#i cannot stand the tag being such a wasteland | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shmothman · 2 years

Text

Judgement | Forgiveness

Part Eighteen

Previous Chapters

AO3 Link

Tags: @veethewriter

“You.”

At Irida’s feet, Glaceon stands at attention, its hackles raised.

“Hold on,” you say, panicking. “Irida, please just let me explain.”

There’s hurt in her eyes—hurt and anger and betrayal—and guilt crashes over you like a wave, pulling you beneath its tides. Behind you, Volo is wide-eyed, terrified, his hands up in front of his chest in a gesture of submission.

“Yeah,” Irida says, eyes narrowed—her tone isn’t venomous, but it is wounded. “Yeah, why don’t you explain what you’re doing here with him.”

She glares daggers, and Volo shies under her gaze, his eyes fixed firmly on the snow in front of him.

She wasn’t there, in Jubilife, the day you brought him back from the Distortion World, but you know that she heard about his apology. His banishment. And, beyond that, she knows what you told her the day you came to her home, weeping of his betrayal. She knows how you felt for him. She knows how he hurt you.

If you have any chance at salvaging this situation, Irida needs the whole truth, now—even if there are some things you’d rather keep secret. Even if it might put both of you in danger.

“We’re looking for artifacts,” you tell her, speaking slowly as if to calm a frightened pokemon. “The verses, like the one I brought to you.”

She seems unimpressed, but gives you a look that says to continue.

You do your best to tread carefully. “Volo is an expert. He knows myths like nobody else. And we aren��t violating the terms of his banishment.”

Although, Irida sees right through that, her jaw dropping as she realizes: “you’ve been helping him this whole time, haven’t you?”

You sigh. There’s no hiding it. “Yes. I have.”

The anger builds in her eyes, but you cut her off before she says anything else, your voice growing desperate.

“What did you expect me to do, Irida? Leave him to die? He’s my friend!” You can’t help the way your voice cracks on the word ‘friend,’ and you know you’ve given yourself away entirely when she shifts her weight and looks between the two of you—back and forth, back and forth.

Mouth agape, she shakes her head, incredulous. She’s looking at you almost pleadingly now. “After what he did to us? To you?”

You grit your teeth, growing slightly angry yourself. If she would just listen to the whole story... “Yes, and will you please stop talking about him like he’s not here?”

Though, the look on his face says he much preferred being ignored as she swivels on him, irate. His eyes flick to you, wide and terrified, and you give him an encouraging nod, your eyes pleading—though pleading for what, you aren’t sure.

“I…” he says, quietly stuttering, before taking a shaky breath that steams in the frigid air. “I know that I caused harm. To Palkia and to your clan. And for that I am sorry.”

“Sorry,” she repeats, rather sarcastic and disbelieving. “Well, that fixes everything, doesn’t it—”

“I know that it doesn’t,” he says quickly, interrupting her. “I know that I cannot make up for what I’ve done.” He looks to you, then back to her. “But I will say it anyway. I promise you I will not ever hurt you, Palkia, or your clan ever again.”

Her brows furrow, and she looks to you, then back to him, then back to you. “And you believe him.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, swallowing hard. “I do.”

And you tell Irida the whole story. You tell her of bringing him back from the Distortion World, of offering him help after his banishment. You tell her of his injury, and of finding the first piece of poetry; of seeking his help with it. You don’t bring up the emotional moments you’ve shared with him—you may tell her of your feelings, later, certainly not in front of Volo—but you reiterate that you believe that he means what he says. All the while, he remains quiet beside you, but even beneath his scarf, you can tell that his face has reddened.

When you finish speaking, silence rings through the snowy wasteland. You all but hold your breath.

Finally, Irida heaves a great sigh, and some—but not all—of the anger seems to leave her. “Unbelievable,” she mutters, under her breath.

Despite your better judgment, you reach for Volo’s hand, and when your fingers brush his, he almost jumps. He looks at you, alarmed, and you can see in his stormy gray eyes what he’s thinking: do you want to make her angrier?

But your expression softens, and when you give him a nod, he accepts your hand, trembling just slightly.

Irida sees this and shakes her head again, pinching the bridge of her nose. If she hadn’t already guessed the feelings you still hold for him, well... she certainly knows now.

“Right.” She says. “Great. Fantastic. Any other big secrets you’re hiding from me?”

“No,” you say, wracked with guilt. “No, honestly.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well. You’re not a very good liar, anyway.”

You hold tight to Volo’s hand, anchoring yourself as much as you anchor him.

And Irida sighs. “I trust you,” she says to you, and your eyes snap up to meet her intense gaze. “I trust you not to let any harm come to this region. I don’t trust him—” he tenses as she looks to him, “—but I trust you.”

“Irida—” you start, but she holds up a hand.

“Honestly, I don’t want to hear anything else right now. You lied to me, and I’m angry. I’m going to go home, drink some tea, and attend to my duties as Clan Leader. We can talk more later.”

You deflate.

When she turns to Volo again, he grips your hand tighter. “As for you,” she says, “I’d better not see you again. If you try anything—” her gaze flicks between you, and you blush, her implications clear, “—I will be the first to stop you. Mighty Sin—er, Lord Palkia, is not happy with you. Just know that.”

Glaceon circles her feet with a cry, and she gives it a pat on the head. Then, she gives a decisive nod, looking between you once more, and turns on her heel, leaving you standing in silence, joined by the hands, at the mouth of the cave.

And when her retreating back has grown small in the distance, Volo collapses to his knees.

You follow him down, tears in your eyes, and he breaks entirely, not protesting when you wrap your arms around him and hold tight, both of your breath steaming heavily in the freezing air, coming out between the folds of your scarves.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and although he’s sniffling, he gives a short laugh of surprise.

“Why are you apologizing?”

Great, fat tears begin to spill onto your cheeks, and you scrub at them fruitlessly with your gloves. “I don’t know. I should have told her sooner. I should’ve told all of them.”

“You were trying to keep me safe,” he reminds you. “It’s my fault.”

“I need to be able to do both,” you say. You need to protect him and tell the truth. “I can’t… I can’t keep lying to my friends.”

When he gives a sob in return, you pull back to press your forehead to his, clinging to his coat. He looks at you, wide-eyed and teary. The closeness of him is as dizzying as it is comforting, the look in his eyes tumultuous, fearful, sad.

“Why are you putting yourself in danger for me?” He asks, so broken, so vulnerable—and you know what he’s really asking. Why don’t you just leave him.

And the thought occurs to you that it would be so easy to show him how you feel. Pressed together like this, it would only take a simple tilt of your head to kiss him; to explain why you would put yourself in any danger, why you would lie to the people you care about, why you won’t leave him. It’s because you love him.

It’s because of the way he lights up when he hears about mythology, and the single-minded focus with which he pursues his passions. It’s because of his smile, his laugh, the way he jokes with you; the way his hand feels in yours, the way he hugs you. The way he tries to make things right. The way he’s been putting one foot in front of the other.

But more importantly than that, it’s because you don’t think his mistakes need to define him. It’s because you want to see him grow, to see him have a future. Even if he didn’t want you to be a part of that future, you would want him to be happy.

And so you whisper, “because I care about you, Volo,” and you hope the rest is self-evident.

You wish you could tell if he understands, if he realizes what he means to you, but you don’t know what the look in his eyes means—this sad, hopeful, teary expression that pulls on your heartstrings, that makes it all the harder not to pull down his scarf and press your lips to his.

But you shouldn’t cry out here. Salt water or no, the tears will freeze right onto your faces—so you gently wipe his cheeks with gloved fingers, and try not to lose yourself in the way he leans into your touch, the little of his face that’s exposed to the elements pink in the cold.

You pull the both of you up to standing, still huddled close together, shivering. “Come on,” you say. “Let’s get this verse back to the hut.”

He sniffles. “Do you... need to follow her?” He asks, looking after Irida.

“No,” you shake your head. “She needs some time. I’ll go see her tomorrow. She’ll... she’ll come around. I know it.”

There is a fondness in his tearful voice when he says, “if anyone can convince her, it’s you,” that makes your heart flutter.

“I really hope so,” you tell him.

#volo x reader #judgement | forgiveness #volo #pla #pla spoilers #pokemon #sef writes #sorry this chapter is shorter! in my defense its also early lol

59 notes · View notes

cljordan-imperium · 1 year

Text

FIND THE WORD TAG

I was tagged by @sarah-sandwich-writes

I'm tagging: @saltysupercomputer @inkspellangel @aether-wasteland-s

Your words are - mug, box, flame, cold, and line

Now onto mine...

picnic, blanket, basket, tuck, and full

PICNIC

I do not have this word, so a bit of lore

What beings can get drunk off of depends on what they are. Human liquor does not affect any purely supernatural/preternatural being.

However, nephilim are only ½ angel. Due to the way it is distilled, Absinthe is the only liquor that will get a nephilim drunk. And when they get drunk their magic becomes a bit…unstable… They cannot drink any supernatural brews, except for the Four Horsemen.

Demons get drunk off of demon brew and blood wine. They are also affected differently by different types of fae blood.

Adalicia’s blood as an Equinox Fae, will cause Grae to lose track of time, bending it in strange ways for him. It will make him feel high and alter his perception of reality

Martenique’s blood will be like speed. What additional affects it has on the male will depend on their base emotions. I could drive Casperius to be more amorous and possessive, but Mattheus to be more violent.

All fae blood is addictive to demons, and can cause them to be enraptured with the fae to the point that they lose all sense of self and reality. This is by design. Call it a natural defense weapon.

Angels can only get drunk from a special spring in Heaven.

BLANKET

Once she made it back over to him, she helped him dry off. Of the two of them, she was in better shape. How he was even standing still mystified her. Standing before him again, she had him let go of the wall and hold onto her, then she traced them in, next to the bed. They both needed rest, and neither of them were willing to be separated again. After helping him into the bed on his back so it wasn’t twisted, she went and pulled the drapes of the room closed to leave the room barely illuminated in a soft light then she returned to him and slid in next to him, laying on her side to face him and pulling the blankets over them to fight off the slight chill in the room.

BASKET

Dez had watched Adriel leave with Anna, something he still was pretty sure that was going to make his friend a beautiful basket case. Her dad with a good friend, that was like your best friend fucking your sister. Talon and Delilah was a bit more logical, but the girl seemed a little jumpy. T was calm and patient, something Dez wasn’t, so he had no doubt they’d figure out what the fuck was up soon. Deacon had then left to go find Leandre and Yael. He felt bad for the poor girl. Both he and T had looked at each other when that had gone down, memories of Brie’s time at the Sanctuary in Chicago coming back a bit more than either male would have liked.

TUCK

A smile formed on his face as Grae considered what she said. He was starting to understand her way of thinking better now. Not that it was going to change his decision regarding the servants that came into his chambers when he was not there. Until all respected her, he would make sure that she was comfortable and safe from what had just happened, happening when he was not around to reassure her. “Yes, we do, darling.” He tucked a curl behind her ear, then slid his fingers behind her neck to pull her to a soft kiss. “So, next time something is bothering you, tell me.” She nodded and he couldn’t help but think that if they did not need to eat that he had far more enjoyable things that they could be doing. However, she had slept through lunch and did need to have something to eat. He would not starve her just for the sake of partaking in further pleasure with her. After all, they did have all night.

FULL

“You are a dangerous temptation, mia piccola bellezza.” His voice hoarse, his forehead was almost touching hers. AdrieL’s voice wasn't reproachful, instead it was filled with a desire his expression fully mirrored. He was having to keep his hands in those golden strands of silk to keep her pulled back lest he get lost in another kiss with her again. A Grigori. Of all the beings to have in his arms, wrapping herself around him the way he wanted to wrap her up in him, this was not what he could have anticipated.

THE IMPERIUM CHRONICLES TAG LIST - @ceph-the-ghost-writer @kjscottwrites @writingpotato07 @saltysupercomputer @careful-pyromancer @late-to-the-fandom @autumnalwalker @perasperaadastrawriting @fearofahumanplanet @jessica-writes22 @dogmomwrites @mjjune @verba-writing @blind-the-winds @shipping-through-eternity

Anyone wanting added/removed, just let me know.

#find the word game #word search game #writeblr game #writeblr #the imperium chronicles #my writing #my ocs #snippets #coming soon #writeblr connect #writeblr community #writing #writblr #writerblr #original writing #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity

5 notes · View notes

heresathreebee · 3 years

Text

The One Where She Got A Dog

Yelena Belova X Reader

Summary: how Yelena became a dog mom Masterlist Part 2

Tags: E | 1.8k words | scary movie, winter, secret pasts, sapphic

AN: Black Widow movie really got me in my feelings about those characters, Yelena in particular. I havent watched The Thing in almost a year please look the other way if movie events are out of order.

Pretty Russian girls are not usually your type, but fuck if you weren't absolutely obsessed with this one. You laughed when she told you she was from Ohio. She laughed when you said you were too.

Aquavit and your grandma's biscuit recipe brought her into your cabin on the edge of the world where she admitted to you she had never seen John Carpenter's The Thing before. You turned it on just as the snow storm set in and wrapped up in your thickest blankets with her. You're trying not to get your hopes too high but she's not shy about asking you to scoot closer.

"Skäl," you cheer just as the ominous opening credits end and they find the mysterious ship in the frozen wasteland of antarctica.

"Have you ever been?," Yelena asked.

You grimace at the strong taste of aquavit. It's like vodka but with caraway for 'flavor'. You look at her from the side and poor yourself a second shot. "Been…?"

"There." She points at the screen.

"I have actually," you admit in a way you hope is flat and uninteresting, "have you?"

Yelena shook her head. It's possible she might think you're being sarcastic (you cross your fingers under the blanket and hope she does). She's smiling at you, thinking something (but still watching the screen with interest).

She drops the subject until you have to pause the movie to pee. You unwrap yourself from the cocoon of blankets and as you stand she asks you another question.

"What were you doing there? in Antarctica, I mean."

You sigh and pretend to brush something off of your pants. "Science trip with my parents. Shitty vacation for me I'd rather be in the Bahamas."

You resist the urge to look at her. After taking care of business, you come back just in time to put the biscuits in the oven. You hear Yelena lean into the kitchen archway as the floors creak immensely here.

"No timer?," she asked.

"No timer," you confirm. "I use the timer of my heart."

Yelena scoffs. "Please don't burn them, I'm curious about these… what are they– pastries?"

"Something like that."

The two of you went back to the movie just as the gang on screen is trying to decipher who is human and who is not. You feel like something between you has changed and sadly not for the better.

But she can't know.

"I hate this part," you say, making absolutely no move to avert your gaze.

Yelena is startled when the doctor's arms become trapped in the bear trap belly mouth of the "man" on the table. She quickly covers her eyes and giggles manically, slapping your chest for the vague and unhelpful warning. You realize she's not as close to you as before…

There's 20 minutes left of this movie and you haven't seen a single thing on screen. Yelena stopped asking you questions when you stopped being coherent with your answers. All you can think about is telling her.

But you can't tell her. She would never understand. You barely understand and it's about you.

"I lied." Your heart beats in your throat as you see her face you but you can't look at her directly for fear of losing your nerve. "About the science expedition? That's not why I was in Antarctica…"

Yelena seems to wait for you to continue but…

"Eh, no offense but, " you gesture with your hand, "I don't really know you like that."

Yelena gave your reply a single nod. "I suppose that's fair."

You can't help but fidget in your seat. "Idliketo"

"What was that?"

You cleared your throat. "I said… I said I'd like to. Know you like that, I mean…"

Yelena gives you a smile. "I would like to know you like that, too."

The movie ends, the biscuits are not burnt but buttery soft and golden brown, and the blizzard outside has subsided some. It's still going but at least it's not buffering the doors and windows like before.

"How can you watch that film in a place like this?" Yelena cannot get enough of those biscuits, stuffing them in her mouth 2 at a time. "Does it make you paranoid?"

"Yes it does," you say, putting your coat on, "I think that's what makes it so much scarier– looking outside and being scared every person you come across ain't who they say they are. Sometimes its not a bad thing though... I think it is rather… poetic, too."

Yelena's eyebrows furrow. "Where are you going?"

You put on your boots and hope the duct tape stays on the hole you covered earlier. "Dogs are out in the shed. It's heated and they have food, but not for days and I'd rather have 'em in the house where I can take care of them."

As you finished your sentence you reached for the door, but stopped when you noticed Yelena getting dressed too. She gives you a nod as soon as her hood comes up, and you give this brave thing an appreciative once over.

The snow that nearly all melted before is up to your knees now. Fresh, white, and fluffy. It muffles sound like the world's sidelong turning. The odd snowflake wafts lazily from the sky, but for the most part it's died down. You teach back and take Yelena's gloved hand to keep from staying too far apart.

"You know I always wanted a dog," she said. She could have said it in a whisper from 100 yards away and you still would have heard her– that is how eerily quiet it is.

Yelena squeezes your hand and you squeeze back. She's probably remembering the movie. You try to distract her by saying, "Oh yeah? You can have one of mine then."

Yelena laughs, then stops. "You serious?"

"As a heart attack." You finally reach the door to the shed and unlatch the door. A chorus of barks begin and you charge forward to nudge them back to give Yelena space to come in as well. "I do some breeding up here– just a side job. They're usually working dogs but they can be pets too."

Buck licks your face from chin to forehead and you push him back. "Down, boy! Show some respect!"

Yelena has two of the mongrels circling her, sniffing all her clothes and demanding to be pet. "That's Burt, Barney, and Bella. Buck's my stud, but these heathens are going to a farm. They've got sheep to watch."

Yelena chuckles as her hands get covered in slobber. "I love them."

They're almost grown, three quarters the height of their father. Buck didn't even look in Yelena's direction because he knows you give him treats. You take your scarf off as the heat of the shed threatens to smother you and search your pockets for jerky.

"She's in there with the new puppies." You point to a darkened closet. "Don't get too close now, she's still a little protective."

Yelena creeps closer. You see her look at you from the corner of her eye. Probably terrified by the morphing dog scene from the movie. You give her an encouraging smile and tell her where to find the light. It's a pull cord and it bathes the room in a warm golden yellow light.

Yelena's heavy, controlled breathing turns into a coo. Mama dog is laying on her side watching the newcomer closely. There's a pup asleep in the nest of her legs, another chewing on the hay that litters the ground, and the last one is biting their mother's ear. Yelena looks back at you with an adorable pout on her lip.

"So cute…"

You chuckle and put your arm around her. Buck knows to steer clear of mama dog and slinks off. You make your guest walk closer with you to show mama she's got your confidence.

"Yelena, this is Beyonce." Mama dog's ears perk at the sound of her name. "Beyonce, this is Yelena. Be nice."

You reach down and scoop up the hay eating puppy at your feet. "This one's always hungry."

You put the pup in her arms and scoop up the biter. "This one likes to play. All the time. Got more energy than the blue Energizer bunny actually."

The pup in question is literally trying to wriggle out of your hands in its eagerness to climb you and eat your hair.

"And that one sleeps a lot?" Yelena nodded her head at the last pup.

"Pretty much." You put the writhing excited puppy down before it hurts itself and look up into the rafters. "And then there's the climber…"

You both turn your heads when you hear a tiny bark. A cute little face stares down at you from the rafters and there's a feather stuck to its nose. You shake your head knowing this pup got it from ripping up pillows in another part of the dog house.

"Better go get her," you said, not moving an inch to do so.

Yelena sees your challenge and rises to it. As if trained to do exactly so, she assesses the wooden interior for foot and hand holds. You can see the wheels turning in her head as she calculates what will and won't support her weight. In the sweep of a single moment, she rises from the door and swings herself into the rafters using a build up a momentum to propel her fast in an upperward direction. She completes the climb and balances with ease, reaching out to collect the happy wagging miscreant from her mountain top, tucks her in her jacket and climbs a different way down.

You stare at her. "Were you raised by trapeze artists?"

Yelena laughs. "I thought everybody was."

The pup is safe and happy and eager to explore its new friend. Yelena lets her lick, sniff, and scratch at her skin, her clothes, her hair. The pup catches Yelena with a tiny lick right on the tip of her nose and Yelena looks back at you with adoring eyes.

You smile. "Got a name for her already don't you?"

"Yes," Yelena whines, "no, are you sure about this? I should probably tell you I've never had a dog before…"

"I can tell your good people," you reply. "And smart as a whip. You'll adapt, just call me if you ever need anything."

Three weeks later you get a phone call from an unknown number. It's Yelena giving you an address and making you swear never to tell anybody about it. You don't have any friends so it's an easy secret to keep.

You drive a few miles south and stumble upon a stationary trailer in the middle of nowhere, nothing but clearings and trees and sky. Actually very similar to your own home.

The door opens and Yelena greets you with a beer and the pup under her arm, already almost a foot bigger than she was before.

"Her name is Fanny." You both laugh yourselves hoarse and pile into the trailer to puppy proof the place.

#three bees writing #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x female reader #black widow #black widow spoilers #black reader insert

292 notes · View notes

yostresswritinggirl · 3 years

Text

Lullaby for the Gods

You have two options

"Stories brought on to the wind will bloom into legends in due time; An ancient tale comes whisked into the wind; In time it will grow and sprout once again." The Weaver and Nurturer of Tales, how they came to be and how they have gone.

Pairings -> Venti x God of Time (Ambiguous, Can be Reader)

Word Count -> 1976

Themes -> SCENARIOS, Background, Timeline, It's sad kinda

Series -> #Bonafide specials (100 followers event) Special slot from a special someone : not sure if they want to be tagged

Warnings -> This is my interpretation on the God of Time based on the Sacrificial Weapons Series. And since the prompt only mentions Venti, I won't focus much on their relationship with Decarabian.

Winds of the North are migrating through the crown of the continent once again. The clouds and breezes shift at the peak of day and the grass, the trees, the flowers they all sway. This was the first encounter, as one of the threads of the thousand migrating winds that is Venti, he had always been fascinated by the strong gales that covers a vast land beyond his reach. The city of Mondstadt protected by raging winds far stronger than he.

"Come now, little guy, are you not straying from your stream?" Such beaded eyes of the little sprite detaches from the crown of the North, with its giggles accompanies a sound reminiscent of bells as he nuzzles at the outstretched hand, fair and smooth. A finger consoles his little cheek as the God of Time echoes his snicker. As the sprite settles on their hand, they both spare a minute to watch the God of Storm's dominion. And then they turn to guide Venti back to his current, to his family of winds.

And the little sprite will not witness them until the second cycle of wind passes the cold land of Mondstadt.

So when the time came, several weeks after, Venti once again strays from the winds to venture to his own current. Where are the satin robes that flows with the breeze, that witnesses the rage of another God? The sprite follows tinkling of tin carried by the thousand winds, harmonizing to produce a soft and sleepy melody that lulls those to sleep.

In a distant island he finds himself upon a huge sundial atop a mostly quiet temple. And there stood again the God of Time, with a distant look over the ocean horizon, eyes clouded yet sparkling from the stars that bounced from the surface of the water. Their skin never frails nor wrinkles, hair lustrous and thick, yet their eyes carry a thousand yard stare of shrouded sadness.

"Little wind..." the sprite nuzzles against the cheek of the God, vibrating in worry as he urges them to smile. And they did, even if did not reach their eyes. "You've strayed again, your achon is far from here," cradling the elf to their neck, they turn away from the horizon to the west.

Yet when they urge him to go back, he stubbornly stays.

A stubborn wind playing around the wielder of Time itself. His courage was admirable, and he is lucky that this God is benevolent to his advances.

So they entertain Venti, and the wind begins his stories. Tales of those he'd witnessed when the wind ventures through the continent; and in every word he spills the God of Time is attentive, for when his accounts finally come to their end, Time puts into their memory for keeping. You weave the tales and I treasure them for that is my duty, they spoke with melancholy.

Decarabian is a God that loves his people more than others would know, more than the people would know. And he is also a lonely God. Perhaps it is this distance and disconnection from the world and his people that had made him naive to what he has forced upon his subjects.

The first prayer was heard beyond the wall of storms, only befalling to the ears of the God of Time and the wind spirit who were enjoying a leisurely stroll through the frozen land Andrius had covered in his territory. A man's woe for salvation of the city beyond the gales first reaches the God.

Yet they are unmoving and silent as they watch from afar the Gunnhildr.

But the wind spirit was not that, he was curious and as always he is carried away to his own feat. So without warning he strays from Time and listens to the crying one ever so patiently, and there he receives a glimpse of power that shall manifest one day to greater good.

God of Time offers a smile in the forests where they hid. But only that. For despite being the God of Time, they are solely there to protect its flow. To maintain balance and what should be.

There is nothing they can do to help the people of Mond.

"Little wind." The moniker carried a hard edge of worry unlike the other instances it was used. "The land of Decarabian is... treacherous and suffocating. You are but a tiny wind against his storms." Yet they knew such words will not remove the resolve in the tiny spirit. "Come back to me in one piece, alright? Remember your tales."

Venti softly bumped his hooded head to the God's cheek in reassurance, before he too disappears past the walls of gale front.

And so the God of Time can only do nothing but stand in wait. Like they had always been. Like they had always done. For Decarabian then, for Venti now.

"Bring forth the freedom we all desire."

Many of those that dwell the King of the North's cold wasteland once talked of an ethereal being of satin and silk, of flowing sands, that which overlooked the land of the storms with a somber look. Perhaps it was the waiting and the hoping, but many felt great semblance with the deity. Of the longing look for a distant freedom.

"Little wind," immediately after was a chorus of laughter at the irony brought upon by habits. Venti, now Barbatos with his great wings loom over the God of Time, hands outstretched to feel upon their smooth hands. "I always knew there was more to you."

"My muse," he tastes the new name with his newfound voice, and with his there was a chorus of angelic echoes. "There are festivities upon us, for the city of Mond trapped that was. The people had prepared a grand temple, for just us two Gods it is already ample."

Yet the God of Time smiled only with their lips at the mention of a shrine. You told them about me, they mused as the archon carried them both with the wind where the temple by the east cliff resides.

Give yourself some credit, the new Anemo Archon responds in light banter.

But the God of Time does not.

And so days of reenactments and performances were all that they were driwned upon. For daily, between the peak of the moon and the glimpses of the sun, devoted subjects would appease to the two Gods of Mondstadt through retelling and theatrics of their hard-earned journey to freedom.

Although they cannot glimpse upon the forms of the deities, the light giggles reminiscent of bells that comes from amusement and the flow of draping satin are enough reassurance that their important audience still lingers and listens to their offerings.

This dwelling became their place of rendezvous. And whenever the amphitheater was not crowded by devotees, a lyre plays with a melodic voice, weaving tales of Mondstadt's anew. The God of Time would be there to treasure every story that is weaved, but their subjects remember such moments in a different light: the strum of the strings and the lilt of Barbatos carries with it a hint of serenades.

It seems as tho the faceless God enjoys the Anemo Archon's tales the most.

Whenever it is the Gunnhildr's clan that performs their tale of courage in honor of defending Mondstadt, life and freedom, Barbatos' happiness was the most extraordinaire. The winds breeze by to caress everyone with comfort.

The Imunlaukr receives praise from the God of Time when they are the one on stage. Of courage and bravery, with their desire to not only protect the city of Mond but to appease the Gods, time slows when they follow their script. As if honored by time to stay and linger for the amusement.

And finally, the Lawrence clan holds with them a different reaction, for when their time has come it is quiet. Other clans would comment that perhaps the Gods do not favor their performance but they continued regardless, and they carry with them the essence of wisdom and strength, from the frozen lands to the new city. And only after they perform are they graced by the softest winds and the kisses of youngness that they carry with them even after.

This clan's performance sings with expertly woven symphonies and journeys of hardships through the cold, not harsh but comforting, soft melodies and that of longing. During their performance unbeknownst to their eyes is when the wind embraces the passage of time, where it is in its calmest moments, cradled between his arms and resting against his chest.

The bloodline of the Lawrence always ends the rituals for the morning, for the God of Time had finally found themself free from the shackles of the storms, peacefully resting in the arms of freedom. And it is in these moments that the people appreciate the lessened harshness of time.

Time is harsh and unrelenting, and should always be moving.

The God of Time protects time, nurtures time, and urges time. No force or law shall break the equilibrium of time nor tip its balance. And this unbreakable rule applies to them.

For this reason they ask one day, to the Anemo Archon, why they praise Time. What do they expect from time. And there Barbatos finally sees the burden of a thousand years, of the constraints of that whom is held down by prayers, held down by incapability.

Time only knows harshness. And they cried to the winds without restraints, for not once will they be able to gift the people that so desperately long for their blessings.

And for once, the wind was silent.

For once, the winds... understands the insanity of being one with time. A force made to be unmoved and unrelenting, to be shackled to a single tale when you are burdened with the pleas of many others.

Time is harsh, because they are meant to be.

So when the Anemo Archon finally desired rest and detachment to procure the essence of freedom, they too felt the chance to finally breathe. "Can you set up my awakening five hundred years from now?" Venti laid his head upon the lap of Time, teal eyes and smile somber yet gentle and reassuring. "Preferably at the peak of Ludi Harpastum, if you would allow." An hour glass manifests next to him, allowing his wish.

"When you wake, I will be here," they mumbled as the archon lets his eyelids rest, feeling a soft kiss to his forehead that lulls him to sleep.

"Tell me the tales like a balladeer." And he slumbers away the years.

"When I came to be, the Lawrence ruled over Mondstadt, governing with the most disgusting aristocracy. It was only right that they lost the blessings of thy winds, after all it is only for those who fought to be free," Venti sighed with pure disappointment, "Honestly."

"What happened to your Time friend, then? Did they tell you what happened during your sleep?"

The windborne bard looks at Paimon with a wide yet steeled gaze so daunting it made her squeak and hide behind the traveler. Who silently watches as Venti once again sighed and resigned to strumming his lyre.

"They're gone." No rhyme, no smiles, no cryptics.

Barbatos sought out the help of the winds of Teyvat to tell tale on the dwellings of the God of Time yet came out empty handed. And his only salvation, the oldest of the Seven, can only shake his head as he too does not know of the whereabouts of the God.

The fragments of time lingers in cursed windswept ballads and stories. And as the years go by, all worshipers and records had forgotten about the deity.

They only sing praise to the wind shrine now.

Now who shall nurture the stories brought by the winds?

I seem to have a knack for hurting Venti.

@creation-magician @boxofteenageideas @zelos-simp @ellitx @your-local-venti-simp @indigodreamtime47

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin impact x reader #exile.flower #Genshin impact venti #venti x reader #god of time #gender neutral #bonafide specials #bruuuuh #what is this #i dont know either

219 notes · View notes

radioactive-synth · 3 years

Text

WIP SUNDAY:

tagged a long time ago by @aviatorfics thanks!

taggin: @theartofblossoming , @the-laridian , @portergage , @just-another-wasteland-merc , and whoever wants to do it!

little something as i started to replay FO1...im not intending to write a whole novel for my Vault Dweller, but my mind is kinda set on this little ancient game <3

She cannot lie, she was scared, but in the same time, fascinated. All her life she knew, it was cold metal, yet the artificial warmth was never missing. Recirculated air and recycled water, never missing. And food grown from the laboratory, and only on special occasions, the stash that was given by the long gone ancestors was opened, serving pork and beans, sugar bombs, canned meat and even boiled chicken eggs preserved in boxes.

But now? She seen crops that she never seen before, yet they taste the same as the one in the Vault. People who wear other clothes than the same boring, but comforting blue vault suit, with the number branded on the back. And people who reuse the junk left by ancestors in different ways, either building walls to protect their cities, or redone as weapons.

But nothing could had compare to the feeling of the rays from the Sun on her face, when she got out the cave.

more under the cut CAUSE I DIDNT EXPECTED TO WRITE THAT LONG

Noné Smith had received coordinates for the Hub, where there could be more chances to find what she needs. Or at least, to buy some fresh water for the Vault. She doesn’t have much... caps on her, but she is not afraid to get her hands dirty. All she hopes is that she doesn’t need to kill another human being...

She felt her legs giving out any time, but she pushed further. As she could see from afar, another city seems to arise. She stops a bit, looking through her backpack and retrieve her pip-boy. The machine shows a location, but she cannot make it much. She closes the screen and puts it back.

She felt pain struck her left leg. That damn oversized scorpion managed to pinch her with its claw, but she was determined to take them all out. Only when she got back to Shady Sands, she noticed the blood soaking her vault suit. She received help and shelter for a few days, until she healed enough to move again. But the doctor warned her to take breaks in her travels.

But where to take a break in this wasteland? she wondered. Only dead trees, junks that were once transportation machines, and... bones she hoped that were of animal origins. She took another few steps, and felt her leg give out. She groans in pain, and limped to the nearest pile of metal. Not much of a shelter, but her back can be protected.

She put her backpack besides her, her gun loaded, and let her back rest against the cold metal. She had thought to use a stimpack, but she only has two left. Only in emergencies....

__________________

‘’Tis the way, to Hub. Told ya I will get you there!’ the raspy voice echoed through the valley.

‘Sure, sure, just alert any other scorpions and rats, while you are at it!’ another coarse voice warned them.

She just glances at them, but paid them no mind, as she pulls the robe from a brahmin, to make her move faster. They have been on the road for days. Or weeks. Libby no longer had kept count of the days, or the years, ever since her face changed, just like how it happened to the other three... colleagues? Friends?

She cannot really decide how to call them. They were the only ones who didn’t shot her on sight, decades ago. One of the men is a veteran, who has his theories on who launched the bombs first, but is an excellent fighter, the other man was a teacher, who has good survival and communication skills, and the other person, another woman, who was a tailor, and still can create clothes from almost anything. And about her? Her knowledge of pharmaceutical products made her fit for fullfilling the role of the medic/chemist of the group. She always thinks she is not a medic, like her son... is... but she had helped and saved the lives of other people on many occasions.

She looks through her jacket, and pulls out one of her salvaged photography. The one that depicts her son, Vaughn Aleksandros Zander, and her nephew, Vincent Nathaniel Hudson. The boys she raised and loved them a lot. One of them was long gone even before the bombs, went down as a hero, in the war. The other one... she still thinks he is still alive, in the Vault, or at least her grandson Shaun had also survived and thrives now. She gently runs her thumb over the photography, before putting it back in her jacket.

Libby then looks over, but the road seems clear, except for some dead trees and burned carcasses of the cars. But then her attention is drawn to something else. Or someone...

‘Hey, think there’s someone at that truck.’ she calls for attention at her group.

The other three looked where she pointed out.

‘Huh, another corpse fresh from the Vault-Tec.’

‘Pretty sure it ain’t dead.’

‘Not for long. Now come on, the Hub is over there. Y’all better cover up yer mugs, or get again shot at.’

‘And you really will leave them out there?’ Libby asked, her tone a bit firm.

‘Libby, don’t fuckin’ do it again! We can’t help any stray out there!’

‘That “stray” is also a human, like us.’

‘Then it better use your face as practice shooting!’

‘Go fuck yourself. I catch you up later.’ Libby said, and went to the truck’s direction.

She figured it out that the... vaultie is not dead, but she noticed their stained suit. They seemed to rest, as they had their head on their knees.

‘Hey. Are you alright? Do you need help, darling?’ she said in her usual motherly tone.

___________________

She stirred from her sleep, feeling her back stiff. She heard the coarse, but very gentle voice. As she could sworn she heard her grandmother talking. But.. she was long gone.

‘Huh? What? Hey, I don’t want trouble!’ Noné said, looking up. But before her, there stands a person that seemed to be a burnt victim, yet she has a very unusual warm smile. She yelps a bit, and gets up, pointing her gun to the intruder. ‘What the fuck? Are you a zombie? Get out!’ her voice is trembling, as her finger on the trigger.

She heard the... person sighing, and sees that they raise their hands a bit.

‘Look, darling, I know I look repulsive, but I don’t mean any harm. I seen you there, and thought you need help.’

‘Wh-why? What? What are you? You look horrible! Why you don’t have your nose?’

The person shakes their head.

‘Darling, I’m your first ghoul, right?’

The look on her face had gave the stranger the answer they expected.

#oc none smith #oc olivia zander #fallout #vault dweller #fallout 1 #blue.txt #i can heckin write bro #IM JUST LAZY OK FORGIVE THE BAD GRAMMAR

12 notes · View notes

leviackermanscleaningbuddy · 4 years

Text

BTS DRABBLE-OT7 🎃

Halloween Series: Halloween Surprise OT7

You always expected that you’d go to hell when you died. I mean, you weren’t terrible, but you weren’t an angel either. But what you hadn’t expected was to be shown through the seven circles of damnation by seven men-each more dangerous than the last-that plausibly could’ve passed for angels. Dark and beautiful angels, disguised as demons. And by the time you reach the last circle, it’s with a horrifying reminder from the darkest angel of all, that you realize you are not quite who you thought you were.

Tags: BTS, Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, Bulletproof Boy Scouts, Beyond the Scene, Halloween, Spooky Season, BTS Drabble, OT7, BTS x you, BTS x reader, Kim seokjin, min yoongi, jung hoseok, kim namjoon, park jimin, kim taehyung, jeon jungkook

Warning: Mentions of torture and damnation, obviously.

Genre: Angst

Title: Seven Circles

CIRCLE I-GLUTTONY

As soon as the icy sleet hits the back of your neck-sending prickling waves of cold across your skin-you know where you are.

Opening your eyes, you see nothing but a white wasteland surrounding you-puddles of chilled slush pockmarking the ground and already soaking your shoes-and in the distance, though you cannot see them when you look straight on, only from the corner of your eye, is the blurry figures of dark shapes moving through the curtain of hail and rain.

The damned.

You shiver, wrapping your arms around your body to try and retain your heat-though you’re technically dead, so you don’t know how you think this will help-and start to feel lifeless tears drip from the corners of your eyes, obscuring the ghostly moving figures at the edge of your vision.

“Chilly, isn’t it?”

The voice startles you, and you whirl to face its origin-icy puddle at your feet splashing as you do so-and are startled to see a very real, and very solid, shape of a man standing before you, watching you with a slightly grim smirk stretched across his full lips, pulling them upward into the start of a heart shape-odd, in contrast to the rest of his steely expression.

“Who are you?” You ask without thinking, still shivering-ever more violently now-as the man flashes you a grin full of white, blocky teeth and steps toward you.

“I am the keeper of this circle.” The man gestures to the cold landscape surrounding the two of you. You note, briefly, that there is a pair of dark, black feathered wings sprouting from his shoulder blades, but again, you feel as if you cannot look at them straight on or they will disappear.

You tilt your head down slightly, to try to keep him in the corner of your vision. “Right. The first circle. Gluttony.”

“Hah.” The beautiful, dark features of the man contort with a humorless laugh, and his black hair sweeps into his eyes momentarily, as he leans toward you and places, long cold fingers beneath your chin. “Beautiful and well read.”

“What do you want?” You ask, pulling from his grasp, as a scream-probably of someone being condemned-echoes down from the gray flat sky above. “And you still haven’t told me who you are.”

“Ah.” The man, his fingers still frozen where your chin had been moments before in his grasp, retracts his hand, and nods curtly. “I am Hoseok. And as for what I want,” He eyes you openly, and his tongue darts out to trace across his lips, as you feel more chilled at his look than you had before. “That will have to wait. For I’ve been assigned to escort you through the first circle and to the next.”

“What?” You burst out, completely confused, as the man-Hoseok-turns his back to you and begins to trudge through the slush, onyx wings shimmering and moving in and out of focus. You take hurried steps to catch up to him-sneakers now absolutely soaking-and huff out between breaths, “I thought I was staying here.”

Hoseok laughs-the sound once again hollow-and ushers you in front of him as he walks. “Oh, hells no. You’re moving on, sunshine. To sweeter and greener pastures if you will.” He looks over his shoulder and winks at you, though the gesture makes the pit of your stomach roil with sudden unknown fear.

As you walk-to keep yourself from hearing the shrieks and looking out of the corner of your eyes at the blurry, dark figures hidden behind the sleet-you suddenly blurt out, over the sound of your crunching footsteps, “What did you do to be here?”

Hoseok stops suddenly in front of you, causing you to almost stumble into him, and you wonder, for a brief moment, if he has stopped due to your question, until you see the large, wooden, barred door looming up from the white landscape in front of you.

He steps aside, watching you carefully and intently, as you take a hesitant step toward the door. “I wanted something I couldn’t possibly have.” He says simply, but the way his words echo in your head, and the way he looks at you-just for a moment-as if in melancholy, puts you on edge.

“Anyway.” He forces another hollow smile to his lips-and once again, the heart shape catches you off guard-as he pushes the door inward to reveal nothing but blackness beyond. “Enjoy your stay, (Y/N).”

And before you can ask how he knows your name, you are being pushed through the door into the dark.

CIRCLE II-GREED

You notice-as you enter the second circle-that it is much hotter here than it had been just moments ago in Hoseok’s circle.

And there is a distinct smell in the air-almost the smell of hot, burning metal-that instantly fills and overwhelms your nostrils.

“You’re late you know.”

The sound of the deep, smooth voice, draws your attention away from the horrid smell, and to the tall, lanky figure of an incredibly handsome man, lounging on a large, cold looking golden throne.

He flicks his fingers at you in disappointment, as he sighs, and-uncrossing his legs-stands to face you, dark chestnut hair framing his beautiful features, as a look of disgust crosses his face. “I’ll have to remind Hoseok to send you people on time.”

“You people?” You bristle slightly. “And who are you?”

“Oh, darling.” The man laughs-the sound light-and stepping away from the throne, walks down the steps toward you, his shoes loud on the solid gold beneath his feet.

You note-almost immediately-that he has the same type of shimmering, almost hallucinogenic wings adorning his back as Hoseok.

He reaches you, and stopping to study you for a moment, he reaches out-fingers covered in gold rings-and strokes a finger down the still chilled skin of your cheekbone. “I am the ruler here-You may address me as Seokjin.”

You ready yourself to say something else sarcastic, but before you have the chance, Seokjin is putting his hand at the small of your back, and pressing you forward.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

You take hesitant steps-but the weight of his hand at your back pushes you onward-and as you continue to walk, you realize, the smell from earlier is becoming overwhelming, and the sound of moans and groans and cries for help begin to fill your ears.

“What-” You start to say, but the words die in your throat, as Seokjin halts his progress forward, hand still on the small of your back, as you look down into the deep dregs of a pit.

The edge upon which you stand drops sharply down into the pit-and just like the earlier circle-there are dark, shimmering shapes filling the pit, the air rent with their cries, as they claw at the sides of the giant bowl, only to be swept back to the bottom as soon as they gain their footing.

“Is that-” You begin to ask, eyes wide, as you tilt your head to look at Seokjin, standing proud and tall and silent beside you.

“Gold. Yes.” Seokjin nods, almost imperceptibly, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Greedy in life, the souls are damned to spend the rest of eternity suffering because of what they craved most.”

You feel the breath leave your lungs, and you turn from the pit, trying to calm yourself, voice shaky, as you ask, already knowing the answer, “So I’ll be with them, then?”

There is silence for a moment, and then Seokjin’s fingers curl beneath your chin, the gold rings cool against your flushed face as he turns you to face him. “Oh, no. You’re moving on. You’re much too good for this circle, darling.”

He snaps the fingers of his free hand, and a door-gleaming gold in the dim light- appears before the two of you, swinging inward, once more, to reveal nothing but blackness on the other side.

When you hesitate, Seokjin pushes you forward with a hand once more on the small of your back. “Good luck, darling. And don’t forget-” He offers you half a smile as you leave. “Don’t crave more than you can have.”

CIRCLE III-ANGER

The first thing you hear when stepping into the third circle is bellowing and ranting and over it all, the smell of swamp and decay in the air.

You glance down, surprised that the ground under your feet doesn’t seem to be solid, and note that your previously soaked sneakers, are now buried ankle deep in mud and muck and moss.

“Great.” You say to yourself, rolling your eyes.

Honestly-you’d never thought hell would be great-but you’d always assumed it at least had solid floors and wouldn’t ruin your sneakers so damn much.

“So I take it you like the interior decorating then?”

You glance up, no longer surprised, expecting to now be greeted at every level by some form of hot demon with black shimmering wings, who seems to know something about you that you don’t.

This demon-or dark angel or whatever-does catch you slightly off guard.

Simply for the fact that he’s breathtaking. And his voice sounds like dark honey sliding raspily from his throat.

He raises a dark brow at you-from where he sits, perched precariously on a large boulder, feet bare-and cracks a boxy grin in your direction. “Like what you see, princess?”

“I-” You swallow, and look away from him, only daring a glance from the corner of your eye to catch a better sight of his large feathered wings. How was this kid the keeper of the third circle? And anger no less? He seemed like nothing more than a jovial, innocent child.

A gorgeous, dangerous, darkly scary child.

Suddenly, he is in front of you, fingers-just like the other two before him-finding purchase beneath your chin, and you note, as you try not to look at him, that his feet are perfectly clean and seem to hover above the swamp you’re currently moored in.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” He asks smugly, and you finally look up at him, just as he smirks, and the tip of his tongue appears to dart across his lips, caramel irises darkened beneath the sweeping mop of his curly black hair.

“No.” You huff out, straightening slightly and pulling away from his firm grasp on your chin. “I’m just worried if I talk too much, that your terribly rank swamp air is going to infect my lungs.”

“You’re dead.” The man states simply, almost curiously, as he cocks his head to stare down at you in amusement.

“I look pretty good for a dead bitch.” You snap back a famous line from your time alive, and instantly regret it, as the man in front of you laughs loudly and deeply from within his chest at your joke.

“I’m Taehyung.” The man grins at you once more, and then takes your hand, pulling your feet from the mud, as he leads you back toward the boulder he had been sitting on earlier. And suddenly, the ground feels less liquid beneath your feet as you follow in his steps. “Welcome to circle three.” He waves his hands at the dark and murky atmosphere surrounding the two of you.

“Anger right?” You ask, as he pulls you up easily to stand beside him on the large rock. You glance around, and note that the dark swamp surrounding you appears to be moving with more of the dark, etheral damned souls.

“Right.” Taehyung sighs, reaching up to rake a hand through his curls, before he says with disappointment, “Wish I could keep you here a little longer, princess, but you’re on a tight schedule.”

You open your mouth to respond, but suddenly, a door appears beneath your feet-well, less of a door and more like a sewer grate covered with thick iron bars.

“Wait.” You hold out a hand, before he can snap his fingers and send you through to the next circle. You’re curious now. “Why are you here?” You ask bluntly, and Taehyung’s eyes darken slightly, and his normally jovial lips flatten into a hard line.

“Anger issues.” He shrugs, playing off the moment, and readies to send you through the door, as he adds vaguely, “I hurt someone I loved.”

And with that, before you can smell the swamp air once more, or ask any other questions-like why the demon’s face suddenly looks so sad-you are sent through the grate and into the black once more.

CIRCLE IV-HERESY

Circle four is HOT-flames and fire and cinder and ash-and so, it doesn’t surprise you, once you get your bearings, to see that the demon that watches over the souls here is also incredibly, absolutely, for lack of a better term, hot.

He approaches you immediately, as you’re coughing and choking on the ash filling the air, and the pair of wings on his back-shiny and out of focus-appear almost blacker than the others, against the harsh, orange light of the fires.

“Noona.” He nods politely to you, hands behind his back, as if he’s scared to reach out and touch you like the others had. “Welcome.”

There is something about him that seems oddly familiar-the large doe eyes, the way his long bangs fall across his forehead, the muscular physique, that is in contrast to the quiet personality-but before you can put a finger on anything, he is speaking once more.

“I’m Jungkook.” His eyes flick to yours and then away, as he backs out of the way-so that you can see the fiery pit behind him, flames licking up the sides of the bowl-as screams emanate from the depths below. “This is circle four.”

“I know.” You nod, not feeling quite as out of your depth with him as you had the other three. “Heresy right?”

He nods once more, silent for a moment, and then swallows, his full lips parting slightly, before he says gently, “However, you don’t belong here.”

“I don’t?” You ask, surprise clear in your tone. How far were you going? Your eyes glance over the pair of beautiful, feathered wings on the young man’s back, as you ask carefully, “But you do?”

Jungkook’s lips purse, and you can see through the way his eyes tighten, that he is considering how to respond to your question appropriately.

This kid-that you swear you know-couldn’t possibly be a heretic right?

There is the sound of a piercing scream and one of the dark figures you can see from the edge of your vision-trying to claw its way out of the hot pit-falls back in a poof of cinder and dark ash, that joins the rest of the pollution already floating in the smoky air.

Finally, Jungkook speaks.

“I do.” He nods, just once, solemnly, and then-still without touching you-motions for you to step toward the dark, charred door you have only now noticed. “You have to go now, noona. They’re waiting for you.”

“Who’s waiting for me?” You ask desperately, as Jungkook, with his mere presence, pushes you toward the now open doorway of black.

Doe eyes gleaming, and a look of almost regret on his beautiful features, Jungkook ushers you to the edge of the doorway. “The hyungs.” He says simply, dangerously.

And before you can ask what that means, you are once again tumbling into darkness on your way to the next circle.

CIRCLE V-VIOLENCE

Circle five’s ground-immediately beneath your feet-is squishy, like the edge of a lake or pond, and you watch-with horror-as puddle instantly begin to pool around the toes of your shoes, crimson and steaming.

The air smells like a new penny-copper and metallic-and when you lift one of your feet, the liquid beneath your toes is thick and drips slowly, burgundy as it creates ripples in the puddle.

Blood.

You feel panic creep up into your chest, and you have to focus on keeping your breathing even, as you glance up, and in the distance, see the edges of a red lake-boiling and steaming-splashing crimson droplets into the reddened air of the atmosphere.

And in the lake-hands and wavy, distorted fingers just visible above the surface-are the souls of the damned, dark and desperate and drowning.

Drowning in blood.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You start slightly, but only because the purring voice is right in your ear, and the feel of warm breath brushes across your skin and makes you shiver.

And out of the corner of your eye, you see the black wings, folding and unfolding lazily against the dark angel’s back as he stands beside you.

“Wasn’t the word I would have picked.” You manage to retort back, although slightly breathless, keeping your gaze away from him, as you look down at his fingers-small and petite-curled around your shoulders, silver rings glinting in the blood red lighting.

The man laughs-and the sound is light and airy and almost beautiful-as he turns you to face him now, almond shaped eyes regarding you carefully, as dark blue hair falls across his forehead, obscuring his gaze. His full, plump lips curl upward into the hint of a smirk. “Ah, but I’d use that word to describe you, baby girl. Most definitely.”

You swallow hard. He’s incredibly handsome, and smooth as all hell. You have to remind yourself that he’s a demon and a keeper of a literal lake of blood.

“You seem to know me.” You say, almost smoothly, as you try not to let yourself look directly at him and get lost in his eyes. “But you are?”

“Ah. How rude of me.” He tilts his head, watching you like a dark panther stalking his favorite prey, and his pink lips part slightly to reveal the tip of his moist, red tongue-the same color of the blood surrounding you. “Park Jimin. Keeper of the fifth circle.”

The name rings a bell in your head, but shaking the thought aside, you ask casually, “Am I staying then? Or are you simply showing me onward like the last four?”

Jimin laughs-the sound once again enchanting-and releasing his hold on you, takes a step backward, snapping his fingers as he does so.

The blood on the ground rises to form the shape of a large, ornate throne, and Jimin casually sits down on the warm, undulating liquid, watching you with half lidded, catlike eyes, before he replies easily, “Ah. So you met my brothers.”

He snaps his fingers once more, and a liquid, crimson door rises from the bloodied floor, swinging inward-once more-to reveal nothing on the other side but onyx night.

“Unfortunately-for me and yourself-” He sighs, tsking slightly, as he waves ring adorned fingers in the direction of the door. “You’ll be moving on.” He smiles, and it’s a pretty gesture, but gives you the willies, as he leans toward you, chin held up in his delicate, small hand. “So go on then, baby girl. And tell the others hello for me.”

You don’t dare ask him why he’s here, and without chancing another look at the alluring demon, you step into the door and go headfirst into the dark.

CIRCLE VI-FRAUD

“So you’re here.” The voice is a purr-like a cat, but holding a dark, dangerous, almost uninterested edge-as it reaches you through the blackness. “I’m lucky Jimin didn’t try to keep you for himself.”

You can’t see anything. Everything is dark and cold and desolate, and as you try to splay your fingers before your face, your breathing quickens, as you realize-it’s pitch black.

“Who are you?” You ask into the nothing, desperately spinning in circles, trying to see who are what is speaking.

“Probably your worst nightmare.” The voice replies, tone bored and deep, echoing around you from every direction.

A heavy hand drops onto your shoulder, and you start, letting out a yell of fear, before fingers cover your mouth, muffling the sound and effectively silencing you.

“Calm down, baby. I’ll spare you.” The voice is low in your ear, and the feel of his lips brushing across your skin because of his closeness makes you shiver.

There is nothing except the sound of your panicked breathing whistling through his fingers, and then you hear fingers snap, and the light of a candle-though you can’t see it-breaks through the darkness and forms a wavy, dim pool of light around your feet.

“Now.” The man’s fingers twitch where they rest on your lips. “Will you be quiet if I release you?”

You manage a nod in his hold, and slowly-one by one-his long, old fingers drop from your mouth, and you are able to breathe once more.

The demon steps into the circle of light before you, black beating wings blocking out the light in a dreamlike way momentarily, and cocks his head as he looks at you, the curious look crossing his feline features making him look more cat than man in the moment.

“You seem to have had a rough go getting here.” The man wrinkles his nose slightly-and it would have been endearing in any other circumstance-as he takes in your disheveled appearance and now thoroughly destroyed sneakers. “Did the others not take care of you, baby?”

“Who are you?” You repeat again, pupils large and dark as you glance around at the endless blackness surrounding your small circle of light. A scream and shriek and then wailing has you trembling, as the sound of a loud whip crashes toward you through the dark.

“Min Yoongi.” The man reaches up to brush dark hair back from his forehead, black painted nails matching the night surrounding him. He waves a hand-almost boredly-at the pitch black surrounding you. “This is the sixth circle. Souls are sent here to endure the dark and torture for eternity. Fraudsters.” He takes a step toward you, caramel eyes gleaming. “Tricksters.” Another step. “Deceivers.” Another step, and you’re almost nose to nose once more, as his long, cool fingers come up to brush down the line of your cheekbone.

“And which one are you?” You ask, slightly breathless from his closeness, as you try to ignore the ever increasing sounds of suffering and torture echoing back at your through the nothing.

“A better question.” He smirks slightly, revealing pink gums and white teeth, as he reaches up to twirl a strand of your hair between his fingers. “Is which aren’t I?”

You swallow hard, as he studies you for one moment longer, and then snaps his fingers close to your ear, the loud sudden sound making you jump.

“Anyway.” His features draw back into a bored expression, and he shoos you toward the sudden outline of the door behind you-light leaking between the cracks into the dark void you now stand in. “Better hurry up, baby. I’d love to play with you more.” He grins, plush lips disappearing in the dark. “But he’s waiting.”

The light from the candle suddenly goes out, leaving you in the pitch black once more, and you scramble toward the light outlining the doorway, and into the suddenly much safer dark on the other side.

CIRCLE VII-TREACHERY

Your sneakers slip on the ice beneath your feet as you try to gain your footing, and as you glance around, you see nothing but your own reflection in the pillars of ice and sharp, jagged glass that surrounds you.

Your features are sharp and pinched and anxious and not at all like yourself.

And suddenly, you feel fear, even before you hear the low rumblings of his voice echo through your head, bouncing off the slick, ice cold walls surrounding you.

“Why are you here?”

The question catches you off guard, and you try not to fall as you turn to face the demon-the last dark angel of the last circle-sitting on a throne of something that looks eerily similar to human bones.

Yet, just like his wings, you cannot look directly at the chair and tell what it is made of. Only out of the corners of your vision can you begin to see the shapes of ribs and skulls and femurs.

The man-his cheeks dimpling-offers you a humorless smile, as he waves a hand in your direction, tall lanky legs crossed carefully in front of him, slippered feet resting on the icy floor. “I’ll ask again. Why are you here?”

“I-” You stutter over your words, teeth chattering, as the sound of your voice lets a cloud of frozen breath out into the freezing air. “I don’t know.”

The man reaches to a side table, where an ornate goblet rests, and takes a sip of the liquid inside, letting it flow easily between his lips, as he looks at you over the rim. “You don’t remember anything?” He asks casually, setting down the goblet once more, and from the corner of your vision, the liquid looks thick and red and a little bit like the blood you had seen in Jimin’s circle.

“What?” You ask in sudden confusion, taking a careful step forward, as you try to find your footing on the icy tiles beneath your feet.

The man laughs-a short, humorless bark-and leans back slightly in the throne, feet crossing at his ankles, as he regards you with nothing more than cold curiousity from his perch. “Interesting.” He reaches out, twirling something that looks oddly like a human leg bone between his long nimble fingers. “Well then. Would you like to know why I’m here?”

You feel the breath leave your body at his words, and though your brain is screaming, you reply, “Yes.”

You are no shivering so hard that it is difficult to keep the beautiful man sitting before you in focus-his whole body now appearing as shimmery and nonexistent as his pair of black wings.

“My name is Namjoon.” The man pauses, studying you carefully, as if for a reaction, before continuing. “And I betrayed you.”

Your mouth falls open at his words-and suddenly, just a glimpse, a brief flash, of memory fills your mind-and suddenly, you know, only barely, in the back of your mind, that you know the man sitting before you, and you know him well.

“Come.” Namjoon stands from his relaxed position on the throne, and ushers you in the direction of a set of stairs. “I want to show you something.”

You carefully follow the tall man down the slippery, ice covered stairs, and as you walk deeper into the clutches of the frozen circle, the more you being to fear.

At first-as you pass the shards of glass like ice sticking up from the ground-you see nothing but your own face reflected back at you, and the face of the impassive Namjoon, beautiful and deadly and dangerous.

But then.

Then you begin to see memories reflected back to you-and you realize, with a harsh jolt-that they are your memories.

And they are dark, and they are deadly, and they are dangerous.

And when Namjoon comes to a sudden halt before you, you feel like you can’t breathe and that something is clawing away at you on the inside, as he turns to face you with dark, unsympathetic eyes.

“Do you remember now?” He asks in a scarily calm tone, and the feeling of losing air tightens even more around your chest, so much that you’re gasping at his feet.

“No, I didn’t-” You stutter out, clawing at your chest, suddenly feeling as if you’re made of ice as the cold wracks over your body in a wave. You look up at him desperately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

Namjoon crouches before you, as your fingers feebly scrabble at the edge of his gown, as if he will help you.

But he won’t.

Because in this moment, there is nothing in his eyes beside burning, cold hatred and a sense of twisted satisfaction at your suffering.

“You see, (Y/N).” He reaches out and brushes a stray hair from your face, his fingers colder than the ice beneath your knees. “I betrayed you.” His handsome features darken, and his lips twist into a wicked line, as he waves a hand at the ice around you.

The ice that is now reflecting back at you-over and over, like plunging a knife deeper and deeper-the seven faces of the boys you had known and loved in life, the seven faces of the dark angels of the seven circles of hell.

Namjoon’s long finger goes beneath your chin and forces you to meet his gaze, and you feel as if you’re drowning in the dark pupils of his eyes, as his lips form the words you had never wanted to hear, “I betrayed you, but you betrayed all of us.”

“No!” You shriek out with the last breath that you can seem to pull into your lungs, and you try to move after Namjoon as he stands from beside you, but you are already frozen, the ice creeping over your dirty sneakers and up your legs even as you watch.

And Namjoon turns on his heel and leaves you-forever-with nothing but the echoing sound of your last scream and the faces of the seven boys you had betrayed.

58 notes · View notes

skye-huntress · 3 years

Text

RWBY V8 Finale “The Final Word” Reactions

Thus concludes the first Volume I get to watch as it airs week by week, and react to it

MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW! SERIOUSLY IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE EPISODE YET AND FOR WHATEVER REASON STILL SEE THIS EVEN WITH THE SPOILER TAG, CONSIDER THIS YOUR LAST WARNING

Sooo, I cannot not talk about this big one first because it gives me personal feelings. Penny is a character that is very precious to me, always has been. I binged the show up to Volume 7 last year so I didn’t have to go through years of new episodes knowing she was gone and then when she came back and throughout Volume 8, she cemented herself as one of my favourites, right up there with Ruby and Weiss. I even warmed up to Frosen Steel. I honestly did not think nor did I want to think that the show would kill her again, even knowing this was going to be a rough volume for her being the central figure in the whole conflict. The only consolation I have is that she died on her own terms.

While we’re on this note, my sympathies to Jaune for having to be the one to send her on her way. My sympathies to a lot of characters because whether or not Nuts and Dolts is platonic or romantic, she was particularly special to Ruby who once again was not there to save her.

Penny finally got her song, and it hurts

I could tell from the beginning that the Ace Ops were overrated. They seemed cool on the surface and as individual fighters they were probably up there, but I’m also sceptical of the ones that everyone (including themselves) called the “best” at anything. The reality is that they were a mess, they told to bury their feelings, and told to always accept their Jimmy’s judgment over even their own. Clover died a meaningless death because he ignored his own better judgment. That said, for Vine, the least expressive of the whole bunch to not only talk Harriet down but make a sacrifice for his team friends was not something I would have called. And yet I remember how he tried to comfort Elm, and how when Marrow was nearly killed how expressive he was in his shock and fear. Honestly, I should know better, as someone who isn’t able to express the full depth of my emotions very well, I should have known that Vine was probably the one who cared for his friends more than they ever realised.

Qrow was actually lucky for once. I have a theory. If Ren’s semblance can evolve from masking emotions to sensing them, maybe Qrow’s semblance could evolve so that he could change his or others’ fortunes for the better and not just for the worst. At the very least, rubbing the pin made him believe he could in fact be lucky, maybe that’s all he needed.

Harriet has a lot of issues to sort through, but maybe now without the toxicity of the military and Jimmy, she and her remaining friends can allow themselves to feel, grieve, heal and grow.

So we have Robyn, Qrow, Harriet, Elm and Marrow on a transport leaving Solitas through conventional travel. They probably can’t fly their transport straight to Vacuo so they may have to make some stops on the way, probably at Argus or Vale.

As for Ironwood, what a fitting end. He always saw himself as the hero of Remnant, the one with all the answers, the one who was always right, and who would save the day. But in the end, he wasn’t anyone even worth killing. To the villains, he was always a joke, someone to be used, and right when he is finally face to face with his greatest enemy, she never even looked at him once. In the end, neither he nor his precious Atlas proved to be very relevant or impressive.

Neo thought she was clever but she was a fool. That’s what happens when you let anger and vengeance consume you, it warps your judgment. Cinder was always using her, to get what she wanted, and as a means to get her own vengeance on Ruby.

Speaking of not letting not letting vengeance consume you, Blake. She saw how close she was to losing everyone else she cared about she switched tacts. I’m proud of her. And she risked the fall to save Ruby, unfortunately this risk was too great for her.

My WhiteRose heart cheered when Weiss went to back up Ruby. I assume Blake knew the partners could assist each other better than she could. It hurt that she had to watch the rest of her team family fall, to be the last one standing, using Gambol Shroud. And then she fell right in front of her sister.

Ruby really needs more practice with her eyes before she faces Cinder again. It was impressive though how she goaded Neo and knocked her over the edge. Unfortunately, there was more than one person there who really wanted her dead.

As for Ruby’s mental state, she never really had time to process anything that had happened, she was in survival mode the entire time. Falling into the same place as Yang did might give her hope that her sister is still alive and if she fell with Blake, all the better, then she won’t be alone. But like I said, Penny was very important to her, and this is the second time she has lost her. Just imagine though, if Penny’s body falls into the void with them and Ruby finds it, that’d be all the worse than just hearing about it from Weiss or Jaune.

Now, Winter, she is the MVP of this episode. Winter is now the Winter Maiden, not because Ironwood chose her to be or because she actually chose it herself but because Penny chose her. Penny believed in her friend. My love of Penny gives me a lot of conflicting feelings for this and the implications but it was satisfying to see Winter own Ironwood and hold her own against Cinder. And now she is the champion for Atlas’ refugees, but failing Weiss and Penny is going to have a significant impact on her. At least she’ll allow herself to feel and she still has some family left.

Now for the weapons. When Crescent Rose fell, it was like watching an entirely separate character fall as well. Gambol Shroud and Neo’s umbrella fell on their own, too. And Jaune’s weapon that was reforged with Pyrrha’s ruined weapon was destroyed by none other than Cinder. So basically the only ones still completely armed are Weiss and Yang, but of course the latter also has a concussion.

It wasn’t the complete victory she wanted but it was decisive. I figured a victory for Cinder would be getting both relics and she did. But I knew she wouldn’t get the Maiden powers, that’s always the part she fails at again and again. She tries to syphon a Maiden’s magic only to be interrupted. Every. Single. Time. Seriously, Cinder will just never learn from this mistake and its why she will likely never have more than one Maiden’s power at the rate she is going. But as decisive as this victory was, it will cost her in the long run. She needed help from Jinn, Neo and Watts in order to beat Team RWBY but they’ll come back stronger, smarter and more pissed off and Cinder won’t have all of that help next time. If anything, she might have put herself back on top of Neo’s shitlist.

Watts’ end is also rather fitting and also completely expected. Like Jimmy and Jaques, he represented a lot of what was wrong with Atlas, particularly the elite. How annoyed would Ambrosius be with Cinder though? “More fire, that’s it? This is my cosmic karma for being annoyed about being used by the same kids twice in a row.”

Atlas fell as I always knew it would, after all the relics exist to help humanity and a flying city did nothing but fuelled the egos of those who lived on that floating rock. Mantle was something to be proud of, but Atlas was a lie. Now Remnant’s “greatest kingdom in the world” reduced to ruin and it’s people refugees in a land their ancestors made a wasteland. This will have dire consequences.

So in the end, no help came for Atlas. Not surprising in retrospect. Atlesians didn’t have the best reputation to begin with, then Ironwood made a series of terrible decisions (that everyone around him strongly advised against), destroying Atlas’ relations with the other Kingdoms. Then came Ruby’s broadcast out of nowhere where she dropped some insane bombshells and then her message was cut off and global comms went down again. Few can vouch for Ruby’s character and even fewer can verify anything of what she said. I still believe it had an impact and we’ll see it as we visit other Kingdoms again, but the full pay off won’t be for quite some time. As I said before, the message was just the first of many, many small steps to uniting the world against Salem

So now for the detour, and that cursed image of Crescent Rose alone, slammed into the ground. It’s likely Volume 9 will focus mostly on our girls, Jaune and Neo, surviving in this strange environment and finding a way home.

Was that everything? Probably not. Now the mourning period begins as I try to process all of that.

#rwby #rwby8 #rwby8 spoilers

12 notes · View notes

blancheludis · 3 years

Link

@whumptober2021 Day 3: Taunting, Insults

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Characters: Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull Tags: Assault, Mage-Templar Conflict, Self-Worth Issues, Hurt Dorian, Holy Smite, Protective Iron Bull Words: 3.484

Summary: Dorian can count on one hand the times he was hit by a Smite and it was always during training, leaving him shaky and sick the rest of the day. This feels so much worse, done out of malice, meant to cripple instead of teach.

“You were saying, mage?”

- A few Templars attack Dorian in Skyhold. Bull comes to the rescue.

---

It has gotten late. Dinner is already over and while there is faint music to be heard from the Herald’s Rest, the rest of Skyhold is eerily deserted. Dorian curses himself silently as he hurries through the dark corridors. He lost track of time in the library, which should not come as a surprise, really, but he knows better than to walk alone after dark.

He is not afraid. Dangers lurk around every corner, but he trusts in his ability to defend himself. The thing is, that he is not certain whether he should defend himself. The Tevinter Mage far from home, shrouded in mystery. People do not trust him here, but the reasons are so laughably threadbare. He is neither a blood mage nor does he want to overthrow any kingdoms.

“Mage,” a voice calls out, harsh but slightly too loud for the late hour.

Dorian hastens his step. He knows the distaste in the tone intimately, even if it is only since he left Tevinter that he learned it paired just as well with mage as it does with slave or son.

He keeps his head up, makes it look like he is not running away. Running never helps. While most of the soldiers here are cowards, some do like to hunt, and Dorian knows better than to give them a reason to.

“I’m talking to you.”

And Dorian is trying his best not to hear him. One of these days, he is going to accidentally incinerate a hapless Templar trying to waylay him. The uproar that will cause. Perhaps that will still better than this cat-and-mouse game that he always, always loses.

A hand grabs Dorian all of a sudden, appearing out of nowhere in the dark. Dorian, who was concentrating on the yelling man in his back has not been paying attention to what is ahead of him.

Another Templar. Even out of uniform they are unmistakeable. That fanatic fire in their eyes that burns brightest when Dorian is near. They like to leave their hands hovering over their hips, even when they are not wearing their swords, constantly following that urge to be ready, to cut down a mage, no questions asked.

“Is there something wrong with your ears, mage?” the Templar in front of him asks, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. Alcohol clouds his breath, almost as potent as hate.

“Nothing at all,” Dorian answers brightly, trying to tone down the sharpness of his voice. “Nobody was calling my name, though.”

He bites his tongue. So much for holding back. It is high time to get out of here before the stragglers reach them. But no matter how much he twists his arm, the Templar’s hold remains strong. He could put the man on his back, but mages are not allowed to defend themselves and he does not want all of Skyhold’s guards to be called down on him because these guys are screaming murder.

“You bloody ‘Vints, always thinking you’re better than us good folks.”

Dorian barely manages to keep his face from scrunching up, but some of his contempt must have slipped through anyway because the man’s scowl deepens. Definitely time to get out.

“Well, I better relieve you of my presence then. Wouldn’t want to ruin your night,” Dorian says and calls fire to his hands, not enough to burn but to warm his fingers in warning. To his dismay, the Templar’s grip only tightens and he pulls Dorian closer.

“The Inquisitor should have never let you in,” he snarls, his foul breath warm on Dorian’s cheek. “We’re trying to save the world, not break it.”

Unable to help himself, Dorian laughs. “Did you read that in one of Master Tethras’ novels? Mighty impressive, I didn’t think they wasted the energy on teaching war dogs to read.”

Dorian should shut up. The drunk guy behind him is coming closer, leaning on a friend’s shoulder. Three on one are not odds Dorian would think twice about in the field. Things are different here. Even drunk and clearly hoping for a fight, people will listen more closely to these three than Dorian.

He is just a mage, barely a friend of the Inquisitor, neither trusted nor even a real asset because who would want a necromancer in their back when they could have him dead and buried, safely sealed away. It grates at Dorian’s pride, but he has practice in being not wanted and sneered at. He does not think it will ever stop hurting but that does not mean he will let them see.

Dorian twists his hand, determined to scare them off even if he does not dare to actually attack them. But before he can do much of anything, the Templar takes an abrupt step forward and shoves Dorian against the wall behind him. The force rattles his ribcage, upsetting a bruise he got while training with Bull. He does not let the pain show but raises a hand and lets a flame dance on his palm, bigger now and definitely a threat. Hopefully, the reminder that he could fling a fireball at their heads will be enough to get them to back off.

What Dorian does not expect is the wave of sudden coldness slamming into him, making him double over. The energy crackling under his skin, ready to be called forth, vanishes, drained by the Smite, leaving only nausea in its wake.

It is a terrible feeling, beyond words. Wielding magic is like breathing, but the Smite is more than a chokehold. It feels as if boiling silver is poured down his throat, charring his insides and leaving nothing but a barren wasteland and the painful memory of greatness.

He can count on one hand the times he was hit by a Smite and it was always during training, leaving him shaky and sick the rest of the day. This feels so much worse, done out of malice, meant to cripple instead of teach.

“You were saying, mage?”

The drunk guy sounds much more sober now if no less disdainful.

Panic unfurls in the pit of Dorian’s stomach as he realizes he is cornered. He cannot run, he can not access his magic. He is helpless in the middle of the Inquisition’s stronghold.

Perhaps they will be happy with simply roughing him up a little, with teaching him his place. The drunk guy is leering at him, but Dorian has gone to his knees under equally terrible circumstances before. If they want to kill him, though, there is little he can do. This is not how his story will end. It cannot be. And yet, Dorian has his hands full with staying upright.

He barely feels the first punch. It rattles his body but the pain is a mere echo, lost in the void that has suddenly opened in Dorian’s very core.

The men are still talking, all three of them now towering over Dorian, but he just hears the hate in their voices, no actual words.

A punch the face snaps him out of his stupor, the acute sharpness of it enough to penetrate the fog that has settled over his senses. With consciousness, though, comes more fear.

“You mage scum are good for one thing, though,” one of the Templars says. Dorian is far beyond being able to recognize faces, but his wide grin reveals a missing tooth. “And once we’re done, we’ll bury you outside in the snow, do a favour for all of us.”

Dorian hates the cold and he really, really does not want to die in it. He does not want to die at all, but the how has suddenly become a far greater concern then the when. He opens his mouth, not sure whether to say something or to just scream, but he does not get to do either because another hit to the head makes his vision swim and his thoughts scatter.

“What is going on here?” a new voice interrupts, making the three Templars jump.

The sudden lack of contact between them has Dorian slumping against the wall, his legs shaking too badly to keep him upright. His mind, however, whirs into a panicked chorus of denial. Three men are more than enough, he cannot have even more join the apparent free-for-all he has become this night.

Then, though, he sees the men back away, and when he looks at the newcomer, he finds too broad shoulders and horns and - Dorian has never been so glad to see Bull. It does not matter that he is a mage or a ‘Vint, Bull will not leave him to his fate.

“We were just having a friendly discussion,” one of the Templars says.

Dorian’s brain is slowly sorting itself out again as no new pain comes forth, and he scoffs. It tugs at a fresh bruise on his face.

“The Inquisitor is making a mistake trusting these abominations.”

Dorian is pretty sure that is the one who used the Smite. He shivers, pushes himself further against the wall. The Templars are no match against Bull, but they are still standing like a wall in front of Dorian.

“I suggest that you run,” Bull says, his voice vibrating with something dark. “And if you’re smart, you’ll leave Skyhold tonight and never look back.”

“We don’t take orders from beasts,” the gap-toothed one spats, no ounce of self-preservation.

Dorian has seen Bull on the battlefield, bloodied and hungry for a fight, an unstoppable force. Right in front of their eyes, Bull transforms into something worse than that. His back straightens, making him grow even taller, and his eyes gleam with that same battle madness, focused unflinchingly on these three, puny men.

“Run,” he bellows and takes a swing. Even armour would not have saved Gap-Tooth for Bull does not hold back. His fist slams into the Templar’s jaw with a sickening crunch, throwing him through the air as if he weighs nothing.

That is enough of a demonstration that they do not question Bull again but run, stumbling over their own feet in their hurry to get away. Dorian would laugh at their turned backs, relishing in how the situation was flipped on them, but he is still too busy with just breathing.

He closes his eyes and catalogues the pain. The throbbing, familiar ache of bruises is easier to deal with than the terrifying void inside of him. He reaches for his magic and nothing answers. His skin is just skin and not a conduit. His body is just blood and bones and nerves, full of pain and longing now, nothing greater.

“Are you all right, big guy?” Bull asks, sounding way too close.

When Dorian opens his eyes, Bull is crouching next to him, the madness replaced by blatant concern.

He will live. Nothing feels broken and there are potions against the pain. This is not his first rodeo.

“Of course,” Dorian lies. He is not sure he can stand up, much less make the way back to his quarters. He does not particularly want to be alone either – he has never been this weak before. Or, well, he was once, when his father – better not go there. This evening is ruined enough.

“You were assaulted –” Bull says but trails off when Dorian pushes to his feet.

Shaking legs or not, he is done cowering and he does not need Bull’s pity. Bad enough he had to be saved.

“Merely a misunderstanding,” Dorian says and puts in the effort to regain control over his expression. “Although I appreciate you stepping in.”

He has some experience with putting himself back together. And being alone in his room does not sound so bad if he thinks about it. There, at least, will be nobody to act tough for.

Bull nods but Dorian knows him well enough by now that this battle is not won. Coming another step closer, he his hand on the crook of Dorian’s elbow, never bothering to ask whether Dorian even wants help.

“How often does this happen?” Bull asks, his tone just conversational enough to almost hide the simmering anger beneath.

Deep down, Dorian is flattered that Bull would be upset on his behalf, but if he lets this happen it will only lead to more complications down the road. So, while he does not push off Bull’s hand, he takes care not to lean on him and begins walking towards his room. It is slow going, at first, because his body feels wrong, missing something vital, but he is walking.

“Do you think there’s someone waiting around every corner trying to trip me up?” Dorian says, falling back on his old friend sarcasm. That at least is familiar. “They were drunk.”

Drunk and ready to kill him. That is definitely a step up from mere insults and the occasional try to trip him in the hallways.

“And yet you don’t seem surprised.” Bull looks at him from the side, with an intensity in his eyes that reminds Dorian that bull is not just a formidable fighter but also a spy. “This actually explains quite a bit. You love your wine, but you never get drunk. You always leave the tavern early and never alone. You -”

Dorian pulls his arm away from Bull, very aware that people keep touching him. The momentum of that almost throws him off balance, but apart from the sheer wrongness of being without magic and the exhaustion weighing him down, Dorian almost feels like himself again. Half of himself, covered in bruises, but not a victim anymore.

“Are you done analysing me?” he snaps, knowing that his glare falls flat. “Nothing happened.”

Bull does not visibly react to Dorian refusing his help but looks decidedly unimpressed. “You’re shaking.” He does not move further away but somehow manages not to crowd Dorian either.

“Well, let someone cut one of your limbs off and see how you like it.” It feels like that, only that the loss is not located in just one limb but all of him at once. Magic is always there, waiting just for his call. His entire skin prickles with it, his lungs draw it in alongside the air to breathe. Without it, he barely feels human.

“A limb?” Bull asks, confusion interrupting his casual interrogation. Did they – oh. They took your magic?”

Bull’s realization does not sit right with Dorian. There is no malice on his face, no relief. One of his Chargers is a mage and Bull never gave the impression he minded Dorian using magic, on or off a battlefield. But Dorian is only too aware of how Qunari view mages. It is probably unfair, but he still cannot quite think clearly. And part of him will always be wary of Bull’s loyalty to the Qun.

“One used the Smite,” he says, trying for nonchalance, although it is hard to fool Bull even when he is not exhausted and in pain. “I’ll be right as rain in a minute.” Or a few hours, if he can only lock his door and lie down.

“Dorian.” Bull pulls him to a stop, just the briefest of touches before he lets his hand fall again. “This is not okay. You need to talk to Cullen about this.” It is a miracle, how he can sound so serious while saying something this ridiculous.

Dorian is already walking such a fine line with the Inquisition. It does not matter that he very much wants to rid the world of Corypheus and that he would keep hunting Venatori on his own, that he wants to reform his homeland until it is something to be proud of again. The Inquisitor likes him and trusts him not to betray them. The rest of the Skyhold’s inhabitants? Not so much.

Cullen is always civil to Dorian, the same way he is to foreign diplomats and nobles. Their conversations have gotten a bit warmer since they started playing chess together. That does not mean that Cullen would go against his own people for the sake of a mage telling tales.

“I most definitely do not,” Dorian says with a glare. “I can handle myself.” He has done so a thousand times before and likely will a thousand more.

“That’s what it looked like.”

It is not like Bull to mock him. About his clothes or the way he drinks his wine, yes. But about losing a fight? A minute ago, he called it assault but now the blame has shifted to Dorian. It always does. Time to go so he can lick his wounds in private.

“If you’re done insulting me, then –”

Bull reaches out and Dorian flinches instinctively. It gives them both halt, so much more telling about Dorian’s state than his threadbare lies.

“What about the other mages?” Bull then asks, his tone gentle, reasonable. “What if they’re going for someone a little less noticeable next? Who doesn’t play chess with the Commander and has his ear?”

Dorian has thought about that before. The other mages usually do not go out alone, too used to be wary of Templars. And he doubts anybody would dare to touch Vivienne or Solas.

“They hate me because I’m from Tevinter.” It is certainly true. And he is never quiet about his disdain of Ferelden either. The weather, the dogs, the food. He will not be forbidden to speak the truth.

But Bull does not seem to buy it. “Is that all?

Dorian stays silent. He is loud and flashy and unrepentant, so that is what might have drawn their gaze. There is little about him that does not offend people here. But that is not what their main issue is with him, but the fact that he commands a power they do not understand and never will because they cower from it.

Being a mage is not a choice, though. In most parts of Thedas, magic is treated as something to be contained and caged. Control is important, certainly, but magic is in everything and cutting it out means going through life half-blind.

Dorian turns and starts walking again. He is done with this conversation. People will always come after him and making him a fool of himself in front of the Commander of the Inquisition forces will not change that. In fact, he might just get another enemy out of this.

“I can talk to Cullen, if you’d prefer,” Bull offers, keeping up easily with him.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles,” Dorian bites out. He will have to talk to Fiona and perhaps Vivienne to make sure that the other mages are not harassed too. He can deal with it, has done so for as long as he remembers, even if the insults change wherever he goes. But Bull is right, he will not let other experience the same.

“Never said you weren’t capable,” Bull says, his placating tone falling on deaf ears. “Do you know who they were?”

Dorian has no ideas. If he remembered every face that looked at him with disgust, every person who spewed insults or spat at him, he would not be able to cram anything else into his brain. It was never that important.

He shakes his head. “Cullen trusts the Templars that came with him.” And, despite the progress Cullen has undoubtedly made, he does not trust mages.

Bull nods but argues anyway, “We’re getting more refugees every day. He doesn’t know all of them.”

And they will still be Templars while Dorian is just an enemy mage. But Bull is right. If they are going after a member of the Inquisition’s inner circle, the other mages are not safe.

“I’ll talk to him,” he promises grudgingly. That is not a conversation he is looking forward to. He can already imagine the questions. Are you sure you did nothing to provoke them?

“Good.” Bull smiles as if he never doubted he would win the argument. “Let me walk you back to your quarters.”

Dorian should protest. He is a grown man. But he is tired and shaken to the core, still empty inside where his magic used to reside. He still does not want to be alone, does not want to peer around every corner, waiting for the next attack. The shadows seem to retreat from Bull’s massive form and Dorian is glad for the company.

He does not say thank you, but the corner of Bull’s mouth ticks further up as if he hears it anyway.

“Next time, just find me at the tavern. If I’m not there, the boys will be just as happy to help.”

Dorian nods, even though he does not understand the offer. Bull does not owe him anything. But this is something he has been learning slowly, relying on others. Maybe he can allow himself to get used to it. He can dream, at least.

#whumptober2021 #no.3 #insults #dragon age #fanfiction #dorian pavus #iron bull #mage templar conflict #self worth issues #my writing

4 notes · View notes

imagine-loki · 4 years

Text

Pride and Prejudice

TITLE: Pride and Prejudice CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 56 AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths. RATING: Mature NOTES/WARNINGS: Forced Marriage, not all fun and games. My first real step back into the Loki scene in over a year.

Tags - @skulliebythesea @asimovethroughthisworld @blackcherry26-blog @we-shadowhunter2901

Ella stood looking over the courtyard. Only a short time previous, it was bare, nothing but harsh and ugly ice shards, now, it was in full bloom. Beautiful ice flowers grew everywhere possible cultivated proudly by those forced to abandon such professions when the realm had fallen to a barren wasteland. She looked around as beings from different realms walked and spoke in different groupings. It felt right, seeing different peoples from different realms together on the realm she called her home. She also noticed that she did not feel so lonely for her old home seeing some of her favourite parts of it on her new home realm. Conversation was so important to her, so seeing the likes of such being opened with those of Jotunheim, it filled her with contentment. “You seem somewhat unhappy, you have done ever since the coronation.” Ella turned to look at her mother who was standing not too far away. “What ails you so, Mother?”

“Your husband is king…”

Ella was going to correct her mother with the term mate, not husband, but she stopped herself, it was irrelevant, it was the same thing by a different name. “He is.” She smiled proudly at such.

“Yet you were not made his queen.”

“There are no queens on Jotunheim, Mother. There never has been. All Kings except for Loki have multiple mates, so there never has been a call for such, which would be made queen? All of them being so would not have been an option.”

“This is not like other times,” Frigga pointed out. “There is only you now.”

“It is the way here, Mother. I know it is confusing, but you get used to it.” Ella purposely kept her tone light, not wanting to be seen to argue with her mother if any where to pass by them. “How was the Garden of Tyrell? I hope you brought one or two scrolls with you.”

“You are carrying a child, you should not even be considering new spells of that nature,” Frigga admonished.

“He will be here soon and though my days will be busy tending to him, I will still have time for such things. I always intend to have time to broaden my learning, even when I left home I wished for such.”

“Tending...surely you will have assistance?” Frigga had learnt quickly that on Jotunheim, there were no nursemaids to assist and raise the children but she thought Ella’s own entirely different rearing would have meant she would have done something different to the Jotnar. “Being of a foreign realm, you were never taught such things.”

“I can learn, as all mothers do. It has not been impossible through the ages, I think it something I can grasp it. Many women of far lesser means have done so successfully. Honestly, Mother, I feel as though you have no faith in me.”

Frigga felt her throat become tight at those words. “I have never doubted your ability since the day you proved all my ideas of you wrong for the second time. The first, I put down to fluke luck, the second...well, I was not going to allow myself to be mistaken again. You have never faltered to keep going in your attempts to do something. You may have, on occasion, had trouble trying to get there, but you always managed it. This will be no different but this is your most difficult hurdle to date. You are feeling the challenge of carrying a child, no doubt, not assisted by being somewhere so cold, I would assume.”

“He is like his father, he prefers the cold, it has led to some issues, I will not deny it. My hips would like it if I had taken Father’s size more than yours but overall, it has been something of a pleasant experience.”

Frigga was uncertain if her daughter was saying such things to dismiss any issues she was suffering personally but seeing her smile, she knew she would not get an answer on such if it were the case. “Are you not frightened?”

“Petrified. Very soon, this child will be here and dependant on me to keep him alive, how am I not supposed to be scared?”

“Parenting on our realm is quite terrifying, to not even have that assistance here...”

“I will have Greta and Alma to assist me.”

“What of the other one?” Ella looked at her mother curiously. “She seems somewhat cold.” She paused for a moment as she thought over her words. “On more than one level.”

Ella nodded slightly. “Angrboða and I do not see eye-to-eye. We mutually agree that we should have very little to do with one another and that is one of the very few things we do agree on.”

Frigga’s brow furrowed slightly. “That cannot be easy.”

“We make it work. My concern is my family, Loki, myself and our child, not in that order, mind. My duty is to me and mine, not to get into squabbles with beings I have little to do with.”

Frigga looked at Ella for a moment before nodding slightly. “I think your brother to be far more like your father in appearance, though his mind is something I have never been able to decide as to who he takes after. You, on the other hand, you are your Father’s daughter in mind, though you look more like me, I think.”

Ella laughed slightly. “If you think it is from him alone that I get such things, Mother, you are poorly mistaken. I am as much you in mind as I am Father, with a dash of my own personality of my own making added in for good measure.”

“That mischievous streak has to have come from somewhere,” Frigga commented in her own jestful manner.

“We already covered that in you and Father, or did you think none would ever learn how it is you came to know not mere seidr but dark witches magic and how Father came to even have Mjolnir and Gungnir when both were not in the possession of Asgard before the incident on Niðavellir that no one seems to talk about yet seems so very obviously something that should be spoken about?”

“First of all, how do you know about my less than appropriate education and secondly, what occurred on Niðavellir?”

“It’s not hard to figure out when the witch I went in search of made a comment about my being my mother’s daughter and with regards to the situation in which Father came to have those weapons, all I will say is that I have spoken to some beings with information on such as they were witnesses to the situation in which he came to have them and it would most certainly come under the heading of mischievous, or did both of you think none would ever come to question such things?”

Frigga knew that there was no manner in which she could get her daughter to explain further. Instead, she accepted the answer she was given as she knew it would be the only one she would get. “You never cease to amaze me, Ella. your knowledge is unrivalled in many ways.”

“I am proficient at everything I do.” Ella could not help gently putting a hand to her stomach. “I just wish he could see you all more. It feels wrong to know he will not see you as often as we wish he could. I want him to know you all but it will only be fleeting moments of such.”

“I only hope his father will be somewhat interested in spending time with him.” Ella frowned at her mother’s words. “The demand for there being children was because of him yet his disgust at such…”

“Loki is very much excited for the arrival of the baby. He has made mention more than once of how he cannot wait to begin to interact and bond with him. With regards to the demand, as you call it, I know it is hard to believe, Mother, but Loki never asked for that; it’s true but like with many of the marriages you have witnessed in your years like this, where how it starts is not how it remains. I know that you are saying these things out of concern but you have nothing to fear, I can assure you. Loki is a good mate. He cares about me.”

Frigga did not know if she should say anything to her daughter about the uncertain hope she carried in her voice. She could only hope that her daughter’s trust was well placed, though the past would suggest that there was a significant chance she was wrong. Leaving the Garden of Tyrell to the news that her daughter was dying from an infliction such as her own seidr fighting her own mind terrified Frigga. She wanted to call on Heimdall and have him bring her to the Ice Realm post-haste, to level it alone if Odin would not help her over what Loki had done to inflict such horrific isolation on Ella but she knew Heimdall would already have been told by Odin not to allow such, so she was forced to return to Asgard and prepare for her daughter’s return. When Odin returned to Asgard alone, informing her that Ella would not be dissuaded from remaining on Jotunheim, she fought once more to go see her daughter, mostly in an attempt to have her see sense and return home but again her husband thwarted her attempts to do so, stating they could not protect Ella from the realms forever, that their daughter had made her decision and it was their duty to respect such. If they could respect the decision of their son to battle when he could very easily be killed, they needed to extend the same to their daughter, though both privately knew it was different with Ella. She was different to Thor, reminding them both of their most notable traits, her bright eyes yearning for new knowledge all through her life and both elated to be the ones to bestow it on her. Thor tended to be more headstrong, like his father as Frigga often commented, but Ella, she was every bit the queen her mother was and far more, making the actions of Loki in not making her queen all the more baffling to Frigga. Everything felt so conflicting. His movements beside her as they stood side-by-side in the hall meeting guests were of caring, the fact he did not name her his partner conflicted with that in her mind.

#loki #others #submission #Submitted one shot #Pride and Prejudice #chapter 56 #wolfpawn

39 notes · View notes

third-rail-vip · 4 years

Text

20 OTP Questions

Tagged by @tarberrymentats thank you so much for the tag! <3

I’m going to tag @minuteminx @asaara-writes @pchberrytea @mayihavethisdanse @potatocrab @laurelsofhighever and anyone else who wants to, tag me because I’d love to see your OTPs!!

I might have gone a bit overboard, so I’ll put most of this under the cut…

Mac x Ivy

1. Who can outdrink the other?

Oh, definitely Mac. They learnt that the first night they met, not that she was trying to keep up it’s just Ivy is a thorough lightweight. He didn’t like questions, she can’t help but ask them, so the deal was one shot per question. She is smol and cannot hold her booze. Two centuries on ice and she seems to have lost some of the tolerance she built up in college. Magnolia had to tell Mac to make sure she got to the Rexford ok. Of course, en route she picked up multiple jobs and talked Fred into giving them 500 caps for going to Hallucigen. Mac was gobsmacked, it was the beginning of a beautiful if unexpected friendship.

These days if you give her too much, you’ll find her sat on the floor in the corner of Railroad parties with Tinker Tom talking conspiracy theories.

2. Who says “i love you” more?

Probably Mac, but not because he loves more, but because he’s definitely the more vocal of the two of them. Words are one of his main love languages. Plus, he’s lost a partner before (which Ivy hasn’t) and there were things unsaid in that relationship that he’ll always regret, so he knows the importance of telling the people you love how you feel, and telling them often. Ivy is more of a show than tell, even though she’s the type to fall first, she’s been hurt before by exactly that so she’s slower to use the words and breaks them out less often. She shows she loves him through her actions.

3. Who has trouble sleeping alone?

Very much Ivy, not that Mac doesn’t to some degree, but this is a scary new world for Ivy and she feels very much safer having someone there. She was a wreck when he was away in the Capital Wasteland and really struggled to sleep at all. She is more likely to not be able to get to sleep if she’s alone. Mac is more likely to have a disturbed night, waking up feeling an absence.

4. Who swears more?

Ivy. She may look sweet but she really can have a foul mouth. She will basically swear for Mac as well. He’ll cut himself off and she’ll fill in the blank. She resists the urge, or at least desperately tries to pick other words at the last second when the kids are about. It doesn’t always work well.

5. Who does more of the housework?

It’s shared. Ivy makes more mess though, she’s clean but untidy. She seems accumulate way more stuff than Mac does, and boy does she spread it around the house. She’s also very distractible, so he can get back and find a half-risen loaf in the kitchen, which she’ll have left, having had a thought about something she wanted to draw while it was still in her mind. So, the sketchbooks are out in the living room, but then she’ll see a sketch of Mac and remember she was going to fix the arm on his duster again. And so on and so forth. Mac isn’t without guilt, there are always comics on various surfaces, left open (taking up maximum room) to show Ivy or the boys the best bits. If Codsworth had lungs, he’d hyperventilate. She will tidy up after herself though, when she realises she’s left everything all over. I mean, nobody wants to hear a Mr Handy cry pre-recorded tears.

6. Who forgets their anniversary?

They don’t technically have an anniversary, actually getting together was a bit of a messy and protracted process. The easiest date to remember is Halloween when they first met in Goodneighbour. Maybe one day they’ll have an official anniversary for something else, but for now.

7. Who steals the duvet in their sleep?

Sometimes they can have a bit of blanket tug of war going on depending on who got into bed first. Ivy was nesh even before the war, but two hundred years on ice has done her no favours. She gets criminally cold hands and feet. If they were just sharing a bed before they got together, Ivy would 100% steal that duvet, but these days she just wraps around her mercenary and they sleep like a little two person blanket burrito.

8. Who keeps the other awake at night with their snoring?

Neither keeps the other awake. Mac is the one who snores, but they are little damn kitten snores, like his sneezes. If anything is going to keep Ivy awake, it’s him falling asleep first and her just silently going “awwwwww” at her adorable boyfriend.

9. Who finds stray animals and begs the other to let them keep them?

This is totally Ivy and cats. They have dogmeat of course, but he’s his own man and he’s always welcome with them, but he’s not really theirs. Ivy love cats, she will sneak off to play with settlement cats when she should be doing far more minutemen type activities. They are definitely slowly accumulating cats at their most regularly visited settlements.

10. Who usually makes dinner?

Ivy enjoys cooking most out of the two of them, and she’s rather good at it. Getting better all the time as well since her and Codsworth are doing their best to remember and collect pre-war recipes, or at least work out how to make equivalents. Mac is a reasonable cook, but over the years he’s generally been happy to exist on pre-war ‘just add water’ kind of food, rather than cooking from scratch, which is definitely Ivy’s jurisdiction. But if she’s cooking, and if he can persuade Codsworth to leave them to it, he loves to cook with Ivy. Even more so when the kids want to get involves too.

11. Who plays their music out loud?

Oh god, they both do. The pipboy radio is always going. Turning it right up and singing along is almost mandatory. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you might catch Ivy playing the guitar or the piano and singing. She’s usually shy about it, but she’s good. She’s performed once at The Third Rail as a birthday present.

12. Who hogs the bathroom?

Given the opportunity of a hot shower in Vault 81, you will lose Ivy for so long you’d think she’d drowned. Drenching herself in enough scolding hot water to supply a minor settlement, truly is the most self-indulgent of self-care. Mac isn’t the biggest fan but he can be persuaded. The only time he’ll hog the bathroom is when it’s time to keep that goatee in tiptop condition. He’s very particular about it.

13. Who gives the most compliments?

Like with saying ‘I love you’ most, Mac is definitely the one who lays on the compliments. He learned early on that Ivy isn’t used to being complimented like that, or at least, it’s been a very long time since she was treated that way. He’s almost made it a personal mission to set that right. How easily she blushes at them is just an added bonus.

14. Who usually starts/causes arguments between them?

They aren’t an argumentative couple, from past experience, Ivy does not cope well with that kind of confrontation within a relationship. They are more likely to snark if something has annoyed them, but are actually really good at reading each other’s body language for when something they’ve done has upset the other. But if it comes down to it, Mac is more likely to be the one to get into a more heated discussion about something that’s upset him. Ivy is the one to calm a situation. The only time they’ve had an actual stand up row was during Blind Betrayal.

15. Who isn’t afraid to embarrass the other in public?

They aren’t afraid of a bit of public bantering, and will definitely play up for an audience if they’re in the right mood. Ivy is a little more inclined to publicly tease Mac in one way or another, but that might be more because Mac suspects she can deal it out better than she can take it, rather than her being the more equipped to do it. Although when it comes to quietly flustering her in public, that is very much Mac’s jurisdiction.

16. Who gives the other cringeworthy pet names?

There’s a definite teasing edge to most of the nicknames they call each other, they’re both more comfortable with being called them when there isn’t too big of an audience around. But I guess Mac would be more embarrassed by Ivy’s habit of calling him anything beginning with ‘sweet’ – it’s not good for his tough mercenary image, you know. Mac doesn’t care who hears him call Ivy ‘angel’, he’s being calling her it for so long (way longer than they’ve been together) but he might draw the line at shouting ‘kitten’ across Diamond City marketplace. Most other names they call each other are more along the lines of compliments or abbreviations of their names.

17. Who fusses over the other when they get sick?

Ivy is definitely the more diligent medic, and a very well qualified worrier. So when Mac is hurt, she’s all over that, and he regularly jokes that she carries enough gear to set up a small field hospital with her at all times. Not that that habit hasn’t saved their asses on multiple occasions. Mac is more likely to get genuinely scared if Ivy is badly hurt or sick because of past experience. When it comes to just being a little bit poorly, Mac will milk it like an absolute drama queen. Ivy is a soft touch and will let him. But she’s also very good at telling when he’s better and is just looking for extra attention. She’ll make up ‘treatments’ to see if he’ll keep up the charade and how committed he is to being waited on hand and foot.

18. Who finds it impossible to stay angry at the other for long?

For a guy who can mature a grudge like a fine wine, Mac has never ever been able to stay mad at Ivy. Not even in those early days when she was ‘useless’ and they barely knew each other. Mac melts at those big brown eyes, even if he tries to keep the frowns on the surface, all the anger goes in an instant. It’s rare for her to get angry at him, but if the hurt is real then she can hang onto it until he’s shown that he’s earned back her trust. It took him a while to win her back after coming back from the Capital Wasteland having not sent word at all since he left.

19. Who clings to the other for comfort when they’re sad or scared?

Ivy would be the first to cling to Mac when she’s scared, in fact she was, after very early close call. That experience rather reinforced Mac as a safe place for her, bearing in mind she’s known him from just a week after escaping the vault, he’s definitely been a grounding presence for her. When something is wrong, the first place she will seek comfort is in his arms, even from long before they were together. Mac doesn’t break down until they’ve known each other for a lot longer, but he feels safe enough by then being that vulnerable with Ivy – it’s difficult because he has always had a habit of putting himself in a protector role in so many of his relationship with people that allowing himself to be seen as scared or even sad is difficult for him. But once those floodgates are open, nothing would stop him from seeking comfort from her, even when things are awkward between them.

20. Who is more ‘physically passionate’? (hugs, kisses, or maybe more…)

When it comes to big public displays, it would probably be Mac (not in the early days though, he was definitely more private then) but he likes it known that they’re together – especially to that one dude from diamond city security who keeps hitting on her. Ivy is more for subtle displays in public; holding hands, cheek kisses etc. Although there was one incident…anyway. Privately they are equally likely to be all over each other.

#otp 20 questions meme #this turned out big!#mac x ivy #then i met you #maccready #robert joseph maccready #ivy kendrick #maccready x sole survivor #maccready x f!solesurvivor #sole survivor #my art #gorgeous screenshot by mayihavethisdanse

39 notes · View notes

wolfpawn · 4 years

Text

Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 56

Story Summary - Based on an idea I had that I submitted to Imagine Loki. Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths.

Chapter Summary - Ella and Frigga share their first private conversation face-to-face since the wedding with the older's worries with regards to her daughter being voiced.

Previous Chapter

Tags - @peppermint-j @damalseer @perpetual-fangirl @tinchentitri @inspired-snowflace @raphaelaisabella @alexakeyloveloki @caffiend-queen @devilbat @nonsensicalobsessions @skulliebythesea @majoringinlife @salempoe @lotus-eyedindiangoddess @rookienumber98 @ivytoh @agarwaeneth @rosierossette @arch-venus25 @nessamaurice @winterisakiller @black-ninja-blade

Request if you wish to be tagged

“Your husband is king…”

Ella was going to correct her mother with the term mate, not husband, but she stopped herself, it was irrelevant, it was the same thing by a different name. “He is.” She smiled proudly at such.

“Yet you were not made his queen.”

“This is not like other times,” Frigga pointed out. “There is only you now.”

“You are carrying a child, you should not even be considering new spells of that nature,” Frigga admonished.

“Petrified. Very soon, this child will be here and dependant on me to keep him alive, how am I not supposed to be scared?”

“Parenting on our realm is quite terrifying, to not even have that assistance here...”

“I will have Greta and Alma to assist me.”

“What of the other one?” Ella looked at her mother curiously. “She seems somewhat cold.” She paused for a moment as she thought over her words. “On more than one level.”

Ella nodded slightly. “Angrboða and I do not see eye-to-eye. We mutually agree that we should have very little to do with one another and that is one of the very few things we do agree on.”

Frigga’s brow furrowed slightly. “That cannot be easy.”

“We make it work. My concern is my family, Loki, myself and our child, not in that order, mind. My duty is to me and mine, not to get into squabbles with beings I have little to do with.”

“That mischievous streak has to have come from somewhere,” Frigga commented in her own jestful manner.

“First of all, how do you know about my less than appropriate education and secondly, what occurred on Niðavellir?”

#Pride and Prejudice #chapter 56 #wolfpawn #loki fic

25 notes · View notes

queer-acacia · 4 years

Text

Fire, Fear, and Fight

Summary: The knight of hell has time to reflect. Memories return and plans arise to fight back.

Words: 1650

Characters: Helsknight, Evil Xisuma, BadTimesWithScar

Tags: n/a

Helsknight could feel the Nether around him begin to change. Strange trees were beginning to grow, colored in a strange pink and blue. They were entangled with odd vines, and they seemed to give off a small amount of light that put him on edge, though he didn’t know why. The Pigmen were now more pig-like, their faces sprouting tusks and growing long ears. They spoke in strange grunts and snorts that only they could understand. The only word he could slightly make out was “Piglin,” so that’s what he began to call them. The fire that usually consumed the world now glowed blue when it hit soul sand, which itself had started to spread miles and miles through the Nether, creating valleys that were a pain to trudge through. When he breathed, the air felt heavy, and he found it more useful to cover his mouth with a scrap of cloth than risk getting whatever was in the air in his lungs.

He looked out over the horizon, where a fortress had been built, seemingly overnight, by the Piglins. It was made out of a gray material that looked like cobblestone, but was much heavier and had a different texture. He kept his sword in his hand, just in case some strange creature tried to jump him; he had found that being defenseless when being around the Piglin’s horrible beasts was not a very good idea.

The place he had known for so long was beginning to morph and change around him, and he was powerless to do anything about it.

He closed his eyes, gripping tightly at the hilt of his iron sword. The sword had been a gift from his friend. He could still remember the two of them running through the barren wasteland of the Nether, scrounging around for any food they could find and digging through the loot of the many Nether fortresses that littered the landscape every so often.

He couldn’t remember when the Nether portal appeared, or how they found it. Ex decided to test it out, and when Hels tried to go in after him, he found that he couldn’t. Ex was gone for what felt like months, and when he came back, Hels was subjected to him babbling on about someone not liking his gifts, and about there being a doppelganger to him that wore green— Hels had to console him for some time after that, and even managed to convince BadTimes to help him out.

He began to leave every now and again, and would come back telling the two about his adventures in the Overworld and the many ways he was messing with his double, who they discovered was named Xisuma. One time he came back in pink clothing, going on about a “Worm Man” that he thought was really cool because he was a superhero and wanted to be just like him. He even brought back a few interesting characters: a robot he called “NPC Grian” who he had found in a storage room, and a man with gray skin and a ponytail dressed in black robes who had separated from another Hermit after he’d been revived after death. Hels didn’t mind the company— rather, he enjoyed the company the two brought. NPCG always talked about making rustic houses, and Grim was always talking about the fragile mortality of humanity, but they were fun to be around nonetheless.

One day, Ex went through the portal.

And he never came back through.

Hels tried to go through the portal again, but he would only step through the purple fog without going anywhere. He only realized that Ex was truly gone when the portal one day mysteriously disappeared. He sat down where the portal was for days, taking naps every so often and eating the food that the others would bring out to him. Nothing ever changed. The portal never reappeared. He had to accept that Ex truly was gone.

It had been months when the second portal appeared. Hels had been out exploring the strange forest that had seemingly appeared overnight when he came across a decimated portal that suddenly lit up in that oh-so familiar purple. He stepped closer, feeling like the portal was somehow… calling him. He drew his sword as he stepped through.

The sudden sunlight blinded him, so he squinted, trying to let his eyes adjust. The sky above him was a bright blue, a glowing orb above his head. Nearby, a house stood, built with a yellow-ish material. He knew exactly where he was. The Overworld.

He heard footsteps nearby, and he quickly ran for cover behind a small tree. The figure that entered his vision looked like him, but with blue eyes instead of red, blond hair instead of brown, and unstained iron armor unlike his own that was covered in soot that refused to come out no matter how hard he scrubbed. It had to be his doppleganger, he just knew it.

Then the anger began to settle in. He was one of them. Those stupid Hermits that pulled his best friend out of his arms without a second thought. The very notion of the idea made his insides burn with a fire he had never felt before. He had to make them pay. He didn’t care who he hurt. He would make them all pay for what they did.

Hels shifted, and the sudden pain that spiked up near his shoulder was enough to bring him back to reality. The fight hadn’t gone as planned, and he was forced to retreat back to the Nether. It had taken him time for him to find BadTimes and listen to his scolding as he bandaged Hels’s battle wounds. NPC had asked him if he saw any rustic houses while he was out. Grim had stayed silent, instead eyeing the blue blood that stained the knight’s armor before leaving for his room.

Hels turned his head when he heard footprints approaching him, his grip at his sword tightening in case he needed to prepare for a fight; his grip loosened again when he realized it was only BadTimes. The older man stopped next to Hels, watching the particles from the ceiling float down the ground. Neither of them spoke for the time being, just letting the comfortable silence sit between them.

“Those piglins sure do enjoy the soot, don’t they?” BadTimes commented, breaking the silence between them. Hels noticed a smaller piglin that was sitting in a pile of soot and playing in it like a child playing in the sand. “Almost like they were born from the fire. Odd, isn’t it? So much can change in such little time.”

Hels nodded, his armor clanking a little with his movement. “Felt like it happened overnight, honestly. Those forests, and the soul sand valleys, and these bastions… it’s weird. Didn’t there used to just be netherrack here?”

BadTimes nodded, turning his head to look at Hels. His bad eye stayed dormant, while his good eye stared thoughtfully at Hels’s expression. “You might need a better sword if you go back, you know. Iron doesn’t do much against diamond.”

Hels glanced over to BadTimes, pursing his lips together. “Where would I—”

“Ex wanted me to give you this,” BadTimes said, holding out his usually free hand to Hels. His hand gripped a sword made out of pure diamond, the blue glow casting a strange light against the red under their feet. “He said to save this for a special occasion. I figured getting revenge is important to you.”

Hels put away his own sword before taking the diamond one in his hand. It felt surprisingly light in his hand, and when he gave it a few test swings, he found it to be easy to handle.

“Also, I’ve heard some rumor about there being a mineral somewhere in this world that’s stronger than diamond. You may want to go looking for it. I don’t want you coming back with more wounds than before.” The older man went back to staring out into the horizon in front of him, a small sigh leaving him. “You do that fighting them won’t—”

“I know it won’t,” Hels interrupted, a sudden anger in his voice. “I’m doing this in his name, not for him. There’s a difference.”

BadTimes shook his head a little. “I know I cannot stop you. So I might as well do my best to keep you safe. You know as well as I do that death for us is different than for those who hail from the Overworld. There’s no guarantee that you’ll come back the same, if you come back at all.”

Hels said nothing for a moment, then closed his eyes. “I know. But I’m going to do what I can to bring justice for my friend.”

He heard BadTimes sigh once again before turning to leave. “Oh, one more thing— NPC wants your help with building a rustic house. Says he’s gotten inspiration with all of the newfound wood. I’d help, but I can’t do much besides the planning.” With that, he left Hels alone, the sound of his footsteps along with his cane assisting him echoing until Hels couldn’t hear it anymore.

The silence was just what he needed, he told himself. His mind had to be sharp as ever if he were to go back for a second fight against his double. He was the only thing standing in his way; getting rid of him would assure him victory. Then, he would make everyone else pay. He’d kill whoever took Ex away. He’d make sure every single one of them felt even a fraction of the pain he had felt when he had realized that the only friend he’d ever had would never return.

Finally, he opened his eyes, and turned to return to his abode. Even knights needed their rest, after all.

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft 7 #helsknight #evil xisuma #evil x #badtimeswithscar #hello yes this is... a thing #aaaaaa this took hours to make #hermitblr please be nice #hermitblr

35 notes · View notes

viinas-writes · 3 years

Text

“Desert Rose”

Written for the Kiribaku Anthology “Ascent”. Words: 5,211

The weight of Eijirou’s last bullet is both a grim and comforting reminder. It’s locked in the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants like a soldier at the ready, waiting for its first and last command.

Blood-red clouds race past his vision, blurring into the overcast sky. He feels the ravaged terrain of a city he once called home tilting under the worn soles of boots that have been too small for over a year. His lungs burn. Smoke and debris sting his eyes. His body aches down to his bones but he doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop.

A fleeting thought rolls across his mind: I don’t want to die here.

He casts a glance over his shoulder. The hooded man—a dorobou, probably—is still in pursuit. Eijirou can hear the clack of a rifle bouncing against his assailant’s back.

Eijirou is virtually unarmed; his pistol has been empty for months. He keeps only what he calls an “insurance bullet”—to put into his own head if things turn for the worst. If the choice is between dying as himself or having his soul obliterated by a dorobou, there’s no question about how he’d rather go.

He skids to a stop just before the ground plunges straight down. Loose earth scuttles past his feet and falls over the edge. His blood throbs in his ears. Down below, he makes out human remains, grotesquely discolored, emaciated, and half-floating in dark, shallow water. Discarded hosts. When a dorobou’s human body decays from infection, the only way for them to survive is to move onto a new one.

His hand finds his pistol, his trigger finger twitching.

“You stopped.”

Eijirou’s heart skips. Furtively, he looks back. His pursuer stands a safe distance away, rifle in hand but pointed at the ground. He pulls his hood back to reveal a shock of blond hair.

His appearance gives Eijirou pause. The venom in his gaze is discordant to the roundness in his jaw, as if everything he’s seen has yet to catch up with him, physically.

He’s a kid...like me.

“A dorobou wouldn’t have stopped.” His head falls. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

Eijirou’s head fills with questions but the only one that forms is: “What are you looking for?”

The boy’s hand drops to his side and he screws his eyes shut, furiously shaking his head. He won’t look up, lest he lower his guard. Eijirou understands that well. Trust can’t be given blindly; altruism was a luxury their world lost.

“You looked like…” He drags a weary hand through his hair. “Same shitty dye job.”

Eijirou raises an eyebrow. “Uh—”

“Whatever,” the boy says. He turns on his heel, slinging his rifle across his back. “I made a mistake.”

“H-hey, wait up!” Eijirou yelps, because to a certain degree all trust is blind and maybe he’s just as angry and tired as anyone unlucky enough to have been born into this hell. “You know, we’ll survive longer with two of us, right? I...I mean,” he pauses, turning his words over in his head. “Unless you’re not alone…”

The boy sneers and the venom in his eyes now drips from his voice. “Like hell. I made it this far on my own.”

Eijirou laughs, which makes the boy turn and glower. He’s got big, rotten pride and an attitude to cut through glass, but if he’s survived this long all by himself, there’s got to be a thing or two they can learn from each other.

“S-shut up!” he stammers, visibly thrown off-kilter. “Give me one good reason why I should let your dumb ass tag along!”

Eijirou’s lips curl into a grin. “Well, I’m not much for offense, but.” He brings his fists together with a satisfying thud. “I’m resilient. I’ll be your unbreakable wall, man. A guard who won’t waver.”

“You are so goddamn weird.” He turns back around. Something like disappointment feels heavy in Eijirou’s chest but before he gets the chance to make a move of his own, the boy calls out, “Fine. But get in my way and I’ll kill you.”

***

Time elapses and once they’ve gotten to know each other—in whatever capacity Katsuki will allow it—it may have been days, weeks, or even months. He learns the idiot is named Kirishima Eijirou and he’s sixteen just like him. Katsuki is able to connect his ink black roots and faded red dye job to his loud, vivacious personality. Who else but someone with a desire to stand out would even bother keeping up such an appearance in this wasteland?

Katsuki also learns that there’s an organized chaos to the way they work together. Everything about Kirishima should make Katsuki hate him; he’s chatty, impulsive, optimistic to a fault, way too touchy…

But he’s also quick on his feet.

Clever in the emotional ways Katsuki is not.

He’s rock solid and dependable where Katsuki is turbulent.

Somehow, it just works.

One night, a storm chases them into the dilapidated remains of a drugstore. They rush in, sopping wet, the soles of their boots squeaking against the tile. Broken glass and empty food wrappers litter the floor. Along the walls, there are dark, empty refrigerators and equally vacant shelves.

It isn’t uncommon for looters to gut places like this. If anything, Katsuki is annoyed he hadn’t thought to do it first.

They find a corner clear of debris to rest their aching feet and Kirishima wastes no time in talking Katsuki’s ear off.

Katsuki supposes he doesn’t mind the sound of Kirishima’s voice. It’s a way to fill the silence he’s has grown uncomfortably used to—protection from his own thoughts. What’s more, as long as the idiot stays yapping, it means Katsuki doesn’t have to talk back.

His secrets don’t define him, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to let any asshole into his head. Some things are sacred. For now, his memories are fragmented moments in the back of his mind. They belong to him in the form of nightmares and fantasies that will become all too real the moment he shares them with anybody else.

So he lets Kirishima talk.

Kirishima’s head tilts back against the wall. He shuts his eyes as if lost in a moment long gone.

“I can’t remember anything before the orphanage,” he admits. His voice has taken on a softer tone, uncharacteristic of the boisterous pain in the ass Katsuki’s come to know. “It wasn’t much, you know. Overcrowded, underfunded...the food was awful.” He brings his hands together and starts to wring them out. “There were never enough beds either. We’d play games to decide who’d have to sleep on the floor for the night.” His lips quirk into a crooked grin. “I’d always let the younger kids win. It sounds pretty shit, but it was home. It was all we knew. Some kids, like me, were orphans of war but a lot of them were abandoned. We didn’t have anybody but each other.”

Kirishima rests his forehead on his joined hands. “When dorobous Thieved our caretakers, I was thirteen. Nobody knew what to do. So many of my siblings died. I was scared and desperate.” He takes in a shuddering breath. “I ran away. Like a coward. I didn’t do anything. Didn’t jump into the fray like a real man should.”

Katsuki tries to picture it, a younger, doe-eyed Kirishima, running without purpose. All his life he had nothing—he was running toward nothing—and yet, he stayed on his feet with love in his heart and a will to live.

How could someone so kind survive in such an unforgiving place? Katsuki tries to wrap his head around it. These days, survival is earned only by the most ruthless.

Katsuki isn’t sure whether it’s Kirishima or the world he’d underestimated. Both of their truths cannot coexist.

“Do you ever regret it?” Katsuki asks, mulling the pieces over, studying the nuances of Kirishima and the broken pieces of his sorry life. He wants it to make sense.

“What, surviving?” Kirishima chuckles. “What kind of question is that?”

Katsuki wonders if he’d have the same optimism if his strength amounted to something other than more time in hell.

A grin that’s at once hopeful and sad touches Kirishima’s lips. He punches Katsuki’s shoulder playfully. “Besides, I met you, didn’t I?”

***

The first time Eijirou sees a dorobou die, the shock leaves him reeling. He’s no stranger to death, but something about the way this body—once so omnipotent—hits the floor is horrifyingly human.

Smoke rises from the barrel of Bakugou’s rifle.

Eijirou’s stomach turns at the sight of the bullet nestled between the host’s eyes. A clean shot. From a distance, he might even look peaceful.

As he steps closer, Eijirou studies the details of his face—close-cropped brown hair, patchy stubble on his chin, thick eyebrows and a hooked nose. The veiny black tinge under his eyelids is the only indication that he was ever anything but human.

Who was he before he was Thieved? Whose life did we just take?

Eijirou’s siblings and caretakers, all Thieved or murdered, flash with gruesome clarity in his head. One by one by one.

“Do you think they felt it?” Eijirou whispers. Lead has settled in his bones. His hands curl into fists to keep them from trembling.

Bakugou snorts, slinging his rifle around his back. “Who gives a shit?”

“Not the dorobou,” Eijirou corrects, his voice steadier than he would have given himself credit for. “I mean the man...do people stay conscious when they’re….Thieved? Are they still there? Do they know they’re being kil—”

“You talk too fucking much.” Bakugou’s voice is like ice. “Let’s go. We don’t know if there were more where he came from.”

The way Bakugou withdraws from hard questions isn’t lost on him. It leaves Eijirou wondering what he’s so afraid of and what he’s seen to make him so cold.

More so...why was it so easy for him to pull the trigger?

***

When Kirishima manages to hotwire a pickup truck, Katsuki supposes he could have done worse in finding a partner. It’s in bad shape, with a cracked windshield and rusty paint job—not to mention the fact that it’s ancient—but it isn’t like they can afford to be choosy.

Methodically, he fiddles with a tangle of blue and red wires, tongue poking out between his sharp teeth, and Katsuki can’t help but study the stern wrinkle in between his brows. He is held captive by the movement of Kirishima’s calloused, dirt-caked fingers looping, tying, pulling, working in such a comfortable motion that Katsuki knows he’s done this many times before.

The truck roars to life; Kirishima sits up and grins. A drop of sweat rolls down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. Katsuki drags his eyes away once he realizes he’d been staring.

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” he remarks.

Kirishima laughs, unapologetically loud. It does something strange to Katsuki’s pulse. He shoves him out of the way and settles into the driver’s side, then looks at the dashboard. The gas meter is a hair away from empty. He sighs.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how to siphon gas too, would you?”

As night rolls in, the two decide it’s best to get some much needed rest. They lay a couple of blankets they stole from a looted shop some weeks ago over the truck bed’s hard ridges and then collapse beneath a threadbare quilt they found in the backseat.

Katsuki’s heavy eyes fall closed as cool air fans across his face. The humble chaos of nighttime has always been so strange to him. Daytime can be so quiet—lonely, when your only company is the terrain. But nighttime rings.

Crickets on the outside.

Memories on the inside.

Kirishima’s breathing so steady and calm...protective in its own inexplicable way and shushing Katsuki’s hurricane of thoughts.

He shifts and Katsuki opens his eyes, transfixed by the way the moonlight drips over Kirishima’s face, delicately tracing his features. He follows the soft silver lines from the ends of his hair, down the slope of his nose, over the curve of his lips, enamored by how they shift and change as he moves.

Kirishima turns on his side and Katsuki can’t breathe for a second. They’re close enough that he could count his eyelashes if he wanted to—long, black, and brushing the top of his cheeks when he blinks.

“Can I ask you something?” Kirishima asks, almost whispering.

Katsuki swallows, something heavy settling in his chest. “What is it?”

“You asked me some time ago...if I ever regretted surviving.” Kirishima wets his lips and the crease between his brows returns, like the question is something he’d considered as carefully as he did the wires in their truck. “Do you?”

He exhales, watching the scar on Kirishima’s eyelid appear and disappear as he blinks. He doesn’t know how to answer that. Survival nowadays is limited only to how desperate you are—more so, how lucky. Katsuki has never been fond of games of chance.

At last, he settles with, “I don’t regret not giving up.” Be it due to luck, skill, selfishness, or a combination of it all, Katsuki doesn’t know how to surrender. He’ll stay alive out of spite if he must. What better way is there to get back at a life that took everything away from him?

Kirishima stares and it makes Katsuki feel naked, like his gaze alone can crack through his armor and sink beneath his skin. He wants to turn away but he’s trapped. Kirishima’s eyes are a deep crimson with sunny flecks of gold—embers that don’t stop burning.

Gooseflesh covers Katsuki’s arms.

He tells himself it’s just the chill.

“My mentor.” The words fall from Katsuki’s tongue. Kirishima’s eyes hold him steady like his own private gravity and it makes Katsuki feel safe.

Maybe secrets whispered in the dark aren’t quite as real.

Kirishima moves closer and their knees bump under the blanket. Electricity sparks in the places they touch.

“I…” Katsuki’s mouth feels dry. He clears his throat and tells him, “My parents and I joined the rebellion when I was a kid. We went out on rescue missions, slaying dorobous and bringing civilians back to the safe house we built. My mentor...he was well-known in our town. A hero, really.” What Katsuki doesn’t say is that Toshinori Yagi was practically his father after his own parents were Thieved and then mercy-killed by their own comrades in action.

He feels Kirishima’s fingertips graze his arm, maybe by accident. Katsuki draws in a swift breath.

“What happened to him?” he asks, gentle and undemanding. Maybe the skeletons in Kirishima’s own closet have given him this specific type of empathy. Or maybe he’s just that kind.

“I went out on my own one night,” he says, curling his trembling hands into fists. Anxiety mangles his words and Katsuki needs a moment to recalibrate. This memory—this confession—isn’t supposed to belong to anybody else.

He keeps talking.

“That fucking safe house felt more like a graveyard than a sanctuary,” he grinds out. “It was full of grief-stricken survivors. I had to get away, just for a bit. Every day felt like a goddamn funeral.”

Kirishima says nothing. His eyes are so damn big, like a puppy’s. It at once throws Katsuki and comforts him.

“I got ambushed by dorobous. Like a dumbass I wasn’t armed so the fight seemed pretty hopeless. I kept thinking to myself that I’d rather die than be Thieved, as if I had the luxury of a choice.” Katsuki grasps the blanket with white knuckles, swallowing the knot in his throat. This fucker will not see him cry.

“Toshinori, my mentor, noticed I was gone so he came looking for me. The idiot was recognized immediately. I mean, people called him All Might. He was their worst nightmare…”

Or at least that had been true before his accident. After a close call with a dorobou some years prior, Toshinori was left walking with a cane and almost blind in his left eye. His aim wasn’t what it once was. He could barely hold his own in a fight. He existed as a symbol, a tactical leader, but he hadn’t been on the frontlines in years.

“I wasn’t as interesting to the dorobous anymore and he saved my life at the cost of his own.” His voice was strangled and he cursed himself for being so weak, even now. “They killed him. And I ran away when I should have died by his side.” Beneath his own anger and grief, he knew why he did. Because if Katsuki had died that night, Toshinori’s sacrifice would have been for nothing.

It still felt like a flimsy excuse.

“It was my fault.” It comes out in a broken whisper that didn’t even sound like himself. “If I hadn’t gone out...if I hadn’t been there…” He shakes his head furiously and curses under his breath.

Kirishima touches his arm, running his thumb across his skin. “Hey...what happened after that?” A soft voice. A steady voice.

Katsuki swallows. “I couldn’t face anyone. I took one of his guns from the weapon closet and ran like hell.” As an afterthought, he adds, “The leader of the attack looked like you from the back. It’s the reason I chased you down that first day. Sorry, I guess.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kirishima says.

Katsuki finally averts his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says again. His fingers stay on Katsuki’s skin. “Look, this world doesn’t really lend itself much to blame. Shit happens and we just have to get through it as best as we can.”

Katsuki turns away from him because suddenly he can’t stand to be touched. He’s surrounded by the ghosts he just set free. It’s all too much.

He hears Kirishima sigh but then the silence feels all too heavy. It empties his mind of the present and leaves too much room for the memories. He comes to a compromise.

“Hey, idiot,” Katsuki says. “Tell me a story.”

Kirishima tenses beside him. He stammers, “Uh, s-sure. Of what?”

“Anything.” He just needs to hear his voice until sleep pulls him under.

And so he does and his gravity returns. When they wake up the next morning, they’re a tangle of limbs.

***

Sunlight beckons them awake and they extricate themselves from each other without words. For the past few weeks, ever since their first night together on the truck bed, every morning has been this way.

Eijirou tucks his pistol into a proper holster now while Bakugou is bent over his knees, lacing up his boots. Once they’re both ready, they share a glance and then hop into the front seats, off again. Sleepy, laconic conversations have become routine for them and each response brings them closer to some semblance of the energy required to survive.

“You reek,” Bakugou says.

“So do you,” Eijirou says.

“Let’s find a shower.”

“But food first.”

“Food first.”

“And coffee.”

A snort. “Good luck finding that.”

“You really do reek, man.”

“You didn’t think so when you clung to me last night.”

Eijirou laughs, tilting his head back against the seat, listening to the rickety hum of their motor. He catches Bakugou’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

It’s rare to find an abandoned supermarket stocked up, but when they stumble upon one with its front doors intact, Eijirou suggests they give it a look.

Bakugou grunts an affirmative.

Humid air rolls over them as they step inside. The first thing Eijirou notices is the assaulting stench of rancid meat.

“Eugh,” he half-gags. “That’s ripe.”

“Good sign,” says Bakugou. He stalks past Eijirou. “Means there’s still food here. There’s gotta be something salvageable.”

“Should we split up, then? Cover more ground?”

The faster they’re out of here, the better. If this place has yet to be looted, that means it’s only a matter of time.

“Yeah.” Bakugou cocks his rifle, ever-vigilant. “We’ll meet back at the entrance in ten.”

They part ways and Eijirou combs through the aisles, stocking up on whatever non-perishables he can find. A jar of peanut butter. Saltine crackers. Canned goods. His backpack puts on satisfying weight. But the rotting smell only grows more oppressive the closer he moves toward the back.

He tiptoes forward and the stench sends his stomach lurching. When he turns the corner, fear winds through his stomach.

A girl—no, a corpse—lies at his feet. One yellow-tinted, glassy eye stares straight through Eijirou; the other has been eaten by a festival of maggots that have since found a home in her now-hollow skull.

Infected black veins bulge from her ashen, emaciated hands.

Not just a corpse. A discarded host.

Eijirou draws his gun and calls Bakugou’s name.

Katsuki backs into a wall, aiming his rifle at the horde of enemies closing in on him. He’s limited on bullets and would prefer not to waste any on these lowlife dorobous but if he must, then he will. His eyes dart from left to right, searching for an opening.

Kirishima’s voice falls on deaf ears. It wrenches Katsuki’s heart. Is he alright? Did a dorobou find him? He knows Kirishima is more than capable of taking care of himself.

But still...

The one directly in front of Katsuki cocks his head with amusement. Katsuki’s head spins; something about him sets his nerves on end.

“You know…” His voice is deep and gravelly, grating against Katsuki’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. “You remind me of an old friend. It’s that look in your eyes.”

Katsuki’s blood runs cold but he shows no indication. He narrows his eyes and clicks a bullet into its chute.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he says, though he’s still careful. Right now, his odds aren’t good.

“Aw, kid, don’t you remember me?” He smiles, displaying a row of decaying teeth. “I wonder if All Might would be proud to know you’re still alive.”

Silence.

Eijirou’s heart sinks.

Without thinking, he breaks into a run.

He keeps his gun drawn as his eyes scan the area, desperately searching for a sign of his partner.

He runs.

Leaping over debris and groceries strewn over the floor.

He runs.

As nightmarish what-ifs fill his head to a point of bursting.

He runs, and runs, and runs.

Because if he doesn’t...

His thoughts and better judgment are so wholly monopolized by adrenaline that he isn’t prepared when he’s tackled. He crashes to the floor, gripping his gun to his chest. Cans of food spill out from his backpack and roll straight into the foot of an adjacent shelf.

Eijirou turns over with a gasp, aiming the gun forward. A dorobou with a nest of blonde hair crushes his legs beneath her weight. Her honey-colored eyes are feral with hunger. A web of black veins blooms from her temple.

Her body has already started to give from the infection; once a host can no longer sustain them, they find their next target.

That insurance bullet flashes in his mind.

She’ll kill him. She’ll take him. The gun throbs in Eijirou’s hand like the heartbeats its bullets are meant to collect.

He should kill her.

He should…

A scream tears through his chest and he jams the butt of his gun into her nose. She shrieks as blood runs over her lips. He wrestles her off and leaps to his feet and he doesn’t hesitate to take off again.

Red floods Katsuki’s vision. Toshinori’s alias falls off the dorobou’s tongue like something poisonous. Visceral familiarity carves into Katsuki’s gut and suddenly the pieces jerk into place. Those smug eyes. The bloodlust that would rather kill than Thieve.

A different host, but it’s him.

“You.” Katsuki abandons logic and self-preservation. He lunges at him. “You son of a bitch!”

He’s shoved to the floor by four or five others and his rifle is wrenched from his grip. It clatters to the floor, out of reach.

“I want the body!”

“Shut up! My host has given way. I need it the most.”

“If you damage it beyond repair, none of us will be able to take it!”

A knee jams into his back and Katsuki’s jaw cracks against the tile. Agony explodes through his body. All of his senses but the ones that register pain begin shutting off. White noise spills into his ears and he feels like his skull is about to burst open.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t see.

He can’t speak.

Why the hell did he let his anger get the better of him? Katsuki tries to curse but pain shoots through his spine.

Maybe this is some kind of penance. To die the same way as Toshinori, the way he should have all those years ago.

Even now, thinking of his mentor’s sacrifice, he’s so selfish.

He’d give anything for more time.

More things to learn. More sunrises to see. More...more nights under the stars and long drives in comfortable silence and more warmth. Warmth under a tender gaze, a familiar voice, a soft touch...

...just...more…

The floor grows warm as pins and needles spread across his back. His heartbeat slows, but so does the pain.

Is it over?

It’s so quiet.

And then, a gunshot.

A scream.

A sob.

Bang.

A watery voice calls his name, not Bakugou, but Katsuki. It sounds so sweet. Like a lullaby. He wants to hear it again. Warm hands carefully roll him over and take him into their arms.

“Hey.”

It’s so warm.

“Katsuki.”

It’s so safe.

“Godammit, STAY WITH ME!”

A gentle flame flecked with fierce gold embers. It’s so beautiful.

“I took care of them but we need to leave before we’re ambushed by more.”

It’s...

“Katsuki.”

It’s home.

***

And then everything burns white.

Katsuki’s eyes open to what feels like the goddamn sun. Slowly, the stiff gears in his mind begin to turn as shards of reality draw together: the ridges of the truck bed under his body, the throbbing in his head, the smell of grass and gasoline, and the faraway sound of music trickling through static—a radio?

He groans and tries sitting up but the pain knocks him back down. Kirishima is instantly by his side, hands hovering just above Katsuki’s shoulders.

Kirishima.

He takes him in: big doe eyes, razor sharp teeth barely biting down on his bottom lip whenever he’s concentrated or confused, the scar cutting through his eyelid. He’s so soft. Kind. For a dumb moment, Katsuki asks himself how someone like this could possibly fit into a world so cruel.

“The….fuck,” Katsuki says.

Kirishima helps settle him into a sitting position, then gestures sheepishly at Katsuki. “I hope it’s okay. I have, like, the bare minimum of first aid knowledge. They taught us at the orphanage. But, uh, I’ve never properly dressed a stab wound.”

Stab wound?

He glances down at his body and connects the pain with a concentrated area just shy of the small of his back. Threadbare bandages are wound tightly around his torso.

“It’s...fine,” Katsuki manages, still dazed.

Kirishima sits back on his heels and exhales; it looks as if it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to breathe in days. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

His head is still full of fog, but through the haze of pain, confusion, and whatever memory he has from that night in the supermarket, he’s able to realize one thing.

Kirishima saved him.

Kirishima, with his gentle heart and careful hands pulled the trigger again and again, crying Katsuki’s name—desperate. Kirishima who once asked him if human hosts could still feel the fear and agony of being Thieved, and then being killed. He discarded his own empathy to save Katsuki.

Dorobou or not, his hands are forever stained with blood now.

“You,” Katsuki begins, then stops himself. He doesn’t need to rehash that. Not right now. There will be time to talk about it just like there will be time for Katsuki to return the favor. Instead, he sighs. “It had to be you, didn’t it? No other asshole could have gotten us out of that mess alive.”

Kirishima laughs and the remaining tension bleeds out of him. There’s still something different in his eyes—not broken, but less naive. They’re the eyes of someone who just learned that the only way to survive is to be more ruthless than the world you’re in.

But those fire eyes with their sunny gold flecks are still unequivocally Kirishima Eijirou.

“Is there anything you need?” he asks. “I mean, now that you’re awake.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of the front seat. “I can change the radio station, though, it’s either this or polka.”

Katsuki has half a mind to snap at Kirishima for coddling him. He doesn’t, though. Because it’s Kirishima. Because when everything was slowing to a stop, all he could see was scarlet eyes and a starlit smile.

So he doesn’t curse at him, or move away, or listen to the parts of himself telling him he’s a fool for letting anybody this deep into his heart.

He says, “You called me Katsuki.”

Pink blossoms on Kirishima’s cheeks. He lets out a nervous laugh and scratches the back of his head. “Sorry about that. I, uh, things were...I mean, you know. I don’t kn—”

“God, you talk too fucking much,” says Katsuki. His fingers wind through the fabric of Kirishima’s shirtfront and he pulls him in for a kiss. Butterflies explode in his stomach and his heart feels like it’s about to burst out through his ribs and at first, he thinks Kirishima is going to push him away.

But he melts.

His hands cradle Katsuki’s face, calloused thumbs circling his cheeks. His flushed skin, soft lips, and the rhythm of his pulse intoxicates him like a drug. When they pull apart, Kirishima licks his lips, and then laughs.

Katsuki is taken aback. Defensively, he sputters, “What the hell?”

“You’re so cute when you’re smitten,” he replies, then presses a sweet kiss to the side of his mouth. Katsuki’s face burns. “Man, I’m so glad you didn’t kill me that first day.”

He snorts, then narrows his eyes. “Once again, you talk way too damn much.”

Kirishima cocks an eyebrow. “What are you going to do about it?”

They fall back into each other and Katsuki smiles against Eijirou’s mouth, thankful at the very least for one thing: that all of the anguish leading up until now gave him something so good. Maybe they were unfairly born into a world where the odds are stacked against them. But maybe there’s also something to be said about the way they’ve kicked adversity in the ass. Destiny, fate, or whatever brought hellfire to their home, challenged humanity to a fight to the death.

Every moment up until now has been about trying to conquer the insurmountable. But now, together, there isn’t an odd they won’t beat.

#kiribaku #bakushima #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #fanfic #zine

3 notes · View notes

bubonickitten · 4 years

Link

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter 3 is up!

Chapter 1 (tumblr // AO3) | Chapter 2 (tumblr // AO3)

Full text + content warnings under the cut.

CW: brief claustrophobia; some grief and loss stuff; a few more instances of casual misgendering (not malicious; just some wrong pronouns here and there due to the speaking-in-statements thing, but thought I'd mention it just in case); a single LORGE spider. Also, Jon gets to do one (1) swear, as a treat. SPOILERS through MAG 169.

Chapter 3: Rift

Jon doesn’t remember the hill being this steep.

Or maybe he’s just winded from the long trek through the wasteland. He’d had to pass through a long stretch of territory fought over by the Buried and the Vast. The ground there was practically a minefield, pockmarked with sinkholes. They would start out as quicksand traps and suffocating tunnel entrances, only to be hollowed out into yawning chasms and cenotes, then ultimately collapsed all over again by a retaliation-minded Choke. It was an endless cycle of petty rivalry and animosity, and passing so near their battlegrounds left Jon breathless with a discordant mix of claustrophobia and agoraphobia.

Worse was when the Dark managed to sneak its way into the mix. Whether it was Too Close I Cannot Breathe or the Vast’s abyss, the Dark could always find a way to exploit subterranean spaces – and it could never resist reaching out to needle at an Avatar of the Eye, no matter how inadvisable it was to cross the Archive these days.

As Jon drew closer to Hill Top Road, he left the warzone behind for a mostly featureless landscape punctuated with the occasional foxholes of the Slaughter and pockets of the Forsaken’s fog. Eventually those too gave way to a seemingly endless dust bowl of soot and ash – a sprawling domain claimed by the Lightless Flame.

The house at Hill Top Road is the only thing still standing in the midst of kilometres of Desolation-scorched earth. The charred terrain stops abruptly at the foot of the hill, a stark line demarcating the boundary between the Blackened Earth and the territory that Annabelle Cane has staked out as her own. Jon had half-expected an invisible barrier to stop him there as well – the last time he was here, Annabelle had forbidden him from returning – but there had been no resistance when he stepped over the border.

As he hikes up the incline now, he finds himself worrying over what that might mean. Is Annabelle expecting him, inviting him in? Is she simply tolerating his presence, curious to see what he’s up to? Could he be powerful enough now that even she cannot stop him? Or is he once again wrapped up in the Web’s machinations, doing exactly what the Mother of Puppets wants?

He shakes his head. No. He and Martin talked about this. There’s no point in obsessing over the Web’s motivations, letting the memory of Annabelle’s statement paralyze him with indecision. Better to just… keep moving forward.

And it’s not like he has anything left to lose.

Jon continues up the hill, increasingly winded, his bad leg throbbing angrily, and he thinks to himself again: he really, really doesn’t remember it being this steep.

Before long, he’s standing at the threshold of the house at Hill Top Road. The dread permeating the place is just as palpable as he remembered.

He waits for the Distortion’s inevitable appearance, determined not to let her startle him this time. As if on cue, a door creaks open on the ceiling above him.

“Interesting.” Without preamble, Helen lands noiselessly on her feet beside Jon and peers around curiously. “I wondered whether Annabelle would let me in.”

So did Jon. Maybe he should be concerned about – no. He shuts down that train of thought before it can pull out of the station.

“You still haven’t explained what exactly you plan on doing here.”

Honestly, that’s mostly because Jon hasn’t figured it out yet, either. He only Knows that this is where he needs to be.

The Eye wants things to change – as much as it can be said to want anything. Setting the question of its sentience or lack thereof aside, at the Panopticon he had been able to Know things that the Beholding had previously withheld from him. He might be stronger than the other Avatars and monsters lurking about the world, but he’s not arrogant enough to believe he could overpower any of the Fears themselves. If the Ceaseless Watcher gives him access to knowledge, it’s because his Knowing will facilitate – or at least not inhibit – its plans, which means that he must have the Eye’s… blessing, to be here? He shakes his head; he’s getting caught up on semantics again.

Point is: he Asked a question and – as usual – he was given a scrap of an answer and left to puzzle the rest out for himself. All he Knows for certain is what he wants to happen, and that this is where he needs to be in order to make it happen.

“Jonathan.” Helen says his name with a playful lilt and leans further into his personal space. “Are you going to share with the class?”

Without a word, he sidesteps around her and walks further into the house. In her statement, Anya Villette had mentioned a door under the stairs leading to the basement, but the last time Jon was here, it was nowhere to be seen. He hopes it’s there this time.

“What are you looking for?”

Jon drags one hand down his face and sighs. Having Helen tag along is like taking a road trip through hell with an easily bored and… well, deeply annoying child. Huh.

“I won’t be ignored, Jon –”

Jon bristles, redirects his gaze, and stares daggers at her with a few more eyes than strictly necessary. “Some magically appearing door.”

“You aren’t being very kind to me right now, you know.” She tries to sound wounded, but really she just sounds pleased to have gotten a reaction from him.

Jon gives an irritated huff and continues forward through the entrance hall. He treads softly, all too aware of every subtle creak of a floorboard. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering muffling his footsteps. It doesn’t matter how quiet he is; Annabelle will know – probably already knows – that he’s here regardless. Still, there’s just something about the house that demands a certain amount of fearful reverence. Disturbing the silence just feels like a bad idea.

Helen doesn’t appear to have the same concerns. In fact, it almost seems like she’s going out of her way to announce their presence. Of course.

Jon catches a glimpse of the staircase as he rounds the corner and – yes, there’s a door under the stairs. A plain, painted white door with a brass handle, otherwise unremarkable and entirely unassuming.

And yet…

As he tries to approach it, he finds himself rooted to the spot, overcome with a sense of trepidation. He feels his breath coming faster, shallower; feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Every one of the Archive’s eyes locks onto the doorknob and for a moment he swears he feels tiny, feather-light legs scurrying down his spine. He pulls his pack tight against him, using the physical weight of it to dampen the tactile hallucination.

“I hate it,” Helen says darkly. Jon jumps just slightly at the break in the silence, and a few of the Archive’s eyes suspend their rapt scrutiny of the door handle to glance in her direction. Her posture is tense where she stands, staring warily at the door as if it might lunge at them. Jon has never seen the Distortion look so… unsettled.

She’s right, though. The door is wrong. More than that, it’s the exact same flavor of wrongness that he felt the first time he saw A Guest for Mr. Spider, and again when he reached out to knock on the monster’s door.

Back then, he hadn’t known that the concept of wrongness could be broken down into so many distinct subtypes: the uncanny disquietude of the Stranger feels fundamentally different from the compulsion of the coffin, the sensation of worms tunneling through flesh, the Distortion’s nonsensical corridors, the Lonely’s suffocating fog.

The pull of the Web is in a class of its own, and the sight of the door in front of him drops him right back into the memory of the day he opened the book – the day he took the first step on the winding path that led him, inevitably, to this exact moment. It’s such a fitting parallel, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was orchestrated down to the finest detail. He knows the Web plays a long game, but precisely how much of what has happened was in perfect accordance with the Web’s plans? What even is the Web’s –

No. Stop fixating on the Spider, he reprimands himself for the umpteenth time this… day? Whatever; it’s not important. He forces his legs to move.

“You’re sticking your hand in a bear trap, I hope you know.”

“I knew opening the door was a stupid thing to do,” Jon says, nonchalant. “So I opened the door.”

Helen breathes a surprised laugh. “Was that a joke?”

“The idea that this is all some grand cosmic joke,” Jon rattles off drily, “thousands of us running around spread horror and sabotaging each other pointlessly while these impossible unknowing things just lurk out there, feeding off the misery we caused –”

“Terrible.” Helen groans and puts her head in her hands. “Here I was, ready to compliment you on finally finding a sense of humor, and you have to ruin the moment with – with existentialist brooding.”

Jon chuckles quietly to himself and takes another step forward.

“Wait.” Helen reaches one long-fingered hand in Jon’s direction, then falters and pulls back. For a moment, she seems to wrestle with whether or not to continue. “What’s behind the door?”

“A scar in reality –”

“Yes, I know about the rift. What do you expect to find in it? An answer? An escape? A means of suicide?”

“A metaphysical quirk of this new reality’s divorce from the traditional concept of time.”

Jon pauses, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks inward and browses through his catalog.

“It bends and twists and returns to what it was,” he settles on eventually.

“I told you not to use my words.” Helen gives him a warning look, but it’s fleeting, because a moment later his meaning sinks in and she huffs out a short laugh of disbelief. “Wait – wait, wait, wait. You think you can… what, turn back time?”

Jon grimaces and makes a noncommittal seesawing motion with one hand.

“…could emerge back into the world that she remembered.”

Helen starts laughing in earnest now. “You think you can time travel?”

Jon just shrugs, unashamed. He knows he should feel embarrassed – back when he first took the position as Head Archivist, he would have scoffed at anyone making such a suggestion – but at this point, is it any more or less unrealistic than anything else that’s happened?

“Alright,” Helen says, stifling another giggle, “I’ll grant you that there’s a rift in space and time. People have traveled through it before.”

Jon gives an enthusiastic nod. After her encounter with the crack in the house's foundation, Anya Villette had found herself temporally displaced. What would stop Jon from also –

“However,” Helen continues, “what makes you think you’ll just rewind your position on this timeline? It could just take you to a parallel world, leaving this one behind to suffer and decay. Would you abandon what remains of humanity like that?”

Seeing as Anya Villette appeared to have also been spatially displaced, Jon has already considered this possibility. Helen probably knows that, too – she’s well-acquainted with his tendency to overthink things. She’s just trying to tap into his chronic self-loathing, demoralize him, make him doubt his own perceptions. It’s a familiar pattern, one Jon used to submit to far too easily.

“…better than staying here with this strange woman.”

“Ouch.” Helen brings a hand to her chest in mock offense. “You’re being awfully cruel today.”

Jon flashes an entirely unapologetic smile.

“I was being serious, you know.” A knowing mischief creeps into Helen’s eyes. “You’ve always been selfish, but would you really run away from your mistakes, save yourself and damn the rest?”

Unfortunately for Helen, she’s arrived too late to this particular debate. Jon already spent the entire trip here berating himself and second-guessing his conclusions, and he’s just about gotten it out of his system for the time being. Self-recrimination as an inoculation against the Distortion’s manipulations – now there’s a concept, he thinks wryly.

“Do you honestly believe you deserve to escape an apocalypse that you brought about?”

God, she’s persistent.

“Now there’s only one thing I have left that I value,” he says simply. “That I love. And I cannot lose him.”

It’s the truth: the final deciding factor for him was, as it so often is, Martin.

“You would potentially forsake this entire world just to reverse your own loss?”

“There was nothing left to save.”

It never gets easier to admit it out loud, but that doesn’t change the truth of it. This world is already forsaken. Humanity is dying out, slowly but surely, and Jon harbors a guilty feeling of relief that their torment will not be eternal after all. As far as he can See, there’s no way for him to save the ones who remain. There never was.

His power was never meant to help anyone. For a long time, the only action within his grasp was to hurt – and so, he went after those who deserved to be hurt, because the only other option was doing nothing at all. But seeking revenge never saved anyone, never even made himself feel any better. If anything, it only made him feel emptier, more and more alienated from whatever human part of him still lingered – and that was a very dangerous place to be.

And when he and Martin decided together that he needed to slow down, to maintain some distance between himself and the Eye? Well… nothing substantial changed in the slightest. He didn’t get any worse, but he also didn’t get better. The world continued to suffer just as much as if he were to sit down and take no action at all. Nothing he did or did not do made any impact whatsoever.

He Knows intimately that he cannot banish the Entities from this world as long as one person remains to feel fear. Once that last person dies, there will be no one left to save. Hell, depending on how human he still is by that time, he may very well be that last person, and the Dread Powers will just have to ration him. And why shouldn’t they? They’ve all had a taste of him more than once. He’s an unfinished meal. They could just resume hacking away at him, demanding their respective pounds of flesh one after the other until nothing remains – until finally, mercifully, the Fears themselves would wither and die as well. He just doesn’t want to consider how long that could take – no. Best not to dwell on it.

The point is, there is no future for this world. There is nothing left for him to do here. His only hope is to prevent all of this from coming to pass in the first place, and this… this is the only lead he has. And besides, Martin –

“You do realize that you have a vanishingly small chance of seeing him again, don’t you?”

“I decided to take a risk and try it anyway.”

Helen looks put out at his easy dismissal, but she really ought to know better by now, Jon thinks. He might be chronically plagued by self-hate and a visceral fear of being controlled, but Martin is his anchor in more ways than one. Their relationship is proof of Jon’s own capacity for free will, and his decision to go after Martin in the Lonely remains one of the only things he’s done where he’s never once wondered whether he made the right choice. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more confident about anything than he is about their love for each other, even if he doesn’t always feel like he deserves it. Helen really couldn’t pick a worse seed with which to sow self-doubt.

When she sees that Jon isn’t taking the bait, she changes tack.

“And assuming this scheme somehow works as you hope it does, and doesn’t just get you shunted to some hellish pocket dimension – which it almost certainly will – you do realize that your little scene with Jonah Magnus will mean nothing, don’t you? This future will be erased, he will not suffer for eternity – he won’t even remember that it was ever a possibility.”

“For all her anger, there was no thirst for revenge in the Archivist, only an eagerness to expunge an infection that had gone unnoticed for too long.”

“Then why bother confronting him? I know it wasn’t for closure – if you were at all capable of letting go or moving on, you would never have been a candidate for the Beholding in the first place, and we wouldn’t be here now.” Jon just barely manages to not flinch at that. Luckily, Helen doesn’t seem to notice that she struck a nerve, instead staring up at the ceiling in contemplation, as if trying to decipher Jon’s motivations on her own. “So, why? All those messy emotions it dredged up and for what – the drama of it all?”

“I live for the monologue,” he deadpans.

“Jonathan!” Helen gapes at him in exaggerated shock. “Was that another joke?”

She could stand to tone down the condescension, Jon thinks. It isn’t his fault if people overlook his sense of humor just because they never think to listen for it.

“Are you certain about this, Archivist? You have a history of reaching these points of no return and choosing the worst imaginable path.”

Even at the very end, the Distortion just can’t resist one last chance at undermining his confidence. Despite the cockiness underlying her taunt, Helen has a hungry, almost pleading look in her eye – desperate, like everything else in this place that feeds on fear, for scraps in the midst of a famine that will never be remedied.

Jon reaches out and grips the doorknob with one hand.

“Even the end of the world can’t stop you throwing yourself on a grenade. Can’t say I’m surprised. I’m not following you in there, though.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose.”

“I am trying to have a heartfelt goodbye, Jonathan,” Helen says, not sounding sincere in the slightest. “I doubt this will go as you hope it will, but I’m fairly certain that no matter what happens, I won’t be seeing you again. I won’t wish you luck, but… well, it will be interesting to see whether one of your half-assed plans might pan out for once – not that they ever have gone according to plan.” When Jon’s resolve remains strong, Helen sighs – and this time, her disappointment does sound genuine. “Well, if you’re sure…” She trails off, giving him one last hopeful look – once last chance to fall apart under her skillful denigrations – before her shoulders slump in resignation.

Not content to leave it at that, though, she does offer one last parting shot: “Do say hello to the Spider for me, won’t you?”

An involuntary shudder courses down Jon’s spine as he remembers Anya Villette’s statement – the massive spider legs reaching up to pull her into the crack in the foundation – and compares it with his own memory of the book, the door, and the monster lurking within. Helen breathes a contented sigh at his ripple of unease – basically a snack for her, at Jon’s expense. Fine. She can have that last little morsel of fear from him, as a parting gift.

“Sometimes you just have to leave,” Jon says firmly, turning the handle. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”

And, oh, it does.

Miraculously, Helen allows him to have the last word. As he pushes open the door to the basement, he hears Helen’s door creak open in unison. By the time he’s staring down the stairs into the dark, her door has snapped shut and popped out of existence.

The staircase pitches down, down, down, stretching far deeper than it should. It’s too dark to see much of anything, and it takes a full minute of descent until he notices that there’s a slight curve to it. With every step, the air grows warmer and more stifling. The revolting sensation of walking through cobwebs becomes a constant, but any time he reaches up to brush away the web clinging to him, he feels nothing but his own bare skin.

A few minutes in, his bad leg starts twinging again, and he holds on to the wall to steady himself. Before long, his mind begins to wander to the horrifying possibility that the staircase is interminable, and he’s overcome by an image of a funnel web spider waiting patiently for unsuspecting prey. He tries to push the thought away. Just keep moving.

Between the lack of visibility and being lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice the sharp turn in the staircase until he plows right into the wall, a sharp pain erupting in his left shoulder from the collision. He throws one hand back to steady himself and only barely manages to stay on his feet, his bad leg protesting as he throws his weight into it. After briefly taking inventory of himself and experimentally putting weight on his leg again – painful, but not unbearable – he gropes blindly for the wall again and uses it to guide himself forward, more slowly this time. It isn’t long before the stone of the wall gives way to cool, damp earth, and he shivers with the memory of the Buried.

After several more sharp, nearly 90-degree twists and turns, a faint glow starts to permeate the darkness. A few minutes later, the staircase opens up into a large, dimly-lit space, garlanded with spider silk. The ceiling, walls, and floor are composed of tightly-packed dirt, and Jon has to fight back a rush of claustrophobic panic at the thought of being surrounded on all sides by the crushing earth. It’s short-lived, as it’s crowded out by a much deeper, more primal fear when he sees the fissure in the ground ahead.

It’s a repulsive, crooked thing, oozing with a pervasive, tangible feeling of wrongness. It should not be there. It cannot be there. And yet there it is, boldly existing where it has no right or reason to be, a gnawing, open, inflamed wound in the fabric of reality, pulling him toward it like a black hole. It’s a compulsion stronger than the coffin, an abomination more uncanny than the Stranger, a malice deeper than any Dark, an inevitability on par with Terminus itself.

Jon hates it. At his first glimpse of it, every one of the Archive’s eyes fly open, greedily drinking in the oppressive presence of something so unfamiliar and anomalous, leeching off of Jon’s terror as he beholds it. The scrutiny is fleeting, though, as the sight of it turns corrosive and blistering; all at once, the eyes shrink away and retreat, like a school of fish spotting a bird of prey swooping down for a meal. It takes some of the edge off, having fewer eyes with which to see the thing, but it still weighs him down with dread and revulsion.

Jon doesn’t know how long he’s stood there, staring unblinkingly at the fault line, before he senses a presence – something colossal and hungry and wrong, malevolence and foreboding given physical form – climbing inexorably toward him. He hears a faint rustling, the whisper of tiny avalanches of dirt scraped loose and sent sliding down the walls of the crevice. He knows exactly what to expect, and still he isn’t prepared when the first of the spider’s legs peeks up over the lip of the fissure.

How is it that after a lifetime to process a childhood trauma, it still throttles his heart and squeezes the air from his lungs at the mere thought of it? How is it that, despite being the most formidable thing in this world outside of Fear itself, he feels as small and helpless now as he did on the day he met his first of many monsters? Why is he just standing here, letting those hairy, spindly limbs hover and curl around him like an enormous clawed hand, waiting for a fate that is as unknowable as it is inevitable?

Focus, Jon thinks to himself. Listen to the quiet.

He slowly reaches into his jacket and breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers close around the notebook safeguarded there. It’s Martin’s, full of poems and sketches and stream-of-consciousness journal entries. Jon has had it with him for a long time now, but he’s never been able to bring himself to look inside it. Martin would occasionally share its contents with him – mostly completed poems, and only occasionally works in progress, as he was always self-conscious about his creative process – but Jon doesn’t want to accidentally see something that Martin would have preferred to keep to himself. Martin might not be beside him right now, but he still deserves to have his privacy respected.

Still, for Jon, just having it with him is a physical reminder of his anchor, and running his thumb over the cover grounds him in the present. He closes his eyes and looks inward.

The Archive gropes blindly for something solid amidst the noise, some elemental truth to serve as a starting point in the chaotic tangle choking this place. The edges of his mind brush against thread after thread and none of them are what he’s looking for. They stick to him, filling his head with cotton, making him sluggish and confused, obfuscating his sight. The Spider watches as he flails, becoming more and more snarled in the web.

“I closed my eyes and remembered in as much detail and with as much love as I could muster in my despair,” he whispers to himself, anchoring himself in the truth of the statement. He swallows a terrified whimper as something coarse and fuzzy brushes against his face, and he weaves a command into his next words: “Eventually, I opened my eyes again –”

The Archive obeys, hundreds of eyes materializing on his skin and blinking open in the space around him, grotesque satellites of varying sizes all seizing on single question, and suddenly he can See –

There.

A single thread, out of place among the rest, pulled taut and leading down into the deep gloom of the chasm. He spares a brief thought as to its origin point – Is its anchor here, now, or do its roots begin on the other side? – before silencing it. It’s not a question that needs answering right now. The Beholding objects; Jon reflexively shuts it down and takes an aggravated swipe at the nearest cluster of eyes he can reach, like swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes. He doesn’t think it actually does anything concrete, but when they disperse it brings him a small measure of satisfaction all the same.

He gives an experimental tug on the thread and – it feels right. That’s good, right? Well, he supposes it could be the Web trying to trick him into –

God, he’s like a dog with a bone. He could be trapped in a burning building and find part of his mind wandering off to idly ponder the melting point of steel –

…around 1370 °C for carbon steel; between 1400 and 1530°C for stainless steel, depending on the specific alloy and grade…

– which, yes, he has done. It’s a good way to dissociate from a crisis. Unfortunately, it’s also a good way to get killed, and the giant spider is still there, Jonathan, focus.

He holds fast to the thread – make a path for yourself, tune it to the frequency you need –

“Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me,” he tells himself, louder this time, “it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already.”

– and he follows it, stepping carefully around and between the spider’s legs. He has no idea why it isn’t attacking him – what if this is exactly what Annabelle – no. He shakes his head as if it will jostle the thought loose. Just be thankful for it and keep moving before the damn thing changes its mind.

Moments or hours or perhaps days later, he’s standing at the precipice of the fissure and looking down. Several eyes are riveted on the massive hairy form poised above him, but most are staring into the unknowable darkness with a gnawing, longing fascination. He stands frozen in place, torn between an overwhelming urge to flee and an overpowering need to Know what’s down there: something new, something fresh, something different – any reprieve at all from the excruciating monotony of this nightmare world.

The spider shifts above him. It’s now or never. He has nothing to lose, and if there’s any chance at all of changing this doomed future – of seeing Martin again…

“Sometimes you just have to leave,” he reminds himself, shutting his human eyes tight, one hand clutching the notebook and the other clenching into a fist until the fingernails cut into the palm. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”

He takes one last deep breath, thinks of Martin – safe hands, warm eyes, gentle touch – and he takes a leap of faith.

Jon can’t see anything. He can’t See, either. There is an incessant, high-pitched whine screaming in his ears and drowning out his thoughts. When he moves to put his hands over his ears, he realizes all at once that he can’t feel his body. He has no sense of up or down, no fingers to flex, no breath to hold, and – and he can’t See.

It’s… terrifying. It’s liberating. It hurts, but in the same way that his first gulp of fresh air hurt after three days asphyxiating in the Buried.

He doesn’t know how long he floats there in that near-senseless limbo, but between one moment and the next a blanket of fog drops over him and the shrill static is muffled. Through the haze, he can just barely make out a voice, coming from so far away – like he’s drowning, and someone is speaking to him from above the water’s surface. He drifts and listens in a daze as the voice cuts in and out.

“– just – thought I’d – by. Check in – how you’re –”

It’s a nice voice.

“– really need you –”

A safe voice.

“– Jon.”

Wait.

“– bad. I – how much longer we can –”

Wait, it’s – that’s Martin’s voice.

“We – I need you.”

It’s Martin. Martin!

Martin is here, he’s here – Jon doesn’t know where here is, but it doesn’t matter, because Martin is here, and – and Jon is so overwhelmed with euphoria that he isn’t actually processing what’s being said. Calm down, focus – focus on the words –

“And I – I know that you’re not –”

Oh.

“I know there’s no way to –”

Oh, no.

“But we need you, Jon.”

All at once, Jon knows where – when he is.

“Jon, please, just – please.”

No. No, no, no, no –

“If – if there’s anything left in you that can still see us, or –”

Martin, I’m here!

“– or some power that you’ve still got, or –”

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here –

“– or, or something, anything, please! Please.”

Martin’s voice breaks, and Jon’s heart fractures with it.

“I – I can’t –”

Jon can just barely make out the buzz of a phone and – oh.

“I’m – I’m actually with him now.”

Martin!

“You were right.” A pause, and a heavy sigh. “I – will they be safe?”

Peter Lukas. It’s Peter Lukas. Peter Lukas is still alive, Peter Lukas is hunting Martin, Peter Lukas wants to feed him to the Lonely, Peter Lukas is –

“Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

Martin, don’t –

“Yeah. Sure thing.”

Martin!

“I’m sorry.”

Jon tries to scream, to reach out, to do anything at all, but he doesn’t have a body and he doesn’t have a voice and he can’t See –

“Goodbye, Jon.”

Martin, look at me! Hear me, please - see me!

He tries to thread a command through the words, but the compulsion doesn't come through, and -

Jon hears the rustle of clothing as Martin stands to leave, followed by the soft click of the door as it closes behind him.

Fuck.

End Notes:

me: i could go into some long-winded exposition about the space-time continuum also me: OR, alternatively, i can handwave it and say It's The Power Of Love, Don't Even Worry About It

anyway, my gay little heart knows what it's about.

- Jon’s dialogue is taken from the statements in the following episodes: MAG 146; 054; 151; 139; 168; 101; 134; 010; 037; 008; 019; 167; 108; 103; 146; 048; 013; 146.

- Jon gets some original verbal dialogue starting next chapter. Thought I'd mention it just in case anyone is getting tired of the Archive-speak (though there will still be some of that). :P

- Psst, if you want to read a detour about Jon and Martin's talk about Annabelle and free will and Not Obsessing Over The Web, I wrote that here. (I'm linking it here because it actually originally started as part of this fic but I decided to make it its own thing because my ADHD brain ran with it and it was waaaaay too much of a tangent sdsdhshgh)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonmartin #long post #spoilers through MAG 169 #tma spoilers

16 notes · View notes

blancheludis · 5 years

Link

A/N: @iron-man-bingo square: Hanahaki Disease

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Relationship: Tony Stark / Steve Rogers / Bucky Barnes Words: 8.332 Tags: Unrequited Love, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Sick Tony, Angst, Happy Ending

Summary: A whole bouquet worth of flowers ends up on their bed the night of the wedding, the colours almost sombre. “Well,” Steve says and stops unbuttoning his shirt, “I guess we married for nothing.”

- Tony is dying from unrequited love for Captain America, who is first a dead hero and then a very alive one just as disinterested in Tony as Howard had always promised.

---

A whole bouquet worth of flowers ends up on their bed the night of the wedding, the colours almost sombre.

“Well,” Steve says and stops unbuttoning his shirt, “I guess we married for nothing.”

He leaves the room, careful not to touch any of the petals, not looking back when Tony’s breathing becomes laboured.

There is nothing he could do anyway. Love cannot be forced, not even for a dying man.

---

Tony is a special case. Once he is old enough to realize that, it does not even surprise him anymore. Starks are always held to a different standard.

His mother takes him to a doctor when he develops breathing problems at just five years old. The inhaler does not help but being away from Howard does.

He is eight the first time he coughs up a flower. It is the day he finally begins believing his father when he says that someone as brilliant as Captain America could never love someone as pathetic as Tony.

Tony knows what is happening, but he is not yet cynical enough to laugh about it. Instead, he locks himself into his room and cries, cradling the perfect blue forget-me-not.

People have always been saying he is special. He just did not think that would mean he would die from unrequited love for a dead man.

---

Tony turns ten and physicians call him a miracle. He turns twelve and fifteen and eighteen, and people call him an abomination.

His lungs do not get progressively worse. Some days he can barely breathe, choking up flowers of every colour. Some days his throat barely scratches.

Once he moves out of the mansion, Tony almost feels like a normal boy, not meant to wither before he has managed to grow roots. It is the little things that throw him back; nightmares or anniversaries or articles about World War II. Sometimes the American flag is enough to steal the air from his lungs.

He does not make sense. His chest is growing ever tighter, but he fights it. He gives up just as often but this disease has never been about what he wants.

Tony has always been Death’s favoured child. It is life that does not seem to know what to do with him.

---

The day they find Captain America in the ice, the air has never tasted sweeter. Tony feels like soaring, only marginally worrying about the crash. His heart beats strongly, pushing enough oxygen through his veins that he has the energy to smile, to hope.

The next morning, he reads an article in the newspaper, showing a picture of Howard and the Captain shaking hands. Howard is staring directly at the camera. His smile is happy enough, but his eyes seem to look at Tony alone, holding the familiar disdain.

This is not for you, he seems to say, and while Tony’s brain fights that thought, his lungs feel already on the verge of collapsing.

If only Tony could have gotten there before Howard. If only he could have managed to make his own first impression. Howard likes to say that Tony ruins everything he touches. This time, it seems, he will not even be allowed to touch.

Well, he is equally good at ruining himself. And it would be a shame for all that practice to go to waste.

---

“That is one hell of a favour, Howard.”

Tony does not mean to eavesdrop, but Captain America is in their house, and the physical need to catch a glimpse or at least to hear his voice is overwhelming. He has been wheezing all evening, unable to get enough air into his lungs. He is so used to the lack of oxygen that it is the easiest thing in the world to hold his breath as he lingers outside his father’s office.

“I know, and I wouldn’t ask if –” That is Howard. Tony would know his voice anywhere, if not this tone. It holds the usual annoyance it does when it comes to discussing Tony, but it is also so much gentler than Tony has ever heard it.

“He’s your son, I know.” Captain America sighs. Nothing good has ever come of people reminding Howard that he is related to Tony.

“It’s more of a hero worship thing anyway,” Howard scoffs, as if it is nothing. “This has been going on forever. But it’s getting worse lately.”

Captain America hums, and Tony wishes he could see his face, just to know how bad the contempt is. “Since you found me.”

Tony thinks of finding out that Captain America has been found alongside the rest of the public, although his father must have known. He thinks of all the mornings spent wheezing and clawing at his chest, and that he cannot get to the second floor of the mansion without taking a break halfway up.

It is getting worse, indeed. Even now, he feels his insides congealing and spreading roots locking his diaphragm in place.

“He is the reason I never stopped looking,” Howard says, revealing the only reason he suffered Tony’s antics at all. “It meant you couldn’t be dead, yes?”

A long moment of silence follows, in which Tony wants nothing more than to sneak forward and catch a glance. He does not know exactly what favour Howard is asking for, but it cannot be good, it never is when it involves Tony.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Captain America finally says but sounds like a man sent to his execution.

It is funny, how Tony’s lungs react to that as if someone has reached out to strangle him. All his sneaking around will not save him if he gets into a coughing fit right now, so Tony turns around to hurry back to his room, both satisfied to have at least heard the man he somehow loves, but utterly dejected that everything is already in ruins.

“Don’t force anything,” Howard says right before Tony is out of earshot. “He’s an entitled brat, he’ll have to get over it.”

He has tried so very hard. That has only ever made everything worse.

Steve does come to see him the next day, his face hard and his shoulders tense. It is obvious he is only here as a favour for Howard, and as much as Tony is thrilled to actually meet Captain America, he does not like pity. He might be dying, but he is not a charity case.

It is no surprise then that he ruins his own chances, whatever little there had been.

The first thing he tells Steve is, “My, those World War II posters did not exaggerate your shoulders-to-waist ratio.”

That just speeds up their never coming together.

Death is what they make their money with. They put weapons into people’s hands and they complain about the way the earth gets stained red. There is always a bigger stick to be had, though, and they have a knack for building that.

Tony is not afraid of dying. Death has always been a part of his life. He is afraid of dying alone, although that is what he has always known. Mostly, he is afraid of waiting for it.

It has been almost a decade since he has couched up his first petal, and he has long since given up on collecting them. He could have filled his room ten times over with that collection of tangible grief.

He has once laid out Captain America’s shield, life-sized and blood-specked. At the sight of it, he could not help but laugh. Long enough and hard enough that he could almost convince himself he was choking on laughter instead of love.

---

Half a year into their ill-advised marriage, Howard does Tony the favour of getting himself killed. There is some poetic justice to the fact that Tony outlives him after all, despite having been declared all but dead by Howard the moment he was diagnosed.

This way, he can stand next to his father’s grave and enjoy the way the air flows freely into his lungs. Tony has not contributed a single petal to the dozens of bouquets brought in Howard’s honour.

Less satisfying is the actual grief on Steve’s face, who is at the very front of the men volunteering to carry Howard’s body to its last resting place. That red-eyed expression holds more love than Steve ever showed for Tony. He can only imagine how different his own funeral will be.

It does not matter. He has outrun fate for so long already, he does not mind it coming ever closer anymore. For now, life has become so much sweeter.

“You really are heartless,” Steve hisses to him later, when the guests are gone and Tony is ready to fall into bed for the rewarding sleep of the fatherless.

“If I didn’t have a heart, I’d have so many less problems,” Tony replies lightly, looking his husband up and down to make it clear what he means. “So I’m all for getting rid of it.”

For a moment, Steve looks ready to help him with that. And he could. Those hands would be able to pry Tony’s ribcage open. He is already turning the inside of his chest into a wasteland. It is all just taking too long.

“You disgust me,” Steve says, facing him square-shouldered and unmoveable.

“I know.” That has been obvious from the very beginning.

With a shrug, Tony turns away. He has more important things to do. He now has one father-shaped problem less. At the same time, however, he gains a new one: the Winter Soldier.

He is sure that is going to blow up in his face.

---

“I found your friend,” Tony blurts out one night.

He is on his way down to the workshop and has not seen Steve in over a week. Tony makes it easy to avoid each other, which is in both their interest.

“What?” Steve grunts, not happy with being stopped in the hallway. Living together is only bearable when they pretend there is no one else in the house. “Who?”

Immediately, Tony curses himself. This is not something he actually wants to get into with Steve. It is not exactly his secret to keep, but things are easier when they do not talk.

“Barnes?” he asks more than tells. “Well, he’s calling himself the Asset these days. You know, the guy who tried to kill you?”

Steve is on him without warning, cutting off Tony’s babbling with an angry arm against Tony’s throat. “What did you do?”

Tony barely even flinches. This is the closes he has been to Steve since the wedding ceremony. He hates himself for it, but it feels good, like coming home, even with Steve’s anger pushing all the air out of his lungs.

“Careful with the throat, husband,” Tony says. Sometimes it seems like sarcasm is the only weapon he has left against the world, and even that is quickly fading, since his voice is giving out. “Didn’t anyone tell you I have breathing problems even without you threatening to beat me up?”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes,” Steve snarls, coming even closer.

“Funny, neither am I.” Black spots appear in Tony’s vision, but he has fought past that before. He goes limp in Steve’s hold, signals defeat, because he is going to end up being beaten down anyway. If not by Steve, then by his own body betraying him. “Barnes is in a secure facility. He was wounded. And I’m vetting psychiatrists to help him.”

This is obviously not what Steve expected him to say. In his surprise, he backs up a bit, enough to release the pressure on Tony’s windpipe. Breathing does not get any easier.

“Why would you do that?” Steve asks, staring down at Tony as if he is the reason for everything bad in his life.

Tony smirks. He knows that look and latches onto it with all he has. It is better than that wounded expression in Steve’s eyes, that fragile hope that has never been for Tony. Never will be either.

“Because, in my all-encompassing love for you,” he shows his teeth, mocking himself, “I can’t stand the thought of you withering away once I’m dead, so I thought I’d give you your best friend back.”

That is enough to destroy whatever goodwill Steve might have momentarily had for Tony, for he leans down, hand hovering threateningly over Tony’s throat again.

“If you’ve harmed a single hair on his head –”

Tony has heard so many variants of what comes after the pregnant pause that he chokes out a laugh. He is unbelievably glad when no petals come up with it.

“My, you don’t sound grateful,” Tony says with fake cheer. His voice is too high to pretend that he is not half-suffocating.

“Where is he?” Steve asks, his breath warm on Tony’s skin. It flows so freely, making Tony stare in wonder.

“I’ll send you the coordinates,” he promises quietly. As much as Tony yearns for Steve’s presence, being this close to him is unbearable. “Pack something warm, honey.”

---

In the early days after being diagnosed, Tony was interested in the science of all this. How can he be dying from something inevitable? A dead man cannot love him back. It does not make sense.

And yet.

He should be dead ten times over by now. Unwanted, unloved, never good enough.

And yet.

He wants to be dead, too. Dead people do not need to breathe. He has practiced that for most of his life already.

And yet.

---

For a ghost, Barnes looks good. He has long washed off any visible traces of having been in HYDRA’s care. His hair is cut, his clothes are neat, his arm is repaired. The terror still sits deep in his eyes, but time will deal with that.

“Who’re you?” Barnes asks when Tony strolls into the room.

He sounds curious more than defensive, and Tony revels in the anonymity.

“Tony,” he says shortly, waiting for recognition that never comes. Perhaps Steve has not told his best friend about his pathetic excuse of a husband. “I helped working on BARF.”

That is the simplest explanation he can give without saying that he pulled Barnes away from HYDRA and then stayed up day and night to create something that could deal with both their nightmares, imagined and real.

“So you’re here to collect some data?” Barnes shifts uncomfortably but makes no move to stop Tony when he sits down on the couch, a good few feet away.

“No.” Tony shrugs. The data he needs is not something he can measure. It has more to do with how much Steve loves this man, enough to be almost civil to Tony, even though he can usually not stand to even look at him. “I can see that it worked. I wanted to ask if you need anything.”

Barnes’ face darkens. Somehow, Tony has managed to upset him within moments of meeting him. That truly is a specialty of his.

“People are asking me that all day.”

Tony shrugs, pretending that it does not become hard to breathe already. “Must be because you look so lost all the time.” He knows a bit about that, but he is not here to bond with Barnes, even if that were possible. Steve would never forgive him.

“Do you –”

Three things happen simultaneously. Barnes’ face grows soft and guarded at the same time. Tony’s windpipe fills up with dread and flowers. Then steps grow loud and Steve comes into view, his expression pinched and ready to start shouting.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks, sidling up to Barnes, ready to jump in front of him.

What do they think? That Tony would go to all this trouble only to harm Barnes right in front of Steve? People say he is petty, but all Tony has ever been trying to do is to survive. Hurting others on purpose has never helped with that.

“Hello to you too, darling,” Tony greets with burning sweetness. “I was just having a chat with our guest.”

He leans back in his seat, making it look like insolence instead of a means to hide his trembling muscles. Steve’s hate is always making him so weak.

“How about you stay away from him?” Steve snarls. Tony would not be surprised if Steve reached out to throw him bodily out of the room.

Ironically, it is Barnes who saves him. He reaches up to lay his hand on Steve’s arm. That touch works like a miracle. “Steve, what is going on?”

When they look at each other, Tony barely recognizes Steve. He has never seen his face so open, vulnerable, loving. If he would look at Tony like that even one time, Tony is sure he would be cured. At the very least, he would die a happy man.

“Stark has a habit of ruining everything he touches,” Steve explains in a dismissive tone, reducing Tony to nothing more than his failures – not that there is much more to show anyway.

Barnes frowns and glances at Tony briefly. “I heard he found me and brought me back.”

That sounds close enough to someone standing up for Tony that he misses his chance to speak up.

“And I’m still trying to find out why,” Steve says, ruining whatever first impression Tony might have made with Barnes.

Tony’s anger is a living thing, much like the grief growing in his lungs. He does not attempt to hold it back when it roars.

“Is that how you won the war?” Tony asks, voice cutting. “By suspecting everyone is the enemy and simply punching anything that moved?” Sometimes all the derision he has for himself can be channelled against whoever is in his way. It does not help making him feel better, but he does not need any more scars either.

Getting to his feet in as smooth a motion as he manages with how weak his legs are, Tony adds, “I don’t mean Barnes any harm. Otherwise I would have hardly gone to all this effort.”

It is simple logic, but Steve is naturally immune to that. “You’re desperate,” he spits out, almost causing Tony to laugh.

Desperation is for those who still have hopes to be stripped away from them.

“Why? Because I’m dying?” Tony questions gently. He is not quite sure how he remains steady on his feet while being numb all over. “I’ve known that for over two decades. I’m just waiting for my lungs to hurry up and give out.” Oh, how long he has waited.

Turning, Tony fixes his eyes on the door. He will leave. He does not know where he will go, but it does not matter. There is no such thing as a right place to die in.

“Who are you?” Barnes’ voice stops him just before he can escape the scene.

“Tony Stark. Sorry for omitting the last name.” Just about everyone would be happier if he had a different one. If he were a different person or simply no one at all.

Barnes clears his throat, clearly aware of the minefield he is navigating. “I mean, who are you to each other?”

Steve opens his mouth, but Tony cannot bear to listen to him.

“Captain Spangles and I? Nothing,” he hurries to say. “We’re married, but Howard did that most likely so Steve could inherit.” Tony straightens. He has always met his fate with his head unbowed. “Smile. Once I’m gone the two of you will be dizzyingly rich.”

Sooner rather than later now. Then again, Tony has been hoping so for years.

Once he is in the privacy of his own room, Tony coughs up enough flowers to drown himself in them. He buries his face in them, smells their sweetness, and wishes he could disappear.

---

For all that they can go weeks without seeing each other, Steve on a warpath always finds Tony. There is no hiding from Steve’s temper. It is almost as if they are connected after all, pulled together but only when emotions are running high.

Tony has his own alarm system, though, and for once he does not mean JARVIS. A whole minute before the door to his study is thrown open, Tony’s throat constricts and he knows he will not get any more work done this evening.

The knee-jerk reaction of Tony’s body to Steve’s presence is immediate and terrifying. As soon as Steve fills out the doorway, Tony’s spine straightens and he leans forward, as if one inch less of physical distance will actually bring them closer together. Tony’s head might be yelling at him to call it quits, to leave and try to save of himself what he can, but his life has not actually been dictated by his head for a very long time.

Even with fury filling his eyes, Steve looks glorious. Lately, Tony has been looking more again, because Steve’s qualities are only enhanced with Barnes there to balance them out. The more often he shows himself, the more time he spends coughing up his lungs piece by piece. He used to be better at secluding himself, but something about Steve and Barnes together makes it impossible to stay away.

“What are you even still doing here?” Steve spats after glaring at Tony for long seconds.

Tony wonders what prompted this – and, a bitter voice in his head adds, whether Steve means what he is still doing here in the house or why he is still alive. Tony only has an answer to one of these questions.

“This is still my home, darling. I’m not yet dead,” Tony answers. He would be proud of how calm his voice is, if it were not due to the sudden dryness of his mouth, courtesy of the mounting pressure inside his chest.

Steve takes a step forward but then thinks better of it, as if Tony is contagious, and remains hovering in front of the only exit of the room. “You have other houses.”

Tony’s lips pull up into something that wants to be a smirk, but he is too exhausted for it. “And I like the view from this one.”

He likes the view inside it much more, but he does not say that. The fastest way to stop his lungs from cooperating at all, is to make Steve even angrier at him. Funny, how that works.

“We don’t want you here,” Steve argues stubbornly, as if want has ever made anything right. Tony is the walking definition of want gone awry.

“First off, you should stop talking for Barnes as if he doesn’t have a voice of his own. HYDRA did that long enough,” Tony says, although defending Barnes should not be at the top of his priorities. He knows what it is like to not be able to make decisions for himself. “And second, you agreed to living with me in the marriage contract you made with Howard. That means here, in one house. Deal with it.”

Right in front of him, Steve becomes livid. His hands curl into fists that Tony imagines he can already feel sinking into his flesh. It might be nice to feel some pain that does not generate from the disease growing inside his chest, to blame his misery on something not of his own making for once.

“Stay away from Bucky,” Steve orders, the words coming out flat and threatening.

“Perhaps you should tell your buddy to stay away from me,” Tony says, somehow managing to make his tone mocking, despite being almost out of air. “I’m hardly in running shape.”

“I mean it,” Steve says darkly, taking that step forward now as if he needs to loom over Tony to prove his superiority. “Leave us alone.”

Tony smiles, feels the skin stretching over his bones. “Patience is a virtue, Captain, and it’s not going to be that much longer.”

Without missing a beat, Steve says, “You’ve been promising that for a while now.”

Tony cannot help but flinch. As much as he has been waiting for release for years now, it hits much harder to hear the man he somehow loves wish him dead. “Get out.”

“You have to –”

The pressure inside Tony’s chest becomes unbearable, but he does not want to break down in front of Steve, does not want to cough out the proof of his unmet desire for Steve to see. Eyes watering, he bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste is familiar enough to ground him a bit.

“Get. Out,” he snarls. Maybe it is the ferocity in his choked voice or the blood staining his lips, but Steve turns around and leaves.

He does not have the courtesy to close the door behind him, allowing everyone passing by a perfect view of Tony dissolving into a wheezing bundle of pain.

Death should definitely hurry up, Tony decides as he lies on the floor of his study, a sea of petals around him, because this life is not one he cares to have anymore.

---

Barnes has been sitting in Tony’s workshop for hours now. Allowing him in might not be the best idea Tony ever had – his ears are already ringing from simply imagining Steve’s shouting about it – but there was no way he could turn Barnes away when he came down here, shoulders slumped and exhaustion radiating off him in waves.

Tony can immerse himself in his work easily enough to ignore someone else’s presence, but that it is Barnes of all people is just as unnerving as the fact that his throat is already scratching with the threat of coughing, even though Steve is nowhere in sight.

“You built my arm, yes?” Barnes asks after what could have been hours of simply watching in wonder – or judgement. Tony is not sure which.

Tony nods and wipes sweat from his forehead, using the motion to rub at his sternum, willing the building pressure away. “Your old one was shit.”

“That’s not –” A frown flickers over Barnes’ face. “Why?”

This is a loaded question, and Tony is not getting into that with Barnes. “Building is about the only thing I’m good at. So why wouldn’t I?” he asks flippantly, hoping to deflect.

The frown is back, harder now. “You don’t like me.”

“Wrong,” Tony says but allows himself a small smile. “I don’t know you enough to like or dislike you. Steve loves you, though. He usually has a good instinct where it comes to people.”

With some serious exceptions, of course. Howard is not a good person, no matter who says it. He might have been once, but something turned him into a mess. Perhaps that is Tony’s fault too. He is so good at that.

“And yet he doesn’t seem to like you,” Barnes says, sounding contemplative.

“Your point being?” Tony asks, turning away to hide the irritation on his face. He does not need to be reminded of that. “Anyway, does Steve know you’re here?”

To Tony’s utter surprise, Barnes’ answer is prompt and firm. “No.” It almost sounds like he is running from something too.

When Tony looks at his expression, though, it does not betray anything.

“Don’t mind me denying all responsibility for your coming here,” he says slowly, hoping to not offend. “I might be tired of living, but I don’t want to go out being crushed by a supersoldier.”

Instead of reacting with a smile or simply more of that blank expression, Barnes looks unhappy, staring at Tony like he wants to decipher him but does not know where to start.

“You love him.”

Laughter bursts over Tony’s lips, scratching as much on the way up as the flowers do that he coughs up so regularly.

“I guess so,” Tony says, mouth stretching into a dead man’s grin. “I mean, otherwise that whole suffocating from unrequited love thing would be even more ironic.”

Barnes does not say anything to that, although he looks like he wants to. Then he lowers his head and stares at the metal fingers curled in his lap.

“Do you mind if I stay for a bit?” he asks an eternity later, sounding small.

Tony knows all about sanctuaries, about safe places to hide away in. He cannot begin to explain why Barnes would choose this, meaning he has to put up with Tony’s presence, but he would not deny it to him. “Knock yourself out.”

For the entirety of the time that Barnes spends down in the workshop with him after that, Tony does not have trouble breathing even once.

---

Tony finds them making out in his living room. He does not need to see Steve’s face to recognize the shape of his back, and Bucky’s arm stands out darkly against Steve’s bare skin.

The thing is, Tony thinks first about hygiene and the poor staff that might be stumbling over the sight, before he realizes his husband is cheating on him right in front of his eyes. It is not unsurprising, nor does it hurt him worse than a thousand other things Steve has done ever since they married. The shock slams into him with unforeseen strength, though. Where he has just been breathing, his lungs are now filled with the scratching stuffiness of a sea of flowers.

The practical part of Tony’s brain finds the reaction a little exaggerated but the rest of him is rendered helpless, unable to turn his stare away from the two men moving in perfect synchrony. They compliment each other so well, it belies all of Tony’s little fantasies about being a good counterpart to Steve.

The scene before him makes him obsolete. Neither of them needs him. Nobody does in the whole wide world. Anthony Edward Stark, heir to the greatest weapons manufacturing company in the world, genius in his own right – and nobody will even notice once he is gone.

“Wanna join?” Bucky’s voice washes like dark velvet over Tony’s skin. His gaze is on Tony with a relaxed leisure of a predator already satiated.

Tony is not a danger to them. Still, when Steve looks up, there is a hunger in his eyes that has Tony shivering. If only Steve would look at him like that once. He does not, though. But his scowl does not look very intimidating in his current state, naked and utterly at home.

“Don’t tempt him,” he says, his sneer just a necessity instead of something actually felt. “Stark doesn’t have any shame.”

And Tony has not. He would give one of his limbs, perhaps all of them, if he could slip between these two men and have them hold him like they mean it.

“As far as I remember, you don’t have either,” Bucky purrs, speaking to Steve but never taking his eyes off Tony. “I’m sure you have enough energy for both of us.”

“The though alone works better than a cold shower.”

It is banter between lovers. For once, Tony is sure Steve does not aim to hurt. It still does, of course, but Tony is used to that. What is new is the longing shooting through him, not only at the thought of Steve, but at watching Bucky sprawl out right next to him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says hastily and turns around to run.

In his back he hears the rumbling voice of Steve and Bucky’s resounding laughter. It stays with him for days.

---

The first time Bucky kisses Tony, it knocks the air out of his lungs in an entirely pleasant way. Breathlessness has always been tinged with fear or panic before. Now, however, it tastes distinctly of hope – not to be cured, Tony is not as naïve as that, but perhaps to die not completely unloved.

“What was that?” Tony asks when they separate, trying not to sound ungrateful but needing to know.

“You –”

Steve bursts in, showing that Tony might not be the only one with a talent for bad timing. He stops short in the doorway, looking suspiciously at how close Tony and Bucky are standing.

“What is going on?” he asks,

This time, Bucky does not hesitate to answer. “Nothing.”

It is not nothing that Tony coughs up that night.

---

The first time Steve kisses Tony, they are being watched.

“This is just an experiment,” Steve growls, looking like he would prefer being anywhere but here.

His lips are hard and unforgiving when he presses them on Tony’s, but Tony melts into the touch nonetheless. They have not even kissed at the wedding, since Steve was too busy getting out of there as soon as the priest had stopped talking.

Tony feels something move inside his chest, and while he is used to all kinds of pains and pressures, he cannot be sure what it means.

“And?” Bucky asks when they part.

Steve’s expression says more than words. He wipes his mouth and hastily takes a step back. “Nothing.”

This has become the ultimate answer between the three of them. Still, Bucky does not react how Tony would have expected, does not turn away and take Steve with him, considering this particular matter dealt with. Instead, he looks at Tony, waiting for an answer from him.

“I don’t –” Tony starts, stumbling over the words because he cannot get his mind to stop racing. “It doesn’t react to touch alone.”

It is easier to hold onto scientific facts than to make sense of feelings. Although Tony has always been an anomaly

“I told you so,” Steve says shortly and finally turns to go. Bucky lingers as if to make sure that Tony will be all right, but leaves when Tony shakes his head.

Then they are gone and Tony allows himself to try to take a deep breath. The air catches the way he is used to but – no buts. Everything is the same. Thinking anything else would be foolish, just because he does not lie on the ground, coughing his lungs up at this newest development. That will come again soon enough.

---

Sometimes, Steve scares Tony just by being able to sneak up on him. It is not normally a problem, considering they do their best to stay out of each other’s way, but it also makes it impossible for Tony to know when Steve is coming for him.

(Sometimes, Steve does not have to do anything to scare Tony. His mere existence is enough to strike an unearthly fear in his heart.)

This time, Tony does hear Steve’s steps coming closer. He does not know that it is Steve at first, but he would recognize Bucky’s, and barely anyone else comes here. Still, it is a surprise to see Steve appearing at the door to the workshop, raising his hand to knock.

All of that has Tony immediately on edge.

Still, he lets Steve in. He is not in the habit of making things unnecessarily harder on himself, and rejecting the man he is dying for would certainly fall into that category.

“Let him in, J,” he orders quietly, making sure to keep a workbench between himself and the door. That is nothing more than an illusion of safety, considering that even without his lungs being as they are, he could never outrun Captain America.

Steve step into the workshop but stays within a hasty stride from the door. Neither of them expects this to go well then.

“Bucky told me I should apologize to you,” Steve then says, the usual derision absent from his tone.

Bucky then. Tony should have known that much. For the past weeks, Bucky has assigned himself as the peacekeeper of the house, taking on the thankless job of trying to get Tony and Steve to get along. Sending Steve here like they are in elementary school and a forced handshake would make them friends again is just sad.

“What for?” Tony asks warily, still ready for the blows that are surely to follow.

“You –” Steve pauses and looks away. Tony envies him for the deep breath he takes. “You have done a lot for us.”

A humourless smiles spreads on Tony’s lips. He and his condition have make everyone he comes in contact with miserable.

“If you mean building that arm for Buc- Barnes, he has already thanked me for it,” Tony says, biting his tongue at his near blunder. Bucky is already too friendly to him when they meet. If Steve finds out, thing will only get worse. “Even though he didn’t need to.”

“It’s not just that,” Steve replies quickly. He looks uncomfortable of all things. “You – we didn’t get off on a good start, and you still let me move in with you, even if I didn’t even speak to you.” That was a clause in their marriage contract to make Tony’s death a little more comfortable, not that it really works out this way. “You made this Bucky’s home too. You’re a better person than –” He shrugs helpless.

Better than what? Than Howard said? Or the gossip rags? Better than Steve feared? Better than the horrible disaster of a human being everyone thinks him to be?

“Don’t,” Tony cuts him off almost gently. “You’ll think differently again soon enough. Let’s just keep things how they are.”

He does not think he could take it if they tried to turn this into something better and failed. Tony likes to know where he is at, and he can deal better with Steve’s hate than this uncertainty, ready to backfire on them any moment now.

When Tony turns back to his word, breathing as shallowly as possible to not get a coughing fit right here, Steve uses his opportunity to flee. It is bad that the walls are transparent. This way, Tony sees that Steve does not look back at him.

---

“Captain Rogers is asking whether you have time to come up for lunch,” JARVIS asks, interrupting Tony’s work.

Putting the soldering iron down, Tony frowns at the nearest camera. “Did someone break into the server room and munch at your cables?” he asks, wiping some sweat from his forehead. He does not take the request serious for a single minute.

“Not at all,” JARVIS replies lightly. With a hint of scolding in his tone, he adds, “I heard that human bodies need regular nutrition, although that might be a foreign concept for you. That is why I relayed the request.”

Tony loves how nuanced JARVIS is getting, how he uses sarcasm and trickery. Sometimes he feels more like a human being than Tony manages to be on his good days.

“You got the names confused,” he cautions, wondering whether the latest update might have done more damage than good. “You meant Sergeant Barnes.”

“No, sir,” JARVIS says without hesitation, causing Tony’s frown to grow. “Captain Rogers asked for your presence.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Tony repeats stubbornly because, frankly, nothing else makes sense. “Bucky. Dark hair, metal arm. You should have seen him around down here. Do I have to do maintenance on your sensors?”

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS answers, endlessly patient but also slightly amused. “Tall, blond and, to quote you, unbearably muscular, I’m positive.”

Tony stares. “That makes no sense,” he mutters as he waits for his racing thoughts to form into something useful, something to explain this sudden turn of events.

“Perhaps you should go upstairs and find out for yourself.”

JARVIS sounds so sure, but there is no way that Steve, who hates him, would ever invite him for lunch, not even if Bucky pushed him to do so. Steve has registered all of Bucky’s small kindnesses over the past weeks with growing discomfort.

“You wouldn’t prank me, right?” Tony asks his AI.

Entirely unhelpful, JARVIS answers, “Your well-being is my highest priority.”

Because Tony made it so. Sometimes he feels guilty for it. He created a thinking and arguably feeling person, body or not, and then commanded him to care for Tony. He would not trade JARVIS’ company for anything, but it sometimes makes him wonder whether Steve’s assessment of him might just be right.

“That could also mean you want me to smile more, which would make a prank more than possible,” Tony says dryly, not hinting at his thoughts. His kid deserves better than to be pulled into his doubts.

“Only one way to find out,” JARVIS replies cheekily.

There are more, of course. Tony could watch the camera feed from the kitchen or turn on the intercom. He even has some miniature drones lying around he could send out to spy for him. He does not.

Instead, he saves his progress and puts his tools away safely, and takes a leap of faith.

The way to the kitchen is both too long and too short. Several times, Tony has to force himself not to turn around, and yet he has not nearly prepared himself enough for whatever he might find when he is already standing in front of the door. Gathering the last bits of his confidence, he goes in.

They are sitting at the table, lunch in front of them, but they have not yet started eating. There really is a third plate, and neither of them look surprised at his sudden arrival. Still, the atmosphere is tense and not exactly welcoming.

Tony does not dare to step farther into the room. He sees everything he needs to just fine from the doorway.

“There you are,” Bucky greets him as if they have lunch together all the time.

Tony only glances at him before his eyes fall on Steve and refuse to leave him again Everything stands and falls with Steve’s reaction He already feels a slight scratchiness in his throat.

“JARVIS said you –” want is the wrong word and it does not pass over Tony’s lips, “requested my presence.”

“He told us you haven’t had lunch yet,” Steve says cautiously, “so I thought we might eat together.”

It feels stilted and formal and wrong, the way they face each other and take so much care with what they say. Tony does not move closer to the table – at least he is not running away either, although he still cannot make sense of the situation.

“Just sit down, Tony,” Bucky sighs exaggeratedly, as if Tony is the one who has suddenly turned mad. “It’s just lunch, not rocket science.”

Building a functioning rocket from scratch would still be a better prospect than sitting down to eat with his husband.

“It’s Italian,” Steve adds quietly, “Howard told me your mother was from Italy.”

Irrational anger rises in Tony at the mentions of his mother. Steve has already taken his father from him, he cannot lay claim to Maria too. Still, there is something earnest to Steve’s expression, something that has, up until now, usually been tinged with disdain but is now uncertain. Tony chances a look at Bucky and receives a small nod – which should not be reassuring, considering that Bucky is Steve’s friend not his, but gets Tony moving to the table nonetheless.

He sits and the proximity to the other man is overwhelming. All other times they have been in a room together have ended in yelling and more heartbreak. Now, they keep their heads down and their hands occupied. It is horrible, and yet the most peaceful they have ever been together.

“So,” Bucky draws out the word and waits until they are both turning towards him. “What are you working on in the moment, Tony?” he then asks, too cheerful, earning himself two incredulous looks from Steve and Tony.

Even stranger, Steve glances at Tony afterwards, almost conspiratorial, as if it is them against the sudden insanity of his best friend. The moment passes quickly, but Steve’s face still contains a trace of curiosity.

“I –” Tony clears his throat, but for once, it is not a flower making his voice hoarse, just nerves. “I’m thinking about making a phone. A mobile one.”

Nobody says anything for a long moment. They look, though, but Tony does not feel entirely uncomfortable under their gaze.

“As a weapon?” Bucky asks. He is still the spokesperson, but his incredulous expression matches Steve’s.

Howard’s entire legacy is death. Even Tony himself has never been free of it, from the world outside and within. He does not want that to be his legacy too.

“No,” he says firmly, not letting his own doubt show. “As a phone. For everyone.”

Uncertain silence falls over them, but after just a moment, a smile spreads on Bucky’s lips that has to be real, considering the way his eyes grow warm.

“And how’s that going?”

All throughout lunch, they carry on a conversation and never get stuck on complaints or accusations. If not for the ever present heaviness inside Tony’s chest, it could have been a normal meal between new acquaintances testing whether they could be friends.

Afterwards, Tony goes a whole day without the threat of suffocating on his own stupid love.

---

The first time Steve calls him Tony, the world stops turning. It feels like a punch to the gut, and yet as if he has never breathed more easily than this.

---

Sometimes it feels like a dream. Not because it is all nice and easy-going – on the contrary. But every time Steve looks at him, first with neutrality then a smile, every time he says Tony’s name or they make it through an entire conversation without hurting each other, Tony expects to wake up.

He has seen Steve sneer at him so often that every other expression looks foreign on his face. Tony cannot help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

Only it does not.

Bucky comes more often to the workshop and sometimes Steve comes to drag them both up to eat, explicitly including Tony. Despite his expectations, his meal is never poisoned. Conversation turn from stilted to engaged. One night, Tony finds Steve cradling a flower picked out of the trash.

Then Steve starts joining them in the workshop. Other than Bucky, he is not interested in helping. First, he simply watches them, then he draws them. Later, the room feels empty when the couch is not occupied by Steve.

They spend so much time together, go out together, laugh together. Together is a concept that Tony is experiencing for the first time in his life. He does not want to lose that again. Miraculously, they do not seem inclined to let go of him either.

This is not the story Tony has always been told would be his. It is not perfect either. He would not change it for anything in the world.

His breathing does not get easier per se, but life does.

---

When Bucky kisses him again, Steve is there, watching with something of a smile.

Tony reciprocates before he remembers himself and draws back as if burned. “What?”

They were sitting on the couch together, watching some movie Tony has already forgotten all about. By now, he has become used to Bucky’s wandering hands and has not thought much about being drawn in. People always liked to get handsy with him, the multi-million dollar heir dying from a mysterious disease. Despite being a wreck, everyone thinks he has always more to give.

“Tell us to stop,” Bucky says in a low voice.

Before Tony can even register his use of us, Steve is closing in from the back, melting against Tony’s body as if they have always fit together, and leans his cheek against Tony’s. He feels trapped before he realizes that this is what he has been hoping for all his life; Steve and he so close that they could almost be one.

“What are you doing?” Tony asks, panic in his tone. He expects to dissolve into a wheezing mess any moment now. His lungs are traitorously silent, though, not caring for once that he is obviously being led on.

“What I should have done from the very beginning,” Steve says.

Tony does not believe him, even though he cannot help but believe the lips touching the sensitive skin of his neck.

The knot of despair in Tony’s chest does not dissolve after this. All is not well. He feels happy, though. For the first time in almost two decades, Death does not loom over Tony’s shoulder but watches from across the room instead.

It is almost like being free.

---

“I love you.” Bucky is the first to say it.

They are sitting on the terrace together, watching the slow descent of the sun. They are not holding hands or prepare to go to bed. A few minutes ago, they have been talking about starting a small garden.

The scene is so full of domestic bliss that Bucky’s words hit Tony like a punch to the stomach. He closes his eyes and forces his face to be still. He will not take this moment from Steve and Bucky.

“You’d think the chattiest person alive would have something to say to that,” Steve teases, but falls silent when Tony still does not look, does not say anything. “Tony?” he asks quietly, nudging him.

Tony resists for a long moment longer before he blinks against the brightness of the sun and focuses on the two men beside him. They are looking at him, both smiling, although Bucky’s is tinged with trepidation and Steve’s with worry.

“I love you,” Bucky repeats slowly, never once looking away from Tony.

“And I love you too,” Steve adds, offering his hand for Tony to take, which he does, albeit hesitantly.

“I –” Tony clears his throat, his stomach dropping. That is when he realizes that he does not feel the scratching of a petal climbing up his windpipe. He has not coughed up a flower in weeks.

Taking a deep breath, he smells nothing sweet, only sea salt and drying stone. Smiling, he stares at his hand in Steve’s, and Bucky’s eyes on him.

“I love you too.”

#iron man bingo 3000 #stony #stuckony #fanfiction #unrequited love #arranged marriage #enemies to friends to lovers #hanahaki #marvel #ao3 #angst #happy ending #sick tony #my writing

60 notes · View notes