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bluebellhairpin · 2 months ago

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Harwin Strong X f!Reader

Summary: The arrangement you made with your husband to help Rhaenyra backfires, and you attempt to put and end to it before if gets anyone into trouble. But trouble brews anyway.

Warnings: Leaning into reader/rhaenyra/harwin ship territory. Reader is fem bodied + called wife/mother. Reader is a Criston Cole hater (justified).

Listening to: 'Blood of my Blood' by Ramin Djawadi

Series Masterlist || AO3 Link || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Ever since Rhaenyra was wed there had been whispers - ones that you could hear without lending your ear to your cunning brother in law.

They were murmurs only heard in the darkest of halls, about how she and Laenor didn’t lay together, that they never had, and refused to do so. Word spread that the Princess had taken a secret lover, and that the guard who’d been killed at their wedding used to be Laenor’s. They gained weight, and became ugly looming shadows over the young couple.

Especially after Rhaenyra had her first child - and he was born looking nothing like Laenor. It caused more rumors to spread. Rumors you did not appreciate. Ones that you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about, because they eventually affected you and your family too. And partially because they were basically your fault.

In the beginning, you chalked up the similarities between your second child, Dawsyn, and Rhaenyra’s, Jacaerys, as chance. You convinced those around you that it was pure coincidence. But as they grew older, despite being almost nine months apart in age, you started noticing things. They way their hair all held the same curls. The way they would tilt their heads the same way when their toys didn’t work how they wanted them to. Their giggles.

Then Rhaenyra had her second son, Lucerys, around the same time as you had the daughter Harwin had spent years longing for. Suddenly you were met with the same rumors as when Dawsyn and Jacaerys were born - and had to fend them off again from others in the Kings Court.

You knew something that only three others in the Red Keep knew, and because of that the similarities blared at you like a red lantern at night. The father of your children was also the father of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons. And that was starting to worry you.

You knew people suspected Harwin as the real father. That he was one of the few men that those in the Red Keep thought could be siring Rhaenyra’s children - her bastards they called them, the word made something sour bubble in your stomach. But you knew what that would mean for Harwin. You knew what could happen to his life, and the lives of Rhaeynra, her sons - even your own children.

Every single one of them could die.

You stood at the window in Rhaenyra’s bedroom. You’d taken to spending a lot of time in her company, especially now she was reaching the end of her third pregnancy. Her labour pains could start any day now, and she was starting to get restless.

There was no blaming her, by the same time during your time with Renai you’d been sick of it by now too.

“You look deep in thought,” she said.

You turned to her, slowly moving your eyes from the window to her place on the settee. She was relaxed, with you around she dismissed all other company - she did it often, you guessed she liked a slice of normalcy free of the fluttering hens at court, or the ears of little servant birds. But all you could think of was when she was younger, before you’d subjected her to the foul words whispered behind her back. Really this was your fault - in an effort to help Rhaenyra keep her happiness, you’d destroyed it. You felt like you couldn’t keep your thoughts to yourself anymore - that the worry was starting to make you crack around the edges.

“Like something worries you.” Rhaenyra, apparently, could notice it too.

“You can’t blame me, you live here too. You hear what people say. It worries me.” you replied, finally cluing someone into your thoughts. You turned back to the window to see where your children and Rhaenyra’s played below, supervised by Pacey and Raechel. “What could happen to them worries me.”

“You think we should stop?” Rhaenyra asked. The question, if overheard without the context of both your conversation and the secrets you both held, wouldn’t have been understood by anyone else. But you knew she knew that the subject had changed to her situationship with Harwin.

“I think he should stop giving you children.” You looked back at her, your eyes lingering on the clasped hands over her belly. “He’s a smart man in many ways, but if he keeps acting as he is now, he’s just going to get us all into trouble.”

“I could talk to him.” Rhaenyra offered, looking up at you with almost wide, childlike eyes. It softened the worry in you, like you’d forgotten she was a younger woman than you were. You moved from the window and sat by her side, taking her hand in yours.

“No. ‘One heart, one flesh, and one soul’. That’s what we were declared on our wedding day. His mistakes are mine, and mine are his. I allowed this to happen, and I’ll end it.” you said, squeezing her fingers, “Leave Harwin to me.”

Rhaenyra’s chest rose and fell three times before she spoke again, voice even more hushed than before, as if afraid to even admit it to you. But she did.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You never will be.” you said, shuffling closer to her side as your arm pressed to hers, “I’ll never leave you alone. No matter how far away life could take me, just call me to your side and nothing in the Seven Kingdoms will be able to stop me.” Then you smiled to yourself, mind straying toward the man of the hour. “Harwin even more so. His affection for you might even outweigh his love for me.”

“I’d hate to think that.” she scoffed, sitting up slightly as her hand now squeezed yours.

“Then don’t. This is loyalty deeper than bone, neither of us would leave you alone, and when called to duty Laenor wouldn’t either.” Rhaenyra’s gaze softened again, this time instead of being afraid she seemed nervous.

“Will you tell anyone?” she asked. You shook your head, almost offended.

“No one will hear a word of it from me. After I speak with Harwin, the words will never leave my lips again. It will be as good as forgotten.” Your thumb moved back and forth across the back of her hand as you spoke, and she looked down at it when she spoke again.

“You’re persuading me that this isn’t something to worry about. It’s no wonder Alicent is always so agreeable after you speak with her.”

“Do you wish to be persuaded further?” you asked, smirking.

“Perhaps.” she replied, her smile matching your own. You shifted from your spot on the settee, now facing the Princess fully with both her hands in yours.

“Before the Seven, mine and Harwin’s blood was declared the same. Nevertheless, your children are of his blood as much as mine are, no matter who their mother is,” you said, eyes never leaving hers as you spoke, and your voice softened as you continued, “They’re as good as my own children. That’s enough to warrant keeping them safe.”

Her face morphed. Changing from one that conveyed half assured hopefulness to one that was undeniably relieved. Even her eyes welled with unshed tears with the weight that seemed to lift off her shoulders. Yet her next words laid bare her last ounce of doubt. A doubt you were dead set on burying.

“Can I really believe I’ve earnt enough love and trust from you that not only can you not find it in your heart to hate me, but you are so willing to love these children as your own? That you could forgive me?”

“Rhaenyra, you mean more to me than you could ever imagine.” you said, “Harwin and I both agreed to this, we knew what could happen. There’s nothing to forgive.”

Not even a day later, and Rhaenyra had entered and finished birthing her third child. Her final that would be sired by Harwin.

You’d been with her, until she finished, then left her in the hands of the maids and midwives to go tell everyone else the good news. Well, everyone that mattered to you.

Laenor, as soon as you told him, left right away.

However, to keep up his newly reinforced guise of being indifferent (he took the conversation surprisingly well, all things considered), Harwin stayed and watched over where his four sons ogled over a new dragon egg. You could tell from the look on his face when you entered that he longed to be with her. He had an understanding of the horrors of childbirth that you’d seen in no other man. He’d have to have been torn from your side if the Maester’s didn’t let him stick around when you were in labor - you’d believe he would have resorted to biting, if they went to make him leave you - so you could only imagine how he felt about having to leave Rhaenyra alone.

His only consolation was that you were there instead.

“How was she?” he asked quietly, a hand resting on your elbow. You eyed Dawysn as his fingertips tested how hot the egg was, slowly inching closer.

“In high spirits. If I were to be trusted, I’d say she’s getting quite used to going through labor for the sake of a new son.” you whispered. Harwin was about to speak again, but instead of listening, you scooped Dawsyn in your arms - he’d burn himself if he were allowed close to that fire stone any longer. “You, little ser, need to keep your fingers to yourself.” you said to your son, grabbing his chubby fingers and kissing each one.

“It’s not that bad -” Larys said - right before reaching his hand too close - “Ouch!” He pulled his hand back, shaking it before stuffing his fingers in his mouth. Harwin came up behind him, and put his hands on his shoulders to guide him to where you now sat.

“You are no dragon, son, leave the scales to those who can handle them.” he said, ruffling his hair. Harwin tried to leave Larys in your care, but he was having none of it - instead he tucked his head into the cool armor at his father’s stomach.

“My Princes’, may I suggest putting the lid on that egg? We don’t want it to cool down too much.” you suggested, pressing a kiss to Dawysn’s head as you set him down. Jace nodded, managing to lift the cast iron lid back in place while his brother already got distracted.

By the time all four of them had settled onto the rug with a handful of carved wooden toys, Harwin beside them telling some story about Aegon’s conquest that you didn’t doubt they all already knew back to front, the door opened. In stepped Rhaenyra, Laenor, and the new child.

Immediately Rhaenyra’s two sons jumped to their feet, eager to tell their mother about the dragon egg they brought up from the pit. Your sons stayed on the floor, watching curiously as Harwin helped Rhaenyra sit, and Laenor coo at the baby. You likewise rose from your seat to get a proper look at the boy, humming and harring at him as he slept.

“He will grow to be a fearsome knight.” Laenor said, shifting slightly so you could see better, but in no way was he giving up the child yet. You were satisfied just to see his face.

“Just like you,” you said, a gentle hand squeezing Laenor’s shoulder.

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra said. Her voice, although laced with exhaustion, was strong enough to cut through the baby-induced bubble both you and Laenor were stuck in. Within moments, the baby was passed over from Laenor’s arms into Harwin’s.

The sight was enough to make you want to freeze the moment in time forever. That happened each time you caught Harwin holding a baby. It was like he was meant to hold a child, with how comfortable he looked. How perfect it looked. You couldn’t help but smile, and as you caught Rhaenyra’s eyes, it only widened.

However, like a moth to flame, the four young boys took Joffrey being passed to Harwin as a sign to swarm. They came in from all angles with the grace of a drunk herd of cows, all speaking at once, and all trying to persuade Harwin to let them look at the babe. Harwin could only hold poor Joffrey out of reach while Laenor intervened, persuading Jace and Luke to go to the dragon pit to train.

“You both too, come on,” you said, hands resting on your son’s curls to guide them out of the room, “Don’t forget you have lessons also.”

“But Mother, we don’t have any until this afternoon -”

“Then go to your sister,” you said, ushering them out the door despite their protests, “I’ll be there shortly.” That did it, they did have a fondness for their young sister, something they inherited from their father no doubt. You saw them off running down the hall before turning back to Harwin.

You caught his eye and smiled, in return his gaze was soft, smile even more so as he rocked his son in his arms. The thought returned, that it was if he were born to be a father.

Then you looked over at Rhaenyra, nodding with your smile unwavering. She relaxed in her seat, and her lips quirked up. She needed rest, so you cast one more look of longing over at Joffrey - you could have your turn holding him another day - and closed the door behind you.

You were in high spirits. Joffrey’s safe arrival into the world had many feeling the same way, and he brought joy to many around him - a happy child already, and it had barely been a day.

You’d just left your room, flanked by your son Larys - your purpose was twofold. Larys was promised he could train with the Prince’s if he finished his lessons, so you were taking him to the courtyard to meet them, then you were going to bring Harwin back since he would be just finishing his shift for the day.

Larys really was his father’s son, with almost a natural strength to him despite his youth - it was an aspect you knew your own father would’ve started honing properly years ago. You’d held off for the sake of still seeing him as a child, but in the world you lived in it was expected. Larys liked it, he liked having something in common with his father, and many others in your family - and you couldn’t stop him from doing what he loved just because you wanted him to be safe.

But today something seemed to be bothering him. Usually he looked forward to training, so much so that you could see it on his face. Not today. To try and get him to open up, you dismissed anyone who might’ve followed you - but it took almost the entire walk for him to finally hint at what was wrong.

“Do you think I might be good enough to beat Ser Criston someday?” Larys asked. You looked down at him with your arm around his shoulder.

“If you practised enough, there’s no reason why you couldn’t.” you said. He looked down at his hands, toying with the hem of his training glove.

“I don’t think I get to practice enough.” he admitted, the way he spoke sent pangs through your heart. “Ser Criston is the only teacher and he focuses on the Prince’s so much more. I’d ask Father for help instead, but he’s always so busy.” So that was what was wrong.

You both stopped just short of the door to the training courtyard, and you turned Larys so he faced you.

“Then I’ll have your grandfather send someone from my home. You will get to practice just as well as the others.” you said, taking his face in your palm so you could brush his curls from his face. “You’ll have your own teacher.”

“Really?” he asked, a hopeful look in his eye as he looked up at you.

“Of course. I’ll send a raven as soon as I can.” you smiled, kissing his forehead. “In the meantime remember you can learn a lot from simply watching, even if you aren’t able to train the same as the other boys. Don’t underestimate the power behind observation.”

“Yes Mother.” With a grin on his face, you squeezed his shoulder and guided him towards the door. His steps were more enthusiastic now, and his head was held high. If you were anyone else you might say he was being spoiled - promised his own teacher when even the Princes had to share one. But you were his mother, so instead you’d say he deserved the best of what he wanted.

You both stepped out the door expecting to see the others training, but the sight that met you was far from it.

The timing was perfect - right as you walked into the daylight, Harwin lunged for Criston Cole. The latter was on the ground after only a few blows, but Harwin wasn’t stopping. He climbed onto the downed man and kept going. Punch after punch landed on Criston’s face, and all you could think of was what that idiot did to make Harwin’s temper snap so violently.

You hadn’t thought of doing a thing to intervene, perfectly content to watch, until Larys brushed past your skirts as if to move closer.

“You stay here,” you said, walking forward and pushing your son back a little so he stayed away. Two of the King’s Guard rushed forward, running to pull Harwin off Criston, then two more joined in to stop him breaking free.

“Say it again! Say it!” Harwin yelled, voice rough with rage as he struggled and tried to pull away and attack Criston again.

“Harwin! That’s enough.” you said, reaching over the guard’s arm and pressing your hand to the armor on Harwin’s chest. He physically relaxed when he saw you in front of him, enough that the guards reluctantly loosened their hold. But when he looked at you, his eyes still didn’t change as the men stepped away. He looked ready to have killed Criston, and probably would have if there was no one around to stop him.

“Yeah Commander, listen to your -”

Swiftly you stepped away from Harwin and stood over where Criston had started to stand. He was already weary from the beating, but when you bent over, jabbing a finger to his chest, he swayed where he sat resting back on his elbows as he looked up at you. The look in your eye that made him freeze.

“Stay down, Cole. If you get up before we leave I will let him blend your skull into the pavement.” you hissed. His eyes narrowed at your quietly spoken reference - yes, a fate like Laenor’s lover, and yes you remembered, even if everyone else seemed to forget. It was a fate you were ready to let him share.

“I’m in the Kingsguard and you speak to me like that?” Criston tried to start again, although less confident than before. One more look from you had him shutting up, and your next words were sharp.

“I can speak to you however I want to. If I so desired it, the only place you’ll be safe from me is fucking Qarth, do you understand me?” His jaw clenched, but besides that he made no effort to move or speak again. “I said ‘do you understand me’, Squire’s son?” He frowned, lips rolling over his teeth. You’d hit the exact nerve you were hoping for.

“I understand,” he said. You quirked an eye at him, standing over him so you were no longer hunched over. You stayed like that. Waiting. “Milady,” he finally added.

With that you turned on your heel and made to leave. Harwin said your name, reaching for your arm. Instead, you shoved his armored shoulder when you reached him, pointing to the door.

“Go.”

After returning to your room, Harwin was almost immediately summoned to go speak with his father. Which left you alone for most of the afternoon. You weren’t sure exactly what you were thinking, but it made you so anxious that you couldn’t stand being around anyone until you knew what cause’s Harwin’s outburst.

You were sitting by the fire when Harwin returned, staring into the flames as the wooden door clicked shut behind you. For a moment you heard nothing - he was standing, waiting - then he moved, and the familiar sounds of him taking off his armor started echoing in your quiet room.

“What happened?” you finally asked. He quietened again, before you heard a sigh and the heavy clunk of his sword being put aside.

“You want to hear it?”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have asked.” You turned your head, watching him walk over and sit in the chair opposite you. Harwin’s hands laid in his lap, one cradled with the other as his thumbs brushed over his knuckles. You decided that after you were done being upset with him, you’d take a look at it - obviously it was sore.

He very slowly leant forward, looking into the fire with his elbows on his knees. His hair was loose, and it fell so you couldn’t see his eyes.

“My father made the decision to give up his role as Hand, and take me away to Harrenhal. I’m being punished and he’s taking my whole family down with me.” He spoke slow, quiet. Once he was done his head fell into his hands, fingers weaved through his curls.

“Actions have consequences. What you did today very well could be the undoing of all of us.” you said, voice even quieter. A log in the fire cracked and fell.

“You know it’s not the first time.” he mumbled.

“You’ve beat Criston before?” you asked. He sat back, pushing away his hair and slumped into the chair with a deep breath.

“No, he’s been lucky I’ve been so patient until now.” Harwin hissed, “He’s made more comments about Rhaenyra’s children than I can remember. I didn’t want to remember, so I tried not to, but today? I couldn’t take it. Those boys deserve better than those whispers behind their backs.”

At least that was something you both could agree on.

“Which is why your father has decided we must go?”

“Which is why my father decided we must go.” He finally looked at you, despair written in his eyes. “But I don’t want to go. It’s so fucking weird there. And cold, you’d hate it. Our children, their whole lives are here. Kings Landing is all they’ve ever known.”

You turned away back to the fire. You felt his eyes still on you as you watched the flames licking the burning wood. You felt him watching you as you thought. You kept your eyes on the hearth, but reached your hand out. His fingers brushed yours before he took your hand in his. His hands were warm and calloused, but they felt like him. They were a comfort, and they felt like home. Home was his hand in yours, not the Red Keep.

“You were upset earlier. Not just at Cole. At me.” Harwin said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For all of it. If I hadn’t done any of it -”

“- You are not solely to blame. It was my idea!” you reminded him, squeezing his fingers.

“- I could have said no.” Harwin said, smiling knowingly, “I could’ve stopped. I should have, and I didn’t. I have a duty to defend Rhaenyra, but my duty first is to you. From now on, you and our children will be first. Now, always, and forever.”

You stood from your chair, walking over to his side. He watched you, the hand that was grasped in yours broke free to instinctually wrap around your waist as you came close. His arm was warm through the fabric of your clothes. He felt like home, but he wouldn’t take that as an answer right now.

“Harrenhal is your home, no matter how weird or cold.” you said, brushing back his hair and kissing his temple. “The children will grow there, like you did. They’ll call it home too, and we’ll be safe there. We all will be.”

#harwin strong x reader #harwin strong x fem reader #harwin x reader #ser harwin x reader #hotd x reader #hotd x you

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aelenavelaryon · 1 year ago

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Robert Baratheon x Reader (pt.2)

Summary: in which the Queen gets her revenge on her husband

The return of dragons came to a surprise for the realm. It was unexpected yet a blessing, especially for Rhaenyra. Finally, dragons returned to the world. Robert was not on board with having them in King's Landing at first but after watching Rhaenyra be happy after the loss of their child he agreed. Robert, despite marrying her without love came to enjoy her company as the two enjoyed making children.

Rhaenyra choose to let her dragons roamed free in a place where they were all away from people, to avoid harming innocent people. Prince Daemon was born in the year 283, near the end of the year. His brother Orys came days after his first name day in 284. In the year 286 came the twins, Aemon and Aemond. Just a year later in 287 she lost a child, it was then that Dragons were reborn.

By 290, Rhaenyra's dragons had grown a lot. The year prior they disappeared and when they returned they were the size of an adult dragon. So, for the first time in centuries a Targaryen finally took to the skies on dragonback. Balerion, the dragon she rode flew her to a part of the Keep that was abandoned and where he kept dragons eggs.

Rhaenyra brought Dragon Keepers to the Keep to help with the dragons and their eggs. The eggs, which were enough to give to each one of her children and brother, were kept warm and ready in the children's room. Finally, after five years of trying for a daughter, a girl finally came. Well, more like two. Rhaena and Helaena came during the summers of 290. By then, her children all had dragons eggs. Prince Daemon had claimed Caraxes, while his brother's hatched their eggs. Orys named his Eros. Aemon named his Moonfyre and Aemond named his Meraxes. Princess Rhaena and Helaena's dragon eggs hatched the same day of their birth.

King Robert threw a feast in honor of their first name day. By then, queen Rhaenyra had given him four sons and two daughters. Princess Rhaena was said to be as wild and defiant as her mother in her youth. Rhaena had the Targaryen hair and eyes, while her twin, princess Helaena had black hair and blue eyes like his father but she was as quiet and calm as her late grandmothers, queen Rhaella and Lady Cassana Baratheon. Robert was a decent king who took the input of his queen. They had a quiet a decent marriage.

Since the day they married Robert kept to his wife's and his own chambers. He slept with no other woman that was not his wife. Some had said he changed for the better and Eddard Stark could attest to that. Rhaenyra's life was good. She had no worries. Everything was just perfect.

The news reached her a few weeks later. Robert Baratheon had slept with Cersei Lannister or so she claimed. Cersei was a girl of three and twenty. She was yet to be married as her father hadn't found her a good match yet. Rhaenyra when she heard said nothing. Robert even thought she hadn't heard but she had. She knew, thanks to her little birds that Jaime was Cersei's lover. So, her plan was to take Jaime from Cersei. It was her goal to make him loyal to her.

Her plan began the very next day. She had asked Robert for a new guard. Stating that with six children it was better for them and her to have extra security. The king agreed. She smiled and acted as if nothing was happening. When Cersei was forced to move the keep by her father's order, Rhaenyra was forced to confront her husband.

Robert entered their shared chambers. "Nyra" she looked away. Rhaenyra was two and twenty. She had given her husband six children. She never complained nor did she cause him any problems. She simply did her duty, ever the dutiful her mother used to say. "I have never asked anything of you, nor have I ever caused you trouble or any problems. I have stood by you for the last seven years. I married you despite everything. I am no saint, nor have I ever been. I brought a son into a marriage that was not yours. You loved him and took care of him as if he was your own. And in return I gave your four sons with your blood and two daughters with your blood" there was a brief silence. "Where our children not enough?" she asked. "Was I not enough?" she asked.

Rhaenyra had never been insecure. How could she? She was a Targaryen, their beauty seemed to be god like and now, with her dragon being a god seemed far more possible than before. "I love you, Robert. But I will not be the person you treat like a common whore. If Cersei gives you a bastard child I will give you one too. And if she gives you another so will I" she said. Robert was too stunned to speak. She gave him on chance to speak before she left their shared chambers, Arthur and Jaime following behind.

Rhaenyra knew Cersei's greatest love was Jaime, and she rarely even allowed him to wonder far from her. Jaime didn't mind, watching over her gave him some sort of relief as he felt guilty for killing her father years back. He also wanted to keep her safe as he could not keep Elia and her children. Jaime was also avoiding his sister, as much as she would try to find him but he would walk the other way or ignore her pleas to talk. Over the months the good relationship between the queen and king perished in the blink of an eye. King Robert returned to his drunken and whoring ways.

Cersei Lannister gave birth to a son who she named Joffrey Baratheon, a boy with black hair and green eyes, he seemed to be all his father but the eyes. A year later, in the year 292, queen Rhaenyra gave birth to a son, a boy she named Rhaegar Targaryen and a daughter who she named Rhaella. The boy had blonde white hair. His eyes were the same eyes of princess Alyssa Targaryen, wife of Baelon Targaryen. One green eye and purple. Her daughter, princess Rhaella had a her grandmother's looks. Ser Jaime Lannister was the first one to hold his two children. A little princeling he used to call him and his little baby girl. Jaime and Rhaenyra were the ones who picked the names.

Robert knew but he said nothing as the guilt of returning to his old habits returned. Prince Jacaerys came four years after his sisters, then, a year after him came Lucerys. Princess Rhaenyra had always loved those names and had always wanted to name one of her sons like them. Prince Jacaerys had dark brown hair and purple eyes, his brother Lucerys was just like his brother. Queen Rhaenyra bore thirteen children at the short age of thirty. Her last two children were girls. Daughters. Visenya and Daenerys, daughters of Ser Arthur Dayne.

Eddard Stark never married, instead he served his queen Rhaenyra his entire life. And of course he took care of their two sons. Ned had became her closest companion alongside Arthur and Jaime Lannister. She had no other allies at court but them. At least, she didn't trust anyone else but them. Cersei gave Robert three more children. Tommen, Myrcella and Joanna but they were known as bastards since they were not married.

On the queen's name day, a thirtieth name day celebration was made in her honor. Every house in the realm attended, including Dorne, Driftmark and the North. By then, Prince Jaehaerys was nearly six and ten, Daemon was five and ten, Orys three and ten, Aemon and Aemond were one and ten, Helaena and Rhaena were eight, Rhaegar and Rhaella were nearly six, Jacaerys was four, prince Lucerys three and his sisters had just turned one.

Queen Rhaenyra, despite birthing thirteen children looked far better than most, she was grateful, she also took care great of her figure, she wanted to preserve herself as much as she could. Robert knew that seven of those children where not his. Jaehaerys had been claimed as a Targaryen despite Tywin's insistence to keep him as a bastard. Rhaenyra did not wish for her son to bear the name Baratheon or Stark. Brandon had written to her often wanting to know about his son but he not once had asked for the boy to visit him nor to be claimed as a Stark. She knew Catelyn did not like the idea of Brandon's bastard sons being in their home and possible taking Robb's birthright.

During the Queen's name day celebration things are said and revenge is plotted. They say when you play the game of thrones you win or you die, there is no middle ground. Queen Rhaenyra is going to win, no matter what. The question is, will she succeed or will she fail?

#aegon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon x reader #harwin strong x reader #house of the dragon #alicent hightower x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #robert baratheon #jaime lannister #cersei lannister #arthur dayne #rhaegar targaryen #ned stark #brandon stark

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archonsbane · 1 year ago

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BEAUTY IS TERROR

The gods crafted all mortals to have weaknesses, and foremost of many of Il Dottore’s is you. So when you ask him to be your companion to an annual winter ball, he is powerless to refuse.

pairing. prime!dottore x reader, implied segments x reader, implied harbingers x reader, implied dottore x pantalone

cw. gn!reader. reader is the tsarita’s child. reader referred to as they/them. dottore is a warning by himself. mentions & thoughts of violence + murder + human experimentation. drinking. biting. biting hard enough to draw blood. a bit suggestive but not nsfw.

wc. 15k

an. first ever fic! hope you enjoy :D the title is from ‘the secret history’ by donna tartt.

Dottore is no stranger to running away.

He remembers the first time. He had been a child then, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, so unknowing about the world. His parents were fighting — they always fought, about money and work and him — and his father, a big man with small-set eyes and a hard mouth made for scowling, had begun to go on one of his drunken rants, prompting his mother to scream louder. He was crouched behind the stairwell, watching their shadows flicker and dance with the candlelight on the yellowed walls of their home.

How hard he prayed that autumn day. His lip quivering, hands clasped together, every atom in his body searching for a hint of mercy from those who claimed to love him, both gods and parents. Stop, he would chant in his mind, stop, stop, stop. As brown and red leaves fell outside, as day turned to night, he prayed. He had never prayed so long or so hard until that day. The shouting never stopped and the gods remained silent.

Autumn reigned outside, and his faith died with the spring. It was a season of rot: the rot of the earth without, the rot of faith and soul within. He sucked in a harsh, shaky breath as the walls trembled from the screams. For a moment the house pulsed as though it had a heart. If it did, it had long been poisoned.

He slipped out when the house went quiet, his parents dragged to exhaustion by their fight. There was no real goal in his mind, only that he wanted to run far, far away. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him, the wind in his hair, the distant call of birds at his back. He ran and ran and ran, and sooner or later the sun found him alone in the woods and free.

Not for long. His parents found him three days later, surviving only on berries and the leavings of other beasts, grass-stained and muddied, yet cleaner than he had ever felt. He had shed his faith like a dirty coat, and his shoulders trembled with new-found purpose. That little rebellion earned him the worst beating he ever took in that house, but it no longer mattered.

The next two times were far less pleasant. Even after all these years, they still rankle him. It had been a dark, starless night when the villagers came to cast him out. For his ‘madness’ and ‘monstrosity’, or whatever the hell they were shouting at him. He was too busy trying to not die to listen to all that. Some carried pitchforks, other crudely-made cudgels, and bats, yet all carried torches. It was like all the stars had come down from the sky to enact upon him his inevitable destruction. Inevitable, but Dottore did not believe in such silly lies anymore. He would take his fate and crush it with his hands and build a new one from smoke and ash. That house was the chain that tethered him to that broken old village. He burned it down that night, his parents still inside, and the chain broke; it was more than liberty: it was rebirth. He likes to think he was born on that ashen grass surrounded by the house’s fire and brimstone remains, sweaty and stained with blood. The Tsaritsa claims all the Harbingers are her children, but he knows he is not a holy child, just a creature forged from Hell. But Heaven imparted on him a farewell curse: the jagged scars that run down the left side of his face to his neck, smoking with resentment and remembrance. He left before the villagers could find out he was, in fact, not dead.

Sumeru Akademiya, he thought, would be different. All the scholars were mad for knowledge, he had heard. So was he. He had expected to find a treasure trove of opportunity. He found old gray sages scared of their own shadows and peers who could not tell the difference between madness and truth. It was a shame, really. Nothing is as pitiful as something with wasted potential. But he had long learned if life did not go as planned, he would carve his way through, as a river changes the earth. And so once more he ran.

The next time, fate would not catch him running like prey pursued. The Fatui had given him the opportunity to create the enhanced humans he knows could surpass the Heavens above. The next time, the gods above would meet their equal: a mortal man who, too, has learned the divine act of creation.

“You’re thinking again.” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and back into the planes of reality. “Am I really so boring of a companion that your mind has to wander off?”

He frowns, tapping at the armrest of his chair. Sometimes the memories come back to him unbidden, especially when he wants to think of anything but the present that sits in front of him. You sit across from him (it was his intention that he sit as far away from you as possible), legs informally crossed, your elbow resting on one knee and your chin cupped by your palm. You look nothing like the feared heir to Snezhnaya you normally are. Your grin is as pure and unfiltered as the spring sun, amplified by the fire roaring in the hearth, the look in your eyes warm and guileless. It’s a facade, unnoticed by the untrained eye. Your teeth are bared like a beast’s and your gaze is as sharp as a predator’s. When it pleases you to play the darling child of winter, you do. But he knows better. You like playing this little game with him — with all of the Harbingers, really, he’s seen how you’ve attached yourself to them, not only him, and it makes his chest tighten with some unnamed emotion — teasing him and complimenting him and following him around like some malignant ghost from the children’s tales. You’re a cruel little wolf like that. You play with your food before swallowing it whole.

“You, boring? No.” Never boring. As irritating as your frequent visits are, he will always be kept occupied by one of your antics. “Unexpected? Yes.” You barged into his wing of the palace unannounced in the night, having completely evaded all his guards and segments, and casually sat down on his couch with a tray of tea and biscuits that seems to be a pacifying gift.

You pout mockingly. “Still haven’t forgiven me?”

Irritation flickers against his skin. He readjusts his mask and scoffs. “It’s been five minutes, I require much more time than that.”

“How ‘bout your gift?” You clasp your hands together. “Please? It’s your favorite. I got it from Lonnie.” Your leg bounces, an anxious habit of yours. What could possibly make you nervous? Certainly not his presence, you had made that clear, with all your unabashed visits to his lab, his foreign workshops, and now his own rooms.

“I’d really rather have whiskey.”

You raise a brow. “I didn’t bring any, and there aren’t any glasses.”

“There’s a bottle in my drawer. Under the…” He trails off. He keeps indulgent snacks underneath a false bottom, just because, but you seem to already be aware of it. You slide out the wooden plank and hold up the bottle, the brown turned golden in the light of the fire. “... of course, you know.”

He reaches for the tea cup on the coffee table, hot in his palms, but that never bothers him anymore with all the modifications he’s made to his body and swallows it all in one large gulp. Black tea with a twist of lemon. Four sugar cubes. His favorite. Somehow that makes his mood even worse. You hand him the bottle as you sit back down (closer to him now, which he does not fail to notice). He pours into his teacup until it almost sloshes over the edge.

The moment of silence stretches for a moment too long. He really wishes you’d just get on with it and end his misery, he wants to sleep or work or do something that removes the stain of you from his mind. Your face flickers like a flashlight in his peripheral vision, ghostly in the smoke. Your eyes glow terribly bright, a godly trait from your mother. It’s as beautiful as it is eerie. He transfers all his weight to his left foot, then his right, then back again. You wait for him to finish drinking, your gaze never leaving him.

“Have you forgiven me now?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. He swirls the whiskey around in his cup. The grandfather clock in the room ticks and tocks and he wishes for time to go faster just so he’d be rid of you already. “Do I have to?” He’s always dealt insolence back tenfold, ask any of his segments, or the poor, cursed souls who lie in his personal mortuary, many of whom have committed lesser crimes than breaking and entering into his personal space. “You really think you’re that special?”

“Yes.”

He wants to strangle you and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your stupid face. He wants to carve out those eyes so they’d never make him squirm under their gaze again. He wants to — he does not know what.

He scowls and runs a hand through messy curled hair. “Five minutes, before I have my segments drag you out.”

Amusement flickers across those too-bright eyes. You know that he knows he won’t. You let him pretend anyways.

“Wonderful!” You say happily, like a child just told they could play in the playground for a little while. “I need a favor.”

There’s an unexplainable drop that he suddenly feels in his chest. He had expected you to be here simply to annoy him or make fun of his sleep schedule (that does not exist) or something stupid like that. Why, he cannot say it out loud. His company has never been termed as pleasurable anyways, as much as you continually seek it out. This is expected, it should have been.

You place a cream-blue envelope with gold lining on the coffee table. He tears it apart, secretly smiling at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. The tattered paper has elegant calligraphy that marks it as from some noble-born priss, one of the many in Snezhnaya whose names he has never bothered to learn. They wrote that they were cordially inviting Their Imperial Highness to…

His eyes narrow. “The Sokolov Winter Ball.” He waves the paper in front of your face. “No. No. No. Absolutely not—”

“—yes, oh, come one now, it’ll be fun—”

“—you know how much I hate these things, and all those useless, simpering lords and ladies hate me—”

“—they’re not simpering. Some of them are nice, like Duke Romanov’s daughter, and anyways, you’ll be with me the entire time and they won’t dare to insult a Fatui Harbinger to their face.”

He slams the paper down on the table. The teacups rattle from the impact. He leans forward, chin raised in defiance. “No.”

You cross your arms and lean into the couch. “Too bad. I command you to go.”

"Can't you ask the others? Why torment me, specifically?" He gestures wildly with his hands to emphasize his irritation.

You place a hand on your heart, eyes blown wide for extra effect. "Torment? Dear Doctor, you sadden me so. Can't I spend time with my favorite Dottore?"

"Oh? And here I thought Gamma was your favorite."

"You're my favorite of all the non-Gammas. Anyways, I can’t really take an eleven-year-old to the ball."

"Just take Theta and be happy with that."

"But I want to take you."

There’s a desperate lilt in your voice that weakens his resolve. Could you really? This wasn’t just another one of your jokes, was it? He hates balls, hates the moronic socialites of Snezhnayan society, but absurdly, hope becomes a twittering hummingbird in his heart.

He grits his teeth. "I should file this as some sort of abuse of power."

He wants to deny you, he does. He knows he can’t. He feels the insidious truth squeeze at his black heart.

You reach out and pat his head condescendingly. "You do that, dear."

"Is there anything I can do to make you take someone else?" He waves his hand at nothing. "I'll give you my entire secret stash of chocolates." It's hidden beneath the false bottom of his desk. A very obvious hiding spot, but he doesn't think anyone should care much for a simple stash of chocolates. He prides himself on it, for all its insignificance. He's collected chocolate-covered hazelnuts from Mondstadt, boxes of assorted chocolates from Fontaine, white almonds encased in matcha-infused chocolates from Inazuma, and choco pies from Liyue.

"Er," There's a strange, sheepish smile on your face. "No."

“Will you leave even if I still say no?”

“No.” And then, in a hushed tone barely above a whisper, the final blow to his resolve: “Well, yes, if you really don’t want to go. But consider it, at least? I want to do this with you.” You don’t look at him as you say it, you don’t turn that captivating gaze of yours on his body to make him squirm. Your face is turned towards the fire, the glow of it making your cheeks red. He almost believes you. He wants to believe you.

You sigh at his silence. “You can get something out of this.”

He raises an inquisitive brow. “Like?”

“Archons, I don’t know. A favor for later. More funding. More… resources. Whatever. Anything I can wrestle out of the others.”

It’s a good deal, he muses. Your influence as heir apparent is not one to be undermined. Moreover, the other Harbingers are strangely fond of you. They would bend for you, and not just out of duty.

A pause, and then, with a world-weary sigh he puts his face in his hands. He does not want to see your ebullience, it would hurt his pride too much. “Alright.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back and stuff them down his throat, but it's too late.

A joyful sound leaves you. He hears the rustling of cloth and excited steps on the wooden floors before he’s enveloped by the warmth of your body. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, and your head rests on top of his head.

He flinches slightly. You pull away but your hands remain on his shoulders. He hates, hates how his heart leaps to his throat, how every atom in his body starts to vibrate with life. He cannot, will not, let you have this power over him. He tugs on his heartstrings like a puppeteer and wills his heart to turn to stone.

“You’ll have a fun time, I promise.” You disentangle from him your hair falls over your eyes, and without thinking, he lifts a hand and brushes it away. You grab his hand and entwine your fingers together. “You won’t regret this.”

“I’m there to accompany you and leave as fast as possible,” Dottore replies wryly, but his heart lurches.

He cannot explain to himself why he allows the moment to go on longer than he should. You both stay locked in position, half-hugging with your hands intertwined. Your eyes are half-lidded, your eyelashes fluttering with a mix of embarrassment and playfulness. His gaze trails from your lashes to your lips, red as cherries. His throat feels suddenly parched and his cheeks flush with warmth. From the fire, he tells himself.

The grandfather clock chimes midnight.

You watch with amusement in your eyes as he jumps back, elbow hitting the armrest, swallowing the noise that threatens to escape his body. Suddenly all the irritation comes rushing back up to the surface of his skin. Many a man has fled from that look, from the green children Arlecchino supplies them with to veteran soldiers who have faced blood-soaked horrors on the battlefield.

You blink innocently.

He rubs at his temple, glaring at the fireplace in order to avoid looking at you. You quickly school your lips into a languid smile and start to ramble on about the details — white tie, no theme, dinner, and a ball, don't be late, and remember your manners — and his mind has started to drift to the experiments he needs to finish. There's a particularly annoying disease that's been sweeping through the masses, and the Tsaritsa charged him with taking care of it. He's already gotten a dozen test subjects but one particularly insolent one destroyed a week's worth of research while trying to escape. Then there's a whole batch of delusion prototypes in need of a field test, and it's almost time for his segment's monthly inspection.

"—and you need to learn how to dance."

His head snaps up. "You're kidding—"

"Nope," you say, cutting him off. Archons, one day, he swears to himself, he will make you shut up (How? A voice inside asks. He has no answer.) and his life will be all the better without your grating voice sniffing at his heels like a hungry dog. "You'll be taking classes with me starting next week. Mother says it's about time you learned, too. Everyone else knows."

He scowls at you. You've got him by the hook — no matter what, the Tsaritsa's will cannot be questioned. A thousand times he deflected, making up excuses or sending segments in his place. He does not think it ever fooled his Empress, but she never pressed on it. She would forgive them a thousand little times over, but when she was steadfast in her resolve, her will was as unconquerable as a glacier.

“Fine. Just get out already.”

Your little chuckle rings in his ears. “Mother might call in the army to search for me if I linger.”

Oh, thank Tsartisa. “Then go,” he says dryly. He really, really does not want to be accused of high treason today. Your mother was terrifyingly overprotective.

You roll your eyes. “That’s no way to see off a guest, but I’ll forgive you from the kindness of my heart.”

For his personal gratification, he launches a throw pillow in your direction. You catch it with one unamused brow raised. You throw it back and it hits him in the face.

You put on your boots and your cloak and slip out the door, gently closing it with a click. The fire is still roaring, but the room feels much colder now. There’s a strange, hollow place in the room he cannot help but feel that your shape should be filling. There’s a dull ache pounding in his chest.

He rubs his eyes and moves to his desk, his perpetual sweet tooth aching for that chewy heaven in his taste buds. He almost thinks he's opened the wrong drawer when he finds nothing there, but with a flash of anger, he realizes there's a note in your familiar handwriting.

Sorry. I'll pay you back. :)

You insolent little minx. You ate all of it.

He sighs and pulls back his leather chair. He falls into the soft fabric, all the tension in his body dissipating into the air. He’s too tired to be annoyed. All the energy he exerts in your presence could do that. He sinks deeper into the plush chair and stretches his legs underneath the desk. If there’s ever been a miracle in his life, it’s that his spine hasn’t broken yet from all of the bone-shattering positions he puts himself in.

He’ll have to adjust his non-existent schedule now. The Doctor operates on impulse and instinct, rotating between experiments and whatever’s captured his attention, sometimes not leaving the lab for days on end or going out and doing more… personal research. He’s begun digging deeper into Ruin Guards, and what he’s found has fascinated him. You would like it, he thinks. He’ll have to tell you all about it one of these days.

Archons. What have you done to him? Slipping through the iron walls of his heart and plunging yourself deep into the myocardium. You’ve infested his body like a disease, and now it seems all thoughts and actions have been dedicated to you. He hates it, he enjoys it, he cannot tear you out of him no matter how hard he tries, and he’s tried. Oh, so many times.

Now that you’ve left, he allows his lips to curl into a sneer. That moment — the entire night, really — was just a weakness he has not yet stamped out. He wishes he could tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped doing that infuriating flutter whenever you’re near. He sucks in a harsh breath and taps frantically on the armrest. He is so, so fucked.

Dottore is no stranger to running away, yet it seems you’re the one divinity he cannot escape from.

The morning before the first lesson finds him sleep-deprived, exhausted, and in an absolutely foul mood. The previous night (or, rather, three a.m. that morning), a Chaos Core went wild and exploded. It was the last in his stock. He sent Beta to hunt for more, but it would be a while until he returned with a sufficient amount and he had to put a hold on his studies ‘till then. One of his test subjects had also been spitting out defiance after defiance as of late, dragging his research longer than it should’ve gone on. He killed them, of course, sometimes you just have to cut your losses and be done with it, but it wasted so many days spent conducting test after test. The thought of it makes him furious all over again, but he cannot be in a mood today.

Dottore has never found out the secret of looking as though he’s just waltzed out a Fontainian perfume commercial like Pantalone, but today he looks worse than ever when inelegantly he rolls out of bed. His appearance has never bothered him before, not with his mask covering the worst of it, but his hair sticks out in so many directions it looks as though he’s just been hit by lightning, his skin is sickly pale, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. He drags a hand down his face and moans in exasperation. He knows you won’t care, but court conduct requires just a little bit of dignity from him.

A much-needed shower and eye drops solve the worst of it (or so he hopes). He still looks like Death himself has come to haunt the palace’s hollow hallowed halls, but that was his common appearance anyways.

The Fatui and the servants who go in and out of the palace keep their eyes trained on the ground as he passes by, a manic grin that shows sharp ivory teeth on his face. It’s an effort to keep up the appearance running on three hours of sleep, but the memory of that night rattles around in his mind, and he will not be that weak again. Just for fun, he turns his gaze on one of the new-bloods. The way they flinch brings a sliver of confidence back to him.

A familiar figure makes him pause in his tracks. His grin is genuine now, and he feels this is a wonderful restart to a day that has, so far, been miserable.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Regrator.”

He does not have to see the front of his head to know Pantalone rolls his eyes and stares pointedly off to the distance before turning around to face him. He looks as youthful as ever, still looking like an early thirty-something, as he has for the entire time Dottore’s known him. The smile on his face is polite and patronizing.

“Dottore,” Pantalone forces out. He folds his fingers together across his stomach. “How… lovely to see you.”

“Is it?” He gives the man a mocking smile and tilts his chin up with his hand. “Lovely, but so cold. Where are the happy smiles for me, my lord?”

Pantalone scoffs and crosses his arms, half-turning away. “A wretched creature like you doesn’t deserve one.” So he’s dropped all formalities, then. This would be interesting.

Dottore places his hand over his chest for dramatic effect, in a comically similar way that you had all those nights ago. “I thought we were getting along so well. You wound me, Lonnie.”

“Good. I hope it kills you.”

A faux gasp leaves his mouth. Pantalone’s eye twitches. He turns to leave, but Dottore wheels ahead of him and blocks his path, stretching his arms wide. As much as you annoy him, he can’t say he does not understand what you feel when you do. Pantalone, his favorite target, always elicits the best emotions that keep him entertained for weeks after. His rotten heart beats with energy.

“Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone,” he says, in a child’s sing-song voice, “Won’t you indulge me just this once? You’ve been so busy, you’ve barely had any time for me and our oh-so-enjoyable meetings this month.”

Pantalone looks close to pushing him out of a crystalline window. Dottore hopes he does not, the Tsaritsa does love her windows.

“It seems you’re the one who does not have time today, Dottore,” He says, “You’re expected for your dance lessons in about, oh, five minutes, aren’t you?”

Dottore hisses, his mood turning sour all of a sudden. “Who fed you that morsel of information?”

“People like to gossip,” Pantalone shrugs, amused and unkind, “but if you must know, it was Theta who told your maids who told the guards who told my maids who told my secretaries who told me.” Damn that Theta. Dottore makes a mental reminder to reboot that impertinent pillock’s system without you finding out. “You really must hurry,” he continues on, oblivious to how Dottore glares a burning hole through the pillar behind him, imagining the ‘scolding’ he’ll give his segment when he sees them, “You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, do you? I feel enough pity as it is that you’re their chosen partner. I can’t imagine why they would choose you…”

“... over you, my dear Regrator?”

Pantalone simpers, but an emotion Dottore knows all too well flashes across his eyes. They’ve known each other for too long and too closely, no matter how much he tries to hide, Dottore can break down that steel skin of his and pry out the truth from his chest. “I am far more handsome, and sociable besides.”

“But they chose me.”

Pantalone levels his gaze to Dottore’s. The corners of his mouth are curled down, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his narrowed gaze is sharp as a knife. He says nothing.

“You’re jealous,” Dottore says, jumping well over the line that all of the Harbingers put between their facades and the truth. His grin is wolfish and triumphant. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Pantalone glares at him and turns to leave. “I have better things to do than be jealous of you. Good day, Dottore.”

Dottore takes long strides to stand in front of him, blocking his path once more. Before Pantalone can open his mouth and spit out insults that could have him thrown into the far northern military camps if it were any other person, Dottore leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear, “I know,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, “things like being jealous of them, too.”

He whistles a happy tune through his teeth as he leaves, the Ninth Harbinger paralyzed behind him. He does not pay any mind to how his skin has been set aflame or how his heart beats wildly in his chest.

Yes, if he could only be that way with you, everything would be alright. He cannot understand why it’s so different from you. It’s the power, a voice whispers. It always circles back to that. Only three people stand above him now: that rat bastard Pierro, your mother, and you. You and your irritating smiles and your irritating laugh and your irritating jokes. You unnerve him with the way you hold his life so carelessly in your hands. A single touch, a mere look, and you could send him spiraling down to the depths if you so commanded. Everything he’s achieved in his life undone. In this pack of wolves the Tsaritsa calls her children, both by blood and bond, there’s a clear hierarchy in which you stand above all others.

He and Pantalone can devour each other whole, but when it comes to you, he’ll have to force the bitter taste of defeat down his throat. It’ll take everything in his power not to gag.

He’s ten minutes late when he finally arrives at the Queen’s Ballroom. The ballroom is beautiful, made of marble and gold furnishings. The floor is polished hardwood arranged in complicated swirling patterns that mimic the winter winds. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the nature of the north: galloping wild horses and sly foxes, wolves prowling through the green underbrush, golden ivy snaking at the edges as clouds raced on a blue sky. The crystal chandeliers are unlit and unneeded, the pale light of the morning provides enough to see clearly. This part of the palace is rarely ever open, the Tsaritsa is not one to throw balls and parties like so many of her aristocratic subjects do, so the doors stay locked. Of course, any exception can be made for winter’s favorite child.

He barely even notices the dance instructors wheedling about in the corner. He immediately finds you, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window. One leg is crossed over the other. With the morning light coming in through, you’re bathed in the brightest living gold. For a moment old prayers come crowding to the forefront of his mind. For a moment all that time spent on his knees seems to be reasonable, if only it had all been dedicated to you. For a moment you’re baptized by the sun, for a moment you’re holy.

The cocky smile on his face, a remnant from that moment with Pantalone, crumbles. His breath hitches in his throat. Oh, shit.

You turn to him, mouth pressed in a thin line. Your pointed steps ring across the floor as you stalk toward him, and he cannot help but feel like a trapped critter. He wants to fight or flee or do something —

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” you murmur, reaching for his gloved wrist with the lightest of touches. He swallows at the sensation of touch. “I was starting to think you had flaked out on me,” you say teasingly.

“Oh, no, I was just… occupied with another business,” he mutters, looking back at the entrance. A smirk cannot be restrained. You raise an eyebrow and he shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s alright now.”

Your answering smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. The two of you walk side-by-side toward the instructors on the other side of the room, close enough for your shoulders to brush against each other, a united front. He realizes, quite abruptly, that you were nervous too.

The dance he has to learn is the Varsovienne Waltz. Their instructors are a pair of siblings, boy and girl, who look very much alike with dark eyes and dark hair. They regard him with the fearful respect most everyone regarded him with, taking care not to seem too patronizing.

He first learns the fundamental dance positions. He thought he was mechanical, awkward, and unsure for the first time in years (Archons, how do you manage to coax these emotions out of him?). You said he was doing well, and the instructors affirmed so, but he cannot tell if that was genuine or from a place of fear.

And then comes the actual dancing.

They demonstrate it beforehand. Together, the pair of siblings glide across the floor with the gracefulness of swans fluttering about in the lakes. You had already learned this dance as a young child growing up in the icy walls of Zapolyarny, and so after the instructors had finished, you request to dance with one of them, if only to test your muscle memory. You take the role of follower, prompting Dottore, who guesses he would be assigned the role of leader, to imprint each step and twirl into his mind.

He hates the sick feeling of anxiousness brewing in the pit of his stomach as he watches you dance. But it does not go away as he watches you laugh and toss your head back, not a hair out of place. It’s not a surprise you’re so good at this, each move perfectly executed, your angles a wonder of geometry. This kind of life was your birthright. But not for him, not for the boy who had grown up in an indigent village on the borders of Sumeru. His history is not what bothers him, though, he had shed it from himself like a coat a very long time ago. What bothers him is you.

Vexation pools in his mind the longer he watches. He begins to impatiently tap his foot against the floor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. This was your life, not his. Dancing is not something the Second Seat of the Fatui Harbingers should be doing. Such a frivolous and foolish activity was not meant for a man of his nature. Heavens, what was he doing here? Hundreds of years ago you couldn’t have dragged him into the ballroom kicking and screaming if your life depended on it. Now he stands here, awake at six-in-the-fucking-morning operating on barely any sleep for you and your dance lessons that’ll be put into use for only one night. One night!

You could do this to him. You could force him to take dance lessons like some twelve-year-old lordling. You could tear down the meticulously made steel and calcium walls that surround his heart with a sharp smile and bury yourself within the bloody tissue. You could make a home there, familiar and warm, floating above a poisonous black rot. Only you could coax half-forgotten emotions out of him that he thought he had sealed away centuries ago. Meeting you, he thinks, has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to him thus far.

He wants to turn to leave but finds his feet rooted to the ground.

He barely notices you’re done before you saunter up to him, hands your hips, your mouth pressed into a thin, worried line.

“Are you alright? You look…” You cock your head to the side. “... not good.”

“I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he rasps, extending a gloved hand. “Can we get on with it now?”

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. A moment passes before you decide to stay silent and take his hand.

The girl instructor lifts the needle on the gramophone and the record begins to spin. The music is a sweet, simple melody. He has never heard it before, but memories of days spent exploring the surrounding forest of his village catapult to the forefront of his mind: dipping small toes into warm springs as he ate sticky sunsettias, the juice running down his fingers, the warm, incessantly lovely sun on windblown hair. He shakes his head like a wet dog shaking off water.

He does not realize just how much tension his body holds until you hum as he spins you around, your back to his chest, his left hand on your hip, and his right hand cupping yours. “You need to relax,” you say.

“I am relaxed,” he replies stiffly.

“No, you’re not.”

“Your Imperial Highness,” he mutters, a sardonic smile on his face, “I think I am much more qualified to say what my body feels more than you.”

You purse your lips but say no more. The look in your eye tells him you don’t believe him at all.

The next three hours are agonizingly slow-paced, yet somehow when he reaches the end of it, are a blur of colors and shapes and unintelligible music as though he had been shot past it all. He would not be surprised if the gods somehow made time move slower then faster then slower than normal just to play another cruel trick on him for their own amusement.

He isn’t terrible, and his rarely-used combat experience has finally found some employ, but he lacks your practiced poise or the easy grace of the instructors. He moves less like a human and more like some forest creature, his physicality more wild and jagged than it was elegant. The instructors tell him his lordship took to the dance more easily than most, and with a few more sessions could be flawless, but he does not pay any mind to them and instead places his gaze on you. Something unpleasant lurks behind your carefully-blank expression. His mind lurches with the sudden urge to find out what had gone wrong and go back in time and fix it. Trial and error is something he is intimate with, and his mistakes do not bother him, so long as he fixes them. He realizes, suddenly, that he wants to please you.

Pantalone does not need to push him out a window, he’ll very well throw himself from one after this.

“Walk with me,” you say, slipping an arm through his. Your expression is almost quiet. He has no choice but to let you lead him out the door and into the hallways. The guards at the door bow their heads and murmur the appropriate greetings. He does not miss how their eyes land on their interlocked arms for a second too long. People will talk.

You both stroll through the hall in strained silence. He flexes his fingers.

“Are you alright?”

His head snaps to the side, his ears unbelieving. He had been bracing himself for a reprimanding, for jeers, for mockery. Not this. “Pardon?”

Was that pity in your eyes? His jaw clenches. Anger, black and brutal, burns within. “Are you alright?”

He tries to disentangle himself from you, but an iron grip keeps him locked in place. He forgets how truly strong you are. “I’m fine.”

You sigh and look at the arched ceiling, as though exasperatedly asking it if it could hear his words. “Dottore, I’ve known you for a very long time. You overestimate your ability to lie to me.”

He grits his teeth, forcing the words out of his throat. “I am fine. I have weathered much worse than dance classes, Your Imperial Highness. If you found some fault in my conduct or wish to admonish me then please, don’t drag it out.”

“Admonish you?” Your eyes widen, startled. “What? No, I’m just—”

He barks out a laugh, self-deprecating and cruel. “What? Pitying me?”

“Worried about you.” You stop. You step forward and face him, eyes bright and shining, the corner of your lips curled into a frown. “Don’t be mean.”

Worried. You were worried about him. His anger ebbs away and morphs into soft bemusement. You don’t move from your position, instead, you cross your arms and tilt your chin up in defiance like an angry child. He almost believes you’re genuine, but he knows better than to argue with that stubborn jut of jaw.

He huffs, willing up his signature grin. It’ll be easier to make you happy if only to get this over with. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.” He flicks your forehead and thrusts his fists into his pocket and starts to stride forward. “I’m quite alright. If you’re wondering about my less-than-stellar performance, it’s the three hours of sleep I got.”

You roll your eyes and scurry after him. Before he can escape, you grab his hand and lead him toward a wing of the palace he has been in only a few times before. Your own.

“No, no, no, you’re not escaping me today.” A childish groan escapes him and makes you giggle. “You can sleep after this, but humor me for a bit and have breakfast with me.”

“You didn’t have breakfast?”

“Did you?” Fair point.

He wants to go back to his room and sleep until sunset, but he cannot help but feel a spark of interest. Most of the time you simply hang about his laboratory and annoyed him, but for you to actually invite him to something as simple as breakfast with seemingly no other motivation than to spend time with him was a break from your norm. A very unfamiliar break.

All his instincts call for him to flee.

“Alright,” he says, against the better judgment of his head, “just this once.”

The imperial family’s apartments are bigger than the Harbingers’, and much emptier. The hall is big and white and echoing, with wide hardwood flooring that was arranged in an intricate repeating diamond pattern. There are paintings of you and your mother, silver embellishments in the likeness of frost plastered on the walls, the furniture was elegant but plain, and the windows had no curtains. The only hint of your personality is the vases of your favorite flowers. Everything had an eerie, deserted look, haunted by the ghost of you. There were barely any people, only two stoic guards posted at the entrance and a maid that scurried past them. He never realized just how isolated you were from the rest of them; no wonder you sought the Harbingers out so often.

Breakfast appears with instantaneous magic: fried bacon, sunnyside-up eggs, blinis, and biscuits. His stomach rumbles at the sight. He hasn’t had anything to eat that was more than trail mix in close to thirty-six hours, not that it bothered him significantly, he was used to getting distracted by his studies and forgetting to nourish himself. Thankfully, he had improved his body long ago so that it could weather mortal flaws like hunger.

He wolfs down a slice of bacon while you slather a blini with butter and honey. He rarely eats with company if not forced to. Outside of that, he only ever eats with his segments on the off-chance they’re all free, which is simply a microscopic natural disaster filled with food fights and whining and endless bickering. But breakfast with you is a quiet affair. You eat with calm, methodological grace. He subconsciously looks at you, noting your dining habits, wondering if this was your favorite food. You catch him staring and send him a bemused smile. He looks away, suddenly interested in the tapestries that adorn the walls, feeling heat rush to his face. The windows are open and he can hear the world outside: birds twittering about, the recruits at their morning drills, servants rushing to do this and that. A stillness settles within his bones that he has not felt in a very, very long time. Part of him wants to rip it out, but another part shushes it. He is tired, sleep-deprived, and busy. He still has experiments to do, reports to check, papers to sign. But right now the sun is coming in, soft as a caress, and you are sitting across from him and smiling.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you say suddenly, your words cutting through the silence like a sword. “but you seemed really out of it earlier.”

He raises one eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his bacon. “Is this a therapy session or breakfast?”

You kick his leg beneath the table. “Archons, ‘ttore, I just want to be nice.”

Nice. Inwardly, he laughs. He absently pushes the runny eggs around on his plate. “Hm. There were just a few things on my mind, nothing to worry about.” A pause. “I’m very surprised you haven’t teased me yet for my horrible dancing skills.”

“Ah.” You prop your arm up on the table and rest your cheek on your fist. “Actually, I was expecting they’d be just as bad as your harmonica skills. But you’re actually okay. Not good, but you’re getting there.”

He splutters. His mouth opens and closes, much like a fish, before he erupts. “My harmonica skills are amazing! You’re just deaf or inane or have horrible, horrible taste.” He pokes his silver fork in your direction. “I’ll have you know I was the best harmonica player in Sumeru, thank you very much.”

You bite on your lower lip, vaguely amused. “Really now.”

He leaps to his feet and leans forward, hands on the table, a flurry of feathers and cotton cloth and fury. “Yes, really now! If you weren’t heir to the throne I’d have you chopped up into little pieces and sold to the butchers for that.”

“I think you’d miss the pleasure of my company too much to do that.”

He harrumphs and jerks his head away. “You presume too much.”

You laugh. It’s warm and comforting and familiar. He wants to never hear it again. “You’re so pretentious. Can’t you admit you’re just a little bit fond of me?”

“Fond? I—” The word coils around his throat. No, he wasn’t fond of you. He was simply slightly more tolerant of you than everyone else. “—no. No, I’m not.”

He isn’t, really, he isn’t. All these little moments were just lapses of mortal weakness he has yet to stamp out. Something else to add to his itinerary of things to modify. This acquaintanceship with you was getting too bold and too powerful and one of these days he’s sure it’s going to come crashing down on him.

“I think you are.” You dangle your fork between your fingers. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

He waits for you to continue. But you don’t. You sit there and stare at him, twirling your fork, those eyes bright and big and full of inexplicable warmth. One corner of your lips curls up into an absurdly endearing lopsided smile. He banishes the thought from his brain. The silence stretches, on and on and on, until it becomes a blanket that suffocates him.

He taps his fingers against the table. “You’re madder than I am.”

“You of all people should know the difference between madness and truth.”

“It’s not the truth.”

You peer up at him and cock your head to the side. “Is it?”

You stand and circle around the table, dragging one finger on the wood. He turns his head to the door and away from you. You hover next to him, just a breath away from his skin. He fights to shove back down the shaky breath that threatens to escape him. He does not know why he doesn’t just move away, putting those barriers back up that he allows you to shatter over and over again. The pieces are on the ground, ready to be gathered and assembled once more. He is a scholar, he knows how to eliminate weakness, how to tear down and rebuild over and over again until his product becomes perfect; he can build on the evident fragility of his resolve when it comes to you.

All it takes is discipline. He must throw you back as he throws back enemies on the battlefield. He must deny you any more ground.

One hand intertwines with his while the other holds the pulse of his wrist. His heart begins to beat itself to death in his chest. He relents and turns to look at you, your face carefully blank, but he has known you for too long. Something stirs within your eyes, something hungry and wolfish.

You bring his hand to your lips and gently turn it over to expose the scarred skin peeking out from in between his sleeve and his glove. His wrist is barely an inch away from your mouth. You lean forward and bite, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting.

He jerks away, eyes widening with incredulity. “You—”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. There is no hint of remorse or disbelief for what you just did in your eyes. You smile at him, affable and innocent as a puppy. But there was nothing puppy-like in your eyes. How could he have let himself forget? You wild little wolf. His wrist throbs, but to his surprise and disgust, the sensation was not at all unpleasant.

“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to see what that would be like.”

“You wanted to see what it would be like to bite me?”

“To mark you.” You move forward as he moves back, a twisted iteration of the waltz you danced earlier. “I don’t understand why you don’t let me in. Did I do something wrong?” His Adam apple bobs up and down as his back hits the wall. “Tell me, please.”

He looks at you and runs his tongue over his teeth. Every coherent thought evaporates within the confines of his brain. He cannot let you know the truth. He cannot.

“Get away.” His voice is hoarse.

There’s the slightest hesitation in your muscles before you take a small step backward. In one swift motion, he lurches forward, grabbing ahold of your shoulder and your chin. He leans over you, red eyes blazing underneath the mask. Something cruel and sharp slithers in his veins and buries its fangs into his anatomy. He does not know who he is angrier at — you, or himself. You for being an inescapable prison where he was the prisoner. Himself for never trying to escape or not trying enough.

He grazes his thumb against the outline of your lips. “You insufferable little brat,” he spits, “the other Harbingers may allow you to do whatever you please with them, but that weakness is not inside me, and you cannot root it out. You—” He squeezes your skin. “—you cannot conquer me, no matter how much you try.”

Will you have him thrown out of the Fatui for this? Locked up in the deepest cell? Will you ask your mother to impale him on a glacier, forced to slowly wither away? He watches and waits for your response.

You smile and easily disentangle yourself from his grasp. You lean forward, one hand on his shoulder, your lips brushing against his ear.

“Liar.”

He does not think he’s upset you, but you’ve abstained from interacting with him outside of your dance lessons, which themselves have become awkward and brief. You regard him with the same absentminded politeness you would a waiter or a maid, your eyes glazed and the candor of your voice mild. Ever since that night, you’ve made no move to tease or touch. Even as you dance, your bodies locked in a tangle, every time skin brushes against skin your new-found coldness burns like ice.

He tries not to dwell too much on your last conversation, on the phantom throbbing of his wrist where your teeth had bit into his skin.

His life has become strangely empty now. There’s a hole in the shape of you begging to be filled, but no material could ever replace your flesh and bone. No one’s barging into his laboratory to annoy him or sneaking into his apartments at odd hours of the night. All for the better.

Except it isn’t, because now it’s the night (or rather, morning) before the ball and he can’t seem to sleep and the past few weeks have been absolutely insufferable. He’s irritable, much more than he normally is, prone to commonplace mistakes, and worst of all, unfocused. His segments have noticed, even the younger ones, who have been increasingly more competent than him. He knows that they know the reason why; he sees the various looks of disapproval, amusement, and disgust. Zeta even had the gall to make fun of him for it, to his immediate regret, as Dottore scolded him with such ferocity they all went quiet in a rare show of obedience. Perhaps he should scold them more often. The resounding silence, if it happened more often, would undoubtedly improve their research and his moods.

He stares down at the unfinished reports on the metal table, acutely aware of the laboratory clock ticking away the minutes. Another and another and another go past. He’s been staring dumbly at the thrice-damned half-empty papers for two hours now. He can feel Theta’s bemused eyes burning into the back of his eyes as he mops up the blood from their latest failed experiment. Suddenly the sloshing of the water is too much for him to bear.

“Go. Leave that for the maids,” Dottore barks. He hears swift footsteps before they pause right at the door that leads into the segments’ living quarters.

“You should sleep,” Theta says. Dottore turns in the swivel chair and shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not saying that out of, urgh, concern,” the segment hurries to correct, “only that, don’t you have something to prepare for tomorrow—” He shoots a glance at the clock. “—I mean, today?”

“None of your business.”

“We’re the same person if you hadn’t noticed, so yes it is my business.”

Dottore rubs his eyes and stays silent. There’s too little energy within him to bicker right now. Theta is still rooted in his spot, smirking silently. He crosses his arms.

“Maybe,” he continues, with a mischievous lilt in his voice, “if you’re feeling too tired to attend, I’ll be glad to—”

It’s almost comical how fast Theta goes flying into the metal cabinets. He lets out a groan of pain. Dottore does not even comprehend when he stood up and punched him. He only knows the way rage flared in his chest, that wild emotion that he could not name roaring in his ears. He had been the one asked to the ball. Him, over Theta. Theta was your favorite of all the adult segments, for who-knows-what reason, the segment that was him during his final year in the Akademiya. You always claimed it was because he was the most fun to be around (Only the Archons can understand your definition of fun) and so it was him you often asked after.

But this time it’s Dottore that you wanted, and he would not let anyone take away what was rightfully his. (Your voice seems to whisper in his ear, as though you were standing right beside him, “I want to do this with you.”)

The second he realizes his thoughts, he’s tempted to shoot himself with one of the expertly made and modified Fatui guns. It’s the tiredness, he reasons to himself. The lack of sleep was poisoning him with irrationality. The last time he slept was… well. Approximately four days ago.

He remembers the last thing he said to you, and thinks of your wolfish eyes and predatory grin. You cannot conquer me, and your sly answer, Liar. How is it, he thinks, that he has barely seen you in weeks yet your presence has enlarged and completely overtaken him? The scholar in him wants to pry around for answers, but another part, a mortal part he thought he had killed long ago already knows what the answer is.

He wonders if you still actually want him to be your partner. With the way you’ve been ignoring him these past few weeks, you might truly prefer taking one of his clones instead. The only adult segments in Snezhnaya right now are Theta and Zeta, the latter of which was on the other side of the country doing research on the mysterious disease. Theta was the only true threat to his position… unless, of course, you decide to ask one of the Harbingers or your subordinates instead.

To his surprise and mild disgust, uncharacteristic fear grips his heart. Shit. If you took someone else to the ball, he would lose the reward you had promised to grant. He needed it — Tsaritsa only knows how much people, especially certain bankers, love to get in the way of his research.

The thought of you swaying in another person’s arms tonight almost makes him punch Theta again.

Theta is rambling about something insignificant, still scrambled on the floor and clutching his bruised face, glaring daggers at his creator. Dottore would have paid more heed to a rat squeaking in the corner. Dottore jerks his head to the door. A dismissal.

An annoyed sound leaves Theta’s artificial throat. “Looks like I touched a nerve there, Prime. Scared I’m gonna steal them away?”

“No.”

He huffs. “Whatever. It’s just one date, I’m always gonna be the favorite.”

Dottore wonders if he can get away with Theta’s permanent deactivation without you finding out. Probably not. “It’s not a date.” Until now, he had never thought of it as such. But Theta speaking it into existence makes his heart thump. “It’s—it’s a business agreement,” he insists, privately cursing the stutter, “an acquisition of advantage.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been applying that skin cream Pantyliner gave you every night? Even though you’ve never opened it until now?”

“A certain image is required of me, not that your rat ass would know.”

“Honestly, it’s hilarious watching you fall over yourself for them.”

Dottore hisses. “I’m not ‘falling over myself’ for them.”

Theta grins, all that sharp teeth flashing in the fluorescent lights. “Sure.”

“I’m not!” He sounds indignant, like a child protesting their involvement in mischief they were very much involved in.

Theta rolls his eyes as he stands and disappears into the other room, snickering. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Prime,” he calls after.

Dottore sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m not,” he says softly, almost desperately, though, of course, no one hears it. Just the empty air, eating his words.

He sighs again and glances at the clock, still ticking away. It’s half past three in the morning. You had agreed to meet at six in the evening. You had told him on the day of the last lesson, very aggressively, that under no circumstances should he be late, which he was infamous for being. If he slept now, he could get some much-needed rest before the ball.

It’s a fitful sleep, though any sleep is better than none. He oscillates between the waking world and darkness, his body simultaneously feeling like it has been doused in fire and thrown into the icy-cold bays of Snezhnaya. Three-quarters after one o’clock he’s woken, gently and fearfully, by one of your subordinates. In a quivering voice, she tells him you had sent an entire team to “ensure full preparedness”, which he knows really was just to say, “don’t show up in a fucking lab coat”. He reluctantly lets them pull him around in a flurry of various outfits for him to try in a long, awkward, and agonizing two hours. He allows them to style his hair, clenching his teeth all the while, thinking about how furious you be if he harmed one of yours as his fingers twitch. In the end, the effort is barely seen — it’s really just a cleaner, shinier rendition of his usual hairstyle.

They don’t do makeup. They know better than to cross that line. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, has ever seen what's underneath the mask.

The outfit they chose, in the end, was appropriately glamorous, though not as fancy as something Pantalone or Signora might wear. The royal blue fabric is soft against his skin, though his cravat seems tight around his neck. Strange, since he was the one to do it and did not deviate from how he usually did it. He tugs on the white fabric and realizes his hands are shaking. They haven’t in centuries, not since his expulsion from the Akademiya. White hot rage sears through his bones. You are the reason behind this resurfacing weakness. He has no doubt about it.

He almost wants to dive back into bed and flake out on you; it would be terribly amusing, but ultimately pointless. The consequences are not ones he wants to bear.

He does not want to see the looks his subordinates will undoubtedly give him once they catch him on his way to the foyer of the imperial family’s private apartments, where you had agreed to meet. It was a revolting thought: The Second Seat trudging through the halls like a tamed dog The thought of it makes him want to puke. He’s already heard the multiple rumors of your relationship, has heard the giggles, has seen the coy smiles. He wonders if the other Harbingers experience it as well.

Instead, he takes one of the palace’s secret passageways known only to the top three Harbingers, Pierro, you, and the Tsaritsa. The narrow stone hallway is dusty and dark, rarely used and reserved only for emergencies. He can see well enough with the enhanced vision he gave himself when he moved to an artificial body. He knows there are many more passages snaking through the walls that he does not know about, yet for all his explorations and the hours spent poring over the palace maps, he has never been able to find them. He supposes they’re for only you and your mother. Zapolyarny Palace was a strange place, filled with magic of a thousand years past. He’s heard rumors of ancient spells and complicated runes imbued in the walls of the palace, keeping out any who dare intrude.

The passageways are filled with twists and turns, with multiple ladders and stairs and secret doors he had long since memorized in his mind. He emerges from behind a tapestry and steps into the deserted hallway adjacent to the foyer.

Truth be told, he likes this part of the palace. He keeps his private estate and rooms in a similar sparse fashion, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to decorate. But he feels that the emptiness here is intentional. The beauty is quiet, serene even, as silent as the first brush of snow. Especially when the Empress is in one of her moods and true frost conquers the walls and floors and snow impossibly starts to fall indoors. When that happens, suddenly, the palace is transformed into a winter wonderland, conjured out of childlike whimsy.

You await him at the bottom of the staircase.

He pauses mid-step, the breath caught in his throat. He has never seen you so… dressed up, before. He knows you like going out on this excursion or that: to the opera with Pantalone or taking a pleasure barge with Columbina, and when out in the public’s eye a level of regalness was expected in your fashion. But alone with him, usually shut up in the labs or in his private estate, you wore simple clothes that allowed freedom of movement.

But tonight you were glittering, doused in jewels he knows could fund him for years. The moonlight slants in through the windows, making you shimmer. He has never seen you look more ethereal, as though you had just stepped out of one of the Snezhnayan fairytales you so loved. And although he never grew up in Snezhnaya, looking at you he feels as though he has read those fairytales, has spent nights under the covers living in every word in his head. He looks at you and sees magic.

He realizes, suddenly, that he wears the same colors as you: royal blue and white. And then, just after that punch to the head, he remembers: royal blue and white are the colors of the imperial family.

He swallows an emotion he does not want to touch with a hundred-foot pole.

“Hello,” you say softly, terrifying warmth blooming in your eyes, “you aren’t late.” There’s a tease in the words.

He harrumphs and looks away, trying to conceal the growing red in his cheeks. He thanks the Tsaritsa she does not keep her palace well-lit, even at night. “You ought to have better expectations of me. I know I’m not known for punctuality but I know when something is important.”

You smile. It is blank and careful. “Well then.” You extend your hand. “Let’s go.”

He takes your hand and lets you lead him to the awaiting carriage. Suddenly the room is too hot and stuffy and your body is too close yet too far. He wishes you’d press yourself closer but you haven’t in weeks, not since that fateful day. He almost misses it, before he catches the feeling and inwardly scolds himself.

Not for the first time, he wonders what game you’re playing at. You had declared, though indirectly, that you could conquer him, yet had made no move to do so. He squints at you from underneath the mask. Your face is set in a neutral, almost air-headed expression. It was the expression you used during boring meetings that you couldn’t care less about. Was he boring you? Exasperation and aggravation flood his mind. Him? Boring? He supposes he hasn’t been trying to poison you as of late. And anyway, it was you who came to him. He had never sought you out before if not for business reasons. Was he expected to make some kind of move?

The ride to the Sokolov estate is coated in a heavy, awkward silence. Or at least, he thinks so. You don’t seem to notice. Or care. Zapolyarny Palace is situated outside the capital city, so the carriage ride takes more or less an hour. The hour is the longest he has ever experienced, except perhaps the hours he spent dancing with you. You say nothing the entire time, simply stare languidly out the window, your chin cupped in your hand. Midwinter already rules over the land, not that it really mattered when it seems two-thirds of the year saw snow. From time to time you put your hand through the open window and catch a snowflake. There were fleeting moments your eyes would meet, there would be a pause, then a quick aversion and you would both retreat into the invisible walls you had built around yourselves.

He wonders if you expect him to apologize.

The silence is enough to suffocate.

Then, blessedly, the manor materializes in the distance. He almost breathes an audible sigh of relief. He has to restrain his body from jumping out of the carriage as soon as the door is opened. He exits the vehicle first and extends a helping hand to you as you shuffle out, like a proper gentleman. Not that he was one.

You smile at him. Still, blank.

The Sokolov Winter Ball is an event for aristocrats by aristocrats. There are barely any Fatuus in sight, exempting the noble children who had joined to cur favor and prestige, though such children were few and far between. Though the Tsaritsa rules over all, there is undoubtedly enmity between the nobility and the Fatui; the two factions are caught in an uncertain back-and-forth of power, constantly at each other’s throats and on the verge of bloodshed. In public, members of both groups were expected to be cordial and pretend there was equality among them. So Dottore did get a certain satisfaction in seeing the lords and ladies of Snezhnaya bow before him, even if it was really to you rather than him.

He almost falls asleep internally as you go through the motions of socializing, him following behind as he has nothing else to do: trivial small talk, false fawning and compliments, pretending to care about the latest gossips sweeping the city. You did seem to actually care about the latter, one of the many characteristics you shared with Pantalone. He, on the other hand, was utterly uncurious to the silly little lives of the people.

They mostly pretend he does not exist. Not rudely, but fearfully. They understand Dottore is not exactly in the best of moods and offer only commonplace courtesies.

He wonders how long you can go treating him like this, like some distant, half-hearted acquaintance and not… whatever he should be to you. He has never, ever been the slightest bit interested in socialization, but he wishes, just once, you would turn your head to him and chat. Even if the talk was the silliest of topics, even if he did not care a wit about them. He simply wants to hear warmth flood your voice once more, wanted to hear your ringing laughter.

He flinches slightly when he fully realizes the thought that had crossed his mind.

“You should smile more,” you say to him as you wheel around the ballroom, trying to avoid another mother who hoped to introduce her dashing children to you, undoubtedly in hopes it will blossom into marriage. The thought of you marrying one of these pathetic pups stirs fierce vindication in his chest. “You’re scaring them.”

“I am smiling,” he says, frowning.

The utterly annoyed look you give him makes him laugh, the sound deep and full of heart.

A little later, when the clock strikes nine, Duchess Sokolov practically materializes in front of the both of you with an element of surprise even Arlecchino would admire and only scheming, middle-aged women can conjure. Your startled half-smile makes her smile in turn, the look of it sly. After a session of unabashed bootlicking, where she complimented almost every piece of your body, from your feet to your eyelashes (the only other person he has ever heard say such things is him), she asked, with a grandiose show of humility, if Your Imperial Highness would do us the honor of opening the dancing with my son?

If anything, Dottore admires her gall.

His body moves before his mind can comprehend what he is doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, smiling widely, making sure his sharp teeth are visible to anyone who dares steal you away.

"The geir has already promised their first dance to me, Your Grace." The words come out wild and aggressive, like the barks of a wolf. "I'm afraid your son will have to wait his turn." If I let him have one.

The duchess pales slightly and steps half a foot back. "Forgive me Lord Harbinger, I wasn't aware."

You laugh and press your gloved hand to your mouth, a lovely gesture. "Oh, please excuse Lord Dottore. He's a very particular person. I'll be glad to dance with your son after."

The Duchess visibly brightens and blunders away after numerous thanks, eager to tear away from Dottore's burning glare. You slip your arm through his and weave through the sea of bodies to the center of the ballroom, the party guests skillfully parting to let you pass. He does not think he is imagining your smirk.

As you near the center, Dottore ignores the hot flash of anxiety in his stomach. It has been so long since he has felt that emotion or other adjacent ones that it takes a moment for him to recognize it. Memories of those torturous hours spent dancing, and dancing, and dancing again resurface in his memories. Though not as graceful a dancer as you, he had reached a level of acceptable elegance towards the end that received glowing praise from the instructors. You had smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. It had left a strange empty feeling lingering within him.

What reaction did he even want from you, anyway? He thinks the instructors weren’t lying; the fear in their eyes was minimal. He would most likely never dance again after tonight. So, it truly did not matter what you thought of his dancing. It did not matter. He had gotten over the anxiousness that came with socializing a very long time ago, and it is not the crowd that is making him nervous. So what is it that he fears?

He feels himself getting more and more agitated as you both pull yourselves into position: two hands outstretched and intertwined, his hand on the small of your back, yours resting on his shoulder. He feels the sharp, curious eyes on the both of you as the music starts.

“Relax,” you whisper.

“I am relaxed.”

“No, you’re not.” You squeeze his shoulder. “Your body is so stiff.”

“I’m doing fine,” he grits out.

“You’d do even better if you’d stop fidgeting and relax.”

How could he relax when you’re so close? He can hear your breaths and count the lashes of your eyes. Your eyes already shine naturally with unnatural brightness, but beneath the light of the chandeliers, they seemed to gleam like the faces of a diamond.

“Is something wrong? You’re staring quite intently.” Your voice evaporates his thoughts. He swallows nervously and looks away, his gaze darting around the room, hoping to see anything but you. “Dottore?” The tone of your voice has been nothing but level for weeks, so the sliver of genuine worry that escapes into the words makes his heart jump.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

He moves as though he’s in a dream, lost and dazed. He cannot explain to himself why he leans in closer, or why he squeezes your hand cupped in his. He messes up — once then twice then thrice, missing a step or taking the wrong turn even though he memorized the entire routine in his head the night after your first lesson. It cannot be his memory, flawless as it is.

It’s his heart, his Archons-damned heart, thumping against his ribs. It’s your inquisitive eyes on him, your cold skin pressed against his. It’s the way there is something genuine and vulnerable living in the light of your eyes. It is the way there is a very dangerous mortal emotion flooding his veins. It is the way he cannot help but want to press closer, wants to take you into his arms and sweep you off your feet this night, and many more.

It is an utterly terrifying thought. This is what he is scared of, he realizes with a jolt that earns him a questioning look from you. This closeness, this… intimacy. Your hands on his skin, warm enough to make him believe you’re both human.

How long has it been, he wonders, since he has wanted to stop running away.

The music reaches a crescendo quietly, as though from far away. For all he can hear is thump, thump, thump, his mind all but submerged in the fervent tide of his own beating heart.

When the dance ends, he needs more than one hand to count the mistakes he’s made. You had gracefully saved him from each mistake, maneuvering your body in such a way that the flow of the dance was upheld. As he bows to you, the crowd bursts into rapturous applause.

Before he can even blink, numerous lords and ladies have already swarmed the both of you like angry bees, buzzing with life. Each vy for your next dance, the questions flying so fast you barely have time to plaster on a polite smile. You’re generally a sociable person, but your eyes widen as the crowd presses closer, each bothersome member trying to be louder than the next. Your gaze lands on him.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, scowling at the crowd. Briefly, he remembers you had promised a dance to the son of Sokolov, and then decides he could give less of a fuck about that.

“Their Imperial Highness needs space,” he snaps. The response is instantaneous; he almost laughs at the way one girl jumps almost a foot back, banging into a boy behind her.

You grace him with a thankful smile. He thinks he would kill all of the people in this room to earn it again.

“I need air,” you declare, more to yourself and him than anyone else. Before someone can get in the way of your plans, you hook your arm through his and lead him out into the gardens.

The Sokolov estate is massive, though not as big as Zapolyarny. The hedged gardens sprawl north, east, and west, with the manor at their backs. Though there are lots of small flowers here and there, it is mostly made out of small trees and shrubbery, unlike your own gardens back at the palace, which were bursting with all kinds of plants. It was hard for most greenery to withstand the cold so far up north, but the Tsaritsa had scoured the land for every flower that could grow in Snezhnaya and created for you your very own Eden.

The glow from indoors lights up the pathways but slowly grows dimmer and dimmer as you both wander down the winding stones. He has no trouble seeing, a perk of inhabiting a modified body, and, it seems, so do you. A godly trait, perhaps. He would love to thoroughly study you one day, though your mother would probably not approve of it.

You walk in companionable silence, arms still linked together. He wants to say something. What, exactly, he does not know.

The manor has all but faded into the distance when you stop at a quaint marble pavilion, the night outside cool and still. There is a large pond next to the pavilion, bright and silver as a knife in the moonlight. Faintly he hears the chirping of crickets in the underbrush, the gurgling of water from a nearby miniature fountain, the honks of swans.

You cross your arms and lean against the railing, eyes glazed and unseeing, lost in thought. He hovers behind you, uncertain as a child with an angry parent. The breeze cards its fingers through your air and makes it flutter with the wind. The air is sweet, and even the annoying chirp of the crickets softens into a mellow sound. You remain silent, your gaze trained on the water.

In the steady stillness, all those emotions from the dance rush back into his heart. Rage — at himself, at you, at the world — burns through his chest. How could he have been so stupid? So weak? He thought if only he played the game right, if only he took the correct steps, he would escape unscathed. He had not realized he never stood a chance.

Gods and their goading, tricking everyone into believing fairness was not a shadow on the wall, fickle and false. He would have never won.

You cannot conquer me, he had declared to you, already conquered. The more he writhed from your grip, the deeper your claws sank in. And if he ever does escape, it will be with claw marks on his soul. In this game you both play, he has played and lost. Defeat is a bitter taste on his tongue. It happened again. The gods have bested him again.

And you. You did not even know it. You still gaze thoughtfully at the pond. He resents the way you still stand so serenely as his entire world comes crashing down around him.

He has always been a man of action. He never waits, never stays still. Yet here he is. Staying still.

When the silence swells into something unbearable, he says, "Am I really so boring of a companion your mind has to wander off?" He levels a cool gaze at you, hoping to mask the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his teeth grind against each other, and the way his heart thumps and thumps inside his chest.

You turn your head to look at him. Your answering smile is amused. "You could never be boring, Dottore. Not you."

"Is that why you've been ignoring me for weeks?" The hurt slips into the words before he can catch it. He winces inwardly at himself, embarrassed at the sordid display of emotions. There's a flicker of pleasure in your eyes as the words soak in.

You shrug like a child denying their wrongdoings. "I thought… I thought you’d be inclined to dissect me and damn the consequences if I approached you again outside our lessons, after our last encounter." His wrist throbs with the memory. Mischief slips into your voice. "Why? Did you miss me?"

Yes. "Hardly."

"Really."

He scowls. "I barely noticed your absence."

You rest your chin on your fist. “Mhm. Theta told me you were miserable without me.”

That stupid, loose-lipped segment was asking for deactivation. Dottore truly does not know where the young segment got his penchant for gossiping. It was something that he, Prime, never did. But it did stem from spite, which is where ninety percent of his decisions originate from. “Theta, as you know, is a serial liar.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Anyways, I don’t think he’s lying. Pantalone told me you’re behind on submitting your financial reports,” you hurry to correct when he gives you a look, “more than usual, I mean. And I heard from a little dove you’ve gotten nothing done these past few weeks.” He makes a mental note to lock Columbina out of his lab. It’s a futile pursuit, he knows she’ll find a way in through Archons-knew-what means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try.

He arches a brow, though you can’t see it through the mask. “How arrogant of you to assume you’re the cause behind my recent… difficulties.”

“I don’t think it’s arrogant to be correct. Or maybe it is. Would certainly explain the reason you have oceans of arrogance.”

“Haha. What evidence do you have, anyways?”

“Gut instinct.”

Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is scraping and throaty. “You would make an absolutely dreadful scholar. You need evidence, my liege, before you go around making such far-fetched claims.”

You say nothing. You slowly walk towards him, a wolf on the hunt, smiling all the while. He stays rooted to his spot, frozen. Watching. Waiting. There is a part of him, a concerningly large part of him, that longs to feel the warmth of your skin again. Another part wants to eviscerate that part. But he stands still, and he knows, oh he knows why.

Was it truly such a miserable fate to be conquered by you? To be desired by you? He wonders if deer run only because they want to be caught by the wolf.

You lift your palm to his neck. Your thumb pokes and prods underneath his jawbone. He leans into your touch, baring the hollow of his throat. You’re so close. You could do what you wanted, and a sick feeling tells him he would let you. You were poised to maim, to kill, to devour. But you don’t. You simply continue to press against his skin with the flat of your thumb.

He realizes too late what you’re looking for.

Your devilish grin is equal parts terrifying and utterly gorgeous. Mischief truly becomes you, he thinks dimly. “There,” you say softly. “Tell me, Doctor, why is your heart beating so fast? Hmm? And—” You remove your hand from his throat and his heart screams for you to place your hand on his body once more. You grip the edge of his mask, tilting it slightly up. Enough to imply your intentions. “—May I?”

He does not mean to nod, but his body moves of its own accord.

You let it fall to the ground. He has never considered himself to be the most handsome of men, even before the scars. And he has never cared much for his appearance. But suddenly he is aware of his rough skin, of the jagged lines that cut through the left side of his face. He wants to pick up the mask and hide once more. But the way your eyes sparkle as you take him in, all of him in, makes him feel crafted by the gods themselves. You gently brush your thumb against the bottom of his eye.

“Dilated pupils,” you whisper. “Whatever could be making you anxious, my lord?”

His eyes narrow and his scowl deepens, but he does not move. “Maybe I’m coming down with an affliction. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or my drink was poisoned. Maybe your presence is so foul it is enough to kill me.”

You laugh softly. He wants to record it and play it over and over again until his heart beats to its rhythm. “We both know that’s not true.” You caress his scarred skin with your knuckles. “Do you think I can’t tell? This is my mother’s domain, after all.” You do not say that foul, four-letter word. But you let it hang between the two of you like the blade of a guillotine.

He's doomed himself, he knows. Human connection is not something the Second Seat should trifle with. Attachment is humanity's weakness, to be exploited and used for his own gain. The burn scars on his face remind him there is always, always something else the gods could take away. But though he has cheated death for these past four hundred years, he cannot cheat his own humanity. It is something he can never escape. It terrifies him. It beckons him closer. He thinks of your smile and your laugh.

Your smile transforms, though your lips do not move at all. It becomes brighter now, something true and warm. He wonders how long you've been waiting for this. The sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. A voice, unbidden, whispers in his ear: there are things worth burning for.

The breeze has stopped, he realizes. As though the very world is holding its breath.

Oh. Damn it all to the Abyss.

He closes the distance between the both of you and presses his lips onto yours.

You taste like wine and chocolates and all things addicting and sweet. Your lips are softer than he ever dared dream of. The shocked gasp that leaves your mouth makes him smile against your mouth. He jumps at the opportunity faster than you can react. He surges forward and grabs your waist, pressing your chest against his. His teeth graze your lips and he can see your eyes widen as he bites down, hard. Your resounding whimper makes his chest bloom with pleasure. He understands, truly, he does, why you play your game with him. With all of them. To have you weaken in his grasp, to finally, finally elicit the same vulnerability you seem to conjure so easily from him, is an experience he will never forget. There is nothing in all of the world that is as addicting as stripping monsters into mortals.

It seems like an eternity before you finally pull away, his hand still on your waist, a silver string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your eyes are blown wide and our fingertips brush against your lips, against his teeth marks. They come away red with blood.

“You—” The word catches in your throat, and you splutter out weak noises before you regain your voice. “—you fucking bastard!”

If I have to burn, you burn with me.

He shrugs, grinning. “See? It’s as you said. I’m never boring.”

His heart thumps with equal parts terror and euphoria at what he had just done. There is a part of him, smaller now, but still there, that still flinches in his head, utterly consumed by terror by what he has just done. To announce his heart’s desire so brazenly, so thoughtlessly. Yet it was a fair exchange. He had forced you to offer up your own heart as well. Catching you off guard was such a sweet sight, it excited him more than anything had in these past few years. If he had known the sensation of kissing you would be so sweet, he would have done it long ago.

“Fuck. Fuck. What the hell?” Though he does not believe in karma, your panicked state cannot be described as anything but. “I didn’t think you’d…” You shake your head, laughing weakly. “Fuck.”

You bury your face into his shoulder, still cursing softly. He debates pulling away, but instead, he wraps his arms around you. You seem so small, so fragile, like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. He hums as he traces soothing circles on your back.

"Did you miss me too in the past few weeks?" He asks impulsively. It is out of a desire to satiate his curiosity more than anything.

You draw in a shaky breath. He feels you smile against his skin. "Of course I did." The reply vindicates him.

Beat.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, looking down at your head.

He nudges you. Had you fallen asleep somehow? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’d ever done.

He does not catch what you say, what with the softness of your voice coupled with it being muffled by his chest. But you stir in his arms, still unable to look at him.

“Is everything alright?” He repeats.

“No.” A pause. “I’m a bit afraid.”

“Of what?” He asks, puzzled.

“That if I look at you, my heart is going to burst from my chest.”

It starts as small chuckles, then wheezing, the bellied laughter as he doubles over. Now you were the one holding him in your arms. There’s nothing funny about what you’ve just said. It’s not even a joke. But wasn’t it, in some twisted way hilarious, after all this time, how the scales have balanced themselves?

You stare at him, incredulous, your previous anxious state shed like a snake skin. You disentangle yourself from him and slap his chest, hard, which only causes him to double down in his fit of laughter, clutching at his sore sides.

“What’s so funny?” You say shrilly. “Don’t laugh at me! Dottore!”

“I’m not sorry,” he says after recovering himself, wiping a tear from his eye, laughter still laced in the words.

“This isn’t funny!” You pout and stomp your feet on the ground indignantly, like a child. “You’re so mean to me.”

He smiles. “Always, my dear. What did you expect?”

You sigh. The sound is drawn out for dramatics. You cross your arms and turn your body away, chin up, a comical imitation of an irritated housewife. “I should’ve just taken Theta.”

Suddenly the smile dies on his lips and his body is flooded with an ugly, twisting rage. Stupid Theta. Always ruining everything. “You don’t mean that,” he says coolly. “I’m the one you wanted to take tonight.”

That evokes a sly smile from you. “Aww, are you jealous, my dear Doctor?”

Definitely. He scowls. “Of course not.”

“You seemed jealous back at the ball, too,” you tease.

He recoils as though the words materialized themselves into the physical plane and slapped him in the face. “Of those low lives? Never.”

“So, you wouldn’t mind going back to the dance I promised the son of Sokolov?” Urgh. He had hoped you’d forgotten about that. Anyways, it’d be a bit awkward to go back now. You’ve both been gone for so long you might as well ditch the party. And if you insisted on going back… well. He wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be forgiven, of course, and people fear him too much to make it an issue. He wonders what excuses you’ll have to draw up when you inevitably apologize to the Sokolov family for leaving so early.

“It’s not worth your energy.”

“But I only danced once tonight!”

“It was good enough.”

“You were not that good. I kept having to cover up your mistakes.” The words, though snarky, hold no actual venom. Though, it does prickle him. The overachieving scholar within yearns to be more than ‘not that good’. And anyway, who is Il Dottore, if not someone who goes above and beyond? Your smile urges him to take the bait.

He does.

“Then,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, extending a gloved hand, “would you allow me to make up for it?”

You place your hand in his.

Dancing has never seemed fun to Dottore. Little things (well, little socially acceptable things) have. It’s a waste of his time, in his opinion. The constant pursuit of knowledge has been his entire life. Even when he was mortal, he never understood what happiness such frivolous activities could elicit that books could not. Yet he does not recall a time he has ever felt such soft, weightless happiness as he does now. As he sways with you to invisible music in the sweet grass of the night. You mess up, and he does too. You trip on stray roots. He is unbalanced on the uneven ground. He blames it on your shared jumble of nerves. You giggle and smile and blame him. But you continue to dance, letting him spin you around as the moon bathes you in silver. Now all those years running from divinity seem so silly. How could he ever fathom running away from this?

It disgusts him somewhat that he’s fallen into… whatever he could call this… so easily. All that time spent battling you, battling himself, all evaporated in a single night. All that effort turned to cinders. He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. He does not think the game has ended, no. You’ll play it again and again and again, until time reaches its empty end. He does not know whether he wants to devour you or be devoured by you. He does not find the latter as unappealing as it once was. Who could have guessed that pain could be pleasure? He pitied — no, he still does pity — mortals for their sad, forever-yearning hearts that beat for contentment, for companionship. Yet he finds that same weakness in him. It is utterly terrifying.

But as you spin in the moonlight, your laughter ringing in his ears, and his heart thumps and thumps, he thinks it is utterly, utterly inescapable.

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littlemarianah · 6 months ago

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tw: pain, childbirth.

When I was pregnant the first time, my mother told me something that I never forgot. She said that babies show you who they are while still in your belly.

I didn’t understand what she meant until my daughter arrived at the 37th week of pregnancy. Barely premature. In medical terms, she was ready to be born, but I, the person carrying her, was sure she wasn't ready yet. Willow decided she wanted come out and made my uterus contract and my hips widen to get her out. Even though I begged her to give up the idea.

“Don't be in a hurry, you can stay there as long as you want.” I remember whisper to my own belly, already having painful contractions. After complaining so much about how tired I was of being pregnant, I was afraid that her rush to be born was because of me. But I was wrong, she was just curious to go out, looking forward to her freedom. I tried to warn that the world was much colder and much scarier than she could imagine, but she was determined.

Her birth wasn’t as bad as I thought, in reality. It was quick and it was painful. But the pain never scared me. I closed my eyes and didn't fight with my own body. I let everything happen and just let my mother tell me what to do. I don’t remember if I screamed or cried or moaned... Because every time a contraction came I left my body and only came back when it was over.

When I opened my eyes his blue eyes were there. Looking at me scared, trying to make sure I was alive. He was the only thing that comforted me at that moment, the only thing that kept me standing. It was Peeta's arms that held me through that long winter night. I couldn't sit or lie down without crying in pain. Standing, with my body resting on his, was the least painful position I found to face the contractions.

It was as if we were dancing a waltz, but the music was just my screams. At the end, when the sun started to rise, I swore I could hear the sound of birds. They sounded exactly like my father whistling birdsong. I wanted to tell Peeta what I had heard, but I was always distracted by the overwhelming pain and my moans, my mother's words and Peeta's heavy breathing.

He was silent the entire time. I was grateful I didn’t had to hear words of encouragement that wouldn't help me or stutters of pity. He knew I was capable, he knew I could handle it. Sometimes I searched in his eyes for the trust he had in me, to remind myself that I was able to do it. And I always found what I was looking for.

When I felt her coming out I bent down on my knees and pushed. I could feel the top of her hairy head with my fingers. The pain was absurd and I thought I was going to die from the horrible sensation that filled me. I screamed, so deep and loud that it came out all at once. Her cry made me realized that I had never been so close to life since the day I was born, born from the woman who held Willow for me. My mother was the first person who picked her up.

My legs immediately stopped working. I fell into Peeta's arms and he placed me on our bed. In the same bed we had made Willow.

My mother brought me the little baby in my arms. She was so hot and the air was so cold that all I could do was hold her against me and cover her with a cloth so she wouldn't freeze. While I cried nonstop, so much so that I couldn't even welcome her.

It was Peeta who said it "Hi little girl” for me. As he stroked her hairy, bloody head.

Such a powerful cry for such a small girl, I thought. We were still one, united by a cord and soon it would have to be cut without me being ready. Separating us forever and leaving my baby alone in such a dark world.

#Katniss is a great mother #Peeta is her soulmate #They deserve a happy family #wip #the hunger games #thg #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #everlark #epilogue #willow mellark #toast babies

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anthurak · 3 months ago

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Everything we Assume about Team STRQ (It's Everything)

So when it comes to theorizing about Ruby, Yang and their parents in Volume 10 and beyond, I feel like not enough people appreciate just how LITTLE we actually know or can be truly sure of regarding the backstory of Team STRQ or what was really going on during Ruby’s and Yang’s childhoods.

Simply because for much of the show, our primary source on such things was YANG, someone who couldn’t have been much older than FIVE when a lot of the important shit was going down and only seems to have gotten much of her information from her father and uncle after the fact.

In a show with a now LONG history of adults lying to or otherwise withholding important information from their children/students/charges.

And before anyone tries to claim that ‘Tai and Qrow wouldn’t hide important things from Yang and Ruby!’, let’s not forget that Yang didn’t find out that RAVEN was her birth-mother until after Summer ‘died’. Note also that Yang specifically states to Blake that she ‘learned why (Tai kinda shut down)’, not ‘Dad/Uncle Qrow told me’. Or the fact that Yang spent over ten years searching for any information on her mother, believing that she had cut herself out of her family completely, only for it to turn out that Qrow has been in on-and-off contact with his sister this whole time and even has a pretty good idea where she is, and was content to NEVER tell Yang ANY of this until Yang pressed him directly on it in Volume 3.

So basically EVERYTHING we’ve been assuming about Summer, Tai, Raven, Qrow and their dynamics and what they were doing 15+ years ago based on Yang’s conversation with Blake in Burning the Candle? Yeah I’d say we need to be calling just about ALL of that into question.

ESPECIALLY after Ruby’s tree vision gave us our first actual look back into Team STRQ’s past.

To give just ONE example: After Yang’s talk with Blake in Volume 2, telling her that Raven ‘left Yang with Tai just after she was born’, we all assumed that Raven disappeared right after Yang was born, vanishing into the night never to be seen or heard from again.

Now both we and Yang have known for a while now that the second part of this is patently untrue; that Raven was not only in occasional contact with Qrow all this time, but that she was even keeping an eye on Yang in bird-form.

But now Ruby’s tree vision has not only shown that Summer was apparently in even closer contact with Raven prior to her ‘death’, but even calls into question Raven ditching her team right after Yang was born as we have so long believed:

Not only does Raven show the kind of concern for Yang and even Ruby (“You’re just going to leave them?”) that you might not expect from a woman who just walked out on her family without a word, but when Summer retorts that “You’re one to talk,” Raven replies with; “You’re better at that life. Better than I was.”

Really think about that statement for a moment. Raven is insinuating that she has the experience to know that Summer is ‘better than her’, implying that she actually TRIED to settle down into ‘that life’ with her teammates. Given that she and Summer are specifically talking about Yang and Ruby, this could very well be indicating that Raven DIDN’T actually leave right after giving birth to Yang, but instead stuck around for long enough to actually TRY to be a mother to Yang. And that at least part of her reason for leaving was that Raven felt she wasn’t fit to be a mother. Or at least that Summer would be better for Yang (and Ruby) than her.

Meaning that at this point, everything we first assumed back in Volume 2 about Raven leaving Yang as soon as she was born has been either MASSIVELY called into question or disproven entirely.

So with that in mind, what else was Yang wrong about in this scene?

Or perhaps a shorter answer; what was she even RIGHT about?

Like when Yang stated “Summer was the first love (Tai) lost,” we first assumed Raven and Summer were both in serious, committed relationships with Tai, either one after the other with Summer and Tai getting together after Raven left, or all three were in a full-blown polycule.

But now in hindsight, just how well does that assumption really track?

We can at least assume from reading between the lines of the Warrior in the Woods short that Tai did indeed love both Raven and Summer. Yet let’s also remember that in that very story, while the boy (who is a clear stand-in for Tai) loves the titular Warrior, it is never made clear whether the warrior actually loved him back, or how she cares for him. And what is made clear is that the boy’s love for the warrior is ultimately a love that is not or cannot be returned by her.

So by that token, what if neither Summer OR Raven ‘loved’ Tai in the same way he loved either of them?

In all her appearances, Raven barely ever speaks of Tai, and the times she does indicate she doesn’t seem to think much of him. Indeed, we’ve yet to actually see ANY of Raven and Tai together. Which all begs the question of how Raven and Tai were together in the first place. Well, what if they weren’t together? What if Yang was an unplanned pregnancy? The unexpected result of what was supposed to be some drunken, one-night-stand? Which would certainly cast Raven’s decision that she wasn’t fit to be a mother and to leave the family in a particularly interesting light.

Then we have our one scene of Summer with Tai, which I’ve always found to be curiously lacking in overt romantic gestures. There’s no kiss, no ‘I love you’ or even any kind of flirting. Sure, there is that hug, but as I’ve noted in previous posts, RWBY has used that kind of close embrace just as, if not more often as a gesture of platonic or familial affection. Never mind the fact that Summer clearly didn’t trust Tai to tell him what she was REALLY doing that night. Summer and Tai are certainly quite close, I’m not arguing that. I’d even agree that Summer did ‘love’ Tai. But did she love him romantically? At this point, I’d call that rather ambiguous best.

So we’re left with a Raven who’s made it unclear if she ever cared that much for Tai, and a Summer who’s left it a bit ambiguous how she may have cared for Tai. Which if nothing else, doesn’t seem to line up very well with the assumption we got from Yang’s recounting.

Instead, I can’t help but think the image we’ve gotten and long believed about Summer’s, Raven’s and Tai’s relationships has been based far more on Tai’s nostalgia and grief-driven biases (and likely some petty resentment), and Ruby’s and Yang’s assumptions BASED on those. Let’s not forget that Yang almost certainly learned that ‘Summer wasn’t the first love he lost’ from Tai. And sure, maybe Qrow knows that Tai is looking a bit too hard through rose-tinted glasses, but maybe he’s decided to just let Tai have this, and more importantly is afraid to risk any conflict with the only teammate he really has LEFT.

This is what I mean when I say that much of the fandom is assuming FAR too much based on information we learned in the early days of the show. When we’ve seen so much of what our heroines believed in those early days either called into question or disproven entirely. Combined with a show that has made judicious use of ‘unreliable narrators’ and parents/teachers/leaders/adults with a bad habit of hiding important information from their kids ‘for their own good’, even when it turns out to not do them any actual good.

So to come back to that question: What else have Ruby and Yang been wrong about?

Or again, what have they even been RIGHT about?

This is why I think we may actually see a big reveal like ‘Raven is Ruby’s real dad’. With things like the building information of what really happened to Summer Rose, the growing implications hiding in the margins of just how big of a dysfunctional fuck-up parent Tai really was and especially lines like “Who knows why they kept the secrets they did,” and “Maybe we didn’t have the full picture…”, I’m feeling more and more confident that we are headed towards a major confrontation between our heroines and their parents wherein a WHOLE LOT is finally brought to light for Ruby and Yang.

Ever since Volume 3 ripped the status quo to pieces (along with Penny) and burned it to ashes along with Beacon (and Pyrrha), RWBY has been making reveal after reveal that things our heroines/the audience believed, assumed or were told at the start and early days of the show were WRONG.

So I’d say it’s only natural to think that the SAME will happen to those things that Ruby and Yang long believed about their parents.

#rwby #rwby theory #rwby analysis #Team STRQ #Ruby Rose #Yang Xiao Long #Summer Rose #Raven Branwen #Qrow Branwen #Taiyang Xiao Long #unreliable narrators

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faeriekit · 2 years ago

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The Firstborn Son

dp x dc | Batman 👻 tw for: dead body, brief reference to human trafficking

(Part II available now!)

****

Once upon a time, there is a boy who dies forever...mostly.

****

Once upon a time, there is a man who wants to live forever.

He does.

****

Once upon a time, there is a daughter born to an immortal man.

"I need an heir," her father commands.

She gives him one.

****

Once upon a time, there is a King.

(He is a dead boy.)

(Most do not know that.)

"My heir, for a hundred years of your power," the immortal offers; the King accepts.

****

Once upon a time, there was a family of acrobats.

There isn't, not anymore, but the son still loves his mother and father, and gravity cannot steal his wings forever.

He sleeps restlessly, and rarely in his own bed. The allure of flying is too much to resist. At night, when the world is quiet, the acrobat joins the black darkness of an endless sky, and claims it as his own.

His guardian is one with the night.

The petit Robin is bright light and spectacle, no matter how well he hides his colors. He is spotted first.

****

Dick didn't really remember waking up from his nap. Alfred had put him down for a cold; his head hurt, and he was sleepy all the time, so B was out without him and Dick was stuck in a too-big bed in a giant, dark mansion, all alone.

Except. At some point, Dick must have gotten out of bed. Because now he's in the chandelier.

Dick doesn't remember jumping to the chandelier. And jumping to the chandelier is hard work; it's not something he could have done in his sleep. It requires weight, heft; the shirking of gravity. The night is dark around him; there are no street lights outside of their windows to light up the hallway. The darkness makes the grand persian carpet so much farther away than it is in the daytime-- entirely, unfathomably far below him. Pale moonlight flickers across cut shards of crystal. It's Dick's own little bird's nest.

Dick and the chandelier gently sway. He doesn't notice the-- the ghost, the illusion-- for a whole minute. It just looks like moonlight, until it doesn't.

It's a body. A boy's body-- not much older than Dick. Suspended, midair.

His heart drops. But Dick doesn't scream.

For a second, there are two boys midair, silent and still in the morning moonlight.

The body raises its head. Hello, Richard.

Dick doesn't move.

I have a question for you. The body blinks sightless eyes. Does your guardian treat you well?

Dick...doesn't know what that means. He rolls his weight forward, careful, so careful not to tip himself over the edge and send him plummeting.

"...Why are you asking?"

I need something looked after, the body says. Its limbs sway in wind that isn't here. It is very precious to me.

"Oh." Well, B is Batman, sometimes. And when he's not Batman, he's Bruce Wayne, and he is in charge of a lot of people. "Yeah, he's respons- reponsbile- he does a good job. Can I see it?" Dick's interest is piqued.

The body stills. And then-- like a zombie clawing its way out of its grave, it reaches through the rotting skin of its own stomach and removes. Something.

It's a baby.

Dick leans so far forward that he almost does go toppling but he's gripping the silver of the chandelier so that he doesn't, and, look! It's a baby! It's so small and tiny and it's still purple!

"He's so new!" Dick gasps, and releases one arm from its death grip to make a grabby hand. The body only floats close enough that Dick can pet the baby's cheek with a careful finger, can feel the softness of the baby's hair.

He is my charge, the body explains. As such, he is precious to me.

The baby is so small. Dick wants to bounce him, like he's seen mamas and papas do with their little ones. "Can I hold him?"

The baby disappears back into the body. It looks like a maggot burrowing back into the corpse it's eating, and Dick is heartbroken and sick about it. No. Not until I know it's safe.

Dick pouts. Also, he needs to know how to get the baby away from the...body. Babies need a lot of light and warmth. A dead body monster can't give him that.

Your guardian played his part in making the little heir, the body says. This baby was given to me by his grandfather. His mother passed him onto her own father, and her father sold him to me.

"Oh no!" Dick gasps. That is one of the things B has had to explain to Dick, one of hundreds of terrible things that happens to people in Gotham. And it happened to B's baby?

Yes. The body floats sightlessly, thin skin sliding over too-pale eyes. I must know if he is safe before I leave the baby in his care. Will you help me?

Dick...doesn't know what that means. He bites down on the soft presence of his lip. (He tastes blood.) "How?"

The body and the baby inside it are still. Quiet. Dick is two stories off the ground, midair, and any wrong motion could be his-- his-- Dick can't even see the ground. It would hurt so much. He's so high up from the distant hardwood floor and with only ghosts to keep him company.

...It would be very scary.

Dick swallows.

Do you trust that he would come get you, if you were in danger?

Dick knows so. He nods.

Do you trust he would be smart enough to find you? Mean enough to defend you? Care enough to comfort you? the body asks.

Dick nods.

The body floats closer. Closer. Until they are almost touching-- limp limbs entangling on the crystalline arms of the chandelier. It would be very scary, if you said yes, the body admits, as heavily weighted as any corpse that cannot help you hold it. But you would be in no danger. Should your guardian succeed, I will entrust him with this precious thing.

One circus boy's fears for the safety of B's baby. It's an easy choice. Dick is Robin. He is always going to pick helping people over maybe getting hurt.

His pinky touches the cold, dead flesh of the body's.

And then Dick wakes up sweating and heaving in bed.

#ooo spooky ooky #idk kid maybe ask your dad about this before you agree to anything??#this is why I can never finish anything #I always have like ten things in reserve #contracts signed by minors without consent are illegal DANNY #dp x dc #Danny Phantom #DC #DCU crossover

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queennightingale · 26 days ago

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How to Troll the Justice League into thinking your not human: by the Batfam

“So… who’s your kids mom?”

Both bats looked at the GL like he had lost his mind, and the man had to elaborate

“Well, spooks, it’s pretty damn obvious that all the other little bats and birds you have running around Gotham are your children, so… who’s their mom?” He asks.

Tim looks at his father, a wicked grin curving into his face as Bruce looks at him, begging for mercy on his team, right before Tim blurts:

“Bats is our mom! He birthed us!”

——

2 hours later, and the entire family was gathered, laughing their asses off at the camera footage of GL’s face as Tim said that.

“Oh god- B, can we prank the Justice League?”

“Oh- I wanna be born first!”

“No, Dicks the oldest, he’s first!”

“Wait- would we already not be human?”

The silence was deafening, until Cass signed 2 words.

“Cryptic Bat”

And the children grinned evilly. Bruce felt a headache coming just by seeing the matching grins

——

The next day

“Hey… ‘wing?” Asked Flash as he passed the bludhaven vigilante.

“Yeah?”

“Um… is it true, what R.R said? About bats being your mom?”

“Um… yeah. Why?” Dick said, thankful he had years of training helping to hold back the shit-eating grin on his face.

Flash’s eyes widened. “But- how?! It’s- it’s not scientifically possible!” He blurted. Nightwing chuckled, and just responded. “Well, we aren’t human.” Before walking away, leaving the speedster in silence.

——

Robin was sitting at his dads chair, waiting for him to finish his talk with Wonder Woman before leaving to go home- he had school tomorrow! Thankfully, he felt the wind of someone approaching before they reached him, and coldly spoke up.

“What do you want.”

Aquaman was skeptical of the rumors- confirmed by 2 of the bat kids- that Batman was the kid’s mom, so why not ask a third, KNOWN biological kid?

“I just wanted to ask-“

“If father was actually mother, yes? Well, he is.” Said the boy, smirking if only for a moment. Though, he’d deny it until he’s in the ground.

Aquaman blinked for a moment. “Well… that confirms it, but I also heard that you all aren’t human?”

“Why of course. After all, males cannot hold children in humans.” Robin scoffed, as if it was obvious.

“Well, then what are you?”

“Non of your business.”

—-

Steph was skipping in the watchtower, going to change shifts with Damian, before hearing footsteps, heavy ones. ‘Must be Superman’ she thought, slowing her steps and pretending to fall.

“Gah- stupid tail-.” She blurted, before pretending to stuff a “tail” (that doesn’t exist) under her cape as Superman rounded the corners, eyes widening for a split second.

“Oh! Hi Superman!” She said cheerily as she continued her way, only staying within ear shot long enough to hear him mutter confusedly, “was flash right?”

——

One by one, this continued. Duke wore fake fangs and pretended to hide his smile because he “forgot to shave them down”, Jason (in my AU the JL knows about Red Hood, and they don’t really care as long as he’s helpful and keeps the patrols in Gotham. They think Batman has a hold on his violent tendencies) got a bit mad at Hawkgirl when she was flying by and accidentally yelled “Do you Mind?!” While his eyes glowed Via Lazarus pit madness, Tim was on a caffeine high and mentioned in passing that the whole family can stay awake for a week (on caffeine and spite, but he didn’t mention that) and Cass signed to Dick asking how he hides his ears without a Cowell.

—-

Eventually, this all came to a head when one of the leaguers (your choice) saw Batman drinking Herbal Tea, (Alfred grounded him from Coffee because he stayed up for a week and 2 days on a case), and exploded

“YOUR KIDS WEREN’T LYING?!?

Bruce put his tea down, and rubbed the headache that suddenly appeared, and glanced at the hero who said it, staring them directly in the eyes, before smirking.

“My children don’t lie, [Hero name]. Why on human earth do you think that?” He asked, rubbing his stomach. The Hero fainted.

That night, the whole family laughed at the security footage of the justice league freaking out, preparing to take their prank even further

This post was inspired by Boucing Baby Bat, or so the Justice League is lead to believe by EmpressGeek on AO3. I don’t know how to link things but 🤷‍♀️ oh well.

#dc prompt #batfam #batfam shenanigans #trolling #funny shit

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boom-bada-boom · 16 days ago

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a field of mirror all demanding to be the sun too

dick grayson is all human. except for the parts that are not.

at the edge of Everything and Nothing, It hovered. edges undefined, shapeless, simply a mass that is ever churning, indistinguishable from what surrounds it, one and the same with the Everything and the Nothing and yet entirely separate. It coveted the freedom, the feeling of Existence brushing through wings and feathers, when It felt like forming them in the first place. It was always moving, always changing, always shifting, because It was made of Action and Reaction, the Catalyst and the Inhibitor, Creating and Being Created.

except the thing about being so Large, is that soon enough Everything starts to feel so small. It is a being of Freedom and Change, and that means that It cannot stay idle in one space.

another thing about being so Large—It is not often aware of Life, small as Life is compared to Itself. but It knows of Life, and It decides that the next adventure can be compacting Itself and Moving amongst them.

so, in the place that is timeless, the darkness and the light and the unknown bundles itself together, tightly, as infinite feathered wings sprout from Its body, covered in eyes that are feathers that are eyes, except for the largest pair, which are all fingers and skin and sometimes hands and sometimes not. It grins using a beak using a snout using nothing, but it is always all teeth.

It has always had a fondness for acting.

—

richard john grayson is born squalling, and the fabric of the world shakes with it, just a little. the earth trembled like it is afraid, until it doesnt.

after, his mother and father do not mention impossible things. they do not mention the way the stars had become eyes, for just a blink. they do not mention the shadows growing limbs, cupping around them. they do not mention the headache it caused to look at their son, until it didn’t.

there is nothing wrong with their son—he is a beautiful and healthy baby boy. that is all that matters, in the end.

—

dick took a fierce pride and pleasure in flying. he made it a point to himself to not use his wings, to not simply negate gravity entirely. he flies by human means, and finds it beautiful.

sometimes he could almost forget, with the vast majority of him still in Everywhere and Nowhere. he could not bring in all of himself without cracking this universe at its seams entirely, not without tearing this human body apart in the process. it is why he cannot See as much as he used to—most of his Eyes are still with the rest of him, so his vision is limited.

of course some power still leaks out of him, even if he does not try using it. but he makes an effort not to use them during flight that he never makes anywhere else.

(when his parents fell, for just a moment he forgot that he is a greater beast than them all. he forgot about gravity and feathers and space and for a moment he was all human, crying over the broken bodies of his parents.

his seams tremble, until they are held together by loving human hands in a hug. bruce wayne does not say anything, nor does he realize he is holding back infinity.)

(dick endeavors to make sure he never realizes. he remembers how the circus eyed him, before, and he does not like when family is afraid. he is supposed to be terrifying, but not for them. never for them.)

—

when robin takes flight he is painfully human. he is grinning and laughing and moving and flying. he perches on batman’s arm like a bird, practically weightless.

it is all human.

except for the times it isnt.

shadows twist and darken, hiding the bat and bird, reaching out toward their targets like fingers. robin’s laugh echoes for miles, but is only heard by some people. he grins and it is sharp teeth too many for a little boy’s mouth, stretching too wide that it shouldnt be able to fit on his face, but it does.

sometimes, his shadow is many winged and has eyes that watch.

but robin is human. even if the criminal underground of gotham will never believe it.

(when every robin after the first comes along, they are always human. they are not like the first. the shadows watch out for them anyway.)

—

after jason dies, the universe trembles. it is almost like that day so many years ago, when a boy was born. the universe trembles and dick aches. he wants to pull his little brother from the wooden cage below the dirt. but he cannot, because he is very powerful, but he is too disconnected from Life to just bring him back to life. at least, not without irreparably damaging jason body and soul.

what he can do is avenge him, that little bird he had taken underwing. that little bird named robin, because although dick did not name him such, he did become robin. eventually.

but not soon enough, it seems.

the joker is torn apart. he is ripped through at the seams, his body torn asunder, his spirit trapped in Everywhere and Nowhere with the rest of him. the Edge drives humans mad, simply because they can not comprehend it. but it is the Entity that makes them tear themselves apart.

the joker does not die. his body might die, but his spirit lives. it suffers without start or end, in a place where Time refuses to tread.

jason is avenged in the best way dick knows how.

—

with each little robin after that, there is something slithering and cold about their shadow. dick learned his lesson about keeping his distance, simply because he did not want to run the risk of scaring them, of changing them.

their lives are more important than that.

and then. and then. jason comes back.

but, oh, he comes back wrong. he comes back twisted by a pit that has no right tangling its claws into HIS little wing.

when he meets the red hood, he endeavors to rip those claws out. and if they are necessary? well, he could replace them if it was really, really needed.

(after coming back from the dead, jason feels off when near dick grayson. it feels like his spine is tingling with fear, like there are too many eyes on him. sometimes, when he does not announce his presence—though dick always seems to know he’s there anyway—he can hear feathers, ruffling, shuffling against each other. but there are no birds.)

one night, as jason sleeps, the green green pits are ripped out of him. he wakes up screaming, until it stops. in the place of burning hot green comes slithering cool shadows, soothing the aching pain. it feels familiar in a way the pits never did. it does not burn as it runs along his blood.

he falls back asleep, and when he wakes again in the morning, the entire experience feels like a dream. the only proof he could possibly have is the slithering shadows, but they do not rise to his awareness like the pits always did, pushing and pulling at his emotions to make him angry, make him rage.

he feels… normal.

(the only times the shadows ever show themselves is when his siblings are in danger. they are a protective force, darkening like they want to hide his siblings. they do not burn, but at those times, they run remarkably cold.)

—

it all comes to a head in one mission. it’s a cult, because of course it is. somehow, someway, they’d gotten it into their heads to summon something Other, in a bid to destroy the world, and remake it anew in their own image.

fools, to think they could control something like that.

but the summons begins working, and dick can feel himself, the rest of him, slowly beginning to be pulled into this universe with him. because of course, the ritual had to latch onto him.

when his attempts to stop the ritual turn frantic, the rest of his family side eye him in concern.

“nightwing?” robin is the one to ask.

the ritual is picking up speed. the room trembles.

(there’s a reason dick didn’t bring himself in his Entirety here, to this universe. there’s a reason the universe trembles when he uses too much power. there’s a reason his body starts bleeding when he does too much at once. this universe cannot hold him entirely. moreso, this body cannot hold him without being torn to shreds.)

nightwing’s nose begins to bleed. his shadow starts writhing on the wall.

still, the standing cultists continue the ritual. still, the tear that is pulling him through gets wider.

“STOP IT!” he shouts, screams, and it is like static, like the universe is speaking, like time is freezing in place, like the groan of seams straining, straining, snapping.

the room is crumbling around them, the universe is crumbling around them, and there is something wrong with nightwing.

the last of the cultists are crushed by rubble, and they barely have the mind to think about rescuing them. there is someone much more worthy of rescue currently crouching in a little corner of the room, the air around him wavering like it does not know how to exist.

the rip stays open. he continues to get dragged through. it will take too long to close it, he already knows, but he starts sewing it shut anyway.

his body strains. the universe strains. everything strains.

at one end of the room is dick grayson, body falling apart, skin fading away like ghosts, shapes almost like wings hovering around his body, surrounded by the glint of eyes that are there and then gone, his bones creaking like the eaves of an old house as they try to hold the burden of inhumanity, a glow beginning to leak from him, or perhaps it is a shadow, or maybe it is both.

at the other end of the room is his family, trying to dodge falling pieces of the sky, so worried about what could be wrong with dick, wondering if something came out of the ritual and if it latched itself onto him, wondering what is happening to him, wondering how they can save him, wondering what is being done to him, if he is hurting, if they can fix it.

it is a room between them. it is also the fabric of the world between them.

then, unexpectedly, a large portion of the building crumbles down upon the bats huddled at one end, a hungry maw opening in the ceiling with jagged edges like teeth, the rubble like a tongue descending to bring them to it, and far far above them they can see a glimpse of the sky only to notice the colors streaking through it that should not be there. nothing dares fall down upon the space where dick’s body crumbles and breaks so he has a perfect view of the opening jaw, using both his eyes and his Eyes, all of them wide.

and suddenly, there is no space between them at all.

because, there, above them, hands that are sometimes wings, huge and wide and open, hold up the sky.

and, there, around them, dozens of hundreds of thousands of millions of wings wrap the space around them like a shield of feathers.

before them, there, dick kneels, their own personal atlas. his mouth is filling up with teeth, his limbs twisting and stretching like no human being’s, his skin fading into vague clouds that might be shadows and might be stardust.

but he is undeniably dick grayson. and he undeniably loves them.

—

the heroes arrived on the scene at the same time as the villains did. power, after all, calls out to power, and what is more powerful than the ender of Everything.

at the center of it is a black hole of a broken building, all toothy edges and strange angles, open windows without entry.

at the center of it is a Being, made of drifting wings and watching eyes and heavy presence that eats gravity, shadows and lights, a cold hand resting at the base of your neck and a tightening noose.

at the center of it, hidden beneath ribs opened like a flower, is a family, who feel the growl of stayawaytheyremineifyoucomecloseriwillkillyouandtearyouandripyouandyoursoulwillbelongtomebutiwillnotcovetitlikeidotheirsandyouwilldisoverdeathisnotkinderthanmanandiscertainlynotkinderthanmosters and try to sooth it, try to promise you dont need to protect us, could we protect you this time?

the Something wails like a child, like the damned, and cries as It feels the body It had used turn to dust. Its final anchor to this reality, and this reality’s final shield against It.

It is no longer dick grayson. but It can protect what dick grayson left behind.

It bears Its teeth, and when one mouth is not enough, It forms more, more mouths and more teeth and more biting and not letting go. It is a black hole of a Being, always consuming and never giving back, an absence of everything and yet a presence so heavy as to crush.

the mouths snap at anything that gets close enough, gravity eaten away at until even the superhumans cannot fly, time slowly chewed upon until there are gouges in it.

ribs are open are a cage are a flower are jagged are teeth are a gaping maw waiting, just waiting, until it can bite down. not biting down because It cannot consume the little fires between teeth that are ribs, but It can bite down anything that walks into the cage that is not a cage.

“dickiebird, you gotta calm down,” something says, and it is the only noise not consumed in Its black hole body.

“you’re panicking, making whatever is going on worse,” a different something, still not eaten whole.

a foolhardy villain mistakes receding tides as weakness, and not the premonition of the wave. humans always lack hubris, but this one suddenly lacks even more than as it is swirled in a mouth that is a circle, wings that are hands that are claws reaching in to pick at it even more. it dies screaming, torn into uncountable pieces. on Its body, countless Eyes lock upon the spirit left behind, latching and not letting go.

“chum…” another voice, soft as a graveyard, safe as a shadow, low like coming home.

a face that has a beak and a snout and nothing at all turns down to look into ribs and teeth, and It is not dick grayson. It is not.

but It is. he is.

and that is his father, even if It was never born and always was.

this is not the grave. dick grayson does not have to die.

some other things

it is no wonder that heroes seems to orbit around him like he is their own personal sun. he is all gravity, and floats like he has none. there’s something celestial about the way he smiles, something heliacal about the way he laughs. (“the multiversal constant,” superman calls him. it’s no wonder.)

in a time long gone, there was a group of heroes in their fortress outside of the earth. and then a little bird snuck aboard the ship. they all grew to love the bird just the same, and they never forgot the starlight reflected off his small face. (he is not powerful just because he could eat the world. he is powerful because he could eat the world and no one would be able to stomach stopping him.)

despite a legacy as the gray son of gotham, the court of owls never did dare to approach dick grayson. not for lack of trying, of course, but the talons of the court would never approach him. the dead, after all, have more to fear from him than the living, and they have a much better sense of knowing it. not that the court knew that part.

before jason, dick did not keep many constant Eyes on this universe. it would destabilize it, which would defeat the whole point of trying out the human way, and potentially destroy all his progress. besides, bruce was practically part shadow himself, not even accounting the small boon he’d given. (he did not see the way he held bruce up, just a little, like one would hold up their father. he did not see the way he used to think the same thing about his parents. but that is for later.) even jason did not need a constant Eye, because bruce was already there keeping his own eyes on the young bird. after jason died, after dick realized he could not fix this without making it worse, after promising never again, he decided to hell with the universe’s stability. he would keep an Eye on every member of his family—constantly growing as it is—and stitch the universe together piece by piece if he had to.

(unfortunately for him, other people ended up noticing the gradual slipping stitches. sure, some of them were just justice league dark. but others were the type to use this weakness to their own gain. and others of them were the type to try and find what was powerful enough to cause this in the first place.)

his body is made of shadow, but his wings are all lights. not just white light, but colorful, colorful lights. if he did not have wings you could almost look over him with your eyes. perhaps it is why he took to the batman so well—after all, he has experience bringing light to shadow and shadow to light.

had an epiphany anyway his feathers are like fucked up peacock feathers because they have an eye on each feather except sometimes they detach themselves and sometimes you cant see any at all and its all just one big mindfuck

“oh you cant kill the joker because he’s like a curse. he will always come back and he will be worse for it!” dick, who trapped his spirit with the rest of his Being to suffer eternally: cant revive if the soul is stuck where there isnt even any time 🤘

SORRY I GOT A VISION FROM THE GODS. ANYWAY BATMAN GETS A CALL FROM TGE GCPD AND HE PULLS UP TO A RANDOM WAREHOUSE AND THE INSIDE IS JUST SPLATTERED WALL TO CEILING IN BLOODY GORE. THERES AN OFFICER VOMITING IN A CORNER BEHIND HIM. THE ENTIRE THING IS ONE BIG “CENSORED” BLACK OUT BOX. BATMAN ASKS GORDON “and you’re sure this is joker?” AND JIM JUST POINTS AT THE CENTER OF THE WAREHOUSE WHERE “JOKES ON YOU BITCH” IS WRITTEN IN JOKER’S BONES. BRUCE COMES BACK TO THE CAVE AND FUCKING VIDEO CALLS DICK LIKE “do you know who could have done this?” QND DICK LOOKS INTO THE CAMER ALIKE THIS:

ive been thinking of how to write this into a fic format and i think. writing it out as a casefic with intermittent flashbacks to things that give greater context about current events? leading up to the climactic reveal

as for the case itself. theyre tracking the cult, though they dont actually know its a cult just yet. maybe its like. a missing persons case that begins to spiral wildly out of control or smth??

(guy whose only information on how cults operate is cult of the lamb and also that one episode of psych where gus tried to date the cult lady voice) uhhh so. so what kind of criminal activities would cults be doing to further their aims

head in my hands i cant believe i forgot they would 100% do theft. also maybe try and find a way to wedge in some drug angle??

they are stealing gemstones and/or rare metals!!! for the ritual of course. and as for the victs, maybe each of them represents an aspect of the world/universe and combine to create a cosmic address, kind of like telling your buddy your address over the phone, a sort of we’re right here! thing. yknow?

the classical four elements, life, death, shadow, light, space, time, motion, motionless

herpetologist (with specialty in turtles) as the earth for the whole world turtle thing. ornithologist as air. arsonist as fire. sailor as water. undertaker obvi covering death. nurse/doctor as life. clockmaker for time. planetarium employee for space. theater lighting designer for light. they want to use batman specifically for dark, but any bat they can get into place for it would do

element and gemstone in their circle, starting from north and going clockwise: air/danburite, light/tanzanite, life/green kyanite, water/larimar, motion/selenite, space/sunstone, fire/ruby, shadow/garnet, death/mahogany obsidian, earth/black tourmaline, motionless/tiger’s eye, time/golden topaz

some sort of fancy ceremonial blade is involved (for the whole “cutting a hole through the universe” imagery thing)

#(throws this at you) okay have fun :)#boom’s fic posts #ELDRITCH DICK GRAYSON !!!!!!!#this one ate at me like you wound not believe i was having a blast thinking about more pieces to it #*would #ummm theres a little bit of text near the end with some light description of joker’s mangled body #for anyone that needs to know #(well. ‘body’ being used lightly. i dont think theres a body anymore)#so i suppose #ask to tag #dick grayson #batman #batfam #bruce wayne #jason todd #the rest of em too

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crow-aeris · 7 months ago

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So i’ve been thinking (shocking, really) about the world building for my reverse robins wingfic.

ike, sure, it’s a little fic and ppl prolly won’t notice, but i just cant help but speculate.

in this au, everyone is born with wings unless afflicted with a certain illness, disease, or genetic defect that leaves you with no avian traits (which is the excuse the kents use).

but how would having wings influence the infrastructure? well, i’m glad you asked! cities are more compact because there isn’t really as big a need for transportation unless you’re an aves that’s just not built for long-distance travels like various passeriformes birds.

planes still exist, but they’re utilized by the avians who aren’t able to fly long distances. avians who have wings like albatrosses or terns or other soaring birds would probably require licenses to do their annual migrations and travels- same applies to regualr migritory species like ducks and geese- where the instinct remains despite not needing to migrate.

of course, with the constant migration through countries, i think there would be more mixing of races and ethnicities especially within the migratory bird communities, so there would probably be less overall hostilities.

now, there will still be discriminatory and hateful ideals, and some are shown in my fics. For example, Gotham’s elites are mostly made up of raptors and birds of prey like eagles, kites, kestrels, hawks, falcons, ospreys, owls, etc- birds who actively hunt down mammalian or lizards for prey (in the real world i mean), that is because of displays of powers. Scavengers like condors, vultures, buzzards, are regarded lower on the social ladder but not as low as perching birds and song birds simply because of their ability to have sustained flight.

like i mentioned briefly, songbirds and perching birds (passerines) are regarded lowly in general due to their “weak demeanor” and overall flashiness, which gives them the reputation of being only suitable to work in brothels and such regardless of gender (but especially dudes where the aves species exhibits sexual dimorphism, eg. cardinals, peacocks, golden pheasants, etc.)

there are definitely some exceptions, being corvids. some cultures have corvids as villans, whereas others may portray corvids as intelligent and charming.

now, we arrive to genetics. im still not 100% sure how i want the phenotype of an avian to be passed down. so far, it’s mainly just sons are the same aves as their fathers (like thomas wayne, bruce, and damian are all harpy eagles, but martha wayne was a kingfisher and talia is an imperial eagle), but im not sure abt daughters. genetics is messy, but i think i’ve managed to sertle on a 50/50 chance of being born either the same aves as their mother, or their paternal grandmother. like if damian had been born with xx instead of xy chromosomes, then he’d either have been an imperial eagle like talia, or a kingfisher like martha wayne. intersex people exist too, and i think their wings would be a blend between both their mother and father’s.

now for the the supers and the other metas:

as mentioned previously, the kents claim that their adopted son had a genetic disorder that basically prevented him from growing wings (or just left him in a state similar to humans before they were all “cursed” by a diety to have wings, or whatever. in the dcu, that probably woulnd’t even be too far fetched), so clark lacked a major social component to his childhood. without wings and a tail, others would have a harder time reading his emotions, seeing as these appendages are crucial in nonverbal communication between avians, and that gives clark a leg up in reading other people, but having them not understanding what he’s thinking.

now with jon and kon, they have two VERY different situations. for jon, since his paternal side is wings-free, i just gave him lois’s ave- western kingbird- instead of making him no-winged. kon, on the other hand was a test-tube baby, so it was a toss-up on whether he’d get lex luthor’s purple martin wings, or clark’s no-wings since they’re both guys. I think kon would’ve enjoyed wings, so i gave him the purple martin wings. Plus, they’re pretty much invulnerable, and their wings are no different.

diana and the other ppl from themyscira wouldn’t have wings since they aren’t human, and same applies to the other jl members who aren’t humans.

on a wholly separate note: the lazarus pits. here, not only does it give you white streaks in your hair, it’ll bleach out your feathers. so liek if a peacock was thrown into the pit, not only would they die and come back manic, their feathers would make them look like piebald, or have different markings or white ticking.

anyways, that’s the end of my long post, and i hope yall enjoyed listening to me speculate and talk about birds and my silly little guys!!

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shady-tavern · 3 months ago

Text

Preview for "For the Living and the Dancing" the September Short Story

(warnings ahead for consensual body modifications as well as implied/mentioned child abuse and self-experimentation, please be sure to take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

Julie had been born to a strict father, who so desperately wished for her to be a genius, that he didn't hesitate to do whatever he considered necessary to present her as one. For as long as she could remember, she was seated at her desk for hours on end, her father looming behind her.

As soon as she was old enough to hold the tools of an enchanter, for that was the bloodline of their family, he taught her how to carve the sigils and runes, the symbols and how to keep her lines perfectly straight, her circles perfectly round.

"A genius is capable of using both hands," her father told her, tying down her dominant hand and putting a pen in the other. "Learn."

"A genius knows how to present themselves," her father said as he taught her how to speak with people, drilling titles and manners into her head and what to wear when meeting people of rank.

"A genius speaks clearly," her father said as he had her read books out loud until she got her lisp under control.

He demanded that she memorize knowledge, that she overtake her peers in class whenever possible. He dedicated every ounce of his free time to her education and once she was old enough to pretend with him, he took her to the academy where he taught.

He seated her in classes and boasted that she understood the material but wasn't ready to join the academy full time yet. She didn't understand the material, but she was a shy child, a quiet child, so people considered her cute and annoying instead of a fraud.

"You must be a genius," her father told her, his hands big and heavy on her shoulders. He never touched her unkindly, but his hands always felt like they were pressing her down into the earth, making her shrink smaller and smaller.

"You must be, because we are enchanters, my dear," he told her with a grimness that she wished she could hide away from. "Mages already look down upon us for being lesser. But if you are more than that, they will praise us at long last."

She didn't fully understand, she thought the mages she had met were quite friendly, but she had noticed her father's coolness towards them. How he was never invited to their parties and meetings, to their special little clubs, despite his skill as an enchanter.

In one of her few cherished memories, her father had gifted her hand-made, enchanted toys. Little birds that flew around her and chirped the most beautiful songs. Fish that swam through the air and shimmered in a multitude of colors.

"So you are less alone," he had said.

But she had been very little then and he had been kinder, softer. He had smiled more back then.

Her mother was a quiet woman as well, but it took Julie a while to understand that she wasn't shy. She was quiet and cowed into silence, resembling more a ghost than a person as she drifted through their home, the servants casting concerned looks at her.

When her mother got pregnant again against all expectations, Julie felt excited for the first time in years. She had been so very alone for so long. Her father only allowed her to play with other gifted children and they were all...awkward. Like Julie. And like Julie, they were all weighed down by expectations.

Sometimes she looked at her little circle of carefully selected friends and thought that they were all trying to be adults without knowing how to be one.

Her mother's pregnancy progressed well and Julie felt ever more hopeful for a sibling. For someone to play with, to talk to. She'd teach her sibling how to walk and talk and she'd make sure to be a kinder teacher than her father.

She hoped her father would leave her sibling be.

It was that thought that made her work harder. She did her best to keep all the attention on her as the date of the birth grew closer, but her father was so very eager for the child, it was difficult to retain his focus.

And then the child was born, a little girl and Julie loved her. She took one glance at the little one, her mother looking more like a ghost than ever, and she wanted to protect her from everything.

The last thing her mother did was name the child Anne. Julie had learned how to cry quietly years ago and as she held her little sister, the midwife having showed her how, she promised in a whisper that her little sister was going to have a better, happier life.

Her father did not shed a tear, though he wore mourning garb for weeks on end. He picked up the lessons with a vengeance and Julie kept her head down. She kept quiet, stayed soft and pliant and agreeable, sneaking away to help the wet-nurse with her little sister whenever she could.

That tiny bubble of joy was soon popped when it became clear that something was up with her little sister. She seemed to be unwell more often than not.

"She's been born with a sickness," the doctor said when he came to thoroughly examine the babe.

Julie didn't like his tone, she didn't like how her little sister squirmed, her pudgy little face puffing up in upset. She wanted to go and scoop her up, but her father was in the room and she didn't dare do anything that he disapproved of.

She had no idea what the doctor said next, a complicated name that sounded almost too elegant, too sophisticated for what ailed her little sister.

Anne had been born ill, her body would always be weak and would deteriorate the older she got.

"She wont get old," the doctor warned quietly but Julie heard him anyway. "There is medicine to delay the decay, but it won't cure her. If you are diligent, if the girl does exactly as I say, if she doesn't get ill often, she might make it to twenty."

Twenty years. That was...that was so very little time. Julie stared at her little sister, her throat suddenly so tight she couldn't even breathe, her stomach rolling with horror.

She would have to bury her sister before she even fully finished growing.

It took Julie a couple of days to digest those news as much as possible and then she decided that no matter how much or how little time her sister had, she'd make sure it would be the best life possible.

Her father had lost all interest in his new daughter, the grimness of his demeanor deepening further. It was like he was already grieving.

Julie didn't understand, because Anne was right there and she was alive. Not well, perhaps, but she lived. She was a pudgy, often stinky little baby that Julie loved with all her heart.

So she studied harder and when her father dropped her off at the academy, she asked if she was allowed to sit in the medical classes. She had never asked to be put into specific classes before, because they were all hard and she struggled to understand even part of what was going on, despite her father helping her study at home.

Her father brightened a little at that and agreed readily.

Julie understood even less in those classes, but for the first time, she approached the professor afterwards and asked questions.

The woman was surprised at first and the longer they spoke, the more puzzled she seemed, but she answered all questions readily, dumbing things down until Julie finally understood.

She came back again and again, to the point where she secretly scurried out of the other classes to join the medical ones. If she left quickly enough to go meet her father where she was supposed to wait for him, he had no idea and the professors had such full classes no one noticed her slipping away.

Anne grew well despite the odds stacked against her and the day Julie saw her get up on wobbly knees, she was so excited her little sister fell over because she was laughing too much at Julie whooping and clapping her hands.

Anne was the best thing in Julie's life. Perhaps even the only good thing.

Once her little sister was old enough to play with more things than cubes and stuffed animals, Julie made toys. Like her father had once made them for her.

She made frogs that hopped just slow enough that her sister could catch them. She made a snake to coil around Anne and help her walk up and down the stairs, catching her before she could fall.

She made Anne a small prancing horse that she could ride up and down the hallways since she could rarely go outside and wasn't allowed to ride an actual horse. The little toy horse couldn't go very fast and would not spook or toss her. With her sister properly strapped in, she was safe and she could still have fun.

Her father examined each toy, looking impressed and soon the theoretical lessons were replaced with practical ones more and more.

"You might not be a conventional genius, but perhaps we can make you a prodigy," he mused as he handed her even finer tools and even more material. "Invent something to make me proud."

By now, Julie was old enough to understand what he actually meant: 'Invent something I can brag about'. Her father felt so inferior to mages that it had consumed every part of him, even the parts that had once been loving and kind.

Enchanters had no magic, but they could create magic and in her opinion, that was just as valuable, just as amazing. Sure, mages could enchant too, but their work would always be rougher and rather unwieldy compared to an enchanters.

Enchanters on the other hand could do nothing without tools and materials.

Julie worked hard, she had no idea what exactly inventors were supposed to do, how to make something that her father could impress others with, but once she thought of making things for her sister, to her surprise, she succeeded.

It wasn't anything big, not yet, but the little dog she made at her sister's request was what made her father quite satisfied. The little dog could perform simple commands, it could fetch things both pointed at and named, if the words were spoken clearly and it caught things that fell if it was close enough.

She had to make a second dog for her sister, since her father took the first to the academy and she never saw it again.

But making her little sister happy was worth it. All the hardships were worth it, the ways her fingers ached and she hid scratches and burns under long sleeves and gloves, her sister too little to find it odd.

Her sister was a happy child, for all that she couldn't be like the other kids, and yet, Julie found herself weeping sometimes, thinking of all that her little sister couldn't have.

Of all the years she would never live.

*.*.*

Julie stared down at her experiments, her hands scarred and calloused after years of hard work. Her mind felt empty as she looked at the partially assembled focus for a mage, a commissioned piece of work that had caused her father to puff up like a preening peacock.

The mage in question was a very influential, very rich one. He only ordered from the best of the best and he had wanted her.

Julie was almost done, but she couldn't bring herself to finish her work. Not when Anne was too weak to get up. She had been too weak for a while now and it filled Julie with a terrible fear.

Anne was only ten years old. That was half the time of what the doctor had said she might have if they were careful, if they cared for her. Julie's eyes welled with tears and she got up, for the first time abandoning her work while her father was awake and in the house and she left the cellar that had gotten remodeled for her.

There were shelves upon shelves of materials and books, various sketches and ideas she had written down and shoved wherever possible when she thought they weren't good enough.

Her father was in his study so he didn't notice when she walked up the stairs to the bedroom at the end of the hall and her sister greeted her with a sweet, if tired smile. But the smile trembled around the edges and it made Julie's throat tight.

Anne hadn't really understood her sickness when she had been younger. And while she had been upset then, it had been...easier to deal with. She hadn't been scared then, hadn't known to be sacred.

But she knew so much more now, was so much more aware. Julie had taught her things in the evenings, in the little bit of time she had between finishing her work and before heading to bed. Anne was such a bright child and she had wanted to brighten that glow whenever possible.

Anne knew she was dying and she was so very scared.

Her little sister grabbed her hand the second Julie sat down on the bed beside her. Her sister's smile trembled and then shattered as her eyes filled with tears.

"I don't want to die," Anne said, her voice shaking and the look on her face broke Julie's heart worse than anything else ever had. Even the one time she had gone out with a boy only to find out he only pretended to like her to get a free invention out of her.

Her sister swallowed and in a quiet whisper that sounded so very helpless and scared, she added, "Please don't let me die."

Julie closed her eyes against the sting of tears and leaned forward to press a kiss to her little sister's forehead, hugging her tight when she started to cry. She sat with her sister until she had cried herself to sleep and when she quietly left the room, her father was waiting in the hallway.

His face was stony and that suffocatingly heavy grimness was back in his gaze. "Go back to work," he said quietly. "There is nothing to be done."

Julie bit down on a surge of unexpected rage that surprised her with it's intensity and abruptness. She almost shouted at him that such things had never stopped him from trying to make her more than she was. It had never stopped him from lying and posturing and making everything bigger and grander than it was.

It had never stopped him from pretending.

But she stayed quiet and walked down the stairs until the coolness of the cellar greeted her, along with all it's familiar scents. She sat down and mechanically finished the focus before she stared at her shelves off to the side.

An entire bookshelf was dedicated to medical texts. She had tried so hard to find ways to help her sister, to make her live longer, but there was indeed no cure. Her body was going to decay until it set her soul free.

It felt like something fell into place in her mind, something terribly blasphemous and illegal.

The temples had decreed the flesh sacred. It was a gift from their gods and was to remain unchanged, no matter the circumstances. Nothing was ever removed unless it was a matter of life or death.

If someone was born with parts or limbs that didn't work or even without them, it was considered a punishment for bad actions committed in a previous life that someone had to repent for now.

Doctors and mages were therefore ever searching for techniques to heal the body back to its original state, but not even medicine, not even magic, could fix everything.

Anne's body was going to abandon her before long.

Julie would be locked away for life if she what she planned to do was discovered. But if she succeeded...if she could do this, her sister would get to live longer. Far, far longer.

That was worth everything.

*.*.*

The full story will be posted on September on both my patreon and my ko-fi, thank you everyone so much for your support! Everything helps and means the world to me, from reading my stuff to kudos and reblogs and don't worry, I'm reading all the tags!

You guys make it a real joy to write and post things, so I really want to say thank you for that.

For those who'd like to read more of my writing in the meantime, please feel free to check out my masterpost!

#my writing #preview #short story #magic #fantasy #love and romance #I hope you'll enjoy this one!#it was a blast to write

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i-have-a-wonky-eye-too · 11 months ago

Text

A Princess. A Queen. A Wife. A Mother. Part 30/?

<Part 29<

"I need you to wake-up, My love." Steve whispered, looking down at where you rested your head against his chest, smiling lovingly at you.

The journey to Brook was long, tiring and uncomfortable. Even with a stop off for lunch and to stretch your legs, you still found yourself being lulled to sleep after a few hours as you cuddled up against Steve's warmth. Well, that and because Steve couldn't keep his hands to himself. Not that you were complaining.

You mumbled something incoherent as you snuggled closer to Steve making him chuckle and kissed the top of your head.

"I guess, you don't want my surprise then." He whispered.

You raised your head with a hum, "What surprise?" You asked groggily.

Steve smiled to himself, "Knew that would work." He sat up, untangling himself from you. "C'mon sleepy head. You can go back to sleep soon."

Your brow furrowed as you watched him open the carriage door and get out. "Are we back already?" You asked.

Steve shook his head. "Not quite." He held his hand out and helped you out of the carriage. "This is your surprise." He smiled.

You stood in silence as you looked at the cute (not so) little cottage in front of you that was tucked away behind a wall of trees and rose bushes. It was lit up with an orange glow and smoke pouring out of the chimney, looking warm and cosy.

Steve smiled to himself as he gave you a gentle nudge, encouraging you forward. "I thought this would be a good place for the two of us to hide away for a week or so. Enjoy married life without any worries. Just us." He whispered.

You stepped into the cottage with a grin, "Where are we?"

"Not far from the castle. My hunting cabin isn't far from here."

"It's beautiful... Who does it belong to?" You looked around the place, taking it all in.

Steve smiled as he stepped closer to you, placing his hands on your hips. "You."

You spun around to face Steve with a gasp, "Me?"

Steve nodded. "My father wanted mother to have a quiet place to retreat to if the castle got too much whilst she was carrying me, so he had this place built. Once I was born, it became a place the three of us would use to hide away from the castle..."

Your brow furrowed, "It's not mine then if your father had it built for your mother."

Steve sighed softly, "Sweetheart, it was my mother who gifted it to you... To us. She knows how difficult it can be for a young Princess... She wanted you to have a place that you feel safe in, like she did." He smiled lovingly st ypu as he took yoyr hands in his. "Wha'cha say, happy to spend some time alone with me here, wife?"

You bit you bottom lip and nodded with a giggle, "I certainly am, husband." You wrapped your arms around Steve's neck and kissed him.

------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of birds tweeting and the sun leaking through the drapes slowly aroused you from your sleep just enough for you to sense something was happening around you that could only be described as chaos. You could hear voices, shouting and cursing over the top of one another, heavy footsteps stomping back and forth. You let out a tired groan and rolled over in the large empty bed, frowning as you blindly searched for Steve. You opened your eyes and looked around the room, empty. You sat up and rubbed the sleep from your eyes before climbing out of bed and making your way out of the room, in search of your husband.

The cottage wasn't too big that you'd end up lost like you did on your very first visit to the castle, but there were still plenty of rooms to explore.

You fell in love with the cottage the moment your eyes landed on it. It was much bigger than you first thought, but it still managed to have a cosy feel to it.

The room you and Steve were occupying was larger than the others that filled the cottage. It had a four poster bed at the farthest side of the room, a dressing table and chair against the wall opposite the door, a fireplace opposite the bed, as well as having a small closet attached. There was a smaller room opposite that had been used as Steve's when he was much younger and had been turned back into a nursery for when the time arrived for yours and Steve's children to use. A small water closet sat at the end of the hallway on the left that held a large bathtub (big enough for two) and next door to your room was what had been a study that Steve's father used before Steve had it changed into a miniature library for the two of you to use. That, too, had a fireplace that the two of you could sit in front of. At the other end of the hallway was a door that led into the front of the cottage. The door opened up into the sitting room, a large space that had a couple of armchairs in front of another fireplace as well as a dining table by the window that looked out onto the small garden that was filled with rose bushes and trees. To the right of the sitting room was a joining kitchen, and that was where you found your husband and the chaos.

You watched as Steve, Sam and Bucky coughed, trying to wave smoke away from them as they each yelled over one another.

"What on earth is going on?" You asked with a cough, quickly covering your mouth.

The three of them turned towards you like startled deer, panic in their eyes.

When no one answered, you huffed and folded your arms across your chest. "Well?"

"His fault!" Sam and Bucky said in unison as they pointed at Steve.

Steve glared at them, "Is not."

You rolled your eyes as the three of them began to talk over each other once more. "Enough!" You huffed and made your way over to the large wooden door at the front of the cottage that lead out into the garden, "You're like children... Worse than Morgana." You mumbled.

"What are you doing, My love?" Steve asked as he watched you open the door.

"Letting the smoke out so we don't choke to death." You turned back to the three of them. "Perhaps one of you could open the windows?"

Sam and Bucky quickly and began moving around the cottage. Steve stayed in the same spot with his head lowered, chewing on his bottom lip looking a lot like a child that's about to be scolded.

You smiled to yourself as you walked towards him, reminding yourself to tease him later on about it. "What happened?"

Steve opened his mouth to speak but before he could, Bucky and Sam bet him to it.

"His Majesty, was attempting to cook."

"And like it usually does, it ended in disaster." Bucky shook his head with a huff, "I told him to stay out of the kitchen."

Sam nodded, "But His Majesty knows best." Sam rolled his eyes.

You let out a small giggle as Steve continued to glare at them.

It was true, Steve wasn't the best cook. Any time he attempted cooking, something disastrous happened.

"Boys," You stood in front of Steve and placed a comforting hand on his chest as you faced Bucky and Sam. "Could the two of you fetch some more firewood, please?" You smiled sweetly.

The pair nodded before bowing to you and making their exit.

You cleared your throat before you turned back to face Steve. "So... What happened?"

Steve sighed as he gently placed his hands on your waist and tugged you against his chest. "I wanted to bring you breakfast." He frowned. "I don't know what happened. One minute I had everything set, and the next the pan of water boiled over and-"

"Put the fire out?" You asked already knowing the answer. Steve nodded with a pout. You bit your bottom lip to stop yourself cooing at him. How can a man be so soft and adorable, yet feared by so many? You gently cupped his cheeks with your hands and pressed your lips against his softly, letting out a moan as Steve gave your waist a squeeze. "Don't worry about it. It's an easy fix." You smiled at him before slipping out of his arms. "Let's get this cleaned up then we'll cook breakfast together."

Steve raised his eyebrow at you as you began moving things around. "Do you know how to cook?" Steve asked.

You giggled as you looked back at him over your shoulder. "Yes, Steve."

"You do?"

"Don't sound so surprised." You smirked.

"Sorry." Steve blushed as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I just, don't understand how you know?"

"Well, I learnt, Steven." You teased making him roll his eyes.

"I get that smart-ass." He chuckled, coming up beside you. "When?"

"What did you think I did when I wasn't attending sowing circles?"

Steve smiled, "Who taught you?"

"The Castle's cooks." You smiled with a shrug. "Even Dum-Dum taught me how to cook his famous battle stew last year."

Steve's brows raised in surprise just as Sam and Bucky returned. "Dum-Dum gave you his secret recipe?"

"Her Highness cooks it even better than Dum-Dum." Bucky winked at you with a grin making you blush.

Sam nodded and rubbed his belly. "Oh man, what I'd give to have some of that stew."

Steve frowned as he looked at them then at you. "Why have I never tried it?" He pouted.

You turned away from him to hide your smirk before clearing your throat, "You're always busy with meetings when I cook it." You let out a soft sigh.

Steve frowned to himself as he thought back to your visits. He usually did have a few meetings that lasted hours and hours, plenty of time for you to cook Dum-Dum's stew and share it with his men. He can't remember how many times he's found you training with them, even in rain, as you tried to pass the time.

"No matter," You smiled at him. "I'll make it tonight for us all."

Steve chuckled, "Let's focus on breakfast first, love." He kissed your cheek. "Now, tell me what to do."

"Nothing!" Bucky and Sam groaned in unison making Steve glare at them.

You began to laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough and looking away as Steve turned his glare to you. He smiled to himself as he watched you busy yourself before he sent Sam and Bucky another glare.

"Piss off," He mouthed to them, waving his hand around.

Bucky smirked, shaking his head at him as he walked up to you, "What can I do to help, Your Highness?" He asked, sending Steve a wink once you began telling him what to do.

------------------------------------------------------------

You giggled as Steve kissed your bare shoulder, working his way up your neck until you were a giggling mess. "Stop it," You tapped his bicep, pushing slightly to get him off you.

Steve pulled back with a grin. "You're just too sweet," He teased before pressing his lips to yours. He rolled over on to his back, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his chest. Steve panted softly against the top of your head before kissing it. "You know... They won't be here all the time... I promise."

You smiled to yourself, snuggling further into his chest, wrapping your arms tighter around his body as you hiked your leg up over his. "Stop... I had fun today. Besides, I don't mind Bucky and Sam being around."

Steve sighed, "I know you don't... But I wanted it just to be us. I wanted us to have some time together... To get to know each other."

You carefully pushed yourself up so you were looking down at Steve, not care in the world as you let your naked body show as you looked down at your husband lovingly. "We already know each other, darling."

Steve shook his head, "But we're married now..." He smiled as he reached up brushed your hair back as he cupped your cheek. "Things are different."

"How? We're still the same people, Steve."

Steve smiled, "But now I can do this," He gently pulled your face down to his and pressed his lips against yours, easily slipping his tongue past your lips and deepening kiss momentarily before pulling back, "As much as I want." He grinned at you. "As well as other things," He teased.

You lowered your head, trying to hide your face as you blushed. "When you put it like that." You smiled to yourself. "Maybe Bucky and Sam shouldn't be around so much."

@letsdisneythings @smile1318 @readawaythereality @dad-supremedeactivated04291992 @marebare21 @imjustanotherperson @slutforchrisjamalevans @summersong69 @gretavankleep37 @calimoi @noonenuts @nighttimestan @sarahbellesaurus @bloodyinspiredfuck @coffeebooksandfandom @lewisroscoelove @oceansrose2002 @teambarnes72

#chris evans #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #marvel #King Steve Rogers x reader #King Steve Rogers #king!Steve Rogers x reader #king!steve rogers x princess!reader #king!steve rogers x princess!stark!reader #steve rogers x reader smut

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mania-sama · 5 months ago

Text

i thought i could escape (but it's fate i've come to find)

Shadow Of Mine - Alec Benjamin

➼ information ❧ Call of Duty ❧ Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley ❧ Tags: character study, stabbing, hurt! ghost, angst with a happy ending, past child abuse, post-mw2, hurt/comfort, hurt! soap ❧ Summary: When Simon Riley was a child, his mother told him an ancient legend. When you are born, a shadow is born alongside you. As you grow older, it grows. And when it becomes strong enough, it will hunt you down. It was about time Ghost met his shadow. ❧ Word Count: 3,771 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 31 December 2022

As his breath flowed out of his balaclava and crystallized in the air, Simon realized he wasn’t alone.

Ghost retained very little memories of his childhood. He remembered them most at night, when his nightmares prayed on his unconscious mind. In the daytime, he could recall his mother brushing his hair and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, her voice soothing the beating of his heart as his father lurked around the corner.

Sometimes she told him stories. The one she told him only once was the one he remembered most vividly, the memory never diminishing even as time threatened to wear it down. It was his favorite story, not because it reminded him of his sweet, loving mother, but because it sent true anticipation into his veins. It wound him up like a spring, ready to snap at the first hint of danger.

Ghost wasn’t a name he achieved by just being a good soldier. He was violent, relentless, and most importantly, unable to track. If he wanted to slip away from a situation, he could do so flawlessly. If he was in a fight, he would take down all of his offenders and leave nothing to prove he was ever there at all. Getting captured was never a mistake. When someone caught him, it was because Ghost let them.

He was a poltergeist, killing silently and leaving no trace. That’s what had earned him the name Ghost.

Task Force 141’s rendezvous point was far enough from the city that, if they were to be tracked, they could fend off their attacker without leading them straight to their base. Despite doing everything as correctly as he normally did, Ghost had been followed.

When a living being is brought into this world, it is born with a shadow. The story had scared him as a child. Now, as a soldier who’d lived through the worst the world could shove at him, he only felt adrenaline.

Only one person was on his tail, matching him step for step somewhere in the surrounding wilderness. The sounds of the forest did well to hide their feet crunching the snow, but Ghost had a sixth sense. He could tell when other poltergeists were on the hunt, haunting grounds just like he did.

His communications device had broken during the mission, but it hadn’t been a big deal at the time. His team had faith in him to make it back to the rendezvous point in good time. Besides, he was used to working alone and in silence, only relying on himself and his surroundings. It was almost comforting.

His mother’s voice whispered in his ear. I have a shadow. Your father has one, and you do, too. As you grow older, your shadow will evolve with you.

Ghost had thought, at one point, that he was simply his father’s shadow. It wasn’t until he’d beat his old man half to death and kicked him out of the house that he realized he was incorrect. If he had been his father’s shadow, Ghost would have killed him without hesitation.

The white world softened all noise and, with a turning stomach, Ghost failed to detect when his stalker had slipped away. His sixth sense still tingled, but he’d lost where they had been in the forest.

“I’m not going to play this game,” he called. His voice shook the trees of their snow and scared away a small bird. His grip on his gun tightened, though there was nothing to aim at. “Take your shot now and get it over with.”

Ghost was untraceable. He had been abused and betrayed but never tracked. He was a ghost through and through. Nothing ordinary could see his apparition.

Until one day, she said, it will become strong enough to find you.

The first hit came as a strike to his shoulder, right beside the strap of his vest. There hadn’t been a bang, and the metal sticking out of his flesh wasn’t a bullet. Instead of pulling out the star-shaped weapon, he aimed his rifle towards where the shuriken had been thrown. The sound of his shot reverberated through the forest, but it did not hit its target.

The second hit was in his calf. Most of the extra padding in his uniform was around his torso and thighs, as well as the protection of his skull from his mask. So his calves were exposed, outside of a fabric layer, and left it easy to puncture and bleed. The shuriken had sunk itself deep into his flesh.

Pain exploded in his leg, but he ignored it. Things like that became easy overtime if you went through enough torment. “Coward,” he seethed through clenched teeth, shooting in the new direction. He knew his shot had missed when he heard it bury itself into a tree.

The third hit sank into his hip, stuck in between sliver area where there wasn’t padding between his thigh and torso. This was almost a bit of fun to his stalker, apparently, showing off their skill while hidden in the white snow and evergreen trees.

Then, he finally saw his assailant. They smiled, their lips being one of the only true features Ghost could truly make out. He aimed and fired, but by the time the bullet left the barrel, they were long gone from the tree they had been perched in. The fourth hit was in his other shoulder, an exact replica of the first hit.

That lit a fire in his gut.

“Come out, then! These won’t do anything unless you take them out, so come do it!” Ghost yelled into the forest. What he said wasn’t wrong, though if he was hit in a vital area, he would actually have something to really worry about.

He didn’t appreciate being toyed with. They had already proven their capabilities with aiming, and with four pieces of metal sticking out of his body, Ghost knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun them. If they continued like this, he would eventually run out of ammo. He shot towards where an echoed laugh came from.

Another star-shaped weapon lodged directly into the muzzle of his rifle as he was staring down the scope, splintering the barrel with a crack. Well, shit. His gun was out of commission, then; one shot and it would explode in his face. He had to bring them down to his level.

He’d been in worse odds.

It will try to kill you with everything it has. The more sins you commit, the stronger and more bloodthirsty it will be.

Bloodthirsty was a big word for a child as young as he was, even though he’d already seen what the word meant with his own two eyes.

He never thought Manuel Roba was his shadow. That man wanted him alive, for the most part. Burying Ghost had been a futile attempt at killing him. There was no real effort put in, but rather leaving nature to be his murderer. It had failed, since Roba had not understood Ghost’s will to survive.

Roba had not been Simon’s shadow, and he had proved that by putting a bullet through his brain.

But this person, the one who had tracked Ghost and remained hidden in the trees, had already broken his gun. Unless they had a gun, no bullet would find its way in their skeleton.

The mission hadn’t been without an injury. While Ghost himself had come out unharmed, he knew one of them had not. Johnny. One of the best their task force had, and yet he’d sustained a heavy leg injury. Gaz and Price were the ones that helped him out of the city, but it didn’t stop a coil of urgency to set in his body.

If Ghost took too long, they wouldn’t be able to treat the injury in time, and his leg became permanently damaged. If that happened, they’d lose one of their best. Ghost stamped out the part of him that gnashed ugly teeth made of pounding hearts and sweating palms that weren’t from the adrenaline of battle.

He’d done well to ignore that viscous animal inside of his brain ever since he’d met Soap. He wasn’t going to let it loose now, not that very same person needed him to get a move on.

Despite its inability to fire, Ghost kept his hands on his firearm. He positioned it so it covered some of the unpadded areas of his front body. If anything, it could be used as a shield.

Snow crunched loudly directly behind him, and Ghost turned around fast enough to give any untrained person whiplash. Standing calmly, a shuriken resting between their fingers, was a masked soldier. Their entire face was covered in a black balaclava aside from their mouth, which was spread wide in a grin. If his gun hadn’t been splintered, there would’ve been a bullet on their lips.

Instead, he settled on reaching for one of his knives— long, stained with blood, and made to kill.

“Ghost,” they said. It was impossible to tell gender by their voice and physique, able to say either and it would be viable. The Middle Eastern accent wasn’t helping. “Embarrassing performance. I expected much more.”

They dropped their weapon on the ground, just as Ghost had. He wondered how they could see, what with their eyes being covered. The train of thought didn’t last very long as he began a calculated rush at his assailant.

Once it comes for you, you must defend yourself with equal vigor.

Anger didn’t blind him. He wasn’t goaded on by the mocking taunts. He was level-headed and sure of his movements, the adrenaline of a fight kicking him into cruise control.

Yet, the metal sticking out of his shoulders lodged themselves deeper into his body as the soldier blocked the attack with his own knife. It was a throwing knife, short and clean, yet made to kill just like the rest of them.

Blades were Ghost’s speciality. He’d trained with them against his will since he’d been small, but instead of abandoning them in adulthood, he’d become their companion. He may not have understood shurikens , but knives? Knives were the oxygen he breathed, the iron in his blood, and the chemicals in his brain.

The throwing portion of the knife would be of little use for them. Ghost intended to keep it entirely close quarters to get a handle on their knife to turn it against them. Deflect. Stab. Swipe. Deflect. It had a perfect rhythm that Simon relished in.

Ghost didn’t underestimate his opponents; that would get him killed eventually. More importantly, he didn’t lose knife fights. But they had started to grapple, and the moment he was on his back, the shuriken in his calf was driven to the bone. Searing hot pain flashed through his vision, and that single moment of unclarity allowed the other soldier to straddle him.

The shuriken in his hip matched the one in his calf, sending his nerve endings in a flare. The ones in his shoulders threatened to loosen the grip he had on his blade, but he remained steady. If he didn’t have his fingers in commission, he would be done for.

They were of equal strength and ability. Their fight had lasted longer than any normal one.

Simon, do not be afraid. As long as you keep your hands clean, your shadow will not be strong enough to kill you. Perhaps you will even make friends with it.

Ghost bucked, successfully throwing off the incoming blade. However, the butt of their knife collided harshly with his skull mask, cracking it right down the middle. Between the metal in his body and his now pounding headache, the first hints of true anger set into his bones.

Emotions were a nuisance. They clouded his judgment and threw him off kilter. He’d shut them off long ago, but when they came back, they did so with full force.

It wasn’t just anger. It was a deep-seeded fear that tried to butt its head to the surface every time he took off his mask and showed his face. He was afraid, afraid of the fact that he was losing the knife fight.

But mamma, what if I do bad things in my life?

He successfully rolled them over, but it didn’t last for long. They blocked his direct attempt at their neck, switching their positions. Distantly, he recognized that the shurikens were blocking blood flow to his head and the rest of his body. Parts of his body were going numb as his heart couldn’t get blood to them.

Then it will be very strong, and you will have to fight it, darling.

For a while, Simon thought John “Soap” MacTavish was his shadow.

Soap didn’t aim for his heart with a rifle or a knife. He didn’t kick or scratch or abuse Ghost like all of the other potential shadows had. Instead, Soap had taken a shovel and dug up his heart from where Ghost had buried it underground. He had done so to protect himself from getting hurt again, and from hurting others. Because anything he had ever loved turned to ash underneath his fingertips.

His heart was buried for the greater good. But Johnny had presented Ghost with that dirt-covered heart, shovel in hand and a shit-eating grin plastered over his face. As long as he had his heart in his hands, he could crush it at any moment. It was then, Simon had concluded, that John “Soap” MacTvaish was his shadow.

It had taken too long for Soap to kill him. There had been so many chances, so many opportunities to crush his heart. Get killed in action and stamp Ghost’s heart back into the ground. Leave the military behind and forget all about Task Force 141, squeezing his heart until it pops. Find a nice girl to cozy up with and show Ghost that he was imagining all of the tender moments they’d shared, driving a stake through his heart.

Soap wasn’t his shadow, even though it sure as hell seemed like it for the longest time.

After that, he considered if he was Soap’s shadow, destined to break his heart in all the ways that Ghost had imagined Soap doing to his own. Maybe he would just knock him down and shoot him in the back of his head one day, not giving him enough time to process the betrayal.

He had only thought that for a brief amount of time. A day or two at the most. Then he realized that Soap couldn’t have built up a shadow like Ghost. He was too good of a man who had committed too little sins, even in their line of work. His shadow would be violent, sure, but it wouldn’t be a poltergeist.

So that left Simon’s true shadow yet to be found. The knife, gleaming in the moonlight, came arching down on Ghost’s face.

There is one thing they don’t tell you about shadows, Simon.

His shadow’s smile was sickly. Ghost shifted his head in a vein attempt to stop the oncoming blade from hitting its mark. His arms were barely holding on to his own knife. Several of them had been discarded in their fight, both from him and his opponent. His head was woozy and he could barely think straight.

Their one goal in life is to kill you. They don’t have attachments, and they don’t have anything to live for.

They cut straight through his mask and cheek entirely. The knife’s edge grazed his teeth and stuck into the ground next to where his eyes had once been.

As long as you have something to live for, something to cling to, then you are better than your shadow.

He let that viscous animal out of its cage, the one that gnashed its teeth and only wanted love. It chomped down on his brain and thrashed.

And you will win your fight against it, no matter the odds.

Above him, he heard a strangled gasp. It took one, two, three seconds before his shadow collapsed directly on top of Ghost, the handle of a black knife protruding from their back. His aim had been sharp and true. He didn’t have to pull the weapon out to know it had pierced their heart.

All he could imagine as he pushed the dead soldier off of him and into the dark, soiled snow, was Johnny’s leg. How he wouldn’t be able to walk if Simon died before he could get to their rendezvous site. He ignored the knives littering the ground and pulled out his first-aid kit. There was very little aid inside, just enough to prevent one serious injury from killing someone immediately.

His shaky hands didn’t accomplish much. He wrapped gauze around his mouth as he bled directly onto his tongue and snow. He had to be careful to not move his jaw, lest he tear his cheek open more than it already was. Head tilted down to keep the blood flowing into the gauze and out of his throat, he limped in what he assumed was the right direction.

Up was down, left was right, and the snow collided with Ghost’s face as he fell to the ground. He didn’t know how long he had walked for. He couldn’t feel anything anymore, outside of the copper taste on his tongue. It was a nasty wound. Bits of the wrap had come off from how soggy it was. His arms weren’t quite working anymore, and neither were his legs.

But he crawled, and he crawled, and he crawled until he saw headlights. He couldn’t hear them shouting his name, but he could see them. He couldn’t feel them turn him over to examine him, but he could see that they were missing one soldier, the one that carried his heart.

The white world turned black.

–

“You saved my life.”

From his chair in the hospital room, Soap stared incredulously at Ghost. His leg was in a cast, but it would make a full recovery within a couple of months. The team had been able to bind Soap’s leg well enough that the time it took to get professional treatment was inconsequential.

“I was the only one not out helping you,” he said, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. That much was true. What Ghost hadn’t remembered, the team had filled him in on.

Soap had been stretched out in one of the two cars waiting to take the team away from the city, letting his leg rest. They had waited for a concerning amount of time, and just as they were about to send Gaz out to try and locate Ghost, he’d crawled in front of their headlights.

Similar to Soap, they laid Ghost out in the back of the car so he wouldn’t agitate any of the wounds, and the others stuffed themselves into any place they could in the cars. Then, they had broken just about every single traffic law in the country to get to somewhere that Ghost and Soap could be treated safely.

He had been told that he’d almost died. Almost. Ghost could believe it; it wouldn’t be the first time Death had him in its clutches.

Soap huffed. “I think you’re full o’ shit.”

There had been very few people allowed in his room since he’d woken up, and half of them were nurses and doctors. His mask had been discarded in order to let his face wound heal correctly, and he wasn’t comfortable with so many people able to see his face at one time.

The staff had to take pictures of wounds that people were brought into the hospital for. It was protocol, and Ghost knew this. As soon as he had been given the chance, he asked to see his pictures. Whatever he had been expecting, it had been so much worse.

It looked like something straight out of a horror movie. His entire cheek had been cut open, stretching from the edge of his mouth all the way to his jawbone. It revealed the insides of his mouth, which had been coated in dirt, snow, blood, and what looked like a few maggots. He couldn’t be entirely sure, but it was positively horrifying.

It was stitched up now, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. He figured it would for a while.

“I had been followed, Johnny.” Ghost had been asked to give a debrief of his fight multiple times, but he’d feigned ignorance for each one of them. He’d let the monster out of its cage, and it was still biting everything it could.

It only settled down when it saw Soap. “You? Followed? I think you’re pulling m’ leg.”

For once, Ghost was happy he didn’t die. Unfortunately, he feared he would actually miss that horrendous Scottish accent. “Believe whatever you want, but what I’m saying is true,” he said. “I met my match.”

“You survived, L.t..”

“Barely.” His heart was beating in Soap’s hands, the other man’s fingers coiled around it in a bloody mess. This was going to be painful. “My mother told me a story once, about shadows.”

The hospital room smelled of antiseptics and bleach, and Soap wasn’t wearing his military attire. He was dressed casually, like he was visiting a friend and not a broken, traumatized soldier.

He didn’t talk about his mother to anyone. The blood was seeping between Soap’s fingers.

It had taken him a week to be allowed to talk again, and a couple days more to get used to the pain. Yet, in the words that spilled out of his mouth, he found it easy to ignore the pain. He was too focused on watching his heart beat and how Johnny chose to hold it. He could only observe as his fingers became tight on his organ when Simon told him just how he’d killed his shadow.

Then, he gently caressed his heart with that same shit-eating grin.

“If I ever meet my shadow,” Soap said, and his face was lit with the most joy Ghost had ever seen. It was beautiful. “I think our fight would be just like yours. Especially the ending.”

Even though Ghost’s cheek was stitched and he was confined to his hospital bed until he was ready for physical therapy, even though Soap had a fractured leg and a million scars, and even though they were both children born from blood and ash, they kissed as though love was all they’d ever known.

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