#these two have done unthinkable damage to my mind and body | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

linnasmile · 1 year

Text

Their bed of ashes

~Look, I posted this two years ago on AO3, enjoy it here now~

…On both sides the vow was broken Oh my my, I'm the one Trying to hide this damage done One day, all our secrets will be spoken…

The scrawny black dog walks quickly inside once Remus opens the door. He doesn’t turn around right away. Locking the door, he notices the animal panting has ceased and hears a wholly human sigh. It is not hard for him to distinguish these sounds-not when his flat is quiet, not when he knows this panting and this breathing in his bones.

“Dumbledore wants me to stay with you for a while” Sirius begins.

It is unnecessary. Dumbledore sent an owl explaining. The almighty conductor of their lives orchestrated this, down to the exact time Sirius is supposed to show up.

Remus wants to be rude and stay quiet but gives in to the expectant silence. “It would be foolish not to follow his suggestions.”

“Suggestion… you make it sound like I have a choice.”

“I suppose you don’t. You’re not a free man, Sirius, but if the idea of living with me is so repulsive to you, I am sure you will find another way.”

Nothing in Sirius’ tone suggests that, but Remus is grasping at air just to feel offended. He is looking for that bitter hatred he lived with for twelve years, for the indifference which set in beside it after a while. One does not spend over a decade nurturing these feelings only for them to buckle under the pressure of truth. He wants to be resentful, for Sirius to antagonise him, for Sirius to want him. In this new normal, where the love of his young adult life is not a traitorous bastard, he wants Sirius to be everything to him, and nothing at all. His mind is not made up and he’s fighting, fighting…

It should be easy. He is innocent, innocent. Remus knew the whole story now, the full truth. It wasn’t me, Remus…. Moony, I didn’t do it. Sirius’ averment sounds in his head as clear as when he had first heard it in the Shrieking Shack. This reality refuses to seep into Remus’s body and lingers on his skin, suffocates him, poisons him. Sirius’ exoneration spelled Remus’ culpability. It is impossible to consider oneself as the person who turned their back on their lover and friend, as the one who believed in a previously unthinkable notion. It is impossible to look in the mirror and accept this about yourself, Remus considers. Sirius’ presence in his flat is choking him.

Whether they stand in the hallway for seconds or minutes Remus does not know. He forces himself down to the living room and Sirius silently follows.

“I don’t have much, but the couch should be comfortable enough to sleep on. I learned this spell…” Remus stutters. He only learned the spell because he knew Sirius would stay with him. “It makes the couch pillows fluffier.”

“Cheers” says Sirius, more polite than he ever was. There exists no universe where Sirius does not realise Remus did this for him only.

“Bathroom, as well. Left you a towel.”

Sirius only nods this time and heads into the shower.

***

Nothing comes effortlessly in the days after for them. In many ways one man had lived a life, whereas the other was stuck into a non-reality from 13 years ago. It is uncomfortable to Remus to live with a man who thinks he knows him. It is troubling that in so many ways Sirius still does. Remus is continuously unsettled, not least by the fact that money is so tight he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to continue to support Sirius, as well as himself.

It is the third evening they spend in silence over tea when Sirius, without sharing his intentions walks out of the house as a dog. They have not discussed this. It seemed only sensible for Remus to believe Sirius would stay inside at all times. Another cage, perhaps. And so he is stunned when he has to get up and close the door after the dog, not knowing if he will see it again or what it would bring back.

Sirius, naturally, returns after a while.

“Where did you get these?” Remus asks motioning to the groceries Sirius piles on the table.

“I stole them from a muggle shop.”

A nonchalant answer.

“Sirius, this is a crime, even in the muggle world.”

“If I go to jail again, Lupin, it’ll be because I murdered 13 people. I might as well get us some eggs along the way, seeing as you’ve been so worried about feeding us.”

“You didn’t murder anyone” Remus observes and neglects to comment on the other part of Sirius’ statement, the one which is actually true.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters tome.”

Remus wanted to stop himself from saying anything. He doesn’t want to give Sirius a wider view into his mind, yet it is so, so hard to keep away from someone who’s intertwined with you.

“You haven’t a clue what it’s like there, Lupin. At least now I can get food when I’m starving, whatever the means.”

An animosity builds up in Remus. The longest conversation they’ve held since the fugitive arrived is about to turn into an argument and Remus wants it to. Sirius, if uncoerced, will bottle his character for ever. However scared Remus is of what’s about to burst out of himself, he is tenfold more curious to see, actually see Sirius. Though he dismissed it a few days ago, when he caught Sirius crying over an old Charms textbook, now suddenly he wants to know.

“You’ve not spoken to me since you got here, Black, to give me a clue.” His tongue turns to ice. Sirius was many things, never a true Black; and so this is meant as an insult, though Remus only manages to convey the disdain in being called “Lupin” by Sirius.

“How am I to speak to you when you’re in the other room? Or when you won’t even look at me? I don’t believe either of us has mastered telepathy recently, but do correct me if I’m wrong.” All of this, said in a hurt tone Sirius has never used before, stabs Remus at the right place. Identifying and exploiting weak spots is evidently not one of the excellent qualities Sirius has parted with in Azkaban.

Remus’ face is burning with shame. Trapped in his mind for the past few days, debating what to do, he had failed to act in any way. He had drifted in and out of Sirius’ living space, but paid him no attention. There was something, though Remus cannot pinpoint it exactly, that Sirius is avoiding. He is as much afraid to find himself in this scene as Remus is.

“I’m listening now.” He looks up then. Sirius is facing the window overlooking the tiny backyard. His shoulders, Remus thinks he can see it even through his shirt, are scarred and tense. He waves his hand in a there’s nothing to say motion.

Remus takes two steps toward him, wants to grab him and force him around. Sirius flinches at the movement behind him.

“This war, Lupin…”

“Stop calling me that!” he can’t help himself. It’s painful beyond belief to be addressed as a stranger by the man who… the one who has known him more intimately than anyone.

“This war has made me a monster. I don’t want you to know him. He should be locked up.” Sirius states, now facing Remus. His eyes are sunken and wet. Remus waits, but silence settles again.

“Is this it? You come to my house afteryearsand give me this? You used to be boisterous, Padfoot, never would shut up. Now, when it matters, when this conversation is theonly thing that matters to me, you refuse me.”

Sirius offers nothing in the way of words. His expression, should Remus choose to notice it, betrays it all. A selfish desire to learn every detail and to continue hearing Sirius’ voice blinds Remus. He presses deeper into a wound both men know is not healed, the depths of which are only clear to one of them. The other speaks:

“I have dreamed of you, and I have missed you. I have wanted to be in a room with you again for thirteen years. And now you don’t want me to know. You don’t want me.”

“Moony…”

“Don’t.”

“I have nothing to give you.”

“Why not? Curse got it? Did someone curse...”

“FEAR GOT IT, REMUS! I’m scared.”

A shout. A beat. Then many tears. Sirius slumps in the armchair, cries; Remus remains rooted next to the fireplace. It is this, Sirius’ restrained weeping, which makes Remus grasp it. He doesn’t want to know, even if Sirius wanted to tell him, even if Sirius wasn’t horrified like a child of the dark. He had been keeping exclusively to himself, and Remus had been holding a grudge, feeling like he was owed an explanation, offended from being ignored. After all, he was the one who had spent over a decade believing his lover had murdered their friends and twelve other muggles, just because they were there. He, Remus, had had to spend countless nights trying to make sense of the reality which he was abruptly thrust in, one which didn’t match up with his private experiences and feelings. Remus was the one stuck having to believe Sirius was guilty. A now shameful notion had been infesting Remus’ mind ever since the Shrieking Shack-Sirius had had it easy in Azkaban, comforted by the absolute thought of his own innocence. The others had had to battle, while the dog remained inside, and his only mission was to remember his inculpability.

Remus feels himself a fool. The horrors of Azkaban had taken a discernible toll on Sirius’ appearance, a toll Remus noticed, and which should have at once made him stop comparing miseries beyond his understanding. The man he had once loved is no more. The malnourished being in front of him is overcome by only one emotion. Fear, something which was not in Sirius’ repertoire, the Sirius who went to Azkaban, has consumed him. One man goes in, another one comes out. An echo of Barty Crouch Jr’s swap with his mother, though the transformation here is much harsher. Remus mustn’t drill any more. He must apologize, though no words are powerful enough.

“Okay” he says, “okay, Sirius, you don’t have to. Here-”

Remus levitates a blanket from the couch, and it drapes itself gracefully around Sirius’s body. He continues crying.

“What’s the spell?” Sirius asks.

“Which one?”

“This… the blanket… you made it come to me.”

Remus tells him, confused.

“Do you realize, Moony, that I couldn’t use magic for twelve years?”

Remus hadn’t. The spell lingers in the air inappropriately. The memory of Sirius upset over the charms textbook is a slap across the face. The dread unravels, and so does Sirius, in a precipitous manner. Remus kneels next to him because there is nothing else to do. Really, what could be done? What one sentence disperses 13 years’ worth of guilt, despair, loneliness, and loss?

“They won’t get you again. I will protect you. My word.”

A promise which cannot be kept. Sirius has been back in Remus’ life for mere months, and already Remus is falling back into his old habits of needing to protect Sirius at all cost. He cannot guarantee safety, or anything really, but he wants to, how he craves to…

When Remus takes Sirius’ bony hand, a hand which feels completely foreign in his own, he knows Sirius will not stop crying. He wants to weep himself. How unjust and ugly the scene is now overwhelms him. So much time has passed that hope seems foolish, and any action-inadequate. They have shared desperate moments in a past long forgotten, but torture like this was unknown to Remus.

What needs to happen? In this instant, a hug, a kiss, a declaration. Tomorrow, the same repeated. It is unsustainable. Two outcasts cannot pull through together on love alone. Neither has more to offer to the other, both need so much more. Remus had listened to Dumbledore’s speech when the old man insisted that happiness can be found even in the darkest of times. Foolish words, empty. What action turns on the light? How will they become unstuck? The wave of a hand, a flick of a wand?

More broken than ever, Remus kisses Sirius, presents him this useless gesture. He had expected his heart to unclench, but the feeling never comes. The man he doesn’t know kisses back though coyly, still crying. The old lovers, the strangers freeze in this moment, but a callous misery is wrenched there as well. Voldemort seems to have destroyed only the things he values least-hope, relationships, and happiness.

It is late. Or it is early. A crippled Sirius and a desperate Remus share this night, and nothing more.

…Underneath this bed of ashes, still withholding everything Like we were never close…

#harry potter #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wolfstar #sirius x remus #angst and feels #hurt and some comfort #remus needs a hug #but so does sirius #lie low at lupin's #post sirius black in azkaban #marauders #sirius black #remus lupin #listen to cage the elephant-ready to let go #ao3

6 notes · View notes

autodialog · 4 months

Text

Burnout

You remembered me.

Yeah, I completely forgot you existed. Sorry about that.

No worries.

No guilt trip?

I'm your inner sage, your satan, your voice of reason. What good would a guilt trip be at this point?

Pretty damned useless.

You swear too much.

I know.

So you're burned out.

I found out that my paid time off doesn't flow over to the next year, and I've never really worried about accounting for my time off. But I had to do the accounting and discovered 130 hours sitting there waiting to be used.

You need a break.

I needed a break six months ago. I'm a set-it-and-forget-it kind of guy. I don't take days off unless I have to.

That's not good enough. You need to schedule more time off in the future and stick to it.

Yeah, I know. I know. I've already added one day to my calendar next year. I'm waiting on my wife's job prospects before scheduling any other vacations, but I'm going to schedule them. I promise.

You also promised to call the clinic to get hearing aids today.

Damn. I forgot to do that.

Yup. See? I don't need to guilt trip you at all. So you're burned out.

Big time, but I'm afraid of it.

There is nothing to fear about it.

I'm afraid of the concept of it. It's hitting me. I really am burned out. I feel it. I know it. My brain in mush. At work I stare at my computer and can think of thirty things that have to get done and I have no idea how to do any of them.

Just start.

That's a recipe for burnout. I can't move forward. I'm scared.

Of what?

Burn out.

That doesn't make any sense, so explain it to me like I'm five.

Okay, you know how I don't even like to say the word "vulnerable"? It's a nasty word. It even feels wrong to say it, let alone be vulnerable. Brené Brown talks about it a lot and I just don't get it. I even heard the word used to describe John McClane in Die Hard and it seemed so wrong. Burn out is the same way. I'm supposed to be stronger than that. More resiliient.

Ah! So you don't know what resilient means.

It has two meanings. One is to be hard like stone and not moved by the world.

Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break, but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it.

And that's you, is it?

Sometimes.

But that's not how it works. The rocks eventually fall to erosion from the waves. Rocks are just slower about it than human beings. We break faster, but we also have something rocks don't have.

Oh?

We grow back stronger. Isn't that the whole point of progressive strength training? The body repairs itself from the careful damage done to it under the bar and so the next time you have to do just a tad bit more careful damage.

That's pretty basic.

You know what's missing in that? Rest. You can heal, unlike the rock. You can grow stronger, but only when you rest. A night's sleep isn't enough. How many times this week did you wake up in the middle of the night thinking about work?

A couple of times.

And did you wake up thinking about music or writing or art or books?

No.

So you are failing even to retreat into your own mind often enough. You're not taking the time to remember what is good and what is bad, what is virtuous and what is vicious. If you were to stop right now and determine what was good or bad in your world, how would you enumerate them?

I'd stare blankly, unthinking.

Really? You've never unthought in your life.

There are people, supposedly, who do not have an inner monologue. I have a hard time believing this is true.

You're not one of those people. I've been narrating your life since you were a kid and invented YouTube before the World Wide Web was a thing. You have thoughts all the time, as well as tinnitus. So what's really going on when you can't even think of a word?

Sometimes pure unadulterated fear. The big one is aphasia. I've seen it do things to people and I don't want to put my wife through that. But today trying to explain something to her I couldn't. I couldn't find the word to start with.

Which is all the more proof that whatever well you draw from is damn near empty and you need to pause to refill it. But you're afraid to do that.

I am.

You think it's a point of strength to plow forward and work twelve-hour days until this work crisis is over.

I do.

You're an idiot.

You're not being helpful right now.

Yes, I am, but you're being an idiot and not listening to me. Come back in the morning after you've slept.

#stoicism #burnout

0 notes

dreamlessinparis · 3 years

Text

Come Back to Me

mob!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn’t expect you have such an impact on his life and it scares him.

Word Count: 2848

Warnings: Angst, implied smut(nothing too graphic), mention of blood, fluff

A/N I wrote this for @sweetlyscared ‘s 1k followers challenge. 💕Congrats on that and I hope you have many more to come! My bleeding heart couldn’t stay away from this challenge. Writing angst might not be my strong suit but I tried. The prompts I used are bolded

Bucky Barnes destroyed everything he touched except you. You were his beautiful flower, so beautiful you made everything in his life better. You were his lifeline, his reason to breathe, the reason his damaged heart still beat and still he let you go. Let you slip through his fingers like sand. Made you leave before he tarnished your soul, the way his was. Bucky Barnes was not a good man, he killed without question and was blindly ruthless, the only good thing he did was set you free, even if it meant leaving a void where his heart was.

Bucky paces through his cold empty office, remembering the warmth you brought to his life. The room progressively darkens along with his mood, as if the weather can sense his unhappiness and the storm clouds break open in a sudden burst. Bucky laughs humorlessly to the fact that the universe was reflecting the shit show that was his life. His glance shifts to the window, where the rain is falling down on the remains of the once beautiful garden, now feral and unkempt in the year without your presence. His mind wanders back to you, his happy place, as the storm rages outside.

You never should have been in his life, but fate had a cruel humor and so did Bucky's best friend Steve when he hired you to be Bucky's assistant. A girl like you, sweet as the smell of honeysuckle in the spring, being the assistant of a mob boss, it was a disaster waiting to happen. But you didn't see it that way. From that first day you walked into his office, your long hair pulled back, wearing a white sundress with little flowers on it, he could have sworn you were an angel. You had a smile that lit up the whole room and your eyes didn’t look at him like he was a monster. Obviously you knew who he was but chose to make your own decisions about him.

Everybody on his crew loved you, the guards, the servants, Steve and especially Bucky. It was hard not to. Bucky begins to think back to the times he caught you dancing in the hall of paintings, headphones in your ears. The one time you noticed his presence, you immediately began to sputter out apologies until you saw the wide smile on his beautiful face. You had never seen him smile before and it made your heart swell. So you did the unthinkable, grabbing his hand and putting a headphone in his ear. To your disbelief, he pulled you close and the two of you slow-danced to a song that clearly wasn't meant to be a slow dance but neither of you cared. You rested your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as you swayed in his arms.

After that incident, Bucky kept his distance, you made him vulnerable and in his world vulnerable meant weak. He could tell it hurt your feelings, no matter how well you tried to hide it. You kept up a professional front but your eyes gave you away. To Bucky you were an open book.

Despite his wariness to let you in, he never stopped watching you. Whether you were in the garden, tending to the flowers in your free time, or laughing with Steve about something, Bucky always had an eye on you. Without his permission you wormed your way into his heart and made a home.

It was during one of Tony’s gala’s where Bucky learned what true jealousy was. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he saw you walk in that red dress, seductively clinging to your curves, hair gathered at the nape of your neck. He didn’t know where to look, the slender curve of your neck or the peek of your leg from your, in his opinion, too high slit or anywhere in between. His eyes settled on your beautiful face, watching as you approached him.

“You look stunning, y/n,” Bucky leaned in to whisper in your ear, a scarlet blush rising up your neck at his words. You awkwardly thanked him, looking away quickly. His husky chuckle made the hairs on your neck rise and that was when you knew you were falling for him. You had been for a long time but now you were sure. He was a man of terrible deeds, but there was good in him. Under his tough exterior, you had chipped away enough to see a peek of his heart of gold. The heart he thought was blackened by everything he’d done.

Suddenly Thor approached the two of you and before Bucky could utter another word, you were whisked away to the dance floor. He watched in disbelief and pure rage as his girl was being waltzed around by the golden haired oaf. A hand on his shoulder was enough to throw him over the edge, and he turned to attack whoever touched him, only to realize it was Steve. Steve arched an eyebrow at him and Bucky relaxed, reigning in his anger as much as he could, not knowing what came over him. But Steve knew, he had known since day one.

From that night forward, the two of you ignored the elephant in the room, tiptoeing around each other’s feelings. Sometimes when you were standing in the garden, looking out, you felt him come up behind you, the heat of his body radiating against your back. You could feel his nose skim your hair, inhaling your scent, eye fluttering shut in hopes he would touch you. But he never did and he always disappeared before you could react. You yearned for him in ways you had never yearned before.

It was a night in August that changed everything. Bucky was in his office, reading over a file that Steve had brought to him, when he heard the thunder clap. He looked up to see the skies open up, rain beginning to fall in thick wet drops. Just as he was about to return to his work, he saw you run out into the garden. The rain quickened by the second all around you as you twirled in a circle, head back, a huge smile on your face. Bucky couldn’t control himself as he left his office, heading to the back door. Nothing else mattered to him, except the gorgeous girl dancing in the rain like a woodland fairy.

For a moment he forgot who he was, where he was and how his next action would play out. His hands wound around your waist, startling you, your hair clinging to your skin as you met his gaze. Without any care in the world Bucky pressed his lips to yours, hands coming up to hold your face, holding you delicately like you would break in his hands. He wanted to mold himself around you, and never let you go. Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, feverishly matching his kiss with the same passion. One of his hands slid to the back of your head as the other one found its way to rest on your lower back, pressing you into him. He pulled away, grabbing your hand and tugging you into the gazebo, the heated look in his eyes made you shiver in anticipation.

The rest was a blur, a mix of messy kisses and roaming hands, as you explored one another. Soaked pieces of clothing were scattered about haphazardly, neither of your hands wanting to leave the other's skin for too long. The rain pattered on the roof of the gazebo, drowning out your moans as you rode Bucky, head thrown back in a different kind of pleasure. He gave over control, just like he gave over his heart, hands digging into your hips almost painfully. Your hands dug into the strong muscles of his chest and a broken groan had you melting further into him. A cacophony of emotions swirled in the air around you as you both reached your climax and you knew this was a point of no return.

Bucky’s hand hit the glass window in front of him, remembering that fateful night. The night that changed his life. Right before he shattered everything. He still remembered the look on your face, still remembered the feeling of his heart shattering, still felt the regret of what he had done as soon as he did it. The rain pouring outside was increasing as he laid his head to the glass, letting the tears finally fall. He had watched you sleep that night, your gorgeous face peacefully as you probably dreamt of butterflies and flowers, and he knew he couldn’t keep you. He was glad he got to have you just once but tomorrow you would be gone and he would make sure of it. When Bucky left the bed that next morning, he left his heart beside you.

Little did he know, you were also sitting in front of a window watching the rain, in your little apartment across town. The cup of tea doing little to warm you up as the memories you usually kept at bay were crashing over you.

You had woken up alone in Bucky’s bed, the soreness between your legs brought a smile to your lips as you remembered the night before. Bucky’s sweet words and lingering touches felt like brands on your skin and every flash of the night before caused your heart to soar. You quickly dressed and made your way downstairs, finding an empty house. A note on the door of Bucky’s office told you that he was out dealing with some business and would be back later. Your heart clenched at the impersonal tone of the note and you shook your head to clear your doubts. But the ice that had crept in, was chilling you to the bone.

You went about your day doing your usual work, but the feeling of dread never left the pit of your stomach. The feeling worsened when you heard the front door open and close, Steve and Bucky’s voices sounding from the foyer. Your feet carried you into the hallway before you realized what you were doing and suddenly he was in front of you, his suit jacket laying on the floor, white button up covered in blood. For the first time you saw the man everyone was afraid of, the terrifying mob boss, his eyes dead as they looked up to meet yours. No they didn’t meet yours, instead they looked right through you. He nodded to Steve, who was looking at you with worried eyes but you couldn’t take your eyes off Bucky, who just brushed past you without a second glance.

Like a magnet, you followed behind him as he went up to his office. Shutting the door behind yourself, you faced him, finding him sitting on the edge of his desk watching you. His expression was cold and vacant, no remnants of the man you knew.

“Bucky?” You asked in a soft voice, slowly approaching him. His eyes watched you cautiously, as you put a hand on his forearm. “Are you alright?”

“Take your hand off me, y/n,” He growled, voice dripping with venom. Your eyes flashed up to his face, your expression shocked. “I’ve let you become too comfortable,” He continued, stepping away from his desk, causing you to take a step back. “And that won’t do.”

He continued to stalk towards you until your back hit the wall and he loomed over you. A tremor wracked down your spine and for once you were scared of him. His ring covered hand came up to grab your throat, pushing you flush against the wall and leaned into you until his nose was touching yours. Your hands wrapped around his wrist, trying with no luck to yank it off.

“What’s wrong little birdie? Cat got your tongue,” Bucky smirked, transforming into a complete stranger in front of your eyes. His hand tightened and tears welled in your eyes.

“Bucky, please,” You pleaded, desperate for the man you knew was in there somewhere. “Don’t do this!”

“Do what? I got what I wanted, there's no need for me to act anymore.”

“Act? Bucky you don’t mean that,” You protested, nails digging into his wrist.

“Oh but I do sweetheart. Did you really think I felt more for you?”

“You did, you do!” You cried, tears now streaming down your face, “Last night was real Bucky, you can’t deny that!”

Bucky shook his head, freeing you from his grasp as he began to laugh uncontrollably.

“Last night,” He choked out between laughs, “last night was nothing, I fucked you and you let me.” You wanted to smack the laughter right out of him, but you were frozen in place by the harshness of his words. His mocking laughter got louder with each passing moment, and you just couldn’t stay any longer. You ran out of that house as fast as your legs would allow, never looking behind you, as you got in your car and drove away.

If only you had stayed just a little while longer, you would have seen Bucky’s laughter give way to body wrenching sobs as the man you loved fell to pieces.

Your hand absently rubs at the ache in your chest, your heart still broken. Some days you wondered if it was all a dream, whether you imagined how Bucky felt about you. Your heart told you it was real but his words never left your thoughts, haunting you always. Tears streamed down your face, wishing you could go back and live it all over again, even though you knew how it would end. It didn’t matter as long as you were around him just for a little while.

A sharp knock pulls you out of your head and you glance curiously at the door, wondering who was here in this weather. You detangle yourself from your blanket and walk over to the door, looking into the peephole. Your breath catches in your throat and you rush to open the door, revealing thoroughly soaked Bucky Barnes. His broken expression causes the ache in your chest to worsen but you keep your face blank, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing how close you were to breaking down.

He runs a hand through his wet hair as he looks you over, making note of your tear stained cheeks and guarded expression. Taking a deep breath, he takes your warm hand into his cold one and finally speaks.

“I have loved you since the day I met you”

“Bucky-, “ You begin to interrupt, but his other hand covers your mouth.

“Please let me finish and then you can tell me to go to hell if you want to,” Bucky begs, and you nod, unable to say no to him. “I have loved you since the day I met you and I knew if I let myself love you, I would ruin you. So for months I pushed you away, but you still found your way back. Somewhere along the line I stopped fighting it and let myself fall.” He stops for a moment, collecting himself before continuing.

“I fell head first down the rabbit hole and I let myself drown in you. But that next morning, seeing you in my bed, I knew I couldn’t keep you because you were too good for the world I live in. So I lied and I broke your heart and I am so so sorry for everything,” His voice breaking on the last word as he drops his hand from your mouth. You look at him stunned, words escaping you. He waits as you gather yourself, bracing himself for whatever you were about to say.

“Why are you here Bucky? Obviously nothing has changed, I’m still me and you’re still you,” You ask quietly, not having the strength to speak any louder. You didn’t understand why he felt the need to come here and tell you all this if he still couldn’t fit you into his life. Did he just enjoy breaking your heart repeatedly?

His hand reaches up to cup your cheek and you lean into it, enjoying the feeling. This wasn’t the response he was expecting from you, but he was going to fight with everything he had left.

“I’m a selfish man, y/n and I don’t want to stay away from you anymore. I love you with every fiber of my being and I’m here to ask you to take me back, ragged edges and all. Nothing is the same without you and I can’t live another day in this colorless world. Please come back to me and set my world alight again.” Bucky’s blue grey eyes met yours, pleading with you to say yes.

Words don’t seem like enough so instead your hands reach up, grabbing him by the lapels and kiss him hard. His hands find your waist, holding on for dear life and you know he’s never going to let go again.

#sweetlysad1kchallenge #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader

496 notes · View notes

robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Text

Field Medicine - on ao3 or tumblr pt 1, pt 2, pt 3

Wei Wuxian had been spending much of his free time as of late at the Cloud Recesses – he could regularly be seen walking through their many paths with Lan Wangji always at his side – and Lan Xichen couldn’t be more pleased, except for when he thought about his bride-to-be that would soon be joining them there.

It would be sad to lose Lan Wangji’s company, he reflected, although he supposed that with them both being men and there being no expectation of children unless they opted to adopt a war orphan, it would be reasonable to request that they split their time between the Lotus Pier and the Cloud Recesses once they’d properly settled down. Still, Jiang Cheng clearly needed their help more than he did, at least in the beginning, as Lan Xichen still had his uncle and his elders to support him as sect leader while Jiang Cheng was doing it on his own – it would be entirely reasonable for him to request that the two of them start their lives together at the Lotus Pier, and Wei Wuxian would probably insist on it anyway.

Lan Xichen thought, however, that he would be able to make a plausible argument that the two of them should come to ground in the Cloud Recesses for a while once he and Jiang Yanli had children.

All they needed, really, was for Wei Wuxian to stop his insistence on demonic cultivation.

Lan Xichen really didn’t understand what the issue was. It had made sense to deviate from orthodoxy during the war – when fighting someone of Wen Ruohan’s power and forces of the magnitude of the Wen sect, they had needed every weapon they could find, and Wei Wuxian’s formidable intelligence and creativity had given them the edge that had made all the difference. But at the same time demonic cultivation was well known to be dangerous to the user as well: it affected the temperament, with its practitioners known to become arrogant, cruel, and selfish, uncaring of life or death of others, and more than that, it affected the body and soul, damaging them, risking not only this life but the next.

Why would Wei Wuxian persist in such an unwise course of action now that there was no need for it?

Lan Xichen had often wondered such a thing, but he had spoken to his sworn brothers on the subject (Lan Wangji was useless for such discussions, unsurprisingly) and both of them had been much less surprised than he. Nie Mingjue had spoken, haltingly, of how difficult it could be to open one’s hand and put down the saber after years and years of holding it too tightly – of how the war might end but the adrenaline remained, how the fear and caution that had served so well for years might no longer be necessary and yet the body remembered, the subconscious mind remembered. Jin Guangyao had spoken in turn of the allure of power to one who had once lacked it: the security of knowing there was no need to bow before others, no need to compromise oneself and yield, yield, yield – the difficulty in giving up that safety and placing it in the hands of others, of those who might not live up to the trust, how slow the process was to learn to rely on others in truth rather than merely on the surface.

He could understand that, and so understood that Wei Wuxian’s actions were not unreasonable – and yet, they remained a problem.

Lan Xichen knew that the subject had been often on Lan Wangji’s mind in recent days, troubling him, and there seemed to be no particular solution forthcoming. It was no wonder, given his feelings for the man that seemed so clearly evident to Lan Xichen that he wondered everyone wasn’t speaking of them.

Lan Xichen himself had initially been too occupied to give the matter much thought. He might have more people to rely upon than Jiang Cheng, but his home had been utterly destroyed as well, and there was much work to be done in rebuilding. Still, he’d been thinking on it more and more as of late.

After all, Wei Wuxian was no longer exclusively or even primarily Jiang Cheng’s problem – it had been one thing when he was refusing Lan Wangji’s company at every turn, when a relationship between him and Lan Wangji was nothing more than a dream or a possibility that simply wasn’t to be, when he was someone that Lan Wangji could acknowledge as having loved and lost in his youth without too much regret. But now that he was here. He had agreed to come to Gusu to negotiate his shijie’s marriage, and they were spending so much time together…

Wei Wuxian would be Lan Xichen’s brother-in-law, his soon-to-be bride’s little brother, and that meant that Lan Xichen had to think about him from that perspective as well. He had grown to love Jiang Yanli’s smile, and she smiled most of all when speaking of the two brothers that she loved so much, just as he smiled best when he spoke of Lan Wangji, or even of his two (sometimes difficult) sworn brothers.

Yes, Wei Wuxian was definitely Lan Xichen’s problem now.

He only wished that there were more that he could do.

“Zewu-jun! Zewu-jun!” several of his Lan sect disciples called, hurrying over, and their raised voices made him frown at once – causing excess noise is prohibited – whatever the cause, it must be urgent.

It was.

Wei Wuxian had burst into Jinlin Tower in a rage during a public meeting – had gotten into an argument with Jin Zixun and threatened him – he had killed several Jin sect retainers at the Qiongi Path and kidnapped the prisoners of war they had been guarding – he had retreated to the Yiling Burial Mounds and was threatening all who came near with the Tiger Seal –

Lan Xichen hurried to Jinlin Tower at once.

Jin Guangshan was holding court with his family at his side, railing at Wei Wuxian – how dangerous he was, how uncontrolled – and pointing out how he had for some time already been saying how inappropriate it was for such a powerful magic tool to end up in the hands of such an arrogant and impulsive young man. The others were there as well, Lan Xichen the last to arrive: Nie Mingjue scowling down at them all from his excessive height, Lan Wangji still as stone to conceal how upset he was, Jiang Cheng standing there with his face black and clenched fists trembling with anger, Jiang Yanli at his side with her lips pressed tightly together, equally distressed.

She looked at him, seeking comfort – seeking commiseration, since there was no comfort to be had.

After all, what could they do? Jin Guangshan was right. They had all been concerned about Wei Wuxian, his erratic behavior and dangerous demonic cultivation. They had been worried about what he might do now that there was no war in which to put his efforts, and now he had proven all of their fears wholly justified.

He had committed crimes, killed men. Even if they wanted to say something in his defense, what grounds did they have to speak?

Lan Xichen’s steps slowed, suddenly, the thought giving him sudden pause.

What grounds did they have to speak?

What grounds had his father to speak, when it had been his mother who had had blood on her hands? He had not condemned her, as he ought have; instead he married her and challenged all who knew of the matter to dare defy him – he had rested upon the power of his clan, the power of being a Great Sect, and he had protected her against the world, although it had in the end cost him everything.

Lan Wangji could not do the same, although Lan Xichen could see on his face that he wished he could – it was one thing for a man to claim a woman, to promise that he would act as her bond and keep her from further wrongdoing, but it would not be understood that way for a man. No man could restrict another to the courtyard, not unless they were being held as a prisoner, sentenced to their fate, and that was not the answer here: no one would believe that Lan Wangji’s intention was to save Wei Wuxian rather than exploit him, not when the man was as powerful as Wei Wuxian was. Even if the feelings were the same, the world’s understanding of the situation was simply too different.

No, Lan Wangji could not act. To join Wei Wuxian now would be to turn him from a single wrongdoer into the leader of a rebellion, hastening the cultivation world’s desire to crush him, and yet – to abandon him was surely unthinkable.

Feelings or no feelings, Lan Wangji was only a single man, unable to stand against the world. He had no ability to speak.

But Lan Xichen did.

“We will certainly take that under consideration, Sect Leader Jin,” he said, his words sliding in during the small break between words when Jin Guangshan paused to breathe. “Your wisdom and advice are greatly appreciated, as they always are. We will think carefully on your suggestion.”

Jin Guangshan turned to him in surprise, and he wasn’t alone – everyone was staring, not least of which was Jiang Cheng himself, clearly stunned by his interjection. Lan Xichen hated it, hated being the center of attention, but he had been brought up to be sect leader; no matter his preference in avoiding the spotlight, avoiding fights, avoiding unpleasantness, it was all irrelevant in the face of his duty.

He kept a pleasant smile on his face. Ignorance, he thought, was the best approach to permit all sides to save face – he did not wish to start a fight with Jin Guangshan if he could avoid it.

He might not be able to avoid it, but Lan Xichen loved his family too much to really care.

“Zewu-jun,” Jin Guangshan said, and Lan Xichen could see him gearing up to tell him that his not-yet-crystalized demands were not a suggestion, that they were necessary, that the Jin sect – as the victims – had rights to call upon.

Lan Xichen couldn’t let him speak, so he didn’t. “I appreciate the same for all of you,” he said, raising his voice just a little, and surveying the room full of sect leaders. “Your concern for our family matter does you all credit, and we will not forget it.”

“Family matter?” Sect Leader Qin scoffed, his eyebrows arched. “How can this be a family matter?”

“Wei Wuxian is soon to be my brother-in-law,” Lan Xichen said with a smile. “My sister’s shixiong, raised by her side – how can it be anything else? Jiang Wanyin, I will of course provide you with any assistance you require in uncovering exactly what has happened and in determining a punishment to suit.”

“This is not a private matter,” Jin Guangshan said. “My Jin sect retainers were killed by a corpse raised by Wei Wuxian –”

“The sects have always managed justice for their own in the first instance, with others interfering only if the punishment is insufficient. Surely that has not changed,” Nie Mingjue said, and oh, Lan Xichen loved his sworn brother so very much.

He might be stern and harsh at times, but he was loyal to those he loved beyond all reason; he was stepping up to defend the (possibly) indefensible on Lan Xichen’s word alone, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him as they always had in battle, in battle and everywhere else. He had forgiven the false information that Lan Xichen had inadvertently passed along, and trusted him unreservedly once more.

“If my Nie sect cultivators do wrong, it is my obligation to carry out justice and my shame if I do not,” he continued. “Demonic cultivator or not, Wei Wuxian is the head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang. Who has the grounds to speak first and foremost to his punishment if not Jiang Wanyin?”

Jiang Cheng himself was still working his jaw, trying to say something and failing.

“No one is questioning the ancestral right of the sect leader to manage the sect, da-ge,” Jin Guangyao said, stepping in at once. “It is only that this is a difficult situation, you understand, given the nature of Wei Wuxian’s demonic powers – and, of course, that the Jiang sect is still rebuilding…”

“Which is why I volunteered my sect to help,” Lan Xichen said, glad for the opening that Jin Guangyao had given him even if he suspected it was inadvertent. He didn’t like being on the opposite side from Jin Guangyao, much less publicly, but he understood the necessity of it. His sworn brother could not go against his father’s wishes, and Lan Xichen had long ago learned the hard lesson dividing private and public interests. “We have many techniques designed for suppression of evil and many experts. Even if the Cloud Recesses was burned by the Wen sect –”

There, a not-so-subtle reminder that the prisoners of war that the Jin sect had been guarding had offended his sect more than the Jin, and that he was more entitled to demand punishment than they.

“– we were still able to preserve many of our magic tools and ancient books, and I have faith in our capability. And, naturally, as Wei Wuxian’s future brother-in-law, helping is what I should do.”

He shot Nie Mingjue a look.

“You may have any assistance you want from me and mine as well,” Nie Mingjue said, putting his hands behind his back, standing like the general he so recently was. “Am I not your sworn brother, Xichen? But if you and Jiang Wanyin do not adequately investigate the matter or fail impose a proper punishment that suits the crime, I will be the first to speak against you.”

And that quelled more than half the voices that had been about to raise protest. If some argument could be made that Jiang Wanyin was too weak towards his shixiong to properly punish him, then there was Lan Xichen behind him, and if he, too, was inclined by his temperament to be seduced into mercy when it was inappropriate, there was Nie Mingjue as well. Who would dare suggest that the righteous Chifeng-zun would not demand that justice be done?

We are three of the four remaining Great Sects, Lan Xichen realized, suddenly giddy with it. Between us, we have the loyalty of the majority of sects in the cultivation world, and the reputation to back it – who does not know how much we did in the Sunshot Campaign, Nie, Lan, and Jiang, even as the Jin sect held back and dithered?

When we stand together, who can tell us we are wrong?

Perhaps Jin Guangshan realized it, or perhaps it was Jin Guangyao who understood how close his father was to making a mistake, because he glanced his father’s way and stepped forward with a smile, echoing Nie Mingjue’s words of support, smoothly reminding the world that he, too, was one of Lan Xichen’s sworn brothers, and almost immediately afterwards it was Jin Zixuan who was speaking, offering the support of the Jin sect in whatever capacity was required.

Offering, not demanding.

Lan Xichen glanced at Lan Wangji, who was looking at him with the sort of admiration that he thought they had left behind in their childhood – his eyes were positively glassy with relief and thankfulness. When he looked over to the Jiang sect he saw that they were just the same, and actually on that note it was time to quickly bring this scene to an end before someone (possibly Jiang Cheng himself) burst into tears.

He said a few words, indicating that they would leave to prepare to initiate the investigation at once, and soon enough the bustle of sect leader voices rising up in commentary began to drown out anything Jin Guangshan might have said. Lan Xichen could safely begin to make his way out.

Jin Zixuan managed to find him before he escaped the crowd. “Good luck,” he said, and glanced over to where the Jiang sect stood – Jiang Cheng responding to questions with non-answers and assurances that promised nothing while Jiang Yanli stood by his shoulder, his stalwart support. “She deserves someone like you.”

There was some wistfulness in his eyes, the perhaps belated realization of what prize he had let slip through his fingers, but although Lan Xichen was a kind man, he was not so kind as to give up something he valued so dearly.

“Thank you,” he said, thinking to himself that Jin Zixuan was a good man underneath all the gilt and flash, and that the world would be notably improved once he took over the Jin sect. He would need to ask Jin Guangyao if there wasn’t any way that they could think of to shift more of the decision-making power in the Jin sect from the older generation to the younger sooner rather than later. “Your words of support were both timely and welcome.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Jin Zixuan said, and disappeared once again into the crowd.

It took some time to get away from them all, but finally Lan Xichen was alone, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, and then soon enough there were the Jiang sect coming in through the door, Jiang Cheng and his sister, his Jiang Yanli who had held her tongue and the feelings Lan Xichen knew she must have felt, standing with perfect poise despite the unbearable provocation. The perfect person to be by his side in the future, helping him restore the restrained tranquility of the Cloud Recesses.

And she was perfect in this way, too: after the eyes of the crowd were no longer on her, she abandoned restraint for joy and threw herself into his arms, delighted and laughing and thankful, and he forget himself enough to kiss her. Which he did, very happily, until a quiet cough brought him back to awareness.

“We’ll find a way to fix this,” he said, looking up at where Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji were standing side-by-side, both of them looking indulgently at the two of them. “We’ll find out what happened, why Wei Wuxian did what he did, and then we’ll start our new life off the right way. With life, not death, with our loved ones at our side.”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji said. “We will.”

“Yes,” Jiang Yanli said, and stood on her toes to press her lips to his again. “We will. Thank you, husband.”

Lan Xichen smiled.

#mdzs #lan xichen #jiang yanli #wei wuxian #lan wangji #jiang cheng #nie mingjue #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #field medicine #I do not endorse feudal criminal law

152 notes · View notes

mimik-u · 3 years

Text

Flower Child, Chapter 17: Fall

AO3 Link

In defiance of every atom, of every primordial instinct that told her to run, Priyanka Maheswaran found herself in the slaughterhouse as the steel analog clock on the wall dragged her into the next minute.

5:55 PM.

But the hands of time were relentless. They kept moving, kept circling across the swath of smooth white. Seconds and seconds and seconds. Unthinking. Disinterested. Inexorable.

Seconds and seconds and seconds.

They piled upon the altar like dry kindling. One spark, and they would smoke; they would simply burn, and the reek of charnel would suffocate her where she languished and sat in the slaughterhouse, where all dreams crumbled—embers becoming charcoaled dust.

5:56.

In approximately two hundred and forty seconds, in four minutes more, Steven Universe’s guardians would file in through the door directly across from the nephrologist. She would implore them to sit with a terse nod of her head. She would not tell them that the medical staff who worked on the Truman Ward colloquially called the conference room directly across the nurse’s station—this very room—the slaughterhouse, where doctors brought the family members of patients in and didn’t leave them unchanged when they finally came out.

I’m sorry, they would say to someone’s mother, father, sibling, lover, friend, daughter, son.

We did all that we could, but the damage was too extensive.

We’ve tried everything, but your loved one is dead.

Your loved one is going to die.

I’m sorry, she would say.

She would adopt her best patient voice, which had only ever managed to be adequate. It wouldn’t be enough; her throat would strain against the sound, the crease between her eyes betraying that she was afraid.

They would see right through her.

I’m sorry, she would say anyway. She would plead. It would be the last defense against complete dissolution that she had.

She’d bring the cleaver down upon the smiles she’d wrought on their careworn faces only just that morning.

It would be quick and brutal.

Barbaric even.

I’m sorry.

She had not intended to come here—not for any patient if she could help it.

Not for Steven Universe most of all.

But life was perverse, and it was so damn unkind; it knew nothing of intentions and hopes, dreams and childish wishes. It cared little for found families and fourteen-year old boys who needed kidneys.

5:57.

Priyanka sat at the head of the long table, her hands clasped in a rigid temple upon its smooth, gray surface, knuckles white from the simple exertion of clenching them. And then, as the seconds ticked by, as they smoked, as they gathered, as they burned, the room dissolved beneath her, stolen into nothingness by the snatch of a memory, an echo from a ghost who died nearly fifteen years ago…

She had possessed a beatific smile.

Her hair fell across her gowned shoulders in flowing, pink ringlets.

Rose Quartz went into labor two weeks before her due date.

It was a starless August night.

Balmy.

The world outside slept, lulled by the susurrant hush of the wind.

Though her contractions were coming steadily, Dr. Howard’s parenthetically lined mouth grew thinner each time his hawklike eyes slid towards the monitor which registered the twenty-six year old’s increasing blood pressure. She’d been admitted the week prior for severe headaches, a symptom consistent with her kidney disease, sure, but her blood tests indicated that she was hypertensive, too.

They started her on corticosteroids to help the baby’s still-developing lungs.

Dr. Howard took Priyanka off of all her other cases.

Made it her priority to stick to Room 11078 and to page him immediately if Rose’s blood pressure spiked to 140/90 mm/Hg.

“Because we’ll have to deliver the baby right then and there,” he stressed gravely,“if we want any chance of saving them both.”

He was talking obliquely about preeclampsia, a birth condition which began with high blood pressure and often ended with damage to the livers or kidneys.

And Rose Quartz’s kidneys were already shit, so there was that, and here was yet another sordid item to add to the ever growing list of what was wrong with the poor woman’s body.

Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl had all gone back to the hotel room for the night—against their wills, protesting—but Rose had made them, had told them to go on ahead, to get some sleep. She would see them in the morning. She loved them.

Goodnight.

And Greg was in the hallway, making a call to an insurance provider, which left Priyanka alone with Rose, who was propped up against two pillows on her hospital bed, palming her stomach protectively as she idly watched whatever was playing on TV—some offbeat sitcom or another. Frankly, Priyanka neither knew nor care. Scrunched up in one of the hardback chairs off to the left of Rose’s bed, she scratched harsh notes on her chart for the want of something to do.

To combat the growing feeling clambering up the rungs of her constricted throat.

To drown out the laugh track.

Those nameless people, that detached crowd, they laughed and laughed and laughed.

She couldn’t see what was so fucking funny, and she intimated as much without ever realizing it, scoffing just as her pen decided to run out of ink.

(It wasn’t really about the pen.)

“You seem exhausted, Priyanka,” Rose Quartz said softly, and it was with a jolt that the resident realized that she had been caught out.

Discovered.

Seen.

She flushed as she felt rather than saw that familiar, dark eyed gaze settle upon her gently—like a blanket, warm and encompassing. She stared obstinately at her clipboard, trying to will her own scribbles to make sense in a world that had currently lost its ever loving mind.

“I’ve been working overtime all week,” she said shortly, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. The wooden armrest pressed stiffly against her back, an unwelcome hand upon her spine. “Of course I’m exhausted.”

“Then you should go home. Get some rest.”

“Dr. Howard assigned me to your case again.

“Excuses, excuses,” Rose clucked, teasing, fond, amused. “He can’t make you work overtime.”

Priyanka was simply furious with herself.

With a final click of her useless pen, she replaced it in the lapel of her scrubs and finally met her patient’s gaze with a steeliness that she hoped would wound, cut, eviscerate.

But nothing, not even the possibility of her imminent death, seemed to faze the woman, who stared at her evenly, with all the air of someone waiting patiently to explain the turn of the seasons to a child who wondered where the leaves had all gone.

Change was inevitable.

Winter became spring became summer became fall.

I want to leave them with roots, Priyanka, she’d explained in that tiny examination room, so many months ago. She’d taken the resident’s hand and intertwined it with her own. A faint floral scent wreathed her hair. Strawberries, maybe. Wild and sweet. I want them to have the chance to grow…

“It isn’t looking too good, is it?” Rose asked, her voice so casual that they could have merely been discussing a chapter from a really sad book.

And the princess didn’t get to live happily ever after. And the evil forces prevailed in the end. And Rose Quartz’s body was rapidly shutting down. And there was nothing they could do about it, or more accurately still, they were doing everything.

And nothing was entirely working.

Priyanka’s dark eyes flitted to the number she had just recently scrawled on her chart in stuttering ink.

132/90 mm/Hg.

“No,” she said flatly. She felt no need to sugarcoat a bush that was already burning. Her fingers were cold where they gripped the flat of her clipboard. Her entire chest ached. “Your blood pressure is too high. The antihypertensives aren’t working.”

“Oh, well… I figured,” Rose sighed softly, still rubbing her swollen belly. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, curly tendrils of pink hair clinging softly, like gossamer, to her pale temples. “That explains the headaches, doesn’t it?”

Priyanka stared at Rose Quartz incredulously.

Gaped at her wildly.

Like she’d never properly seen before.

(She’d seen her so many times in the past couple of months, flitting in and out of the hospital, Dr. Howard’s office, and then the hospital all over again; she’d done what she swore she would never do with a patient; she became attached; she cared; it would be her own undoing.)

“Of course it does,” she snapped. She didn’t care that she was breaking a hell of a lot of rules, all the studied lines of decorum. She slammed her clipboard onto her lap and couldn't bring herself to bring a shit that it produced such a violent sound. She wanted to shake this woman, wanted to break the calm in her face, wanted her to register the simple fact that she could very well die. “If you’re still suffering from headaches, then, of course , it means the medicines aren’t working. It’s common sense, Rose. Mere logic.”

Her shoulders heaved as though she had only just ran a marathon.

And Rose’s smile—that beatific, perfect, clandestine smile—slid, like melting ice, from her mouth.

Finally, Priyanka thought savagely, and she hated herself for it.

Guilt assaulted her, a new lump in her constricted throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, dull color bruising her sharply drawn cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just… I’m—”

“No, Priyanka.” Rose brought one of her hands from the top of her belly, raising it firmly against the resident’s stammered apologies. If she was injured—if she was hurting—she didn’t very well show it, her expression as impenetrably smooth as the silver face of the moon. “Please don’t say sorry… not if you don’t mean it. You only said what you’ve been thinking, what all my loved ones have been thinking, really… what an entire fool I am.”

Her soft, brown eyes briefly flicked to the multiple IVs stemming from her lifted hand. The tubes swirled all around her arm, spiraling towards a multitude of brightly flickering machines.

“Crazy,” she laughed humorlessly, the sound without familiar melody. “Throwing my life away…”

A little less than nine months had elapsed since she had first announced her pregnancy, and now there was a grayness to her once milk white skin.

A lethargy behind that calm face.

The passion, the vivaciousness, the youth all gone.

Priyanka was scarcely two years older than her.

“Priyanka,” she whispered, the name somber in the movement of that once perpetually smiling mouth, “would you believe me if I said that this ”—she gestured feebly at the hospital bed, at the medical apparatus all around her—“isn’t living? Would you understand if I told you that this isn’t who I am on the inside—all these needles and lines and medicines and awful machines?”

Without waiting for an answer, not seemingly needing one, Rose gently replaced her hand on her stomach, her palm tenderly cupping its curve.

“I know what living is, sweet Priyanka,” she continued, closing her dark eyes against some invisible memory, “and this isn’t it… this isn’t all those days I’ve stood in endless protest for a cause that I so desperately believe in. This isn’t being able to play volleyball on the beach with my loved ones, watching Amethyst and Garnet and Pearl and Greg laugh in the sand. This isn’t the fish fries we’ve hosted, nor the long nights spent planning demonstrations on the deck. This isn’t the thrill of falling in love with so many people. Meeting Pearl. Coming to understand the strange cosmos of Greg Universe. Choosing to have this child with him. Choosing this path which may very well end in my own destruction… because this , Priyanka Maheswaran, from the moment I was first diagnosed at sixteen years old, was already my destruction. And I simply have been borrowing moments of living in the full acknowledgment of that terrible truth.”

Rose did not falter.

So strong, even to the last, she did not break.

But maybe, just maybe, she cracked… just a little, just enough so that Priyanka could see.

A single tear escaped the confines of her closed eyes, slowly slipping down her cheek and into the slightly rumpled collar of her paisley-studded gown.

“So would you believe me, Priyanka?” She asked again.

She begged.

She pleaded.

“Please?”

She was asking a lot of the twenty-eight year old, to whom belief had never come easily. Priyanka was constantly interrogating her own values, checking and double checking them against rationality to ensure that they fit the meticulous schema she had constructed of the empirically observable world.

But just as there was no rationality in a twenty-six year old dying, there was no logicality in belief.

There was only a leap of faith, fingers crossed that she wouldn’t fall into the abyss.

Landing was not a guarantee.

And that was what so unfathomable to her, so cruel and so disgusting.

But what more could Priyanka say? What facts and statistics could she throw in this dying woman’s face to make her see reason that wasn’t exactly there.

The answer was nothing.

Perhaps it had always been nothing.

This student of science had no more protestations.

And in the absence of protestation, all that was left was a single choice: to jump or not to jump.

It was simple, really.

It was so damn hard.

Rose Quartz finally opened her eyes then. They were bright with her tears, and yet, simultaneously, the sheer darkness of them gripped Priyanka like the hands of a drowning sailor. The screen on the wall which measured her blood pressure had incrementally risen since they had started talking.

134/90 mm/Hg.

There was no time to waste anymore.

To pretend like they had ever possessed.

“What…” Priyanka began, her own voice hoarse, tight, strained, on the very verge of the precipice it hesitated to leap.“… what do you need me to do? Name it, and I’ll… I can’t promise anything… but I’ll try. ”

The word felt paltry, insufficient.

Trying was not an assurance, just as landing was not a guarantee.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Rose’s face simply collapsed, tears falling down both sides of her cheeks in gentle lines.

“Thank you, Priyanka,” she whispered, relief in every word, redolent in all the syllables of her spoken name.

But Priyanka did not want gratitude; she wanted an answer, something solid to latch onto, a promise she could keep.

“What you need, Rose?” She asked again, shifting her gaze her away. Her voice was abrupt—it was always abrupt—but somehow, it was not entirely unkind. “Tell me.”

The woman’s answer was immediate, unflinching; she had been obviously been thinking about it for a very long time.

It was the answer she probably would have proffered to anyone who asked.

Who took the time to wonder what exactly it was that Rose Quartz wanted.

What she needed.

What she had kept so carefully concealed behind that calm veneer of a facade.

“Take care of my baby for me, please,” she whispered. “Be their advocate when Dr. Howard and Greg will be mine… I’ll have so many people in the delivery room. I’ll have so many people rooting for me outside of it, too… but, my baby, Priyanka… I need someone in their corner, too… to root for them… to be their voice… please..."

All things considered, it was a pretty damn unreasonable request.

If Rose had to have a c-section, then Dr. Howard would need Priyanka’s steady hands to hold a clamp or provide suction; in the battlefield of surgery, her only allegiance was to the brusque orders that the old man barked to her behind his mask. The obstetrician would handle the delivery. Their own resident would whisk the baby away to the NICU.

And she and Dr. Howard would try to save Rose’s life.

That was Priyanka’s calling.

Her solemn oath.

Her duty.

But...

.... Unreasonable though it was—and it most certainly was so—Priyanka reasoned that it was likely not unkeepable.

She could help keep an eye on the baby’s heart monitor.

She could even lend a hand in the delivery procedure if Dr. Howard didn’t need her.

She could try, dammit.

She could at least promise that.

“You have my word,” she returned tersely, dark eyes still averted. She played a little with her hands on top of her clipboard, twining and untwining them, as Rose seemingly sank back against her pillows, sighing softly.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me until it’s over—I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You heard me out,” Rose replied evenly. “That’s something.”

“No,” the resident heard herself say aloud. “It isn’t.”

The hands on the clock veered into 6:00 with all the bluntness of a collision and none of its explosiveness.

The door opened.

That was mundane enough.

And Amethyst and Pearl came in first, laughing about something that Garnet had apparently said.

And Greg followed, chuckling, lightly scratching his stomach.

And Garnet made up the rear, grinning, pleased with herself.

Oblivious.

They were all so happy, this extraordinary group of ordinary people—they had no idea where they were or what it all meant or what was about to happen to the smiles on their tired faces.

And Priyanka did not have time to recover her own face, to arrange it into some manner of professional acceptability, her mouth half-open, hands rigid upon the table.

And Amethyst caught her out first.

Because she was smart like that, perceptive.

And the mirth drained from her brown eyes as she perceived the nephrologist’s expression in the semidarkness of the room.

And the two women stared each other across its length.

They called this place the slaughterhouse.

“No,” she simply said. She croaked it. Panic violated the smooth youthfulness of her face, tearing it all asunder. “No, Doc.”

“I’m sorry,” Priyanka Maheswaran whispered.

It wasn’t enough.

It had never been enough.

Garnet only stared at her, disbelieving.

Her mouth hadn’t quite untwisted itself out of the ghost of its last smile.

“I am so, so sorry.”

She said it again anyway, though, like it counted for something, like it meant anything, as tears began to flow down Pearl’s cheeks.

Greg Universe made a sound that was half-horror, half-agony, bracing his hands against the back of a metal chair to steady himself against the blow.

ii.

A doctor, a washed up rockstar, and three Crystal Gems walked out of a conference room.

And the joke, the cruel punchline, was that the boy they all loved wasn’t going to get the kidneys he so desperately needed; he was going to go back on the list, which had always been more of a desperate gamble than a guarantee; he was going to degrade in that hospital bed for however many days, weeks, and months he had more.

Dr. Maheswaran didn’t think he had a year.

She was blunt about it.

Professional.

But her eyes gave her away, the lines beneath them, the consumptive shadows.

(Mere hours ago, her face had been transformed by the simple action of a smile.)

There were no comforting words, nor bracing gestures between the coterie of broken people who limped their way back to Room 11037—injured, defeated, the wounds glistening across their bruised eyes, their shivering mouths. Greg took the lead, the rubber of his sandals snapping harshly against the tiled floor with each step, every guttural, convulsive movement.

They silently decided that he should be the one to actually commit the words aloud, knew that it was for the best. He could be soft where Dr. Maheswaran was brutal. Comprehensive when Garnet couldn’t muster words. Sage when Amethyst’s youthful clumsiness sometimes made it difficult to find the right words.

And he could hold it together long enough to actually say it.

Trailing behind him, pale fingers gripping the fabric of her sweater, Pearl’s horror took the form of sniffling that couldn’t quite be concealed. She was holding herself together—the news had cleaved her apart—and he wondered again, not for the first time since Steven’s diagnosis, whether or not she had been right all those years ago, when she had told him quite plainly, in that incisively logical way of hers, that she was better for Rose.

They’d come a long way since then.

They grudgingly tolerated each other now.

They coparented the best that they could.

Sometimes, he thought that they were even friends, sharing beers together on dusk lit balconies and spending so many sleepless nights side by side at the kitchen table, poring over bills and medicines and more bills because the bills, above all, were endless.

And perhaps in the end, he and Pearl were even family in the way that they loudly and silently and entirely loved the same dying boy.

(That was how they had loved the same woman, too.)

But still, maybe she had had a point.

Pearl always tended to have a point...

The hallway was painfully short; Room 11037 arrived far quicker than any of them had ever anticipated.

His breath coming in hitched gasps, chest seized with a sudden tightening, Greg palmed the wood of the door, splaying his shaking fingers against its smooth grains as though to steady himself against an impossible reckoning. He was minutes away, possibly seconds, from breaking his own son’s heart, and that was on him.

Hell, all failures when it came to his son’s happiness were on him.

He was the kid’s dad.

He was supposed to protect Steven, shelter him, keep him safe from every quantifiable danger that he could.

And here he was, about to deliver another slap to his face and call it kindness.

The contradiction was not lost upon him.

The unfairness of it all stung.

It stung his eyes, and it stung his heart, and it stung all over, simply undid the man. He was a pincushion falling apart in all the places where he had been needled over and over again.

But he felt a hand on the small of his back then—gentle, kind.

He expected it to be Garnet or maybe even Amethyst; that had always been their sort of thing.

But when he looked back behind him, his mouth half-formed in an empty, perfunctory thanks, he saw that it was Pearl, her big, blue eyes still edged with the remnants of her tears.

Her sweater, neatly pressed, seemed to swallow her entirely.

She stood perfectly within the lines of one of the tiles on the floor, feet poised like a ballerina’s. Rose had once told him that she’d been trained to dance—once so disciplined in the art that she could stand upon the tips of her toes for as many minutes as her tutors required.

Even when she was devastated.

Even when she was hurt.

“How… how do I do this?” Greg asked before he could stop himself. The words tumbled out of his mouth in an ungainly rush. “How do I… how can I… I mean… he’s just a boy… a kid, and I—“

And I don’t want to do this, Pearl.

I don’t want to see him go through this.

Pearl swiped delicately at her nose, and she swiped at her leaking eyes, but the carnage still remained. It was unlikely to disappear for a very long time. She wrung her slender fingers together and twisted them apart. She congregated them in a prim temple just above her stomach. She eventually let them fall to her sides. She glanced down. She failed to look back up.

Shoulders shivering.

Feet still in first position.

“I… I don’t think there’s any right way to do this,” she finally said. “Not really… but I—we’re behind you, Greg.”

“Yeah,” Amethyst agreed.

Garnet nodded her silent assent.

“We’re… always behind you.”

The weight of these words, the implicit meaning behind them, was not lost on Greg. He immediately understood how much it must have cost her to say such a thing to him, and yet, he simultaneously knew that she must have meant it—for Pearl rarely ever said things that she didn't mean.

She gave silent treatments, and she evaded tough emotional conversations with all the agility of a dancer; she shot people glares that she thought to be discrete from the corners of her eyes; she kept secrets to herself, kept them tucked away in the same places where she had invisible shrines to the woman they both loved.

But she rarely lied.

Or maybe, more accurately, she wouldn't lie now.

And so, choked, overwhelmed, grateful, he could only muster something like a vague sound of gratitude in the back of his throat that he thought she equally understood because she nodded at him primly.

And then, he turned to face the door again, palming the brass handle.

On the other side, he heard a snatch of laughter.

Steven.

Assuredly.

Perhaps he was watching one of his favorite shows, laughing at something a character had said.

Greg twisted his hand downwards and pushed lightly upon the door.

iii.

The door opened upon a scene that Yellow Diamond had always intended to flee before she could be caught out, but one anecdote led to another, and before she knew it, Steven Universe had started telling her about how he’d met Blue at the cemetery where their dead daughter lay. And the conjured image of her bathrobed wife, holding a hibiscus aloft in her gently curving palm, plucked an dusty chord in her chest.

So this was the flower that had been on the nightstand for a couple of nights now.

This was the story of a boy and a woman and a cemetery and a handful—a lifetime, really—of aching, miserable griefs.

“She told me that she married you so her name would be a pun,” Steven had said, grinning mischievously.

“Something to that effect,” Yellow dryly returned.

And he pressed for more stories, more memories, more chords inside her chest. How did she meet Blue? When did they fall in love? Who proposed?

He asked so many questions, his brown eyes alight with curiosity, that she was reminded so much of Pink that it almost hurt to even look at him. But, just as she had done with her daughter, she sighingly indulged him, groaning and moaning and making it out as thought she was doing him a massive favor by relenting. And he only smiled at her teasingly—like he was in on the secret.

It was the other way around.

She was the one at his mercy.

And so she told him the story of the princess and the knight in less than fantastical terms, laying out the bare bones of her and Blue’s first meeting with a halting voice as the memories slowly came flooding back: Blue Montgomery’s sweeping ball gown, the spidery chandeliers, the waiters swerving in and out of the crowd bearing silver trays loaded with champagne, her ridiculously dramatic mother waltzing through the ballroom with all the radiance of a sun.

God, how many decades ago was that now?

Years and years and years.

“Our daughter used to love this damn story,” Yellow murmured at the end, briefly flicking her eyes downwards. “We told it so many different times to her that she could repeat it word for word.”

“It’s a very good story,” Steven returned, laughing. “Did you really think about punching that guy?”

“Fleetingly, yes,” she almost smiled, “but—”

But then the door opened so abruptly, bringing reality back in with what appeared to be a collection of harried looking people. The businesswoman’s head sharply cocked towards the far side of the room to greet an assemblage of expressions that she was surprised to find in total strangers: anger and disgust.

Complete and total loathing.

Damn, at least buy me a drink first.

“You!” A slight woman in a sweater hissed furiously.

“Uh-oh,” Steven Universe said, shrinking slightly beneath his covers. “Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh...”

But Yellow Diamond wasn’t listening to him anymore, instinctive indignation rising to her aid and defense as she stood up from her chair and mustered as haughty of an expression she could for a woman wearing silk pajamas.

“Excuse me?” She asked venomously, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you are?”

“Pearl…” The balding man standing next to the sweater-wearing accoster tried to plea, placing a big hand on her much smaller shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t… uh—?”

“No,” The woman named Pearl snarled, jerking her arm away from him. Yellow could see that her pale eyes were bright with tears, which seemed like an overreaction if she had ever witnessed one. She didn’t know these people from Jack, Jill, or Harry on the sidewalk! “I want to know what she’s doing here! She has no business—“

“Pearl, wait!” Steven tried to interject, jerking upwards from his pillows. “It’s okay! She just wanted to vis—“

But his voice got lost in the shuffle as the taller woman behind Pearl suddenly stepped forward, her powerfully muscled arms clenched into fists by her sides. There was an indefinable air of authority about her that Yellow only recognized because she, too, possessed it. Her bicolored glare was a weapon in and of itself; the harsh florescence of the overheads glinted off the sunglasses folded neatly across the collar of her sweatshirt.

“Leave,” the woman said. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Garnet! No! She wasn’t doing anything wro—“

“Well, frankly,” Yellow shot back before Steven could complete his thought, “I’d perfectly well surmised that without your help. But forgive me if I’m having trouble piecing together the context behind this unwarranted rudeness.”

“You know what you’ve done,” Garnet growled.

“No!” The blood inside her head churned, simply boiled. She had never known when to leave well enough alone. “I damn well don’t!”

“1999—Diamond Electric vs. Hutchings,” Pearl began to tick off names on her fingertips. “2005—Diamond Electric vs. Davis. 2011—Diamond Electric vs. Bach. Are these names ringing a bell? Unsafe factory conditions! Unconstitutional wage gaps! Leaking waste reservoirs!”

“All settled in court!” Yellow returned with a cruel laugh that she did not remotely feel, raking her cold eyes over each and very one of her newfound opponents in turn. It had always been her against the world for as long as she could remember—she the trapped lioness cornered by the angry mob. (But the mob always tended to forget one crucial fact about exchanges between lions and men. Lions had claws and sharp, gleaming teeth; she would devour them and gnaw on their bones for sport.) “What are you all? Lawyers? Reporters? Protestors? Please, spare no sordid detail as to why I’m being read case names for events that happened long ago.”

“Yellow Diamond, please—” Steven’s voice was tiny by her side; she could not hear him; or perhaps, she didn’t want to hear him.

She wanted to fight.

“We’re, like, the Crystal Gems,” the smallest woman to Garnet’s left said emphatically. Her lavender bangs fell over one of her eyes, but she blew them back with a small puff of air.

“Never heard of you,” Yellow replied flippantly and untruthfully.

Because she had heard of them—several times, in fact.

They were some small activist group that had always been a vaguely minor nuisance at her side—especially a few years ago—but they’d never done anything more than force her lawyers to spend some time haggling in appeals courts.

A waste of time and money for everyone, really.

“Never heard of us?” Pearl spluttered wildly, her complexion whitening. “Never heard of—“

“Enough, you all!” The doctor who had been at the back of the group finally seemed to have found her tongue, and a pretty harsh tongue it was because her exasperated voice clearly cut through the melee. “We’re in a hospital for goodness’s—”

But the doctor was drowned out, too, lost in the onslaught of noise suddenly coming from one of the monitors above Steven’s bed—a shrill beeping noise that put an effective end to all the squabbling. The neon green line measuring his heart rate was spiking in short peaks, the numbers climbing, climbing, climbing… and beneath it all, clutching his chest, Steven was struggling to breathe, gulping in shallow bursts of air, his skin paling. Sweat beaded at his pale templed, hid eyes wide with fear.

“STEVEN! Steven!” So many voices yelled his name; it was all a jumble, a blur, a dissonant symphony.

The white coated doctor shoved past Yellow unceremoniously, nearly knocking her to the ground in her haste to get to her patient’s side. She pulled an oxygen mask down from one of the receptacles behind the bed, placing it over Steven’s mouth and nose.

“Breathe, Steven!” She commanded, her voice tight with obvious strain. The man and the woman named Pearl scrabbled over to the child’s bedside. Tears streaming down his ruddy face and into his beard, the man placed an arm around Steven’s back, steadying him. Pearl clasped one of his hands, her shoulders shaking violently.

“In and out,” the doctor continued. “Breathe. One… two… three. That’s it, honey. There you go…”

As Steven’s breathing evened out, the monitor’s beeping died down, nearly becoming regulated once more. Exhausted, overwhelmed, so quickly undone, the boy slumped against the man who was holding him, closing his eyes heavily as the doctor took the opportunity to more securely fasten the oxygenated mask around his face.

But what happened next, if anything happened at all, Yellow Diamond did not stay to find out.

Violently tearing her gaze away, the woman turned around and did what she should have done the moment she made the poor decision to come into this room in the first place.

Shoving past the remaining Crystal Gems, uncaring that she knocked Garnet in the shoulder, Yellow limped away as fast as her sore leg would allow her to go, nausea rushing up the column of her throat, her cheeks burning with shame.

What a pathetic creature she was.

A monster.

A lioness among men.

(The lioness always tended to forget one crucial fact about exchanges between lions and men. Lions had claws and sharp, gleaming teeth; she would end up destroying the people she cared about, too.)

iv.

Pearl only had eyes for one person in the entire world, and his name was Steven Universe. Both in the absence of Rose and in the lingering presence of her, he was the center of her universe, the sun which she orbited day after day after varied, sundry day. Weak, pale, cold, he shivered in his father’s arms, barely able to keep his eyes open as his heartbeat continued to regulate itself after that latest episode.

“Acute stress arrhythmia,” she heard Priyanka explain behind her. The nephrologist had her back turned to them as she read numbers on a nearby computer monitor.

She didn’t elaborate.

She didn’t need to.

Everybody in the room knew exactly who was to blame for his acute stress.

Shame colored them all; shame welled up in the corners of Pearl’s eyes as she continued to hold on to Steven’s hand.

Garnet collapsed into the chair that Yellow Diamond had just vacated, placing both of her hands over her eyes.

What children they had been.

What fools.

Pearl closed her own eyes in a useless attempt to stem the tears that were flowing freely now, unable to hold them back any longer. Shame wrapped a hand around her insides and squeezed.

Steven was… he was—oh, God, the word was too unbearable to even think, much less say aloud—and here they all were—fighting with someone who would never see reason.

How stupid.

How pathetic.

“Steven, wait, honey. You need to put that mask back—” But Priyanka’s soft admonition was apparently ignored; Pearl looked up just in time to see Steven feebly lifting the oxygen mask from his face, dropping it just below his mouth. Each movement looked like it took something from him; he couldn’t even lift his head from Greg’s chest.

So he stared straight at her.

Directly into her eyes.

He had his mother’s eyes.

Her dark and lovely eyes.

“S-she…” She had to lean forward to hear him, for his voice was barely a whisper, an echo, a ghost. “…she really wasn’t being mean.”

“Shh, Shtu-ball. We know,” Greg tried hoarsely, pressing a kiss into his son’s mass of curly hair. “Save up your strength…”

“Steven,” Pearl pleaded, barely able to discern him through her tears. She refused to let go of his hand; it wasn't as much for his sake as she would have liked to kid herself to believe. “I’m so, so sorry. We shouldn’t have squabbled with her like that. We just weren’t… I mean… I wasn’t… I was stressed—I-I wasn’t thinking.”

“Stressed?” Again, his voice was so small that it struggled to be heard over the hissing of the various machines he was hooked up to, and the fact of it nearly undid her right then and there. Salt coated her lips. It lacquered her tongue. “Why… why were you stressed?”

No.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this... the news wasn’t supposed to come from her. It was supposed to be Greg’s job to do this; he was the one who was good at emotions; he was the one who knew how to have these sorts of conversations without completely dissolving into nothingness and rubble.

(He was the better person.)

(The one who Rose chose.)

Pearl could yell at a tyrannical businesswoman for longer than she could hold herself together in front of Steven; she could protest wars; she could hold demonstrations; she could plan fish fries; she could keep herself together on a day to day basis, bound by Scotch tape and glue.

But for him?

For Steven Universe?

Her eyes refilled with fresh tears, and she finally withdrew her hand from his, placing it over her mouth in the quietest sign of her incapacity.

Useless.

Pathetic.

Childish.

Fool.

“Oh,” Steven only rasped, understanding immediately. He was so smart like that; he never missed a beat. “The… the kidneys fell through, didn’t they?”

“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Greg said, wrapping his arms more tightly around Steven as gently as he could manage as Priyanka took the opportunity to replace the mask over his nose and mouth.

“The kidneys were damaged during the donor’s accident,” she explained dully, “and we couldn’t detect it until we were already in surgery… I’m sorry, Steven. I am.”

But Steven never took his eyes off Pearl, those dark and lovely eyes.

They were wounded eyes.

Bruised eyes.

Goddamn exhausted eyes.

"I'm sorry, Steven," she whispered. "I am so, so sorry."

The mask prevented him from speaking.

In place of his reply, there was only the steady hiss of oxygen and the dark-cloaked presence of grief, the seventh person in an already crowded room. They sat on the edge of Steven’s bed, simply taking up precious air.

Pearl couldn’t breathe.

I'm sorry.

Night descended upon the sky like a heavy curtain, unfurling its black velvet across the horizon with dark finality, the punctuation unmistakable. Sitting atop of the bulky air conditioning unit that stretched the length of the hotel room’s window, Amethyst gazed emptily at the spectacle, knees pulled up to her chest, her still-damp hair pulled over one of her shoulders. If she was back at home, there would be a roof to clamber onto and a vast canvas of stars to behold… but here, there were only skyscrapers that stretched their supplicatory hands upwards to an unhearing god. Here, there were stars made out of lit windows. Here, there was that familiar feeling of suffocation, of being cloistered in...

Cornered.

And unlike in a good alley fight, putting up her fists wouldn’t solve a damn thing.

Three hours had passed since they’d nearly given Steven a heart attack and then told him that he wasn’t going to get those stupid fucking kidneys. And still, the scene haunted her mind’s eye in the absence of anything else to think about, to obsess over, to grieve. When they had all left for the evening—Greg the only one staying behind for the night—he couldn’t even muster enough energy to tell them goodnight, simply blinking at them from over the top of his oxygenated mask before closing his eyes.

Merely twelve hours ago, they’d all been sickeningly happy because they had thought that the nightmare was over… but that sensation had long passed, a relic of time immemorial now.

Now, there was only darkness.

A feeling of falling.

The ground giving way beneath their feet.

Now, there was only Dr. M’s only consolation that wasn’t really a consolation at all.

He’s at the top of the list now.

The door opened and gently closed behind her. Amethyst swung her head around just in time to see Garnet come in, a towel slung around her corded neck, her white tank top damp with sweat. She’d gone to the hotel’s gym to obviously treadmill away from her feelings, which was a way more productive solution than Amethyst’s choice coping mechanism. She raised her half-empty bottle of wine in greeting—reckless, loose—accidentally sloshing a little over the top of the rim.

“Hey.”

“Where’s Pearl?” Garnet studiously avoided her gaze as she lowered herself to the carpeted ground, leaning against the wall. Her shoulders hunched forward, elbows braced on top of her knees, she almost looked like some kinda statue—still, beautiful, tragic.

“Tryin’ to drown herself in the shower, I think,” Amethyst shrugged before taking another hearty swig of Moscato. The tangy notes stung her tongue. “She’s been in there for an hour now, so you might not have hot water later.”

The gym trainer shrugged noncommittally as though this was all the same to her.

And the two of them simply listened to the hissing of the water beyond the thin door to Garnet’s left for a handful of seconds; the serpentine sounds lashed the ground. Lashed their skin. Their ears. Their chests.

Amethyst sniffed and took yet another drag of wine.

There was nothing else better to do...

... but the silence was unbearable now that it was optional.

She turned her bottle upside down again.

Liquid courage.

“I met the old lady, y’know,” she said softly, her consonants a little rushed around their edges, a little tipsy, a little unsure. “Blue Diamond. It was… yesterday, I think? Hell, I think it was yesterday. God, I don’t even know at this point. But she was in the lobby, waitin’ for her valet to pick her up…”

Garnet didn’t say anything, didn’t even look up at her, but Amethyst knew she was listening from the way that every line in her body was rigid with attention.

“She’s kinda snooty, I think. Kinda looks like she’s got a stick up her ass… but she’s got a good heart, I guess. She cares about Steven…” Amethyst remembered the way her accented voice broke when she spoke of him, all of the syllables collapsing upon themselves in the throes of her gentle tongue. And she remembered the woman’s eyes, how startlingly blue they were, haunted underneath by the ravages of grief and time.

“A lot,” she added. “That surprised me.”

“I… I shouldn’t have let Yellow Diamond get to me like that,” Garnet said, reaching up and gingerly holding her head. “I know. I know.”

“No, that’s not what I’m sayin’, G,” Amethyst immediately and fiercely returned, shaking her own head. “I mean, it’s kinda what I’m sayin’, but we all got caught up in her. She got under all of our skins. I’m just, I dunno, I’m trying to—“

But she broke off then, ripping her gaze away from her roommate and back towards the window.

To the darkness.

The absence of stars.

She raised the bottle to her lips once more but stopped short of taking another swill; the sickly sweet perfume nearly gagged her.

“It’s just… it’s difficult,” she continued, setting the drink down between her knees. “That’s all I’m sayin’. God knows why, but he likes the Diamonds, and the Diamonds like him… and we shouldn’t… I mean, we should try our best not to shit on him for that because—“

But Amethyst stopped short again as the natural end to that sentence reared its head off the floor of her stomach, striking just where it hurt.

Sick, ashamed, inconsolable, she covered her eyes with both of her hands.

“Because we love him,” Garnet proffered, her voice quiet, almost inaudible over the noises coming from the shower, “and we want him to be happy.”

That wasn't the end of the sentence.

That wasn't what they had both been thinking anyway.

“Yeah,” she croaked gratefully, wiping roughly at her eyes. “Yeah.”

They resumed their silent vigil together then, mostly because it kept them from commenting upon the fact that it wasn’t just the water they were hearing behind that thin bathroom door.

Garnet reached upwards and grabbed the remote from the edge of the nearest bed, turning the volume up on some stupid sitcom to drown it out.

The water.

The weeping.

And the weeping and the weeping and the weeping.

vi.

Blue Diamond had been on the balcony for hours now, long enough for the sky to bruise from peach to blue to purple, long enough to see the first stars ascend to their storied mounts, glimmering down upon the world in silvery, distant specks.

Long enough that the tear tracks riveting down her cheeks had dried upon her long face in stiff lines.

Long enough that she wondered passively to herself if she had been here forever, a statue carved out of flesh and bone and misery and blood.

Long enough to reflect upon the fact that she wasn't referring to the balcony... but to something more abstract.

Metaphorical.

A state.

A cycle.

A condition of perpetual mourning.

Her phone laid facedown on the tiny table between her chair and Yellow’s empty one.

The last text she had received had been from Steven Universe.

It wasn’t even a sentence.

Just a fragment.

No exclamation points, no abundant elaboration, no joy.

Tuesday, 7:09 PM:

Steven: kidneys fell through

Blue had seen the boy just this morning—dropping by after she had left Yellow’s room—and she could remember, quite distinctly, how radiant his face had been, utterly metamorphosed by its own happiness.

She’d been drawn in by it, magnetized.

Oh, how the two of them laughed and smiled and played.

How many years had it been since she had last played?

It was before Pink died assuredly.

But even then, the details were murky to her; she’d been so wrapped up in her school, that she had forgot what it was to be twenty-one, and that twenty-one year olds were still children in a way, that they loved to have fun.

She’d been so strict with her sometimes.

Forbidding.

Cold.

(Her own mother would have been proud.)

But she and Steven Universe? They played, and they played, imagining all the things that Steven was going to do once he had recovered from the transplant surgery. Some of these plans were simply extraordinary in nature. He was going to run all day just because he would finally feel like it. He was going to make a massive sandcastle on the beach with all of his friends. It would be palatial, obviously, so they could live in it together, making seashell necklaces and seaweed crowns. He was going to eat all the donuts that he wanted—his diet had been so restricted since he’d taken ill—and then some.

“And if I get sick,” he had said proudly, “it’ll just be a normal sick, and that’ll be perfectly okay.”

But it wasn’t the extraordinary inventions which had touched Blue, which had moved her to the quick.

Rather, it was the simple things.

The mundane ones.

He would get to go to school with all the rest of the kids his age. He could go to a theater without worrying that his symptoms might flare up during the movie's climax. He could ride a bike through his charming, little beachside town.

He could simply be a child.

And that would be enough.

That would be perfectly okay.

“And I could come over for tea and cakes on Fridays,” he teased as she had prepared to leave, running one last hand through his curly hair as she stood up from her chair. He smiled at her gently, his mouth tilting crookedly.

“Aye,” she returned warmly, returning the gesture with an almost easiness that still surprised her. “I would love that..."

But just as quickly as these fantasies had risen—entertained, explored, viscerally imagined—they had been wrenched from his hands just as immediately, and so Blue Diamond sat on her balcony for hours on end grieving for the poor boy.

But because she was selfish, because she was predictable, because she was broken, she gripped the arms on both sides of her chair, and grieved, too, for Pink Diamond.

(She was always grieving for Pink Diamond.)

Fingernails digging into the weathered wood, she thought herself a desolate fool for ever kidding herself into believing that she could go a day without being painfully aware of her daughter’s ghost.

She thought herself a masochist for inviting the same pain again in the form of Steven Universe.

She thought herself a coward for not daring to say three words to Yellow Diamond, three words that wouldn’t make everything between them right, but three words that needed to be said nevertheless.

And she couldn’t bring herself to utter them.

Not even when Yellow was in a hospital bed, covered in lacerations and bruises.

Because how could she say such a thing when she hadn’t said it in so many years upon years?

I and love and you.

And she kept thinking these things until they chased each other around her head in circles—dizzying, unceasing, senseless circles that gradually chipped away at the tentative hope she had held aloft in her chest ever since she had met Steven Universe.

Spirals and spirals and spirals.

Fool.

Masochist.

Coward.

Circles and circles and circles.

And somehow, every time, Blue Diamond concluded where she had first begun: alone in her own misery, drowning.

Fool, masochist, coward.

vii.

The walk to the parking deck that night was slow and laborious, one foot dragged after another, the styrofoam cup of shitty coffee in her hand doing little to perk her up for the long drive home. Priyanka couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed past her shift so long, but she’d wanted to make sure that Steven remained stable… that he didn’t suddenly crash on them after such a long, hard day on his body… that she continued to try (and miserably fail) to keep Rose’s last request.

Take care of my baby for me, please…

Ever since his episode, Steven’s breath sounds had been decreased on the right side of his chest; she instructed the intern on duty for the night to keep him on a steady supply of oxygen and to page her immediately if his stats even shifted by a margin.

“Like, even a number or two?” Dr. Stephens asked, her brow furrowing.

“Yes,” she had snapped rather harshly. “Even a fraction.”

But somehow, even as Priyanka had said it, even as the poor intern had flinched, she had known to herself from the very beginning that she could quantify every little integer and it still all be for nothing.

Chronic kidney disease didn’t care about numbers.

It didn’t care about people.

“Hey! Priyanka! Wait up!"

Oh, hell and shit—she recognized that voice.

Wincing, she tried to arrange her features into an expression that didn’t completely betray her entire disinterest with humanity before she turned to face her colleague Dr. Reed. Maisie Reed, an ER doctor, had been at Empire Regional for about a decade longer than Priyanka.

She was a good woman and good friend, but frankly, she just didn’t know when to shut up, going off on long, rambling tales that were hard for Priyanka to weasel away from once she got rolling.

This was vaguely annoying on most days, but tonight, the nephrologist simply wouldn't be able to bear it.

“Hello, Maisie,” she returned brusquely as the older woman caught up to her. Her curly, flyaway hair was tucked back in a messy bun, her wire-rimmed glasses perched a little crookedly on the bridge of her nose. “How are you?”

“Exhausted,” Maisie rolled her eyes. “Did you hear about my star patient?”

“I think I actually met her,” Priyanka said, resuming her brisk walk. Maybe if she made it to her sedan before Maisie started a story, she could make a narrow escape. “She somehow made it to my patient’s room. Goodness knows for what reason. She and the patient’s family nearly got into a fistfight.”

“Ha! You're kidding! I didn’t think that part was true, but some of the nurses were saying—”

“It’s true,” she affirmed curtly, cutting across the woman. “All of it.”

They lapsed into silence then as they walked side by side on the harshly lit concrete. The nephrologist could see her tiny car near the end of the row. She pulled the key out of one of the pockets of her lab coat, clicked the unlock button, and hoped that Maisie would finally take the hint.

“I think we’re only parked a little ways from each other,” she said cheerfully, dashing all of Priyanka’s dreams.

Joy.

They continued to walk together, the heels of their shoes clicking reliably against the floor.

“I also heard… that you’ve got a bad outcome,” Maisie murmured, her voice soft, empathetic.

Pitying.

It was the pity that Priyanka hated most of all.

Her companion’s hazel eyes raked her over piercingly, like an X-Ray, and there was tenderness in her expression.

Understanding.

“I’m so sorry, honey.”

“It’s not a bad outcome yet,” she snarled, rounding upon the woman fiercely, not bothering with polite pretense anymore. Screw her. Screw everything. Screw this fucking day. “He’s still alive. He’s still got a chance. I’ve just got to find…”

“… kidneys, yes. I’ve heard,” Maisie finished gently.

Priyanka violently turned away again, increasing her pace so that she pulled ahead of the other doctor. Her entire body strained against the sudden burst of energy.

She was tired.

So fucking exhausted.

“Then don’t resign him to the grave yet, Maisie. I’m still fighting for him, dammit.”

“Yes, I know that, too… I’ve always admired that about you, dear. You never give up.”

“Yeah, well”—she didn’t exactly know what to say to that—“that’s what we do.”

“Mm, yes,” Maisie replied. “That’s what we do…”

She finally reached her sedan with no small feeling of relief, proceeding to the driver's side with the expectation that Dr. Reed would continue onwards to her little red Nissan at the end of the row, finally putting an end to this unpleasant conversation.

Infuriatingly, though, Maisie stopped, too, her eyes bright with kindness and warmth and all the other things besides that Priyanka simply couldn’t stomach at the moment.

“Yes, well, goodnight,” she said pointedly, making a motion to open the door of her car. She threw her briefcase in rather unceremoniously. It slammed against the passenger side door and fell feebly to the ground.

“What’s his blood type, Priyanka? I’ll keep an eye out for any patients that fit the description… you know what the ER is like. We get potential donors all the time.”

Yes, this was assuredly true, but Steven’s blood type being what it was, finding a donor so quickly would be a damn near miracle.

Priyanka exhaled harshly through her nose but relented anyway—anything to end this absurd conversation.

What the hell—it wouldn’t hurt.

“It’s a long shot… but O neg, so I need an O neg donor. Had any of those on your docket lately?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

And here was the part where Maisie’s kindly face would undoubtedly fall into dismay because of course she hadn’t seen an O neg patient in a while—only seven percent of the entire population had O negative blood, which was a startlingly rare number. So, of course, she would shake her head profusely and apologize and swear to keep her feelers out…

… but Maisie Reed didn’t exactly follow the quick script that Priyanka had constructed in her head.

In fact, her pink lips wobbled into a radiant smile.

“Honey,” she laughed, “sit down and take a sip of that damn black coffee of yours because you’re not going to believe this.”

#rose quartz #steven universe #blue diamond #yellow diamond #pearl #garnet #amethyst #greg universe #priyanka maheswaran #s: steven universe #mimiku #flower child #holy shit — with this chapter #we've reached 100K words

43 notes · View notes

queen-of-the-avengers · 3 years

Text

Better Late Than Never

Characters: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: angst, fluff at the end, reunion

Request by anon: Hi there!! Just curious, would you ever make a one shot to the avengers reunion for your story pick a side?

Summary: After years apart from your dad, you come face to face with him. Will he hate you for leaving? Will he resent you even more? Or will he accept you back into his life?

sam’s wings for @star-spangled-bingo

tears of joy for @foundfamilybingo

Part One

Author’s Note: If you have any requests, please send them in! This is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

You’re good at your job, but you’re not that good. You take after your father--working on things building big projects, and always innovating new ideas. You’re not as good as he is, but you try to do your best. Sam managed to break his wings, so you tried fixing it on your own. He gave you enough time to come up with a plan and execute it, but as soon as that time was up, he needed to move on to someone slightly better than you.

After all, you have the Captain America serum in your body, so you’re more useful out in the field than behind a welding mask. Sam needed an expert to fix his wings, and you were slightly offended that it wasn’t going to be you. All he said is that he found someone to do the job, but he never said who. Even Steve, Wanda, and Natasha were very quiet about it, but you kind of brushed it off.

“Give me another chance, okay? I think I can fix it,” you beg Sam as you follow him around the Quinjet.

“Major, you’ve done enough,” he laughs.

“My name is Y/N,” you pout.

“You’re just below Cap. You’re Major.”

“Fine, but you need to give me another chance. I have a better understanding of it now!”

“No.”

You don’t take no for an answer and head over to his wings that are on the table in the middle of the jet. You whip off the blanket that is covering them only to have him drag it back on.

“Sam!”

“I said no. I found a guy.”

“Steve!”

“Y/N, I love you, but you’re a crappy welder and an even more crappy engineer.”

“Language,” you gasp teasingly, and he rolls his eyes slightly.

“We’re approaching our destination,” Natasha calls from the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?” you ask and bounce to the window.

“Y/N, wait--”

Steve’s warning is cut off when you reach the window. The clouds clear to reveal the new Avengers facility that your dad had built in upstate New York. Your blood runs cold and you freeze in your spot at the thought of running into him. It’s been three years since you two last saw each other--after he made no moe to contact you. The last thing you heard from him was him accusing you of picking Steve’s side because you were “fucking” him.

He’s never made any effort to call you after you left with Steve.

“Y/N, we were going to tell you, but he’s the only one who can fix this,” Steve whispers.

You hear him, but your brain doesn’t register the words that are coming out of his mouth. All you can think about was the fight that happened at the airport in Germany. When you got in line with Steve and his team, your dad gave you the coldest look you’ve ever seen. He was so angry at you for not picking his side that he didn’t care why you did it or what you believed in. All he saw was betrayal, and all you saw was hatred and disappointment.

When the fight started, he tried his best not to fight you because even though he was mad, he didn’t know if he could hurt you. Then, the unthinkable happened. Steve and Bucky were racing to the jet to get to the place where the other winter soldiers were when you stood between them and your dad. He didn’t want to hurt you, but he couldn’t let them get away.

He ended up hurting you in more ways than just physical. Physically, you only had a bruised stomach and some cuts on your face. However, emotionally, there was a gaping hole left in your chest. Your dad saw the damage he did to you and he just left without another word or a glance in your direction. He just took off, and that was the last time you ever saw him.

The months rolled by, and you thought he was going to call you, but he never did. Those months turned to years, and you lost all hope of seeing your dad. It crossed your mind that you should be the one to go after him, but he hurt you a lot more than you hurt him. You couldn’t put yourself through that embarrassment and torture of seeing how you made him disappointed by coming back.

So, you never did.

Fighting with Steve made you happy--at least, that’s what you tell yourself. In reality, it provided you with a distraction long enough to keep thoughts of your dad out of your mind. Then, when the distraction subsided, Steve had already found another case to be on. It’s been a few years, and you’ve been everything related to misery. You miss him so much, but he clearly doesn’t miss you. So, seeing his new Avengers facility brought all those unwanted feelings back to the surface--the ones you tried so hard burying.

“You know, you could have told me,” you sigh and look away from the window.

“I didn’t know how.”

Steve thought about calling Tony plenty of times just to kick his ass into being with you, but he always thought twice about it. You were at a point in your life where you were almost at the peak of getting over it, so he couldn’t possibly let you bring all those feelings back into the light. You were just so sad and you cried almost every night for a long time because all you needed was your dad. He couldn’t give you the comfort you needed, and because there was a small possibility that Tony would reject you once again, he just couldn’t make that call. It breaks his heart to see you so sad.

When Sam’s wings broke, and no one in his group could fix them, he knew that it was time to go see Tony once again. There was no way you would be staying on your own, and he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to keep you away, so you joined them without a hint of where you were going. Ever since the big fight happened, they’ve all been looking at you like you’re going to explode at any given moment. They’ve been hovering to catch you despite you telling them that you’re okay.

But you’re not okay.

How can you just worry everyone like that when there is no fixing it? There is nothing they can do, so why bother them with it in the first place? Everything you’ve ever mashed down inside you started to inflate the minute the Quinjet landed. As soon as the doors opened, you became frozen where you stood. Natasha and Sam left the bird first with his wings in hand, leaving you, Steve, and Wanda left inside.

“I can take away your fear if you want me to,” Wanda whispers.

“No, it’s okay,” you whisper back. “Go on, I’ll be there in a minute.”

All you see is pity on her face, but she leaves your side nonetheless.

“Are you sure you can do this? You don’t have to go in there,” Steve supports.

“I do. He left, not me. I shouldn’t be scared to walk in there, he should be scared that I’m here. Does he know I’m coming?”

“No, I didn’t tell him. I was afraid he would say no to fixing Sam’s wings. Listen, he sounded pretty miserable on the phone. I think he’ll be happy to see you.”

“He was so mad at me,” you remember your last conversation that actually mattered, “like he couldn’t fathom the thought that I would pick your side over his. I just did what I thought was right—I still think that. He always taught me to stand up for what I believe in, and I did just that. I’m just scared he’ll hate me all over again. I don’t think I’ll survive that again.”

“Then stay in here. We’ll be in and out. I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” you sigh sadly.

You look down at the ground just as two tears left your eyes. Steve looks at you, and he just cups your chin with two fingers and lifts your head so you’re staring at him. He wipes the tears away with his thumbs as gently as he can.

“Don’t be. You’re not ready. That’s okay. I have to go inside now, but I promise we will be back before you know it.”

He leans down and kisses you tenderly, keeping it short. The feel of his lips on yours help keep you grounded, and you hold onto that comfort even when he pulls away from you. You keep your eyes closed for a few more minutes as if it would shield you from the fear. If you can’t see your dad’s place, then you’re not really there. However, just as soon as you open them, you miss the comfort from Steve immediately.

Why should you be the one who fears this place? It should be your dad that fears you coming here. He was the one who broke things off with you, so why do you feel like it’s your fault? You’re his daughter, and he is supposed to treat you as such. You’re not one of his friends that pissed him off--he doesn’t get to cut you out of his life like you mean nothing. You’re his fucking daughter; he is supposed to love you no matter what. It’s what a parent does for their children. Yeah, they are supposed to make you mad and get on your nerves, but you don’t get to cut them out of your life like that.

Why should you just stand here while everyone else gets to be inside? Maybe seeing your dad’s new place is giving you the courage you never had. It’s giving you a sense of what’s right and wrong in this situation. Fuck this, you’re not going to wait out here like some scared little girl afraid she is going to get grounded by her dad. You’re an adult, so he can’t punish you anymore--not like this.

You leave the Quinjet and head inside the place, impressed how it turned out. Your dad is an arrogant ass sometimes, but he sure doesn’t know how to build a beautiful building. Jarvis is no longer with your dad, so he had a new system put in place: Friday. The only thing different about her is that she has an Irish accent while Jarvis had a British one. Since your face is known on every server that your dad has, Friday doesn’t announce your presence. Jarvis did that with strangers, and you think that it’s the same thing with Friday.

This place is huge on the inside as much as it is on the outside, but you don’t have any trouble going where you need to go. The main room is close to the entrance of the place, so just as soon as you enter, you hear everyone’s voice come from the room. Despite being angry and pissed at your dad for treating you this way, there is something inside of you--no matter how small--that tells you he is going to hate you when he sees you.

You freeze right before you can turn the corner. The doors are open, so you can hear everything clearly, but you’re completely out of sight. Will he stare at you with disgust and disappointment? Will he yell? Throw you out? Tell you that he never wants to see you again?

“Thanks for doing this, Tony,” Steve says as Sam hands over his wings to the billionaire.

“First time you called in, what, years, and this is what you asked me?” Tony says and glances at Steve.

He noticed immediately that you weren't in the room.

“Is it safe to come home yet?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, it’s what I asked you to do.”

“Where is she?” your dad asks as he inspects the wings.

“Do you care?”

“Do I care? Of course I fucking care, Rogers. How can you ask that?” your dad hisses.

“You haven’t called in, what, years?” Steve throws that comment back in your dad’s face.

“Is she at least here?”

“I’m not going to answer that. What needs to be done is fixing these wings so we can be on our way.”

Tony looks at everyone’s faces and knows immediately what they are saying. You are here, probably on the Quinjet that just flew in, and there is a reason why you’re not coming in. He really fucked up big time. All Tony has ever done for the past few years is regret yelling at you in the first place. All he wants now is his daughter, and you can’t even come inside.

“I’m right here,” you say and reveal yourself.

Hearing your dad ask those questions pushed the doubt to the back of your mind and brought back the courage. Every single person turned to look at you, but you’re only looking at your dad. He seems frozen where he stands, unable to do anything but just look at you. You’re really here no thanks to him. He grips Sam’s wings tightly in his hands, wincing when one of the parts dig into his palm. Feeling that pain brings him back to reality.

He sets the wings on the table right in front of him before marching over to you. You honestly think he is going to yell at you or do something mean, but instead, he just brings you into a tight hug. Your arms immediately wrap around his neck, and you find yourself sinking into his body.

“I missed you so fucing much,” your dad says emotionally.

“I’m so sorry,” you cry into his neck.

He pulls away and makes sure you’re staring into his eyes when he speaks.

“No, you don’t get to be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled at you or made you feel like what you did was wrong. I’m the one who fucked up. You’re my daughter, and I shouldn’t have ever let you go.”

He brings you back into a hug, and you squeeze him tightly to remind yourself that this is really happening. You look at Steve from over your dad’s shoulder, and he smiles proudly because this is the moment he has been waiting for. This is the moment that should have happened years ago. Well, better late than never is what everyone always says.

You and your dad have grown separately, but it’s time you grow together. You’ve lost precious years without him, and you’re not going to waste another over something stupid like last time.

If you want to be tagged, add yourself to this document! If your tag doesn’t work, find out why!

@thejourneyneverendsx @mrspeacem1nusone @ironmandeficiency @miraclesoflove @moonstar86 @heyiamthatbitch @mogaruke @broimjustvibin @notyourtypicalrose @awkwardfangirl2014 @alex12948 @kendall-michele @niall2017 @bangtan-serendipity @kiwihoee @justalonely-nerd @casseythebee @pinkdiamond1016

38 notes · View notes

rvmmm21 · 4 years

Text

. keep it down .

summary : judgemental is the last thing joohyun is, but when seungwan can seem to keep it to herself, you can bet she’ll have something to say about it.

small note : this sat in my head, and then in my drafts, and now it's sitting here, obnoxious as seungwan. and if there’s anything i struggle with more than my inner fight between yandere!violence and yandere!smut, it’s writing two characters doing the consensual nasties. even worse, if it’s a group endeavour. thankfully irene’s not about to let that happen. idk but there’s like a tinge of humiliation somewhere, but not enough for me to want to trigger warn you about.

[irene x wendy]

...

There are only so many ‘sounds’ her ears can take before she blows her top. Especially when they surface every damned day of the week.

She gets it, she understands. It isn’t like there’s very much else to do what there’s a virus plaguing the nation and quarantine restrictions don’t seem to be lifting anytime soon. Plus, Red Velvet had already been laying low for the past few weeks prior, so everyone was getting a little restless. Even she’s found her own fingers wandering past her waistband more often than she’d care to put a number to… so it’s not like she’s about to judge her for it.

Except, she can, because could she be any louder? Like seriously, it’s damaging. The frequency of those moans could shatter the windows on a fucking rocket if they weren’t contained within the four walls of her room, goddamnit! She’s been out here all morning trying to get in some quality tv time – just some peace and quiet with National Geographic on for Christ’s sake, and Son bloody Seungwan is obnoxiously denying her that right.

Joohyun angrily nibbles on the edge of a biscuit, equally close to stuffing her ears with cotton-wool and breaking that door down and giving her self-serving member an earful. This is… what, the third? Fourth time today? All in what? The span of a few hours? God, she thinks, rolling her eyes as she glances at the clock, she’s really going for the Guinness Book of World Records, isn’t she?

It’s not even noon.

With an exasperated grunt, she pushes herself off the sofa and marches to the door. She had originally planned to just barge in and start yelling, but something stops her right before she has her fingers around the handle, and she finds herself slowly pressing an ear to the cool, thin wood, listening. Yep, she’s going at it again. Joohyun’s breath unconsciously catches in her throat when she hears the heavy sigh from the other side – if she listens really closely, it’s like she’s sighing right into her ear. And if she listens closer still, she can just about hear the sound of fingers against wetness.

Since Seulgi has taken Yerim out to the coffee shop, and Sooyoung’s all huddled up in her own room, headphones on and re-watching that one episode of Itaewon Class (she assumes), this could mean she gets some quality time to talk to Seungwan about her ‘problem’.

For a moment there, Joohyun thinks about Seungwan’s behaviour when they’re all out and promoting. Seungwan is bubbly, lively and full of charisma – she’s about to be full of something else, but she’ll save that image for later. She’s so soft, so even-tempered, so well-adjusted to idol life, Joohyun had often wondered how she managed it despite their constantly hectic schedules and rising levels of stress… and, well, she knows now. Her precious dongsaeng; who hasn’t a single nasty bone in her body – aside from all this self-gratification, but that doesn’t count.

Ahh, anyway, Seungwan’s in trouble. She’s definitely in trouble. And she’s going to hear all about it. Because it isn’t so much the fact that Joohyun’s been interrupted out of sleep days in a row now, or the fact that Yerim has come knocking on her door in the middle of the night because ‘Seungwan unnie’s watching weird goat videos in her room’ and she can’t go back to sleep. Hell, it isn’t even because she can’t watch the nature channel without those animalistic mating noises Seungwan so considerately contributes to, oh no.

It’s because every time Joohyun hears them, it curls that flame in her belly even tighter than the last. And while Seungwan seems to be satisfied, Joohyun absolutely cannot stomach the thought of getting her own panties wet and having the decency to carry on about her day without locking herself in her room and building the muscle in her right bicep.

So she’s done listening, and she doesn’t knock.

She has to swallow a laugh when she hears a shrill yelp and a frantic blur of blankets as Seungwan scrambles to cover herself in her sheets, as if the room isn’t already drenched in that very telling scent.

“Unnie!” she screams, twisting the material flush against her body, “oh my gosh, can’t you knock? I was, you – you can’t just come in like that!”

Joohyun just smiles. “Hi Seungwan.”

Seungwan feels the heat move to her cheeks and she looks down with a mumbled ‘hi unnie’. Joohyun steps through the doorway and shuts it behind her, causing the younger girl to shoot up from where she was staring at the floor.

It can’t be any more obvious, really. She’s doing a terrible job at hiding the breathlessness in her tone, the sheets are a mess, and her clothes are in a heap on the chair in the corner. Can… can Joohyun tell she’s naked under this? She should, from the way she’s pulling the sheet up to her neck. Oh and of course, Joohyun doesn’t clear a space on the chair so she can sit. She just sets herself down… on the edge of the bed, right next to her. That smile she’s wearing makes Seungwan think she’s either being blatantly genuine or that she’s got a million things up her sleeve.

“Are you alright? Have you been having nightmares again?”

Well, that was… unexpected. Since when did Joohyun know about the nightmares? Oh, right… that time. Gosh, she’d be lying if she says half her self-service episodes aren’t spurred on from that memory alone. But, no? She doesn’t take naps during the day… and she’s sure the other girl knows it too.

She cocks her head to the side. “Um, no unnie? I’m okay, really. Th-thanks for checking on me, though. You can, uh…” But she can’t find it in her to tell her to leave.

Unfortunately, Joohyun insists on playing dumb. “Are you sure, Seungwan-ah?” She reaches up to brush a strand of hair from Seungwan’s face. “I thought I heard crying or… or something. Even Yerimie tells me she thinks you must be having bad dreams. You wake her up sometimes, you know? With your crying.”

Okay, so ‘crying’ is definitely a euphemism.

No, no, no. There’s no way.

Has she been that loud? Surely she hasn’t tainted poor, darling Yerimie’s innocent ears with all her immorality, has she? Wait, what has everybody been hearing?

Joohyun cuts through her thoughts, leaning in over her and holding her down with her gaze. Seungwan can’t help the shiver that rattles through her when she sees what’s in those eyes, all too aware of the dryness in her lips and the cool air against her heated skin.

Before she has time to react, Joohyun is bringing Seungwan’s fingers – you know, the ones that had been between her thighs not ten minutes ago, still slightly damp from activities – up under her nose and… that fucking smile stretches all the way to her ears when she confirms something she’s known all along.

“Nightmares, maybe not…” Joohyun sounds far too nonchalant for someone who’s just found out her member has been touching herself non-stop. “… well, not for you, anyway.”

Seungwan suddenly can’t remember how to breathe when cinnamon eyes stare right through hers.

“And not for me, either.”

The instant Joohyun’s words register in her brain, Seungwan is pulling her wrist out of the death grip around it and trying to kick away from her. She would’ve succeeded, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Joohyun had already seen this coming. She doesn’t wait for Seungwan to react, and she doesn’t loosen her grip. She tugs her in by the arm, pins it to the bed, and she’s on top of her before Seungwan can even think to catch her breath.

“Get – get the fuck off me!” The reaction is impulsive, unthinking. Seungwan stills when she realises her mistake and instantly corrects herself (which Joohyun thinks is absolutely adorable). “I mean! I-I mean please get off, u-unnie…”

“You know, Seungwannie,” Joohyun continues, ignoring the uncomfortable shift beneath her, “I wouldn’t have minded… except. I’m sure you’re aware that the walls in here aren’t the thickest. And I can only imagine you think you’re being subtle with all those pretty noises you make. Sometimes I just want to watch tv and not have to turn the subtitles on.”

Joohyun watches in amusement as she tries to flinch away, to hide her deafening embarrassment, but there’s really nowhere to go.

P-pretty noises? Subtitles?! Pretty noises!

“Unnie, I… I don’t – I’m…” she stutters, trying unsuccessfully to kick the sheets so she isn’t trapped under them, too.

There’s a definite switch in Joohyun’s voice, which the younger picks up instantly. No more fake concern, no more pretending not to know. It’s still gentle as ever, but there’s something else… and it’s not good news for her.

“Aw, is Wannie feeling shy now?” She taunts, tightening her grip on her wrist just enough to make her squirm. “You certainly don’t seem shy when you’re making me listen to all your moaning… your whimpering…”

Seungwan bites her lip and shakes her head, wanting nothing more than to perish on sight. She’s given up struggling for the moment, because she can barely move with Joohyun’s knee snugly wedged between her legs, putting an unholy amount of pressure on her still-sore clit.

“It’s – it’s not what you think!”

This time Joohyun pulls her hand up to her lips, and oh so slowly takes them into her mouth, a finger at a time, until Seungwan feels them both coated in her own slick and warm saliva. She gulps, and Joohyun grins, sucking her fingers clean. “Oh really? That tasted like exactly what I think it is.” She chuckles at the sheer horror plastered on her dongsaeng’s red face. “You really think you’re quiet, don’t you? I can hear everything, Wannie.”

“Wha – what?”

Joohyun looks down at her. The girl probably doesn’t realise how vulnerable, how lovely she looks, because if she did, she’d know exactly what it was doing to Joohyun’s waning restraint, and she’d definitely try to stop. God, that deep rose tint in her cheeks, the thin sheets she’s barely wrapped in anymore just falling off her shoulders, beckoning her to uncover more.

And not to mention the taste of her arousal now sitting on her tongue.

“I wonder what everyone else would say, hm? If I told them. What would manager unnie say if I tell her the real reason you were late for our VLive yesterday? Huh? Do you think she’d like to know that our tiniest, sweetest member spends all her free time fucking herself like this?”

Seungwan can only listen and cringe at the prospect of having her innocent façade shattered in front of everyone she’s ever known. “No, please don’t!” She’s quick to interrupt Joohyun’s sadistic musings, thinking she might actually die if she hears any more. And she doesn’t want to resort to looking even more pathetic than she already does, but – “Please, unnie, please don’t tell! I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ll be quiet next time, promise!”

It’s so funny how Seungwan thinks she can get out of this with a few ‘sorry unnie’s’ and ‘pleases’. Joohyun responds with a firm upper thrust of her knee between her legs, and Seungwan can’t choke back the whimper fast enough. She smirks when the girl’s eyes go wide and she clamps her hands over her own mouth.

Joohyun will compromise later, but for now, she’s intent on hearing more of those sounds Seungwan seems to suddenly not want her to hear.

“What… what are you…” She tries to scoot back, but Joohyun’s hand is already sneaking down to rub her over the paper-thin cotton sheet. Seungwan almost groans out loud at how wet she is. The fabric slides so smoothly over her folds and Joohyun finds her clit without breaking eye contact for a second, pulling a throaty whine from her when she thumbs it gently. Seungwan’s leaking so much she’s soaked through the barrier of cotton.

The older girl somewhat assesses her reaction. Very, very sensitive, but she can take one more.

Probably.

Seungwan spreads herself open as much as her restrictions will allow, shuddering violently when she feels the heat in her cheeks migrate back down to that spot between her thighs. She can’t help it, though. When Joohyun barged in on her, she’d been so close. Now she just wants her to finish off what she’d disturbed.

Joohyun relents her grip on her wrist to rub a thumb over a nipple, making Seungwan squeak like a baby mouse. God, she really is soft all over.

“Ungh… u-unnie…” Seungwan shields her eyes with an arm, terribly shy. “Please…”

“Mm?” Joohyun dips her head down to flick her tongue over the nipple before lightly biting down. “What was that? Were you close? Did I ruin it?” Although from the moisture on her thumb, she needn’t have asked.

“Don’t worry, unnie will take care of that for you.” Joohyun reassures, bringing her fingers up to tap against Seungwan’s lips, demanding access. “But you need to be quiet, okay? You can use my fingers if it helps.”

The offer is mortifying but at the same time, she doesn’t trust herself to be able to hold back. So she opens, sucking on the fingers filling her mouth and turning anything she was trying to say into a muffled grunt, to which Joohyun smiles encouragingly.

“Does my poor little Wannie need to feel good, hm? She’s just frustrated, isn’t she?”

The only response is a gagged whimper around the digits between her lips. Joohyun slowly increases the pressure against the painful ache at her core, and Seungwan just keens. She can’t vocalise it now, but the way her hips are canting up against the pad of her thumb shows just how desperate she is for more stimulation, and Joohyun almost coos.

Poor Seungwan. Her poor sensitive, edged little Seungwan.

Too bad it’s so much fun to tease her. Especially when she’s so clearly on the brink. But she knows she’s not going to last much longer, not when she’s already twitching like she’s going to cum for the fifth time today. Joohyun is just glad she’s the one making her, this time. She continues to roll her thumb right against Seungwan’s clit, swollen from overstimulation but burning for Joohyun to make it cum again.

Seungwan tries to tell her that she’ll lose it if she keeps this up, but her makeshift gag stops the words from ever leaving her mouth. She doesn’t see Joohyun move, nor does she hear it. All she feels is a slight ruffle in the bedsheets and then the zips of electricity that run down the length of her spine when Joohyun’s lips latch around her nub and suck. Oh gosh, she’s… she’s sucking on her clit. She’s sucking on it through – through the fabric and it feels even better. She tries to shift away a little, wanting to stay like this for as long as possible, but Joohyun’s anchored and she’s helpless to resist it. It quickly becomes too much for her to hold out for a second longer. She’s going to – god, she can’t take anymore, she’s going to cum.

Seungwan falls apart with Joohyun eating her out and four fingers stuffed into her mouth, shivering and whining as best she can while she rides out the most intense orgasm she’s had today, or ever. And Joohyun doesn’t stop, either. She’s still licking – slower, at least, but she isn’t letting up till she feels Seungwan shake at the feeling, oversensitive and exhausted.

Joohyun licks her lips, watching Seungwan struggle to keep her eyes open. So the limit is five, she mentally adds for future reference.

“Did you like that, Wannie? It really sounded like you did. Sooyoung probably heard you from her room.”

Brows furrow in disbelief and Joohyun only shakes her head as she removes her hand, creating a long string of saliva as it leaves her mouth.

She grins as she holds up her spit-coated fingers for Seungwan to blush at. “Really. You have no idea, huh. These definitely aren’t enough to shut you up. I’m going to have to get creative next time.”

Seungwan groans and buries her face in her pillow, mumbling something incoherent about ‘never opening her mouth again’. It’s enough to keep her hands away from her crotch for the rest of her life. That, and the fact that Joohyun is still fully clothed while she’s lying here completely naked, nothing but a soaked bedsheet to preserve any modesty she can scrape together after… whatever’s just happened.

She isn’t sure what she thought was going to happen next, but Joohyun slotting herself comfortably between her and the wall wasn’t on her list of expectations. The next thing that registers in her cloudy mind is that she’s being… cuddled. She didn’t even have to squeeze her bolster like she so often did, thinking about a certain someone after she’d finished ‘fantasising’ or even as she retired for the night. No, this is the real thing! There’s an arm draped around her waist and a warm body snuggled into her side. She wants to pinch herself, half expecting to wake up in another dimension – one where cockroaches run for presidency and everyone’s favourite food is Twinkies (the chocolate kind) – but when she wriggles, the arm tightens around her and she turns to look at the face she wants to wake up to for as long as she lives.

“Unnie?” For someone so usually vocal, she’s at a loss for words. “… I… uh, sorry… about… the noise, I…”

Joohyun shushes her with the gentlest kiss to her cheek and laces their fingers together. “Relax, Wan-ah… I understand. I wasn’t angry with you like that, you know.”

A tiny spark of energy races through the younger girl at those words, and she jolts forward, confused. “Huh? You weren’t angry I was so noisy? The subtitles? Your tv time?”

Assuming she’d have her dongsaeng fall asleep in her arms, the sudden curiosity takes Joohyun by surprise too, but she gradually pushes herself up so she’s resting on her elbows. “Well, not really… you weren’t really disturbing me, that much. I didn’t mean it like that, anyway.”

“W-What do you mean, unnie?”

And Joohyun has to laugh at her sincerity.

With their fingers still intertwined, she brings them up to her lips and kisses the back of Seungwan’s hand.

“You really want to know?”

#red velvet #red velvet scenarios #red velvet imagines #wenrene #wendy #irene #smut #kpop scenarios #girl group scenarios #red velvet smut

110 notes · View notes

sailorgreywolf-german · 3 years

Text

Birth Right

Characters: Prussia (Teutonic Knights), Germania

Summary: A Young Teutonic Knight has a conversation with his father.

Word Count: 3.2K

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

The fire was burning low in the hearth as the servants rushed around, attempting to at least make their failing empire comfortable. Germania was laid in the bed, taking weak breaths that shook his massive body. Even under layers of furs, he was shaking. There was no chance of healing him or changing this fate; he was dying. He had outlasted Rome and all the other empires that had challenged him. But, no country was immortal. That was the simple truth of the matter and it was immutable. His sword and armor were laid out on a table as though he would spring up at any moment and seize them.

A lord, a vassal to one of the king's sons, approached Germania. The blonde man was awake and conscious, just weak. He spoke to the lord, one of the few who were not busy fighting in the savage civil war pulling the empire apart, and his voice rattled, "Send for my sons." He paused to pull in a shaking breath, before saying, "I have to bequeath my lands to them." It was this statement that made it perfectly clear that Germania knew he was dying. If he was ready to divide his lands like a mortal king, then there was truly no chance of his survival.

The lord said, obliging his empire, "I will send out knights immediately to inform them." He then asked a necessary qualification, the one that the entire court had been whispering about as the Empire visibly weakened, "All of them, sire?" Germania's blue eyes fixed on him questioningly as though he had not quite understood the question. Then he said, "Yes, all of them."

The mortal nodded, and turned and left the vast empire on his deathbed. In his mind, he wondered if the empire would even last long enough for a messenger to reach far-flung Poland to reach the son in exile.

_______________________________________________________________________

Gilbert sat at a table, a flickering candle his only light source, running his finger under lines of text in a manuscript. His mind still stumbled over some of the words and letters, but he was making progress. The Hochmeister had told him that it was important to be literate in order to be able to read scripture. Life was supposed to be equal parts prayer and training to fight wearing the cross. But, one came far easier to Gilbert.

He felt antsy when he was forced to sit and work on manuscripts. He was aware that his sword was sitting on the other side of the room, and it would only take him a few minutes to grab it and go out to the training yard. Instead he was stuck here pawing over the complicated lettering of this manuscript. He got lost somewhere in the Latin and had to refocus his attention at the beginning of the page.

There was a sound at the door, which sounded like a hesitant knock. He grabbed a small knife that he kept with him on him at all the time. Then he reminded himself that here he was safe, here no one accused him of being a demon and sought to harm him. He put the knife back down again and stood, leaving the heavy manuscript behind on the table. When he opened the door, the young knight on the other side, who was wearing the black cross of the Teutonic order, took a subtle step backwards. Gilbert was used to this reaction when he was faced with new people. This man must have been from a different garrison because Gilbert didn't recognize him.

But, the knight had enough discipline to stop from reacting too extremely to the albino's appearance. He said, clearly following orders, "A knight from the king has arrived for you." Gilbert remembered how much he had shut himself off from the distant politics of his father's empire. He was not aware of who was king at this point in time. But he also knew that this order pledged itself to serving the empire, so when a message came from the king, they were obliged to listen.

This message was not actually from the king, though, if it was meant for Gilbert himself. That meant that it came directly from his father. That, in itself, was surprising. Since Gilbert had been sent to live here, his father had made no attempt to contact him until now. He glanced down at himself for only a moment to make sure that he looked at least decent. He was not dressed in formal garb, but what he was wearing was in order. He was too anxious to attempt to change into something more appropriate. So, he closed his door and followed the young knight through the stone halls to the chapel where there were two men standing, bathed by the light of multiple lit candles.

Gilbert recognized one as the Landmeister of Marienburg, the man who was currently responsible for him, but the other did not wear the black and white of the order. This mortal must be the one that had ridden from the heart of the Empire to speak to him. First, he inclined his head to his commanding officer and then did the same to the foreign knight. Without any hesitation, the foreigner said, "Your father is dying and has requested that you come back."

Gilbert's first reaction was to shake his head and take a step backwards. His father could not be dying. It was rare for countries to die, and it seemed completely unthinkable that Germania could succumb to internal fighting. However, he remembered what he had been taught. Part of combat was discipline, and that discipline could be applied in this situation. Not certain what he should feel or say, Gilbert said shortly, "I understand. Must we depart imminently?"

The man looked as though that had not been given any orders on that point. But, he responded, "Your father's health is failing, it is hard to say when he may succumb. It would be best to leave as soon as you are ready." The Landmeister cut in and said, "There are provisions that must be made tonight. I will send Gilbert to you in the morning."

The albino nodded, thankful for the time to attempt to deal with his own emotions. The commander then turned his attention to the other two mortals in the room. He spoke to the man that was subordinate; "This man has ridden for several days straight. Find him quarters." The discipline within the order was absolute. So, the messenger was immediately escorted away with the pretense of finding quarters.

But once they were alone, the mortal turned to Gilbert and said, "You took that news well." Gilbert responded as honestly as he could, "My father hasn't contacted me since he sent me here. And yet, when he is dying he sends for me. What am I supposed to think of that?"

He walked slowly towards the altar, not conscious of what he was doing. He had been told that he should go first to God in his times of doubt. This was certainly one of them. He should be saddened by the news that his father was dying. But, he was having trouble feeling anything about it. Perhaps it was because he only comprehended it in the abstract. His mortal commander followed him and said, "You must believe that he wishes to make a mends with you before he dies."

Gilbert nodded wished that he could believe that. He wanted to believe that his father regretted sending him into monastic exile, but that seemed to be a fantasy. He also wished he could feel resentment about this situation, but the truth was that he had found acceptance in this order like he never had anywhere else. Here very few people could gawk at him or judge for his appearance. In this monastery, he could finally avoid it all and learn to fight. Although he could resent what the choice meant about what his father thought of him, he could not begrudge the choice itself because it afforded him so much freedom.

He tried to voice these feelings, even if his adolescent mind did not quite understand them, "Why would he choose this moment? It doesn't make sense." The mortal responded sagely, attempting to sooth the fiery teen, "Men reveal feelings when they feel life slipping away that they never dare express when they have vitality and strength. You may be immortal, but your emotions are human."

Again, Gilbert wanted to accept this logic but it was hard. He looked directly at the cross on the altar, hoping that he could get some kind of divine guidance in this instance. As always, the cross remained silent. But, the mortal continued to talk to him, "You are his eldest son, aren't you?" Gilbert responded, but only out of conditioning, "Yes." The response elicited the information that Gilbert already knew, "Then you are heir to his empire."

Again, Gilbert only nodded. He knew this already, but he had denied himself those ambitions for so long. It was a sin to imagine that he could become an empire when his father died; it was pride and ambition. Moreover, he feared the idea because he had never been taught how to be an empire. Certainly, the knights had taught him about leadership. But that was leadership earned, not leadership inherited. But, now that he allowed the thought to grow, it was exciting that he could, at this young age, have power over most of central Europe.

The feelings dueled with each other in his head, allowing only one to have dominance at once. He said, trying to hide what he was actually feeling, "Tell me what I should do. I don't know what to do." The Landmeister took a step in front of him and put both of his hands on the albino's shoulders. He said, his tone stern, "Spend the night in prayer. Look to God for the answers. In the morning, depart and go to your father's side." ______________________________________________________________

The light from many candles and a central fire lit Germania's room as he sat up, only aided by a pair of servants. His body was far too weak now for him to lift himself. The civil war that had finally done enough damage that his once strong body could no longer support itself. He was very rarely alone anymore, with all the retainers he required to continue living. He wondered if Rome had suffered this way during his own fall. He had so easily taken land from Rome to forge his own empire, and only now did he wonder what pain he had caused.

The door opened and a young blonde boy entered, guided by his own retainer. As soon as he saw his father, he ran forward to the bedside, ignoring all rules of decorum and order. He cried out, "Vati!" His cry made it clear how distressed he was seeing his father in this state. Germania extended his hand to his son, attempting to convey some comfort.

The boy took the large hand in both of his own as he said, "Are you really dying, Vati?" The boy was attempting to hold in his emotions, but he was young and they were pouring out. As his father slowly nodded, tears began to roll down his round cheeks. He wasn't ready to be without a father. He wasn't ready to be alone.

The door opened again, this time admitting an older blonde boy, who looked immediately to his younger brother. He walked over to the young boy and put his hand on his shoulder. He said, speaking not yet to his father, "Be strong, Max." The younger of the two responded immediately and tearfully, "But, Vash, I don't want Vati to die!"

Vash only tightened his grip on his brother's shoulder and said, "We all have to face this eventually." Hardily a teen yet, Vash nonetheless showed maturity beyond his years. He was as he always had been, quiet but strong. Germania surveyed his sons. They were both exceptional in their own ways, but they were both young to take on the burden of being responsible for such vast lands. His mind had been occupied recently with nothing but the inheritance of his sons. He had already made the decision of who would inherit his title of the Holy Roman Empire. But he had to consider all his sons. There were outside forces to consider and he had to leave his sons with enough strength to defend themselves.

The door opened again, this time the entire room fell silent. All eyes went directly to Gilbert. The mortals had never seen him before, so they stared at him. Gilbert felt all the eyes on him as he walked into the room, but he was expecting it. What he was not expecting was the way that both of his brothers glared at him as though he was interrupting something intimate. He was tempted to pull of hood of his white cloak over his head and leave again.

But, he wasn't here for his brothers' approval. He focused his attention on his father, who looked like a shadow of himself. His blonde hair was still braided, but it looked unkempt. There were very prominent dark circles under his eyes as well. Germania's blue eyes found the albino and a look passed over his face that was completely unreadable. For a moment, Gilbert wondered if the look could be approval, or possibly the opposite. He decided to withhold any judgment or reaction until his father spoke.

He already wanted to flee back to his monastery where he could go to the training yard and take out all of his feelings with a sword. This was not his arena and he felt completely out of place. But, he was here for a reason and he couldn't let himself forget that. He still stopped just behind his brothers, consciously putting himself on the periphery.

Once Gilbert stopped walking, his father started talking. He was taking halting breaths between each word he said, "Now that you're all here. There is the matter of inheritance." Gilbert found himself wondering why it was even necessary for his brothers to be there. The laws of inheritance were clear. The eldest son should inherit the title, even if land was given to the younger. It should be a clear case. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as he waited for the inevitable proclamation.

Germania continued, "I have thought hard about this. Vash will inherit the lands between the land of the Franks and the Italian peninsula." He paused and Gilbert felt anxiety in his throat. He knew what his right was, but he still felt uncertain. His father continued speaking, "Maximilian will inherit my title and become the Holy Roman Empire."

Gilbert felt the air go out of his lungs as his tearful younger brother, his youngest brother, take the title that should belong to him. He had only begun to wish for the title, only to have it stolen away from him. He could do nothing but stand there. He didn't even hear the words as his father gave his brothers his blessing and bid them leave the room. Gilbert refused to leave.

He was owed something, anything. It was not conceivable that he could be left with only the small spit of land along the Baltic Sea that he currently had. He was certain he had been told to leave the room, but he didn't care. He waited for his obedient brothers to leave before finally speaking, glaring at his father as he did so, "What am I to be left with, Father?"

Germania's eyes hardened and he responded with an ire that mirrored Gilbert's, "You will do as you've been doing. Any land that belongs to the Teutonic order belongs to you." Frustrated, Gilbert turned and started walking around the room. He loved the land he had, the freedom to be a knight if he wished. But, he still felt cheated.

He finally asked the question that had been on his mind for a while. It could explain this situation, but he didn't want it to be true. Not daring to look directly at his father, he said, "Am I bastard born? Is that why you sent me away?" He had been dwelling on this thought for more than a decade. He knew that it was common practice to put a lord's bastard in a monastic order to hide their existence. He didn't know the truth about his parentage, and with his father dying it was his only chance to ask. Germania seemed completely unsurprised by the question, but Gilbert could only judge by the sound of his voice, "No, you are true born."

As Gilbert turned, ready to ask another question, Germania raised one shaking hand. He said, counting on the albino's silence, "I should have known that my pagan ways would not be forgotten." Gilbert interrupted, tired of listening to stories without any explanation, "I do not want to hear about your conversion. I have learned about God in the monastery you sent me to."

All he got for his outburst was his father's scornful gaze. Then, as he seethed, Germania continued, "Then you know He does not forgive. I sinned, I killed in the name of pagan gods, and I betrayed Romulus. God punished me by marking my first born." Suddenly, Gilbert understood, this was still about his appearance. Even his father couldn't see past it.

He couldn't form a response; the empty feeling in his chest was too strong. Instead, he took a small step backwards and shook his head. Apparently addressing Gilbert's reaction, Germania said, "You do know how you look, don't you?" This time Gilbert was sure to respond with anger. He was well aware that his hair was white and his eyes were red, he had been told and he had seen his reflection in still water. He had seen the way mortals stared and him. He had seen the way superstitious peasants would whisper and turn away. He was constantly reminded what he looked like and he had no illusions about how abnormal it was.

He said, his voice cracking as he spoke, "I know what I look like! Do you really think this is a punishment from God?" He gestured to his own face in an attempt to convey what he meant. His father nodded slowly, almost like the action pained him. He looked like he wanted to speak again, but Gilbert took a step forward. Rage had overtaken all other emotions. He spoke, his voice still struggling to keep up with his emotions, "I didn't choose this!"

He was too angry to even feel heartbroken, or betrayed. The only emotion he felt was anger. Unable to continue to stand in this room, to even be in proximity to the man who had denied him. He stormed to the door and slammed it, saying as he did so, "Keep your empire, I'll get one on my own."

#this one is quite old #but it contextualizes the rest #hws prussia #hws germania #i also now don't headcanon Switzerland as related directly to Germania #please reblog

22 notes · View notes

blog-cosmosuniverse1 · 3 years

Text

Dr. Peter McCullough: The State of COVID Treatment

Story at-a-glance Cardiologist, internist and epidemiologist Dr. Peter McCullough discusses why a key aspect of care — early treatment — has been missing from the pandemic With no hope of early treatment, McCullough believes that most people became conditioned to wait for an injection COVID-19 injections are waning in effectiveness and linked to an unacceptable number of serious injuries and deaths McCullough is among a growing number of experts who believe COVID-19 injections are making the pandemic worse; indiscriminate vaccination is driving mutations, as the virus is mutating wildly to evade the injections At 53:40 in the video, you can view McCullough’s early treatment regimen, which initially includes a nutraceutical bundle, progressing to monoclonal antibody therapy, anti-infectives like HCQ or ivermectin, antibiotics, steroids and blood thinners

The video above,1 featuring cardiologist, internist and epidemiologist Dr. Peter McCullough, is packed with sound logic, data and action steps that have the potential to turn the pandemic around — if only more people would listen.Recorded at the Andrews University Village Church in Berrien Springs, Michigan, August 20, 2021, this presentation deserves to be heard, and I urge you to listen to it in its entirety. It will make you question why a key aspect of care — early treatment — has been missing from the pandemic.McCullough, editor of two medical journals who has published 650 peer-reviewed papers, said this has been the first time in his career when he saw medical providers not offering early treatment for a disease.Early COVID Treatment Saves Lives The standard of care for COVID-19 has been to withhold treatment until a person is sick enough to be hospitalized. It typically takes two to three weeks for someone with COVID-19 to get sick enough to be hospitalized, and during that time early treatment can be lifesaving.The rationale was that there have been no large, randomized trials conducted to know which treatments are safe and effective, but as McCullough said, "We can't wait for large randomized trials … Something got in the minds of doctors and nurses and everyone to not treat COVID-19. I couldn't stand it." He and colleagues worked feverishly to figure out a treatment — why didn't national health organizations do so also?"Our government and other governments, and the entire world, has not lifted a finger to reduce the risk of hospitalization and death anywhere," McCullough said, pointing out the irony: "If there was a kid with asthma, would we let the kid wheeze and choke for two weeks before the kid has to go to the hospital? No, we give the child medications. We don't have randomized trials for every single thing that we do."2 McCullough and colleagues realized that there are three major phases to COVID-19. It starts with virus replication, which then triggers inflammation, or a cytokine storm. This, in turn, leads to blood clotting. If enough micro blood clots form in the lungs, a person can't get enough oxygen and dies. It's a complex process, and no single drug is going to work to treat it, which is why McCullough uses a combination of drugs, as is done to treat HIV, staph and other infections.Only about 6% of doctors' decisions in cardiology are based on randomized trials. "Medicine is an art and a science, it takes judgment. What was happening is, I think out of global fear, no judgement was happening," McCullough said,3 referring to doctors' refusal to treat COVID-19 patients early on in the disease process.Doctors Threatened for Treating COVID-19 Around the world, the unthinkable is happening: Doctors are being threatened with loss of their license or even prison for trying to help their patients. French doctor Didier Raoult suggested, early on, putting up a tent to try to treat covid-19 patients. He was put on house arrest. He has promoted the use of hydroxychloroquine (HCQ), which initially was available over the counter — until France made it prescription only.4In Australia, if a doctor attempts to treat a COVID-19 patient with HCQ, they could be put in prison. "Since when does a doctor get put in prison to try to help a patient with a simple generic drug?" McCullough said. In South Africa, he added, a doctor was put in prison for prescribing ivermectin.In August 2020, McCullough's landmark paper "Pathophysiological Basis and Rationale for Early Outpatient Treatment of SARS-CoV-2 Infection" was published online in the American Journal of Medicine.5The follow-up paper is titled "Multifaceted Highly Targeted Sequential Multidrug Treatment of Early Ambulatory High-Risk SARS-CoV-2 Infection (COVID-19)" and was published in Reviews in Cardiovascular Medicine in December 2020.6 It became the basis for the home treatment guide.While some physician organizations have stepped up and are treating COVID-19 patients, "The ivory tower today still is not treating

patients. The party line in my health system is, do not treat a COVID-19 patient as an outpatient. Wait for them to get sick enough to be admitted. Because my health system … follows the National Institutes of Health or the Centers for Disease Control, period." Conditioned to Wait for an Injection With no hope of early treatment, McCullough believes that most people became conditioned to wait for an injection. "We became conditioned, after about May or so, to wear a mask, wait in isolation and be saved by the vaccine. And wait for the vaccine. And all we could hear about is the vaccine."The injections were developed, but they're different than any prior vaccines and have been losing effectiveness while causing an unacceptable number of serious injuries and deaths. For comparison, in 1976, a fast-tracked injection program against swine flu was halted after an estimated 25 to 32 deaths.7According to McCullough in the video, if a new drug comes on the market and five deaths occur, the standard is to issue a black box warning stating the medication may cause death. With 50 deaths, the product is pulled from the market, he says. Now consider this: The Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System (VAERS) database showed that — for all vaccines combined before 2020 — there were about 158 total deaths reported per year.By January 22, 2021, there were already 182 deaths reported for COVID-19 injections, with just 27.1 million people vaccinated. This was more than enough to reach the mortality signal of concern to stop the program, McCullough said."We've already crossed the line of concern January 22. And if there was a data safety monitoring board — I know, because I do this work — we would have had an emergency meeting and said, wait a minute, people are dying after the vaccine. We've got to figure out why."8It's standard to have an external critical event committee, an external data safety monitoring board and a human ethics committee for large clinical trials — such as the mass COVID-19 injection program, but these were not put into place."This is something we've never seen in human medicine — a new product introduced and just going full-steam ahead with no check on why people are dying after the vaccine," McCullough said. On two occasions, the CDC and FDA — in March and in June — reviewed the data and said none of the deaths are related to the vaccines. "I think this is malfeasance," he stated.Fast-forward to July 30, 2021, and VAERS data showed 12,366 Americans have died after a COVID0-19 injection.9 In an analysis of COVID-19 vaccine death reports from VAERS, researchers found that 86% of the time, nothing else could have caused the death, and it appears the vaccine was the cause.10The Spike Protein Is Dangerous Your body recognizes the spike protein in COVID-19 jabs as foreign, so it begins to manufacture antibodies to protect you against COVID-19, or so the theory goes. But there's a problem. The spike protein itself is dangerous and known to circulate in your body at least for weeks and more likely months11 — perhaps much longer — after the COVID jab.In your cells, the spike protein damages blood vessels and can lead to the development of blood clots.12 It can go into your brain, adrenal glands, ovaries, heart, skeletal muscles and nerves, causing inflammation, scarring and damage in organs over time. McCullough also believes that the spike protein is present in donated blood, and they've notified the Red Cross and the American Association of Blood Banking.Messenger RNA (mRNA) platforms have been under study for years, in most cases being designed to replace a defective gene, which could potentially be used for cancer or heart failure treatment, for example.In November 2020, however, Pfizer, in a joint venture with Germany-based BioNTech, announced that their mRNA-based injection was "more than 90% effective" in a Phase 3 trial.13 This does not mean that 90% of people who get injected will be protected from COVID-19, as it's based on relative risk reduction (RRR).The absolute

risk reduction (ARR) for the jab is less than 1%. "Although the RRR considers only participants who could benefit from the jab, the absolute risk reduction (ARR), which is the difference between attack rates with and without a jab, considers the whole population. ARRs tend to be ignored because they give a much less impressive effect size than RRRs," researchers wrote in The Lancet Microbe in April 2021.14McCullough believes the mass injection campaign is an incredible violation of human ethics, in part because no one should be pressured, coerced or threatened into using an investigational product.No attempts have been made to present or mitigate risks to the public, such as giving it only to people who really need it — not to low risk groups like children and young people and those who are naturally immune to COVID-19 due to prior infection. "I think this is the most disturbing thing," he said.The Injections Don't Stop COVID-19, Can Be Deadly The CDC's Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report (MMWR) posted online July 30, 2021, details an outbreak of COVID-19 that occurred in Barnstable County, Massachusetts — 74% of the cases occurred in fully vaccinated people.15Indiscriminate vaccination is driving mutations, as the virus is mutating wildly to evade the injections. Their effectiveness, too, is rapidly waning. A study published in medRxiv, using data from the Mayo Clinic Health System, revealed that during periods of Alpha and Delta variant prevalence, Moderna's injection was 76% effective while Pfizer's effectiveness was only 42%.16A little-known fact is that Moderna's jab has three times the dose of Pfizer's, but, curiously, health officials aren't even discussing this or giving the public updates on which of the three injections work "best." The narrative is simple and straightforward — get an injection, any injection.Yet, as McCullough noted, the virus has mutated, and the vaccines aren't working the way health officials had hoped: "The vaccines don't stop COVID-19, at least not completely, and they're not a shield against mortality."17Similar to VAERS, the U.K. maintains a "Yellow Card" reporting site to report adverse effects to vaccines and medications.18Tess Lawrie, whose company The Evidence-Based Medicine Consultancy has worked with the World Health Organization, analyzed U.K. Yellow Card data and concluded that there's more than enough evidence to pull the injections from the market because they're not safe for human use. The report stated:19"It is now apparent that these products in the blood stream are toxic to humans. An immediate halt to the vaccination programme is required whilst a full and independent safety analysis is undertaken to investigate the full extent of the harms, which the UK Yellow Card data suggest include thromboembolism, multisystem inflammatory disease, immune suppression, autoimmunity and anaphylaxis, as well as Antibody Dependent Enhancement (ADE)."Early Treatment Is Crucial McCullough is trying to get the word out about the importance of early treatment of COVID-19. Early ambulatory therapy with a sequenced-multidrug regimen is supported by available sources of evidence and has a positive benefit-to-risk profile to reduce the risk of hospitalization and death.At 53:40 in the video, you can view McCullough's early treatment regimen, which initially includes a nutraceutical bundle. While you're recovering at home, open your windows and get plenty of fresh air and ventilation in your home.If symptoms persist or worsen, he recommends calling your doctor and demanding monoclonal antibody therapy. The treatment progresses to include anti-infectives like HCQ or ivermectin, antibiotics, steroids and blood thinners.If your doctor refuses to treat COVID-19 in the early stages, find a new one and/or visit a telemedicine clinic that will help, as "the prehospital phase is the time of therapeutic opportunity."📷McCullough is among a growing number of experts who believe COVID-19 injections are making the pandemic worse. They "have an unfavorable

safety profile and are not clinically effective, thus they cannot be generally supported in clinical practice at this time."Logically, this is clear, but McCullough believes we're dealing with a mass psychosis that is preventing people from seeing the light. "The whole world is in a trance," he said, adding:20"Things are getting disturbingly out of control and it's in the context of the virus. It is clear … we are in a very special time in the history of mankind. Whatever is going on, it is the entire world … every human being in the world. It appears to have a program.The program … is happening to promote as much fear, isolation, suffering, hospitalization and death in order to get a needle in every arm, at all costs. That is what's going on, and no one in this room can disagree."

1 note · View note

peachyqueenly · 3 years

Text

Alone

Sea Fairy has a favor to ask of Mocha Ray... and it may change both of their lives forever.

“... what are you suggesting, Sea Fairy?”

Mocha Ray could do nothing but stand there; dumbfounded at the suggestions being put forward. It was shocking enough that, of all the priestesses, she was called upon by the one and only Sea Fairy. Further shocking was where Sea Fairy had them meet—a frozen tower just above the surface she didn’t know existed until today. And... this suggestion that required the two of them to come to a spot so secluded from their home? Maintaining an air of calmness, the priestess continued, “I understand things might not be ideal right now... but, such a drastic action would be--”

“Unthinkable?” Sea Fairy nonchalantly finished Mocha Ray’s thought.

“I... yes.” Mocha Ray said. Unthinkable was exactly what this was. Sighing, she explained, “You are suggesting we, not only ask that the citizens of Sugarteara abandon their homes, but that I seal you within the temple... alone. With that pearl in its sorry state.”

“Yes, I am.” Sea Fairy said with a conviction unlike her. She did not like this idea any more than this up-and-coming Priestess did. Not only because of what it could mean for her own life, but because it could possibly mean she would never see her love again. The consequences of allowing the sacred pearl... no, not just the pearl. The consequences of both her heart and the pearl succumbing to darkness, however, were far more disastrous and unthinkable than anything else. Maintaining her conviction, she continued, “I know you and others in the temple have been trying your best, but I am the only one who can prevent the worse from happening. Because... b-because...”

“Because...?

“Because the darkening is my fault!!”

Mocha Ray could only stand in shock at this sudden loss of composure. This was the creator of Sugarteara, the normally calm and nonchalant Sea Fairy, showing a burst of emotion. Her emotions reaching their peak like an all too powerful wave crashing down. The priestess could not help but wonder if was she the only one to ever see this side of the sea goddess.

“I-I must apologize.” Sea Fairy, averting her gaze, quickly came back from her prior outburst. “But please... let me explain...”

“Of course, Sea Fairy. I am all ears” Mocha Ray stated, nodding her head.

Sighing in preparation, Sea Fairy looked back at Mocha Ray and said, “As you and the others of the temple know, the sacred pearl is a portion of my power given to the city. It is one of the many reasons why Sugarteara’s citizens revere me. But my gift is darkening; and to keep it simple, it is because my heart is as well.”

“Y-your heart?” Mocha Ray stuttered. What could that possibly mean? No one at the temple had considered the pearl’s current state could be a result of Sea Fairy. Let alone resulting from something like her heart darkening... whatever that meant. Still confused, the priestess asked, “If you don’t mind, what does it mean for your heart to darken?”

“I’m... not entirely sure myself.” Sea Fairy admitted. In truth, she had yet to figure out the full scope of the problem. She knew of the loneliness that resulted in this process; however, she could not fully grasp the scope of what this could mean for the entire ocean. After pausing for a second, she continued, “I know it stems from what one could call loneliness. And... I know it has been causing my powers to become more erratic and uncontrollable.”

“Loneliness? But... you are the most revered creature in the ocean!! The most respected--”

“Respect is not a cure for loneliness... in fact, it can cause loneliness when taken too far.” Sea Fairy stated, and then explained further, “I am deified to the point that no one would approach me for any reason other than worship and guidance.”

“I...” Mocha Ray wanted to say she was wrong. Wanted so badly to tell her it would be an honor for anyone in the ocean to be her friend. But... that desire to honor the goddess was the problem. And what was she, but the prime example of what Sea Fairy was talking about? A priestess who worships and only interacts with someone so powerful when called upon... as she was today. Knowing arguing was futile, she moved on to her next point, “I... See. And so, you believe the best course of action is to seal yourself within the temple and dedicate all your strength to preserving both the pearl and your heart?”

Sea Fairy nodded. This was her fault to begin with, and so it should fall on her to prevent the worse from happening. Even if it meant she would be alone. Even if... it meant she would never see Moonlight again. But, perhaps, using all her strength to maintain the ocean’s balance would outweigh her loneliness... she could hope, right?

“I assume the dangers your powers present is the reason you want the evacuation as well?”

“Yes... you would be right.”

“That makes sense. There is one thing I don’t quite understand, however.” Mocha Ray began to say, before offering her final question, “Why me? Why, of everyone you could talk to, did you choose to tell me?”

“Because I trust you.” Sea Fairy quickly answered. She did not come to this decision on a whim. Since the first meeting with her now lover, she felt her loneliness bubbling up to the surface whenever she couldn’t be with Moonlight. And, once she realized what was happening, the sea goddess began to keep an eye on those around her in the temple. Because... this would require one more person. Again, without hesitation, she spoke, “You have the greatest grasp on electric powers of all the rays. You are also resourceful and dedicated, and... I need someone like that to watch over the city in my slumber.”

“I... see.” Mocha Ray said. Now it made sense. The priestess was called here... because she was the one person who was not going to leave Sugarteara. In hindsight, of course Sea Fairy could not be left alone while devoting her strength to preserving the sacred pearl and her heart. But for her to be chosen...

“So, will help me?”

“Of course, Sea Fairy.” Mocha Ray affirmed with a newfound confidence. “I am still not entirely sure what all this means, but for the entire sea, I will devote my duties to your protection.”

“I’m Glad. However, there is one more thing you should know, however.” Sea Fairy could barely bring herself to say these next words, but she continued anyway, “If... we cannot find a way to push back the darkness and it consumes me. Please, somehow manage to remove this dagger from my hands. Doing so will turn me to sea foam... preventing the devastation of our home.”

“Wait!!! Sea Fairy, that would mean you--”

“Please! You must promise me you will not allow my powers to plunge the sea into darkness.”

“I...” Mocha Ray had devoted her entire life to the worship of the sacred pearl and—by proxy—Sea Fairy. Yet here goddess of the sea was—asking a priestess to basically kill her if need be. But... the sea was their home. And if it meant protecting it...

It took a while to muster the courage to reply, but Mocha Ray finally said, “You have my word, Sea Fairy. While protecting you, I will try to find a way to help. But... if all else fails, and you attempt to plunge the sea into darkness, I will do what must be done.”

“Thank you, Mocha Ray...” Sea Fairy said while sighing in relief. She knew this was a hard thing to ask for, but this was her burden to bear. And if this loneliness cost her own life, then so be it. Taking one last glace at the moon above them, she told Mocha Ray, “We should go back now. There is a lot to be done”

“Of course.” And with that, Mocha Ray followed.

Page Break

“This is your last chance to back down... and find another way.” Mocha Ray informed Sea Fairy. It had been a month since their initial conversation, and now was the time. Sugarteara had been evacuated, and the two of them stood before the sacred pearl. Turning towards Sea Fairy, she continued, “Neither of us even know if this will work. What if--”

“We have to try.” Sea Fairy said, interrupting Mocha Ray before she could cast further doubt on her choice. She already had so many conflicting emotions: from the possibility of her own death, to the idea of never seeing her love, Moonlight, again. She had become more and more doubtful of her choice as the days went on.

Moonlight...

Fighting back tears at the thought of never seeing her lover again, she approached the pearl, rising herself to meet it at its level. Once there, she couldn’t help but gaze into it. The darkness, while it could be seen moving from where Mocha Ray stood, seemed much more violent and erratic up close. As if... it could jump out and attack Sea Fairy at any moment. Could her own powers be twisted into such a violent force?

No—they did not have time for this.

Shoving away her feelings of fear and sadness, Sea Fairy wrapped herself around the pearl... and closed her eyes--

Suddenly, a bright light enveloped the room. If only for a second. Causing Mocha Ray to cover her eyes. A few moments later, she slowly lowered her fins—still scared of the possibility of further eye damage. Once uncovered, however, she saw the results of their decision.

Sea Fairy was within a bubble of her own design—frozen in midair as if she were encased in ice. Within it, she maintained the same position Mocha Ray had seen before the light seemed to seal her in place—her body wrapped around the pearl as if it were her life depended on it. As for the pearl itself... it had yet changed. The darkness was no longer moving within the sacred pearl, but it was still there. Though it was wishful thinking on the priestess’s part to hope things would change so soon. Mocha Ray just needed to give Sea Fairy time... right?

After what felt like an eternity, Mocha Ray finally turned around. The priestess did not have time to falter. Now, she had to fulfill her role in this plan—sealing the temple and making sure others could not enter. She started with the inner sanctum’s entrance and made her way through her once bustling home. The priestess’s shields were made of the electrical power unique to her species... one of the abilities Sea Fairy had based her hope in Mocha Ray on. Designed to block anyone who could not harness these abilities themselves, the shields would only allow those who could wield these electric abilities to pass through.

Meaning that only she could utilize the entrances and exits now. As the rest of the ray species had fled with the other citizens of Sugarteara... as she had requested. And there was no one she knew of who could disarm the shields.

A good hour or two later, Mocha Ray had finally made it to the final opening in the temple... the entrance. After this, she did not have much left to do except maintain watch and take care of herself. She would start the research into how to help Sea fairy tomorrow... as setting up the shields had been exhausting enough.

As she started to set up the last one, however--

SMASH

Stopping in her tracks, she turned around, seeing a cloud of dust forming from whatever crashed right in front of the temple. Or... whoever--

“YOU-- WHAT’VE YOU BEEN TELLING THE PEOPLE OF SUGARTEARA?”

Mocha Ray’s eyes widened. She knew that voice. She had hoped she wouldn’t have to hear that voice again... anytime soon, at least.

“Lobster...” the priestess said. Lobster...her friend. When Sea Fairy and herself were preparing to evacuate the city, Lobster was out with a survey team—tracking down and defeating a vicious beast that had gotten too close to Sugarteara’s outskirts. So, like all the other survey groups, they had sent a messenger out to tell them of the news. Mocha Ray had handpicked the one for Lobsters’ team and hoped—sincerely hoped— that her friend would have been convinced by them... and yet here he was. Maintaining her position at the top of the temple’s steps, she told him, “You should not be here--”

“I SHOULDN’T BE HERE?”

“Yes!! You need to leave—now!!!”

“Why? So you can TAKE ALL OF SUGARTEARA’S GLORY FOR YOURSELF?” Lobster yelled. This was their home... HIS home, and yet she expected him to abandon it? She was one of the first people to welcome him into the city; she did not look down on him no matter how beaten and damaged he became. This priestess in particular should understand his attachment to Sugarteara. And yet—removing the glistening claw from the crater he created, Lobster continued, “I don’t think so... this isn’t just your home to claim!! Take it back and allow the people to return to their homes!!”

“Lobster please!! Do you really think so low of me!?” Mocha Ray cried out. This was her colleague... her friend. She had known him since his first days within the city... she even gifted him the very claw he so rudely smashed in with. And now... Lobster really believed she was doing this out of some shallow desire for power. Suddenly, she heard her friend’s footsteps begin to move towards the temple’s stairs. And with every step, she felt tears well up in her eyes. She said, “Please Lobster, I do not wish to fight!!’

“I don’t wish to either... but if you are to stand against Sugarteara’s greatness, I have no choice!!”

“Lobster, pl--”

“IF YOU DON’T WISH TO FIGHT, RESCIND YOUR WORDS AND ALLOW ME TO BRING THE PEOPLE B--”

“THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE!! I”M SORRY!!!”

“Then... TAKE THIS!!” Lobster yelled, switching from thunderous steps to a sudden leap, he threw himself into the air. And as he plummeted to the ground, Lobster aimed his claw at who he could once call a friend.

Noticing this, Mocha Ray’s eyes widened. And within a single moment, she created the final shield to the temple... around it and herself. Protecting her and sending lobster back as the shock of her powers coursed through his body. Glancing down at his kneeling form, she said through tears, “Lobster, please stop this!!”

“NO!! LET ME IN!!!” He yelled—no, pleaded. This was his home; somewhere that accepted someone as rugged as him, and it was clear he was not going to just give up on it. Though he did not even know why it had to be like this. He knew nothing of Sea Fairy or the sacred pearl’s waning strength... but he would not listen long enough to learn.

She had prayed for nights on end that it would not have to be this way. However, deep down, Mocha Ray knew a prayer like this was too much for any god to answer. Lobster was always headstrong... and would defend Sugarteara with his life. He had given up a claw for the city, after all. The idea that it had to be abandoned for the safety of its citizens and the sea.... she had to have known Lobster would refuse such an obscene notion. But still, she did not want to view him as an enemy. So, she gave him one last chance, “... I know how you feel. I love our home too, but you need to understand—”

“IF YOU DON’T TAKE DOWN THIS BARRIER I SWEAR TO THE SEAS—” he continued to holler, dashing back up the stairs and banging on the shield even as its electricity coursed through his body.

“... fine.” Mocha Ray said, hanging her head down and turning her back to him. Her duty to Sea fairy and the seas came before anything else. If it did not, there would be no city for Lobster and her to fight over. So, as she began to walk back into the temple, she tried to hold back her sobs and said, “If you continue to try and invade the temple grounds, you will be treated as an enemy... even by the city guardians.”

And with that, she quickened her pace and entered the temple—Lobster's cries and screams echoing throughout its walls. Until, after some maintenance on her end, Mocha Ray began to hear the crashes and screams of lobster dealing with guardians... before it turned to silence. Lobster clearly unable to handle every single guardian. The priestess could only hope her friend fled rather than succumbing to the guardian’s defense mechanisms.

Mocha Ray had spent the entire time walking around the temple in an effort to ignore the chaos outside. But now that it was completely silent, she fell to her knees. Exhausted and finally allowing herself to sob loudly. At the end of the day, he was a friend. And she knew it would take a lot to ever repair their friendship. If it was even possible after what she had to do.

Over the past month, she had to say goodbye to everyone she loved. On this day, she had lost a friend. Now, all alone, she wondered... is this what hopelessness feels like? Is this the feeling that had consumed Sea Fairy’s heart? Between sobs, she started to ask why over and over again... to absolutely no one. Mocha Ray was all alone.

Yes, all alone...

#cookie run #cookie run overbreak #sugarteara #sea fairy cookie #mocha ray cookie #lobster cookie #writing #Alt title: Katie still has sugarteara brainrot in december

9 notes · View notes

haberdashing · 4 years

Text

Open Up My Eager Eyes

TMA fic set just after MAG 168. Jon and Martin have an important talk about what once was and what might have been.

on AO3

They didn’t speak much right after Jon returned, but the tension in the air was palpable as they made their way forwards, the only sounds that of their footsteps crunching against what passed for ground here and the whispers of the dying.

Eventually, Jon couldn’t stand it anymore, so he stopped walking, turning towards Martin as he said, “Can we... let’s talk.”

“About what?” Martin’s tone was a little sharp, but he stood still as well, looking Jon in the eye as he did so.

“You know, the whole jealousy thing.”

Martin’s face tensed up, and he made a show of breaking eye contact with Jon as he said, “I think we’ve talked quite enough about that already, thanks.”

“No, not... look, we already discussed how you’re jealous of Oliver Banks for, for some reason, and how I’m not going to kill a man just because you’re jealous of him-”

Martin scrunched up his nose in a way that would be patently adorable if he wasn’t currently trying to convince Jon to murder someone. “He’s not really a man anymore, though, is he? I mean, that’s kind of the point.”

“Martin, if just being an avatar of a fear god during, well, this, is enough for somebody to deserve getting killed in your mind... I’d like you to think a bit about what that implies about me.”

Martin blinked a few times and furrowed his brow, thinking for a few seconds in silence before letting out a long, solemn breath. “Alright, yeah, point taken.”

“Besides, if you just let me explain what actually happened, maybe you’ll understand that there’s really no reason for you to be jealous of...” Jon tried to hold back the laughter in his voice, but a bit of it sneaked through just the same as he finished, “...of Oliver Banks, of all people.”

“I mean, you did wake up for him and not for me, though. That’s just a fact.”

“It wasn’t... it wasn’t for him, is the thing. Because of him, maybe, but not for him.”

“Fine, because of him, then. But he- he still did something for you there, then. Something I clearly couldn’t.”

Jon threw his hands in the air. “Yes, because he was an avatar of death! Look, if you’re really that desperate to throw away your humanity, feel free to give Annabelle Cane a ring, I’m sure she’d be glad to hook you up-”

“Jon...”

“I... It was a joke. I was joking.” That wasn’t entirely accurate, truth be told--Jon kept wondering if that was Annabelle Cane’s endgame in all of this, recruiting Martin to her side--but that was a very different conversation to be had than the current one, and not one Jon terribly felt like delving into at the moment.

“Sure.” Martin sounded less than convinced.

“It’s not like I- I cared more about Oliver Banks than you, or anything like that, if that’s what you’re thinking! He just... let me know what I needed to do to wake up. Gave me information I had been lacking.”

“I thought you knew everything!”

“Now, maybe. And there’s still a few limits even now. But back then it... it wasn’t quite that simple.”

“So, what was this information he had and you didn’t?”

“He explained that, that what had happened... it left me trapped somewhere in between life and death-”

“You couldn’t have figured that much out for yourself?”

“Let me finish! At the time, I was... how did he phrase it... not human enough to die, but still too human to live. And I had to make a choice. Either I could pick my human side and just- just die, or I could give up on being human and wake up as a full-fledged avatar of the Beholding.”

“And you chose the latter?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Jon let out a sharp bark of a laugh, looking around at the desolate, nightmarish landscape surrounding them before adding, “Knowing what I do know... I don’t think I made the right choice there.”

“Don’t say that!” Jon hadn’t been expecting the desperation in Martin’s voice, hadn’t been expecting him to reach out and clutch Jon’s arm as if he were going to fade away at any moment. “Don’t... don’t you dare say you want to die, alright?”

Martin looked like he was on the verge of tears, suddenly, and Jon pressed one hand against his cheek, ready to brush away any teardrops that might fall. “I mean, I don’t want to die now, I’m not suicidal. At this point, the damage has already been done. Dying now wouldn’t do anyone much good.”

Martin released his grip on Jon’s arm, but that sad, desperate look in his eyes remained all too present. “But you still think the world would be better off if you had died back then.”

“I mean...” Jon used his free hand to gesture towards the hellscape that surrounded them. “If I had, none of this would have happened. And the rest of the Archives staff would be free to leave, to escape from this mess. You would be free, Martin. Free to live your life without having to worry about any of this.”

“But without you.”

“Without me, and without being tied to an eldritch fear god, and without the apocalypse unfolding in front of you. That seems like more than a fair trade-off.”

Martin laughed, but it was a laugh more of sorrow than of levity, and Jon felt a single teardrop fall onto his finger. “After all this time, you still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“None of that matters to me if you’re not there. The only reason my working with Peter Lukas became more than just- just a death wish was because you woke up, because I could see a life for myself outside of the Lonely with you. Maybe it’s selfish--no, strike that, I know it’s selfish--but I’d rather be beside you here and now than in a world where none of this happened, but you’re not there to share it with me.”

“...thank you, Martin.” Jon broke into a shaky smile. “But even if you’re fine with how things worked out, the others-”

“-are better off with you here too.”

Jon let the hand that had been pressed against Martin’s face fall to his side, tried not to focus on how it was now shaking due to some emotion he couldn’t quite name. “I don’t see how that works.”

“Alright, let’s go through this one by one. If you hadn’t woken up, Melanie would still have a- a ghost bullet from the Slaughter stuck in her leg, right?”

“That she wanted in there!”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Right, because that’s healthy. Look, I’m not saying the way you went about things was the perfect solution, but I do think it beats doing nothing and just letting her become an avatar of unthinking violence. And if you’d died, she’d have had to find another target for all that rage...”

“...fine, let’s say for the sake of argument Melanie’s better off. There’s Basira, too.”

“Basira...” Martin bit his lip for a moment the way he often did when he was deep in thought. “I’m not sure what she would have done if you had died, honestly, but I do know she wouldn’t have gotten Daisy back without you. You’re the reason she knew Daisy was in the Buried, and you’re definitely the reason Daisy got out of there.”

“Because I jumped into a coffin where the whole idea is that once you go in, you can never come out.”

“Again, not claiming it was a great plan or anything, but it did work. You saved Basira from not knowing what really happened, from mourning a woman who was still alive. And you saved Daisy from being stuck in the Buried literally forever.”

“And now she’s succumbed to the Hunt. I can’t imagine that’s much better.”

“You were down there with her. You tell me.”

Jon’s silence as he considered this was as much of a response as any words could have been.

“Basira might have stayed, too. It’s not like she had anything left outside the Archives, after all. And if she did? Maybe I would have actually gone along with Peter’s plan and killed Elias-” Jon gave Martin a look, and Martin corrected himself. “Killed Jonah Magnus, and then she would have died. Along with everybody else who works for the Institute. Rosie from the front desk, who always greets everyone with a smile? Dead. Sonja from Artefact Storage, who actually seems to accept all of this weirdness? Dead. Hannah’s children would lose their mother. Hundreds of families would be torn apart.”

“That’s still a lot less pain and suffering than I caused by reading that damn statement. You can’t claim the world wouldn’t be better off if I hadn’t done that.”

“Okay, no, I’m not gonna come out pro-apocalypse here or anything, but... think about it. Jonah Magnus was planning all of this for two hundred years. You really think he would have given up if you died?”

Jon hadn’t thought of that, and his vision blurred as he considered the implications there.

“He would’ve found another Archivist, he would’ve made them go through hell instead, and we’d end up back here soon enough. The only way he would’ve stopped is if I killed him, a-and then Peter’d have the Panopticon for whatever the hell he really wanted it for, and maybe it’s not the same, but you can’t tell me a world under Peter Lukas’ control would really be that much better.”

“...I suppose not, no.” Jon cleared his throat as he prepared to change the subject as smoothly as he could manage. “So. Oliver Banks did what he had to do, as did I, whatever the consequences. And I’m pretty sure either option of his choice would be better than being eternally stuck watching other people’s nightmares. You’ve seen for yourself that those can be... rough on me, and that’s after just one night.”

“That’s what it was like? Just- just six months of nonstop nightmares?”

And suddenly Martin’s arms were wrapped around Jon’s body, Martin tucking his head against Jon’s shoulder, and he could feel tears dampening his jumper. Jon did his best to reciprocate, to reach out to Martin in turn, and tears of his own began to fall as well.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Jon.”

“It’s fine-”

Martin looked up at Jon with a fiery gaze. “It’s not fine.”

“Well, it’s fine now. And- and maybe now you can see why I’m grateful to Oliver Banks for letting me know that I had options besides being stuck like that forever.”

“...yeah, I guess so. Though I still wish I could have been the one to help you.”

“I know you did everything you could.” Jon’s lips turned into a wry smile as he added, “I heard you, you know. The only other things I heard were statements--Oliver’s and Jonah’s, and please don’t tell me you’re going to be jealous of Jonah Magnus now-”

“Nah, I think we’ve got better reasons for killing him than that.”

“Quite.” Jon snorted. “But I heard you, at one point, too. Not a statement, of course. Just... you, talking to me. Begging me to come back. And I wanted to, I really did. But at that point, I didn’t know how.”

“...I didn’t know you heard any of that.”

“Well, we never really talked about it before. Understandably so; it’s not exactly the most pleasant of conversation topics.”

Jon leaned over, tilting his head just so before planting a kiss on Martin’s damp cheek.

“I’ve also never done that to Oliver Banks, so hopefully that will help you get over that jealousy of yours.”

Martin’s eyes were sparkling as he looked up at Jon, and only partially due to the half-formed tears still lingering in his eyes. “Hmm... I don’t know. Might need to give it a few more tries just to be sure.”

Jon raised an eyebrow as he broke into a wide grin, though he tried to keep his voice calm and level and faux-academic. “Ah, a firm believer in the scientific method. I can certainly respect that.”

And Jon kissed Martin again, and again, and again, until the kissing dissolved into a mutual fit of giggles and both their tears were well and truly gone.

#tma #tma spoilers #the magnus archives #the magnus archives spoilers #tma s5 #tma s5 spoilers #mag 168 #tma 168 #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

35 notes · View notes

youbloodymadgenius · 4 years

Text

But not today (Modern!Ivar x woman - not a reader, not an OC, you’ll see...)

A/N: “You’re so nice, Youbloodymadgenius” That’s what many of you often tell me. Not sure you’ll say it after reading this.

You may not like it, but please don’t hate me. And sorry about that.

@inforapound - I know you had a hard time editing this OS. A huuuuge thank you for doing it 💖 And sorry.

And once again, thank you all for giving so much love to “Slave!”

Warnings: Oral sex (male receiver), my wicked mind.

Words: 2140

"Yes?"

The woman is clicking her perfectly manicured nails on the shiny surface of the gigantic mahogany desk.

"He's coming.” A man's voice answers.

"Where exactly is he?”

"Just passing the third security check point. “

Hanging up, she puts a distracted hand through her blonde mane and slips on her twelve centimetre Louboutin’s.

Rotating her calfskin leather chair, she looks out the large bay window, offering breathtaking views of Kattegat. Night life, streetlights, car headlights, neon signs, electrify the city. Her city.

Rising from her chair, she adjusts her Chanel dress, which hugs her curves perfectly. Hearing the elevator doors open, she pinches her lips, feeling prepared, and turns around.

Thanking the armed guard with a quick nod, the man pushes through the double doors into the most guarded wing of the ultra-secure building. His face is dark with a heavy frown. The five security checks imposed on anyone wanting to reach her annoys him. He does not like to be touched.

Entering the elevator, his fingers hit the wall keyboard inputting a complex code. The doors close and the elevator rises to the only floor it serves: the top floor.

Tightening his left hand on his crutch, the doors open, his right hand instinctively reaches for his chest. Wincing, as he feels naked without his holster. He sniffs almost furiously and takes a step forward.

"I was expecting you earlier.” The woman, with a stern look, places her hands on the desk in front of her.

He hates it when she talks to him like she's preaching to a child. So furious to be held to account, his nostrils quiver. He closes his eyes for a moment.

"I'm sorry about that.”

The woman is aware of his lie.

"You know I never disappoint you,” he continues, his mouth sketching a half smile. More like a grin. His eyes, fixed on her, do not blink.

He's proud. Cocky, she thinks. The gods know how much she would like to put him in his place. Make that snotty look disappear from his face. But he does not lie. He does not show off pointlessly. Never disappoints her. He’s her most efficient executor. He’s the best. Better than her own son. The thought filling her mind with bitterness.

The man has not moved; his back almost glued to the closed doors of the elevator. She knows he will stand in place until invited forward. With her palm open, she stretches out her right arm.

"Please, Ivar, come close.”

He blinks and nods. Even before he has taken a step, his jaw contracts almost violently.

She watches him walk toward her. More slowly than usual, leaning heavily on his crutch, while on some days it only serves to steady him. Knowing he does not like to be observed, she looks away. Opening a drawer, she takes out a medicine pack, dropping two pills in her left hand before sliding a silver tray at one end of her desk closer to her. Choosing the bottle of sparkling water, she fills a glass, finally, walking around the desk.

He cannot help but admire the perfection of her curves as she approaches him. It's something that also annoys him - how can he find her attractive? - but he cannot fight it. She is gorgeous. As if time had no hold on her.

Stopping in front of her, he looks at the content of her hand.

"Ibuprofen?” she offers.

Thanking her with a nod he grabs the tablets, swallowing them, with a large sip of water. His gaze does not leave her throughout and the woman remains impassive. The fact that he cannot see anything in her eyes soothes him - it's so uncommon - as much as it upsets him.

Why her??? Why is she the only one? Why does it have to be her?

For his father, he had never been anything but a failure. With Sigurd, a target of mockery. Bjorn, who placed body worship at the top of the pyramid of personal values, had never taken him seriously. His mother, his beloved mother, had never been able to hide the pity she felt. The same was true for Ubbe. Hvitserk managed to be more subtle, but Ivar knew that he had never considered him an equal.

But this woman… This woman whom he hates, this woman, who he is certain, was no stranger to his mother's death, never took pity on him. Never laughed at him. Her! Out of them all. The irony repulses him, making him want to scream. He hates her, but he's grateful to her regardless. He hates her, but she arouses him. Awakes the unthinkable. Makes the impossible possible.

Swallowing, he clenches his teeth. One day, he willll kill her.

But not today.

Taking the empty glass from his hand, she puts it on the desk and crosses her arms over her chest. He is unable to stop his eyes from settling on her cleavage.

"Has objective 7 been neutralized?”

Ivar refrains from rolling his eyes. In his father's day, things were easier.

"Ælle, the motherfucker is done harming. We got Borg, that fucking son of a bitch.”

But she does not want any of that. She is the head of the largest crime syndicate in Northern Europe, with connections in England and France. She wants, needs, to keep up appearances. Dead people are neutralized objectives. Punitive expeditions for recovery missions.

He despises her for it. She won’t take responsibility. He despises her for a thousand other reasons too. Hates her. But hate does not prevent attraction.

"Objective 7 has been neutralized,” his voice is monotonous. Barely repressing a half-smile.

The woman cannot escape it. Leaning her head to one side, she frowns. She knows he is not finished.

"As well as objectives 11 and 15."

She’s surprised and unable to hide it. A part of her thoroughly annoyed. She would like him to be less successful. Perhaps, less efficient, but he’s the best. Better than her own son. She chases away the thought as it makes her nauseous.

Ivar is her best hitman. Her best killer. Clean. Precise. Fast. No traces left behind. No collateral damage. He is fearsome and no one can escape him.

Women always feel weak to his angel features. Surrendered, utterly captivated by the infinite blue of his intense eyes. He kills them the exact moment they spread their legs. The instant they offer themselves. He cannot stop himself. He needs to. This outlet for his endless frustration.

Men do not fear him, they underestimate him. Because of his legs. They think he’s slow. Weak. While it is from the pain that tortures his bones day after day, night after night, that he draws his strength. His perpetual fury. His absolute anger. And he enjoys torturing them. To punish them for being whole. To make them pay for not considering him enough.

The woman wonders if he would be as effective without his disability. She doubts it.

Smiling at him, impressed, despite herself.

"11 and 15 as well? “ Her right eyebrow spikes in question.

"The wait was worth it, wasn't it?” He puffs his chest, putting his free hand through his hair. "I never disappoint you." The tone is almost condescending. Disdainful. Smug.

The gods know how much she would like to be able to do without him. But it would impossible. He is the best. Smart. Creative. His capacity for anticipation unsurpassed. She will never tell him, but she admires him for it. She was excellent. Still is, despite her age. But he’s much better than she has ever been. She does not want to admire him, but she has always been attracted to sheer talent. He's like his father. But even more determined. And more ruthless.

She should get him killed. Or kill him herself. She thinks she would be successful. But she cannot bring herself to do it. Because of her admiration for him. And because when she looks at his blue eyes, she sees Ragnar. Yet she should, and she is aware of it. She's no fool. He most certainly knows that she was involved in his mother's death. She sees it in his eyes. He hates her. She knows that. As she knows that one day, he will kill her. And he won't hesitate.

One day, he will kill her.

But not today.

"No, indeed, Ivar, you never disappoint me." Coming closer to him, her fingers graze his wrist.

Shuddering and pinching his lips, he does not try to hide his disgust. But his eyes, for an instant, shout something else. This stealthy, almost imperceptible gleam. His desire. Animal. Primitive.

It’s time for the reward. She won't get any pleasure from it - and it does not matter. She does not need to.

"Come on.”

Smiling softly, she directs him to the corner sofa, quickly unfastens his belt. Following with his buttons, she slides his jeans under his bottom. Squeezing his shoulder, she makes him sit.

He does not take his eyes off her as she kneels in front him. Spreading his legs, she gets closer, making him stiffens. He does not want her to touch them. But he’s too distracted. His last reward was several weeks ago, and he is no longer able to think.

His heartbeat is accelerating and his cock is already painful. He would like to restrain himself. His fists clench, struggling to hide how eager he’s. How much he wants what she's about to give. Showing her his desire would be like giving her some form of pleasure. That is not an option.

As always, he tries to reason with himself. He wants to fight. Do not give in. Part of himself protests. He is weak. It can't be. It must not be.

And yet it is.

Closing his eyes briefly... How is that possible? Why her? Among all the others? Why is she the only one? A terrible unfairness, but also a blessing. Without her, he would not know anything about that pleasure. The woman's hand slips into his boxer briefs, freeing his erect cock. He bites his tongue so as not to moan.

Giving him one last glance, the woman takes him in her mouth. Her tongue skillfully plays against his tip before closing her lips around him. When the woman's hand touches his balls, he gives a big hip thrust - he would have liked to contain it - and finds himself entirely in the moisture of her mouth.

The woman is working fast and cleverly. She wants to get it over with quickly, and so does he. The only thing he wants is release. The pleasure. The pleasure that only she can provide.

He pants when she takes him even deeper, feeling that he has reached the bottom of her throat. She increases the pace, ruthless and in a hurry to get it done. If he could still think coherently, he would be grateful.

The next minute, a deep and hoarse grunt fills the room as he explodes in her mouth. His breathing is short, fireworks are dancing in his eyes.

Swallowing the last drop of his seed, the woman then slowly licks his cock clean.

Trying to come to his senses, he pushes the woman's head back. Keeping his face stubbornly turned away to the wall, the woman stands without giving him the slightest glance.

Turning her back on him, she walks away and hears him growl when he starts to get up.

"Do you need help?" She asks without looking back.

"No," rushes.

The woman, not surprised, says nothing.

She walks around her desk and sits in her chair. Bending down, she removes the first heel, then the second, letting out a sigh of relief.

Watching the man slowly walk away, she notices that his movements are even more strained than before.

"Next mission starts in two days, Ivar. Rest until then.”

Leaning on his crutch, he turns to her, expressionless face. But he still nods. Tilting his head to the side, he seems to hesitate for a moment. His eyes are narrowing and his whole body stiffens.

"One day, I will kill you.” His voice is soft. Smooth.

The woman does not blink. Yet, she knows he's not lying. His threat is serious. His promise will be kept. But she remains in control of the game.

"But not today, Ivar."

Fury is not far away, but he too controls himself. She's right. She’s the one holding the cards. She's the only one.

He silently curses his disability. His weak legs. And above all, he curses his defective cock which offers this woman a ticket to staying alive.

He curses the gods. He curses Loki.

Taking a deep breath, he turns away when the elevator doors open behind him.

"No. Not today, Lagertha."

🛡⚔️🛡

@saldelys @waiting4inspiration @lisinfleur @honestsycrets @gearhead66

#ivar #ivar ragnarsson #modern ivar #modern!ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar x lagertha

158 notes · View notes