looks almost as if they’re looking right back at her.

“Beautiful red,” she mutters absentmindedly, still slurping her soup.

“Ah yes…” The Countess muses, “It is a beautiful red. But, more to the point…you have a spoon, I recommend using it.” Armyah flushes crimson, her bowl is already empty at that point. She sets the elaborate dish down carefully and wipes her mouth on her sleeve, not daring to meet the Countess’s gaze. Amusement shimmers in her brilliant, ruby eyes. “As I was saying, the goat-headed one in the middle is supposed to be him. Providing for the people, as he saw himself.” She scoffed, “Well, he certainly knew how to entertain. Festivities at the palace her exhaustive…he loved to spoil his guests.” Armyah’s empty bowl was whisked away, replaced with a dish of flaky golden pastries with some sort of savory filling. The Countess watches with morbid curiosity as the magician devours them. “Tell me, Armyah…did you ever attend our Masquerade?” She blinks up at the Countess, mouth full. “I would imagine so. Our doors were open to all…up to a certain capacity.” Armyah chews her pastry slowly, uncertain how to answer. If she did ever attend, she doesn’t remember. The Masquerade was a party held each year in celebration of the Count’s birthday. All this talk of the past, she wonders if it has to do with why she was called here in the first place.

“I know it’s a difficult matter to discuss,” the Countess reassures her, “I know how fondly the people of Vesuvia remember the Masquerade. And, of course, how deeply affected we all were by the murder.” Armyah nearly chokes on her pastry. Mercifully, she catches herself, but her pulse quickens nonetheless. “Such a terrible shock to the guests. Such a vicious injustice on this house,” the Countess looks almost forlorn until her expression hardens, “To slaughter the host while her celebrates his birthday, sharing his joy and prosperity, with open doors? A hateful crime, indeed.” The empty plate in front of the magician was replaced with a fragrant lamb dish in a complicated sauce. All she knows about the murder was through rumor and whispers. The story was full of holes, more questions than answers, but the end was always the same: The Count retired to his chambers and, by midnight, he and his bedroom were both engulfed in flames. The culprit was captured on the spot…or surrenders, the details vary. However, before he could be brought to justice, the murder escaped. The palace has been closed to the public since.

“You may be wondering why I’m telling you this. Why I called you here,” the Countess spoke with gravity. Every eye in the room was set on her. “I have been planning this for some time…This year, we will hold the Masquerade once more,” she announces. The room was split between two different reactions, delighted and petrified. “The gates will again open, and the festivities of Lucio’s honor will be more fantastical than ever.” She dabs the corner of her mouth daintily, you could cut the tension in the room with a knife. The only one who seems indifferent to the news is Portia. “As I said, I have planned all the necessary details already. There is but one loose end in need of tying.” She folds her napkin and places it back on her lap. “The murderer roams free to this day…too long he’s evaded me. So long as he stalks the shadows of this city, I cannot guarantee the safety of my guests.” She closes her eyes, her eyebrows furrow in determination. “I must find him, and I must bring him to justice before the people of Vesuvia. Surely, you know the murderer of whom I speak…” Armyah did know, she knew very well who the Countess was referring to. “Doctor Julian Devorak,” the name fell from her lip like venom, “my husband’s trusted physician.” There was a terrible crash. All eyes land on Portia, whose face is stricken with horror. The broken remnants of their dessert at her feet. “Portia?” The Countess’s eyes are wide with shock.

“F-forgive me, milady,” the young woman stammered, “slippery hands.” Two servants rush to her aid, sweeping away the shattered porcelain with wind-sprint speed.

“You are forgiven,” the Countess sighed with a wave of her elegant hand, “Anyway…this is where you come in, Armyah.” She looked to the magician as the young woman shrinks under her gaze. “The fugitive has proved very elusive. The palace guard is helpless in rooting him out, but while they continue to disappoint me…” she looks pointedly at the guards stationed on either side of her. “You come highly recommended. Your master is known far and wide.” Armyah was aware Asra had a reputation, but she didn’t realize his name was spoken far and wide. “Rumor has it that you have surpassed him already.” She wasn’t sure where the Countess was getting this information, but she would hardly say she was stronger than her teacher. However, he does go on about how gifted and talented she is. “I, myself, can see the future, in dreams whether I like it or not. That is how I know it is you who will find the fraudulent doctor who betrayed us and murdered my husband.” Her sour face softened, albeit slightly. “This is why I’ve called you here, Armyah. If anyone can help me find him, it’s you.” The Countess gives a smile that can only be described as mischievous as she takes a sip of wine.

“And…if we find him?” the magician squeaked. It’s not what she wanted to ask…she wanted to ask what would happen if she dared to tell the Countess no.

“When we find him,” the Countess affirms, setting her glass down hard, “we will bring him to justice before the people so that all may see his long-awaited punishment.” She sneers in disgust, “whether he begs for his life or hangs his head in defeat, the people will delight in his suffering. A spectacle of vengeance…the mob with love it.” Another impish smile crosses her lips as a servant fills the Countess’s glass and she takes a fresh sip. “And so, to commence the festivities the doctor will die on the gallows.” Armyah turned green at the thought. “If all goes according to plan, that is.” She rises. On instinct, Armyah does so as well. “Portia?” the Countess calls.

“Yes, milady?” she replies, stepping forward and awaiting her command.

“Show Armyah to the guest quarters. I imagine there is much to ponder before the night is out,” the smile she gives the magician is almost tender.

“Right away, milady,” Portia nodded obediently. She whisks young woman to the door after a humble bow to the Countess.

“I’m interested to see more of this magic of yours, Armyah,” she calls after them, “and I look forward to our partnership.” Portia practically pulls the fortune-teller out into the corridor. The Countess is probably counting on the fact that she’s too afraid to refuse.

They’re quiet as Portia leads her to her room, but she doesn’t mind. The Countess’ words left them both with a lot to think about. After a few turns, they pass a wide staircase, veiled in shadow. It’s cold and smells of ash. Armyah strains to see where they lead, but the darkness at the top is impenetrable. Curled up on the bottom are two large, lanky dogs. They notice the magician just as she saw them. Fathomless eyes fix on her and they silently rise from their stair. Though they look like they could strike at any given moment, she sensed no ill intent from the animals. She holds out her hand as they approach to sniff it. Huffing breaths tickle her skin and the longer they sniff her, the harder their tails swish back and forth. Portia watches is wonder.

“Oh…you actually got up from your favorite stair?” she asks the hounds, “These two never take kindly to strangers. It’s how they’re trained, but…” she pauses, hesitant, but intrigued, “I’ve never seen them act like this.” Slim snouts brush against Armyah’s sides as the dogs investigate her further. When they decide they’re satisfied, they draw back and look to the fortune-teller expectantly. There was something unsettling in their gaze. They weren’t ordinary dogs…and the deeper she looked into their eyes, the less she understood. She finds herself almost staring them down. The animals shiver and drop their heads low under the pressure of her observation. They slink back to the staircase obediently. When she looks back to Portia, her face is radient with curiosity. “I’ve…never seen them do that. For a second there, I was sure you were going to lose a couple of fingers. I’m impressed.” Armyah blushed from the compliment. “You didn’t cast a spell on them, did you?” Thankfully she laughed, the magician couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Ugh, remind me to get them their chamomile cakes after I get you to your room. Otherwise, they’ll be up all night.” She beckoned Armyah to follow her. As they passed the stairs she could feel her vision become hazy, almost like the feeling she gets when the cards speak to her, only more menacing. She shakes away the feeling and follows the Countess’s servant. They reach a wooden door with elaborate designs carved into it.

“Here we are!” Portia announced, “These will be your quarters for now, Armyah.” Armyah looked around at the beautiful room. It was simple compared to the rest of the palace, she was thankful for that. A large window looked over the city, dim under the moonlight. A daybed tucked under a canopy was nestled against the wall, it looked very comfortable. “You can put your things wherever you like.” Portia smiled at the magician. “Breakfast is at sunrise…I’ll be sure to wake you.” Armyah must’ve looked tired, the servant gave her a sympathetic smile. “If you find anything lacking, don’t hesitate to ask.” The fortune-teller put her bag on the bed and smiled at the other woman. “You look about ready to drop. I’ll leave you be unless you have any other burning questions?” Armyah blinked…she feels like she could tell Portia anything, but she knew better.

“What happened at dinner?” she asked, “why did you drop the tray?” The color drained from the girl’s face and she bites her lip anxiously. For a moment, Armyah thinks she just might bolt out the door leaving her question unanswered.

“You know…” she laughs nervously, “slippery hands, for one thing…” The magician doesn’t reply. “It’s just…we were all so glad to hear the Countess was expecting a guest, but to think she asked you to come here for something like this?” She quiet for a moment, then she shakes her head, “Finding that doctor who, for all anybody knows, could be dead in a ditch somewhere. I mean, it’s been years since anyone…you know.” She leans nonchalantly against the doorframe. “He could be anywhere, right?” And it’s not like the guards have had any recent leads. But now that you’re here…” she sighed, staring Armyah dead in the eyes, “the Countess is hopeful, for the first time I can remember. If anyone can help her, it’s you.” He pushes off the wall and claps the fortune-teller on the shoulder, “Sleep well, Armyah.” Her soft voice trails off as she walks through the door and shuts it behind her.

Armyah burrows herself in the soft, satin sheets and it feels as though she’s weightless. The sound of Portia’s ever distant foot-falls lull her into unconsciousness…

Of course she can’t sleep. After the day-long trek to the palace she finally has a chance to rest, but whenever she settles into the embrace of sleep she’s tugged back to consciousness. She sits up, frustrated. Once she does, she feels the faintest hint of magic in the air coming from somewhere beyond the door. Armyah slips quietly out of bed, slips on her shoes and grabs her bag. Turning the metal handle, she emerges into the brightly lit hallway. Thankfully, there’s no one in sight, she must’ve wasted a few hours tossing and turning. Shuffling down the hallway, she trusted her magic to lead her down the winding corridors. The trail leads her to a balmy veranda bathed in starlight. Below are the lush, green gardens and from the balcony she can see that the middle forms a maze of greenery with a clearing at the center. She silently descends to the garden path and follows the trail of magic through the maze. As she nears the center she can hear the soothing melody of falling water grow louder and louder. A gazing pool surrounding a beautiful fountain and a rich, old willow tree blanketing it. Hanging from the tree is a familiar face, a certain lavender snake she is delighted to see.

“Faust!” she whispers as to not alert anyone to their presence, “what are you doing here?” If she was here, maybe Arsa was too. She flicks her tongue at the magician and hovers over the gazing pool. She looks as if she wants to show her something. Armyah sits at the edge of the pool and leans over to peer in the reflective water below. The longer she concentrates on the shape of the water, the more the change; colors too faint to see start to deepen, shadows start to twist and form. She blinks, her reflection fades away and in its place is Asra, drawing water to his face and drinking deeply. Each droplet that falls from his hands sends ripples through the water and distorts his image. Armyah doesn’t speak, afraid that any sound will break the spell. She’s just relieved to see a familiar and friendly face. He shakes out his hair and blinks the water from his eyes and looks straight at his apprentice.

“Armyah?” he gasps in disbelief. He looks as surprised as she is. He leans forward, so close she can see the droplets sticking to his eyelashes. “Can you hear me?” Armyah nods, still barely able to believe she’s talking to him. If he didn’t do it, then how did she? “Incredible…” he breaths. He’s sitting cross-legged, probably beside a pond. His mount is laying beside him resting its head on his knee…it’s the same beast as she saw in her dream the night before. “I see Faust found you alright? I wasn’t sure about leaving her, but after that reading you gave me I thought I’d trust my intuition.”

“I’m glad she’s here,” Armyah admits. The serpent is still hanging from the branch. She looks very proud of herself. The magician is beyond relieved to have her near. In the pool, Asra looked pretty pleased with himself as well causing his apprentice to laugh, “I’m glad you’re here, too.” She swears she could see a blush creeping across his face, but she’s not sure why. Then the beast on his knee gives a grumbling snort resembling that of the sound of groaning wood.

“Where is here exactly?” he asks, looking behind her, “I know that tree…are you at the palace?” Armyah regales him with the details of the previous night with the Countess. However, she leaves out the part about the alleged murder breaking into their home…she doesn’t want him to worry. The more she speaks, the more interested he becomes. “Unbelievable! The day I leave is the day you needed me the most. Even then, you didn’t really need me at all.” She doesn’t say it aloud, but it would have been nice if he was there through it. The entire ordeal is still a bit overwhelming. “I’m glad Faust is with you, at least. I would guess that she had something to do with this.” He gestures to the water in front of him, “if anything happens to either of you, I’ll know. I can live with that.” She wanted to ask if he was so interested in her well-being then why did he leave in the first place, but she thought better of it. Mostly, because she’s too tired to argue. The beast on his knee groans and blinks awake, peering up at Asra. “Looks like we’ve rested long enough,” he pats the strange creature on the head and looks back at Armyah, “we have to go, but I’m really glad I got to see you.” He rises with one last glance and moves out of view of the gazing pool, the great beast lumbering behind him. The wind roars and the image was enveloped in a storm of rust-colored sand, once it clears she can see her reflection again with Faust slithering up next to her. The color of the sand, the creature beside him…everything was the same as that dream she had the night he left.

She remembers Asra once telling her magic is what you do to make the outcome of your desire become reality. Did her magic reach out to him, wherever he is, to find a familiar face in the sea of unknown surrounding her? Arymah rises, knees trembling with exhaustion, and beckons Faust to follow. Getting back to her room unnoticed is going to be a challenge. Steeling herself, she heads back to the palace. Birds chirping signal dawn is going to be arriving soon. A suffocating feeling engulfs her, and she feels almost like she’s being watched. Many eyes, from every corner of the garden. This maze is teeming with life. The rustling leaves are starting to sound like whispers. Hastening her step, she retreats up the stairs and slips back inside.

“That snake has gotten much bigger…”

Sorry about skipping over the part in Lucio’s old wing, but this chapter was getting way too long. Let me know what you think! <3

Tag list: @julians-chest-hair

[p-artsypants]

Rage Awakened (4)

Ten years ago, Terra, Aqua, and Ventus lost their fellow apprentice, Sora, in Deep Jungle. Now, they are to return with two new students, Riku and Kairi, to lock the heart of the world. All the while, something watches from the trees. Feral!Sora AU

FF.net | Ao3

@chachacharlieco2 @violetstar-writes

—

They had been in Deep Jungle for days now. Nothing to see but plants and heartless. Even the gorillas had disappeared from the first time they saw them. They were no closer to finding the keyhole than they were on the first day when they hadn’t even started looking.

The sightings of the wild boy continued, though no one was ever able to get a clear look at him.

One morning, while breakfast was being prepared, everyone sat around in various degrees of wakefulness. Then, without warning, a wicker basket filled with fruit fell from the ceiling and landed next to Kairi with a ‘wham!’

Everyone jumped at the gift, startled, before Ventus called out, “thank you sentient tree house!”

Then, three days into the voyage, with no end in sight, they finally made some headway.

It came mid afternoon, on a day that was hot and humid, as most days were in the jungle. The bugs were out, and everyone was cranky from sleeping on the floor for so many nights.

Riku was heading the pack, his job was keeping everyone going in the same direction, north by northwest. All the while, Kairi brought up the rear, her eyes wandering the canopy, just as she had on the first day.

“Look!” She cried, seeing something through the trees. “A treehouse!”

“Ugh, we’re back at camp? We walked all the way around the world?” Asked Ventus with a groan.

Kairi was already pushing plants aside to make her way over. “No! It’s a different treehouse!”

And indeed it was. Smaller than the first one, but newer. A second even smaller treehouse sat in the adjacent tree, connected with a bridge. There was a rope ladder hanging down, and smoke coming from a little chimney.

“Hello!” Called Kairi. “Is someone there?”

Terra and the rest caught up with her. “Wait! What if they’re dangerous?”

Riku interjected. “This is the first lead we’ve had! We should take it!”

A brunette woman poked her head out the window of the treehouse. “My goodness! I’m not hearing things!” She called, with an English accent. “There’s people! I’ll be down in just a moment!”

“She looks nice,” Ventus commented.

The woman descended using a vine, sliding down and landing right in front of them. “Hello! My, it has been some time since I’ve seen other people! You must be from another world! Are you here to study the gorillas?” Then she grew less friendly, “or are you here to hurt them? Because if you are, I’ll—I’ll...well, I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I can assure you it won’t be pleasant!”

Ventus whispered to Riku. “I like her.”

“We’re not here to hurt the gorillas,” Terra said, raising his hands peacefully. “In fact, we’re here to help them, in a way, Miss uh...”

“Oh, where are my manners? My name is Jane, Jane Porter. It’s a pleasure.” She held her hand out.

He shook it. “I’m Terra, these are my friends, Aqua, Ventus, Riku, and Kairi.”

“So, what does bring you folks to our Jungle?”

“Well,” Terra explained, hesitating. “We’re looking for a keyhole.”

“And a wild man!” Ventus added.

“Preferably both,” said Aqua.

Jane smiled, “well, I know of no keyhole, but the wild man you’re looking for is probably my husband. He should be along here sometime. Won’t you all come up and have some tea?”

Kairi’s heart sank into her shoes. That boy had been someone’s husband? And he had kissed her? Oh this was not good.

“Tea sounds lovely, thank you.” Aqua agreed.

Jane led the way up to the treehouse, gesturing them inside. “Come in! Come in! Make yourselves at home. I know it must be exhausting hiking through the jungle. Sit wherever you’d like.”

Immediately Ventus and Riku plopped down on a couch that, despite its Victorian appearance, was quite comfortable.

Jane set on the kettle and then called out to the neighboring treehouse, “Daddy! Daddy wake up, we have company!” Then she looked at her guests. “My apologies, it’s been so long since we had visitors that spoke English! You see, we’re researchers. About three years ago, Daddy and I came here from a neighboring world called London to study the gorillas.”

“Oh!” Cried Ventus. “We’ve been to London!”

Riku nudged him, “hush.”

“You have?” Said Jane happily. “Sometimes I really miss those streets, but other times I remember all the smoke and noise, and I’m glad I stayed here.”

“Why did you stay?” Asked Terra politely. “Your husband?”

“Yes, precisely. Daddy and I came here with another man, Clayton, on a grant to stay for about a month. Nearly the first day we arrived, I met him. He saved me from an angry fleet of baboons. A flying man in a loin cloth…”

“What’s his name?” Asked Riku.

“Oh, it’s...it’s a little odd, it’s Tarzan.”

The group collectively deflated, now knowing that the wild man was not who they wanted him to be.

“He didn’t speak any English,” Jane continued. “So, we taught him. We taught him reading and writing, math and science, about all the other worlds and galaxies out there. When the ship came to take us back, we tried to get Tarzan to come along with us...but our guide Clayton betrayed us, caged all the gorillas, and killed the alpha.”

The group stayed quiet, letting her speak, since it seemed so long since she had had any company.  “Tarzan and Clayton fought, and in the end, Tarzan won. But the alpha, in his dying moments, chose Tarzan to be the next leader of the pack. So he couldn’t return with us.” A small smile came to her face. “So I decided to stay too, and so did daddy.”

At that moment, a small old man came in the door, “I say, we do have company! A mighty gay crew of young adventurers at that! How wonderful! Archimedes Q. Porter, at your service! Jane, you’ve got the kettle on?”

“Of course, Daddy. They’re here in search of a keyhole, and they were looking for Tarzan!”

“A keyhole? In the jungle? You might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack!”

Jane took pause. “Come to think of it, for what reason are you looking for Tarzan?”

Aqua answered. “Well, at first we wondered if he was someone we once knew. But, we also wondered if he would have any hints to finding the keyhole...”

“And what does this keyhole lock, or unlock, as the case may be?”

“Well...” Terra and Aqua shared a look, trying to decide what was appropriate to say.

Riku took the decision away from them. “Have you seen the strange creatures that look like monkeys, but definitely aren’t?”

“Oh! You mean those blue menaces?! Of course! They’re the reason we had to leave the old treehouse!” The professor exclaimed.

“You mean the two-story one? A bit south of here?”

“That’s the one!”

“That’s where we set up camp! The heartless were a big problem there?”

“Is that what they’re called?” Asked Jane. “And why yes, but...they’ve been a problem everywhere in the Jungle. Tarzan is nearly at his wits end trying to kill them all! But they just keep coming back! They breed like rabbits!”

“They don’t actually breed…” Terra began. “The heartless are born of the darkness in people’s hearts. They’ve been getting worse everywhere. The locking the keyhole will stop them from swallowing this world completely, and get them to stop re-spawning.”

Jane sighed in relief. “If that’s the case, I’m sure Tarzan will do what he can to help you.”

Then, the kettle screamed, and Jane began to serve the tea. “You know, you say those heartless are made from the darkness in people’s hearts. It makes quite a bit of sense then, really, since they came around the same time we did. Clayton, the man I spoke of before, was terribly evil. We hired him to keep us safe in the jungle, but he ended up being the biggest threat.” She put the tea on the tray and brought over for everyone to take a cup. “I still feel awful about it. This world would have been so much better off if we hadn’t come.”

“Would Tarzan?” Asked Aqua.

And just like that, a figure dropped into the room with a ‘whomp’, poised on the balls of his feet.

Jane collected herself quickly. “There you are, darling! We have guests!”

The man was already halfway across the room, giving each of the wielders a studious look. “Guests…”

“They said they’ve been looking for you.”

“For me?” He took a special interest in Terra, Aqua, and Ven. “Been to see my mother. Said she and others were rescued from the not-chimps by people. One that looked like me,” he pointed at Terra, “one with hair like water,” he pointed at Aqua, “and one with hair like bananas.” He pointed at Ventus.

“Hey!”

“Oh yes!” Said Aqua, “we saved some gorillas from the heartless. Are they your family?”

“Yes, my family. Thank you.”

Ven grinned. “No sweat, it’s our job.”

“Kairi, is this the man you saw?” Riku spoke up.

It was almost with relief that she said, “no, he’s not.”

“Not Tarzan? My, then I feel sorry for wasting your time while I just rambled…hold on, you mean to say you saw another wild man out in the Jungle?”

“Yes, a few days ago.”

“Other,” said Tarzan. “One other.”

“Other? Oh!” Jane gasped. “Goodness gracious, I had completely forgotten about him! There is another wild man out there, but I only saw him once…and he was not very friendly. He almost got violent actually, Tarzan had to wrestle him away.”

“Not like Tarzan,” Tarzan said, “not part of pack. Comes and goes.”

No one got their hopes up. That didn’t sound like Sora at all.

Still, Riku asked, “does he have a name?”

After a moment, Tarzan answered:

“Sora.”

Aqua’s teacup shattered on the floor, as she stared at the man in horror. “I...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Jane pacified. “Not much use for china in the Jungle, right? Are...are you alright?”

Aqua rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye. “I...I’m fine...” though as she said it, more tears came until she was weeping openly.

Terra quickly rushed over, and embraced her, where she buried her head in his shoulder to cry.

“Said something wrong?” Asked Tarzan.

“No,” said Terra, his voice choked up. “You said the right thing.”

“You’re...his family, aren’t you?” Jane surmised.

“Yeah...we...we came here about ten years ago, for a training exercise. He was only six then, and we left him and Ven at camp. When we returned, the camp was destroyed, Ven was unconscious and bloody, and Sora was nowhere to be found.”

“We searched for days!” Aqua sobbed. “But all we found was his bloody clothes. We didn’t think he could have—we thought he was dead! But all this time, he’s been here. Alone...”

“There there, don’t blame yourself.” Jane consoled, getting her a fresh cup of tea. “Given the evidence you found, it was a very natural conclusion you arrived at. You searched for days. And...he’s alive. You’ll be reunited!”

“But, I can’t help but be afraid, what if he thinks we abandoned him here?”

“If you explain it, he’ll understand.”

Terra asked Tarzan, “what can you tell us about him?”

The man scratched his head, trying to recall old memories. “Found him when he was small. Hurt. Scratched. Naked. Brought him home to family, for help. Kerchak didn’t want him to stay. Said he was marked as prey, being hunted. Mom begged him to stay until he was healed. Kerchak agreed. Thought he would die, but didn’t. He healed, and stayed with us for a while, and then left. Found him later, hurt again, brought him back again. Over and over, same thing. Kerchak was right, marked as prey, but predator doesn’t kill. Still hunting him.”

That was troubling. “He’s being hunted? By what?” Asked Aqua.

“Strange creature. Black, blue, and red.”

“That sounds like a heartless,” said Riku with mounting concern.

Tarzan further explained, “when first met Sora, he made weird sounds. I now know it was English. Then each time we found him, made less of those noises, more animal noises. More animal behavior. Now, he is  like something different. Not like Jane, not like Tarzan’s family. Not like Tarzan.”

“What kind of animal is he acting like?”

“One I have never seen before.”

Kairi still didn’t mention her other encounter with him at the treehouse, but she thought about it. He had parroted what she had said, and if this truly was Sora, shouldn’t he be able to recall at least a little bit? Had he lost himself that much?

Everyone else was considering Tarzan’s news of a heartless hunting Sora. What sort of Heartless plays with its victim for over ten years? It sounded like the intentional work of Maleficent.  

Jane broke the silence, “Tarzan, have you ever heard of a keyhole? Our friends are looking for one.”

He thought a moment. “I know of lots of holes. Explain more?”

Jane went over to her dresser, grabbed her jewelry box, and brought it over for him to see. “This little hole right here is a keyhole, if I put the key in it, it unlocks the box, and I can open the lid. In London, all the houses have keyholes on them so you can get inside.”

“And there’s one in the Jungle?” He asked the guests.

“There should be. We just…have no idea where to start,” Said Aqua. “Is there somewhere or something significant in the jungle? Something important?”

“There’s the waterfalls,” Jane mused. “It’s the main freshwater source, at the heart of the Jungle.”

“The heart of the Jungle!” The five exclaimed.

“We have to go to the waterfalls! Can you take us there, Tarzan?”

The man wandered over to the door, looking outside, thinking.

“He’s a very quiet man.” Jane whispered to her guests. “He’s basically the king of the Jungle, so he must consider the animal’s safety.”

He came back and declared, “not yet, but I will come for you soon. Where is your camp?”

“At the old treehouse, to the South.”

He nodded in understanding. “I will try to find Sora, tell him his family looks for him. Thank you for helping us.”

—

Later that night, Aqua boarded the gummi ship, as she had every night of their trip, and called Master Eraqus.

“It’s late, Aqua. Busy day?”

“Yes, Master. We finally found a lead. There were some researchers from another world here to study the gorillas, and the woman married a man raised by the apes.”

“A man raised by the apes? He was there last time too?”

“I guess? He looked about Riku’s age. They said the waterfalls are at the ‘heart’ of the world, and once the timing is right, he’s going to take us there.”

“The timing?”

“Yes…I’m not exactly sure what that means, but Tarzan has to protect the other animals, he’s like their king. So we have to abide by his rules.”

“Thus preserving the order of things, of course. Well, I hope it doesn’t take too long, for everyone’s sake. How are the rest? Is everyone alright?”

Aqua didn’t answer immediately, her glance away from the screen. “Master, we…I think we found him.”

“…you don’t mean…?”

“Kairi said she saw a wild man in the Jungle, who saved her from the heartless. When we met the researchers, they confirmed there was wild man, another besides the one we met today. They said his name is Sora.”

“Oh god…”

“Master, what are we going to do? We can’t just leave him here!”

“I know, I know…but we mustn’t be hasty. We need to treat him with care, find out what he would like to do. We can’t force him to do anything.”

“One other thing…Tarzan said he was marked as prey. Said he was being hunted by a strange black creature.”

Eraqus frowned hard. “That’s not good. The boy’s heart is strong, and doubtless a very powerful heartless has its eyes on him. No matter what Sora decides in the end, you will need to stop that heartless. We owe that much to him at least.”

Aqua nodded in agreement. “Yes master.”  

“And Aqua?”

“…yes?”

“It’ll all work out in the end.”