#currently I enjoy it apologetically but I want to work on enjoying it unapologetically

[iwanttogoeverywhereplease]

okay listen up I have a thing to say

(or don’t listen, because your life is your own and your social media experience is also your own and I love that for us, look at us making decisions based on what we want to do and what will make us happy and what is healthiest, we are doing so well)

(this post is sponsored by my prof making fun of me in front of my class for enjoying the MCU)

Why is it so bad to like things that a bunch of other people like? I get that Disney and Marvel and Star Wars, etc., are bloated and commercialized and mainstream, but they’re also fun, is the thing. At least for me. I enjoy Marvel, still. I enjoy Star Wars, still. And what is art except people making something because they like making things?

Okay, as I say this I realize that my point loses its punch with that because mainstream media can twist the motivation for making something from joy to acclaim/$$, but STILL. I LIKE the characters in the mainstream movies. I like the ones in the small indie movies, too. I enjoy both/and, and I like watching Netflix shows that a lot of other people like watching, and I like writing fanfiction about those big shows, and I like watching people analyze and enjoy the media that I’m analyzing and enjoying too.

idk. I’m not trying to defend something that shouldn’t be defended, but maybe just... joy? Joy should be allowed to exist without guilt? because so many things come with guilt and shame attached when there’s no POINT in them having that emotional price tag.

maybe this is me giving myself a solo therapy session because I feel all tender and sensitive about liking billion-dollar productions. And, look, I don’t like that they’re billion-dollar. I desperately miss the 80s and practical effects and people that look like people and PUPPETS. Good gracious I miss puppets. But at the same time I miss the days when I just had Marvel DVDs from the library and no access to the internet and I just liked watching them and thinking about the characters and writing fanfic.

blegh idk thanks for reading this if you got this far also please consider making yourself chocolate chip waffles because I did that this morning and it was magical

[rina-writes]

Baby Boy

Summary: You and Grayson are acquaintances with benefits. Being older than him you pointedly ignore all the signs that he has deeper feelings.  However, it becomes clear that you cannot keep ignoring your own.

Warnings: Smut, Fluff, kinda sub!gray, older!reader

“Did your door just open?” One of your friends asked, comically craning her neck on her screen as though she would be able to see behind you.

Out of paranoia, you moved your computer slightly despite knowing she wouldn’t be able to see anything.  This alerted your other friends who were clearly multitasking during the weekly group call.  The other two of your friends were parents and were currently begging their children for peace of mind.  The friend who mentioned the door opening had no interest in having children, but had been married the longest out of everyone.

You were the only one single and thriving...emphasis on thriving.  You felt it as you looked at yourself in the small preview of your video. You were wearing a baby pink robe that if the camera panned down it would reveal that it left nothing to the imagination.  It still looked luxurious against your skin, only heightened by the dangling diamond chandelier earrings that almost grazed your shoulders.  You were in the process of removing your makeup, or so you made it appear, so you only had on your eyebrow pencil and mascara.  Your lips were still tinted red as you were in process of removing your lipstick. In reality you were leaving a bit of makeup on for your visitor.

“Y/N!” Your friend yelled.  “Are you in distress?! Blink three times if you need help.”

You laughed. “No, a friend just arrived and...” You looked to your side before back to the camera. “...made himself comfortable.”

“Him?!” All your friends said simultaneously.

“Who is this mystery guy?” One of your other friends asked.

“The one you robbed from his cradle?” The last friend teased while they actually balanced an infant in their arms.

You hid a blush, embarrassed that Grayson could hear them. Your eyes darted to him, watching him sit on your bed with nothing on but his shorts that hung dangerously low at his waist.  He was pretending to be on his phone, but his fingers weren’t moving which told you he was listening. 

He was so handsome. The way he leaned back, propping himself up with one muscular arm bended at the elbow. He was so tan that it made his hazel eyes look lighter at times.  You were tempted to walk over to him, take his chin and force him to look at you with this big, puppy eyes.  It was your first friend’s voice that brought you back to reality.

“Earth to, Y/N! Girl, who is this man?” She slammed her open palm on her desk, causing her partner behind her to turn around to see what was going on.

“I don’t gossip.” You joked, grabbing your tea cup and taking a long sip.  That was a lie as you were all gossiping up until this very moment.

Before your friends could say anything else, you saw Grayson appear behind you in your self-view camera.  To be precise, you saw Grayson’s abs and his adonis belt appear behind you.  His large tan hand gently removed the cup from your hand while his other hand took yours to bring it up to his lips for a kiss.  While his face was out of camera for your friends, you could see this mischief in his eyes as he locked gazes with you. He walked out of the room and you heard the sound of him lifting the kettle to top off your cup.  He returned quickly with your refilled cup and placed it on the table.

“oh...my...god...” Your friends said in unison, their jaws dropping.

You finally broke your stare from Grayson to your camera to be greeted with their shocked expressions.

Not liking the loss of your attention, Grayson got down on his knees and turned your computer chair so you were facing him.  With your side profile to your camera, all your friends could see was you staring at something below you.  They saw the movement of your legs being uncrossed and spread apart, but not enough to get the graphic details.

“I’ll talk to you guys later...” You whispered, your eyes darting between Grayson slowly removing your underwear and the screen as you attempted to successful close the call.

With a click of a button, your zoom call was done, and you slapped your laptop shut.

Grayson pushed your legs aside and breathed in your aroma. You smirked and pushed his forehead to block him.  You stood up, still wearing your high heels because you knew he liked it, and catwalked to the middle of the room. Grayson smirked at you, gripping your panties that had fallen on the floor and tightening them into a ball in his hands.  He admired you in your designer robe. It was so short that as you looked at him from the side, he got an eyeful of your round butt. His eyes started from your high heel covered shoes, up your legs, tracing your butt and hips, dancing up your waist, and zooming in on your chest before finally locking on your disapproving eyes.

“Who told you you could interrupt my call?” You asked, keeping the same measured tone you use at work.

Grayson licked his lips, unapologetically. “I just wanted to show off for you.”

“I don’t need you to show off for them.” You rolled your eyes. “They are easily impressed.”

Grayson stood up and walked over to you.  He looked down at you cockily, but you met his intensity with confidence. 

“How do I impress you?” He asked.

“I think you know.” You stood with your legs wide and Grayson smiled softly.

Typical of you to make him kneel again just to show him who’s boss. He didn’t mind, he loved it. He loved eating you out and hearing you moan his name. In a strange way, you dominating him also put you at his mercy in certain positions. This was one of them.

Grayson got on his knees and placed his shoulders on the back of your legs. He tilted his head upward to nuzzle your clit before tilting back further to give it a little lick.  You groaned softly as he continued to lick your folds, greedily lapping the bit of arousal already there.  Your finger intertwined with his locks gripping them tightly as you grinded on his face.  If he had a problem with it, you wouldn’t know.  Grayson was practically moaning into your clit and it made it all the better. His tongue latched on to your nub and he sucked on it harshly.  You gasped, almost ripping out his hair in the process.  Except you would never remove those soft brown locks that you adored staring at between your legs.

“Harder...” You moaned out.

Grayson grunted in response and lifted you, holding your butt for balance.  Despite him doing this before, you had to brace yourself for the ascent.  You held on to his shoulders to steady yourself.  He now made long strokes with his tongue against your folds, his beard tickling you gently.

“Faster.” You commanded and his tongue jammed inside of you at a quick pace.  You couldn’t believe he was able to go so deep and so fast at the same time.  You would praise him later, after your third or fourth orgasm.  It wouldn’t be long as the first one was about to wash over you.

Your body trembled and you could feel Grayson bracing for it.  It embarassed you slightly that he knew your body so well.  With a half-yell, his tongue was covered with your arousal.  He knew that you could get so wet that he would have to eat you out for days to get it all, but he was willing to try.

As you came off your high, still on his shoulders, you let him enjoy his “meal.” Eventually, you sighed.

“Don’t be so greedy.” You teased.  “Put me down on the bed.”

He looked at you disapprovingly, but he still walked over to the bed.  You slowly untangled your legs from around his neck and shoulders and he laid you down.

Grayson sucked in a breath at the sigh of you.  Your robe came apart on top to reveal the center of your breasts while it was still short enough on the bottom to put your aroused pussy on display. He stared at you as he got down on his knees again.

“Ugh, Grayson, stop...” You groaned as you propped yourself up with your elbows on the bed.

“B-But...” He pouted.  “You didn’t squirt...”

“I don’t have to squirt every time.” You shook your head.  

You pretended like it was annoying, but it was stil mind boggling for you.  Before Grayson, you were used to being left high and dry.  He was the first guy to ever be sad that you didn’t orgasm wildly every time.

You sat up fully on the bed and gestured for him to stand up.  He did and you pulled him with his hips toward you.

“You were a good boy today.” You cooed. You pulled down his shorts and smiled when you saw him wearing nothing underneath, just how you liked it. “I am going to reward you.”

You pumped his cock slowly, admiring its girth and length. As much as your friends teased you about Grayson being young, at 20 going on 21 he was not lacking anything that men you date 10 and even 20 years older than him possessed. If anything, he gave you so much more.

How could you not enjoy his reactions? His hands locked around his wrists behind his back as he tried to choke back his moans. His toes curled making him shift his balance from side to side on his feet. It was so cute to see him trying to act tough, but you knew what it would take for him to give in.

You took him in your mouth. Slowly, but continued to tease the base of his cock with your hands. You heard his breath catch in his throat, encouraging you to keep going.  As you took him completely, your hands slipped down to fondle his balls. 

“F-ck...” He swore loudly, his hands resting on the back of your head.

You shot him a look and he returned it with an apologetic look, putting his hands behind his back once more.  You gagged on him, something you often faked in the past, but did naturally for him. He withered under touch, moaning your name. You could feel his knees giving out, but you only hollowed your cheeks in response.  His moans became pleas as he felt himself getting closer to release.

“Please...” He choked out.  “...let me pleasure you.”

As much as you loved how embarrassed he got when he cummed prematurely, you obliged and let him go.  You admired his cock standing tall and proud, slick with your saliva before leaning back on the bed.

“If you insist...” You said, trying to sound nonchalant.

He climbed on top of you hungrily.  As usual he leaned in for a kiss, but he anticipated you turning your head to avoid it.  He knew he would get his reward when he brought you to your orgasm.  Instead, he settled for laying soft kisses on your neck. He removed your robe along the way, not without kissing every inch of skin.  

You blushed, never getting used to the praise that he gave your body.  He kissed every bit of flesh on your shoulders and breast--oh how much time he loved to spend on your breasts, licking and sucking on your nipples--to your stomach, before laying butterfly kisses on your core. It was almost too much and you whined to get to the main attraction.

“Just put it in me...” You groaned.

He smiled at you, widening your legs as far as they could go. “Yes, ma’am.”

He put one hand on your hip and the other hand on his cock to moisten even more with your arousal.  In one swoop he was thrusting inside of you.  Your back arched and he greeted your chest by sucking on one of your nipples.  You clenched around him at the double sensation of him teasing your nipple while pounding into you needily.  You gasped as you gripped on to his locks, matching his rhythm to the best of your ability.

“God, harder...” You commanded.

He gripped your hips and slammed into you, your bed creaking loudly as a response.  It almost felt like an earthquake the way the entire room was shaking.  Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and Grayson knew it was his chance.

He leaned down and kissed your lips softly.  Your mouth, already open and panting, accepted the kiss with your tongue reaching out to greet him.  His tongue happily played with yours  while his hips continued to do their job and ram into you with all their might.

He broke the kiss while pulling out, making your eyes widen with rage.  Grayson smirked at you, before turning you on your side.  You instantly lifted your leg to rest it on his shoulder as he re-entered you.  The new angle sent a shock of pleasure through your body and you moaned approvingly.

Grayson smiled, hiding his pride by leaning down and nuzzling into your hair. He hated how much he lived for your acceptance.  At the same time, that little smile that crept on your lips as you neared your release it was the one thing that kept him going.

“I’m so close, baby boy.” You said, making Grayson grunt.

Just hearing that nickname made him want to bust.  But, he had to hold on.  You always came first, that was what started your rendezvous in the first place.  His ability to pleasure you like no other man put him at the top of your list, and he would not relinquish his spot to anyone.

“Fill me, baby boy.” You said, your eyes looking at him sensually. “Cum with me.”

Your eyes locked and he could only nod as he released.  You clenched around him with a force so strong that he wasn’t even sure his seed could come out, but it did. With a few more thrusts, he pulled out.  You rolled on top your back and spread your legs for him, the mix of your released oozing out of you.

“Clean it up...” You said, in a tired, but still authoritative voice.

“Yes, ma’am...” Grayson said, but he was already on his knees, excited to lap it up and finally make you squirt.

Somewhere between you squirting and your fourth orgasm, you blacked out.  When you came to, you were under the covers of your bed in the embrace of Grayson Dolan.  The sun was sneaking through your curtains and the sounds of cars and tweeting birds filled your ears.

You inhaled a sharp breath and wiggled out of Grayson’s big spoon grasp.  Before you could stop yourself, you turned and looked at him.  He looked so innocent when he slept.  Like a big man-child, with his long brown lashes and stubbly beard. Beside yourself, you pressed a soft kiss on his lips.  Your heart jumped into your throat when he stirred a bit.  Worried you got caught, you hopped off the bed.  You realized it was a false alarm as he bear turned and let out a snore, his back now facing you.

You sighed and grabbed your robe off the floor. Your eyes traced your room and you saw his t-shirt that he left on the floor by your door.  You figured he had taken it off the moment he entered, not realizing you were on the phone with your friends.  You grabbed his shirt and slipped it on, getting a whiff of a summery scent as you did.  This was your favorite.  You made the mistake of telling him once and he has never stopped wearing it.  

You liked that he wore rhe fragrabmncr, you just hated the fact that he knew how much you liked it.  

You sighed as you walked to your bedside table and picked up your phone. It was around 8am on a Sunday and you had a whole bunch of things to do before work the next day.  This was the first time in a long time Grayson spent the night, even if it was unintentional. He would usually slip out when you were sleeping, but he really put in his all the night before.  You decided to reward him.

You walked into the kitchen to make his favorite breakfast of yours, a breakfast sandwich, all vegan of course.  As you cooked the meatless sausage, you poured yourself a glass of orange juice.  You spotted the champagne your business partner got you to celebrate a new product launch earlier this week and you decided to add a bit to your juice.

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?” Grayson’s voice asked, still gruff from tiredness.

You were surprised, but you controlled it, shrugging.  You sipped the now mimosa with a soft smirk.  You quirked an eyebrow as you realize he was completely naked. He was also smirking seeing you in his shirt, something you rarely did.

“I may not have meat products anymore...” You said, your own voice deep from not using it all morning, “...but I refuse to give up my mimosas.”

“Hmm?” Grayson asked, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

You could feel all of him pressed against and you hid your amusement by taking another sip.

“It has special significance for me...” You continued.  “I remember my first one. It was during my summer internship, third year of college. I was working at a firm in Hong Kong...”

As you told your story, it was like there were two of you.  The you telling this long, bragadocious story about your success and the you wondering why you were like this.  It only happened with him.  As you turned out of his arms to put the sausages on the vegan biscuits and assemble the sandwiches, you saw the look of wonder in Grayson’s eyes.

That was why you did it. It was the way he looked up to you that made you become this caricature of a successful business woman. 

You were older than him, but with his maturity level, you were both on the same level.  You both had successful businesses that involved you making big decisions that impacted people’s lives.  In fact, if he knew the real you, he would know that you could be quite childish and impulsive.  It was only at work did you become this confident and borderline arrogant control freak.  

You met Grayson through a work thing and you first hooked up a few nights after your initial meeting.  You could tell he idolized you and didn’t want to ruin his image of you. It was a lie you kept both in bed and outside of it.

“Here...” You handed him the plate and he looked surprised as if he didn’t work out that the two sandwiches were for both of you.

“Wow,” Grayson grinned. “I must have been really good last night if I get to stay the night and I get breakfast.”

He took the plate and sat at the kitchen island.  You grabbed your plate as well and put it next to his, but stayed standing next to him.

“You were pretty good,” You smirked. “...baby boy.”

Grayson growled and surprised you by wrapping an arm around your waist and kissing you strongly.  Your eyes remained wide open and stayed that way when Grayson broke the kiss.  His lustful gaze morphed into one of worry when he saw your expression.

“Sorry, I just...that name...” He ran his fingers through his hair. “...it drives me crazy. Hearing you call me that...you know...”

You looked at him.  You really looked at him.  It was like a Greek God was sitting naked on a stool at your kitchen table. His rippling tanned muscles, his large length, the dark glint in his eyes...how did you not realize it sooner...

“You’re usually pretty dominant in bed aren’t you?” You teased, pushing him lightly.

Grayson frowned at you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” You chuckled. “I usually boss you around, but you’re probably the one doing the commanding.”

Grayson licked his lips. “I guess you could say that.” He smiled softly. “I guess I just enjoy pleasuring you. I feel like you’re always doing things on others’ behalf, I figured it would be nice if someone did something for you.”

You blushed, taken aback by his comments. “You’re joking right? I’m known for being the bossiest person ever.”

“You?” Grayson chuckled. “No way! Everyone talks about how hard you work and how much of a visionary you are while still taking in all the feedback from your team. It’s why I admire you.”

“I thought you liked me because of my international success.” You said, softly almost bashfully.  It sounded stupid out loud.

Grayson looked at his plate to avoid your eyes. “I mean I do..., but I like you for more than just your work. I just like you...”

“Grayson...” You said in a tone that Grayson dreaded to hear.

He cut you off. “I know, okay? I know that you don’t see me that way.” He sighed. “I know I’m just your...boy toy.  I just can’t help that I have feelings for you. I mean you’re the only woman I want to be with.”

“Grayson...” You knew you shouldn’t be surprised, but you were.  Sure, he came at your beck and call, but you knew yoy weren’t the only girl he was hooking up with these days.  LA was small when it came to gossip.  However, he looked so sincere. Finally you said,  “...I’m too old for you.”

“What?!” Grayson yelled, making you jump. “No, you’re not!”

“Grayson, you should be with someone your own age.” You said with a soft smile.  “I’m just a boring old lady.”

“I don’t know many old ladies that has a trunk filled with sex toys in her closet.” Grayson teased.

You laughed. “It’s the 21st century, baby boy.” You punched his shoulder. “I’m serious, though. I’m sure you heard my past.  I haven’t had much luck in the relationship department. You should be with someone who is more fresh...not worn out goods.”

Grayson grabbed your wrist and looked at you intensely. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.  I know that those guys in your past were trash.  They were 10 to 20 years older than you and used you as a trophy. They didn’t see how amazing you are. They don’t see you like how I see you.” He gulped.  “Maybe we should give this a shot...it could be good for us.”

“Grayson...” You said, your tone clearly apprehensive.  “...I don’t know if we should put labels on it.”

“Labels or no labels...” Grayson said, pulling you closer to him. “This is the longest time we have sat here talking to each other without having sex despite me being butt naked and you looked amazing in my shirt. And how does it feel?”

You thought about it.  It felt comfortable.  When you weren’t trying to fit some weird vision for him, you felt really good.

“It feels good, Gray.” You sighed. “It feels really good, but you have to realize that I am not what you see in the bedroom all the time.”

“I honestly can’t wait to see all sides of you.” Grayson muttered as he nuzzled into your neck.  “I want to hold you when you cry.  I want to listen to you rant about work. I want to be the one to buy you champagne when your launch goes well.  I want to see all the sides of you, Y/N.  And I want you to see all the sides of me.”

“Fifty shades of Gray?” You offered, making him groan in annoyance.

“Wow, so original.” He rolled his eyes before he looked at you, hopefully. “So, what you say? Want to be official with me?”

“Okay, baby boy.” You kissed his forehead.  “Let’s be official.”

You yelped as he put you on his lap and gave you a peck on your lips. You giggled as he brought his plate closer and picked up his sandwich, his arms wrapping around you in the process.

“Grayson, you can’t eat like this.” You chastised him.

“Excuse me. Please don’t interrupt me while I eat the breakfast my girlfriend made me.” Grayson grinned, already liking the sound of that.

“Whatever,” You rolled your eyes.  You took the sandwich holding it so he got the first bite before taking a bit yourself, alternating between you two.

“I could get use to this...” Grayson said, almost in a whisper.

“Me too...” You whispered back, with a soft giggle.

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You Chapter 154

Chapter Summary - Danielle and Tom head to the South coast with Tom's family for a large family get together and much to Tom's shock, Danielle allows herself get caught talking to his dog-obsessed Aunt.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

Right, little things that need explaining.

Copyright for the photo is the owners, not mine. All image rights belong to their owners

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @fairlightswiftly @salempoe @wolfsmom1 @black-ninja-blade

Danielle was practically giddy as she inhaled the saltwater air of Britain's southern coast. She looked to the blue liquid sparkling in the warmer than usual summer weather, the sun beaming in the cloudless sky.

Tom stood beside her, letting the sun warm his face as he too appreciated the good weather. For their part, Bobby and Mac seemed to want only to remain in the shade, neither overly happy with the higher temperatures. “We better get to the house and get unpacked. According to Sarah, everyone is meeting for an early dinner.” Danielle seemed reluctant to move. “We're here for a considerable portion of the summer.” He reminded her.

“It's the only reason you're going to be able to move me now.” She smiled back. “Don't forget to confirm your invitation to the Final. I'll drive, you do that.”

“There are invitations for both of us.” Tom looked at her hopefully.

“I can't, Love. I promised your Mam and Emma that I would help her mind Lucy that day. Jack's sister is getting married and Emma will only go if me and your Mam are minding Lucy, so I said yes.” She gave him an apologetic look. “And that's the Roubaix phase of the Tour as well.” She smirked.

Tom shook his head. “You're indoctrinating Lucy, aren't you?”

“Yep.” Tom chuckled and kissed her hand. “Next time.”

“I'll hold you to that.” Tom warned.

“Tennis is wasted on me. He hit the ball, the other guy hit the ball, both stayed in the box, now the first guy hit it again and so on and so forth.”

“Says she who is missing that to watch a bunch of emaciated men cycle a bumpy road for a shirt.” Tom retorted playfully.

“Yep. And a horrible bright yellow one at that. Ah, Sky will probably have it again this year with Froome.” She admitted.

“If you talk like that about it, why are you even going to watch it?”

“Because a whole race can change on one stage. One mistake and you can wipe out half the peloton. That and I love looking at the French countryside and towns throughout the Tour also.” She stated unapologetically as she stated the car so they could get back to the house.

The plan was a two week stay at first, the first week would involve the rest of the family too, Emma, Jack and Lucy, Yakov, Sarah and their Duchess and of course, Diana, all staying in one large house and the second week, only the two of them and Bobby and Mac, who Danielle and Tom had ensured would have their own spot in the house so to avoid babies if need be. Poppy, for the most part, was happy to interact with the males when it suited her but come meal and bedtime, she was more than able to inform them to leave her alone.

It was an odd sensation for Danielle to be in such a full house but she adored it. Tom seemed almost elated, having her to be by his side as his sister's partners were in events before. He told her about his different family members they would be meeting while Danielle reminded him that she had, in fact, met the majority of them before at Emma's wedding.

The dinner was pleasant, with everyone getting the rest of the house up-to-date with their goings on. Danielle had assisted Emma substantially with Lucy while Jack was forced to return to work, so both of them were knowledgeable on the other's business, but everyone was still curious to know about Danielle's new work venture and the arrival of a courier with a substantial case of documents from Safeguard did not help proceedings. Tom was elated to see Danielle accept the paperwork before placing it in a corner and commenting that she would deal with it after all the family related malarkey of the following few days.

Tom enjoyed the feeling of being surrounded by family. There, he could just be Tom again, no pretence, no public persona, they didn't care for that. To his aunts, uncles and cousins, he was simply Diana's boy who adored theatre and shows and it made him incredibly happy. He watched as again, Danielle assisted Emma with Lucy, holding the baby as Emma prepared a bottle of expressed milk for her daughter. He watched as she gently moved around so to allow Emma the time to sort herself and keep Lucy amused. At a mere six weeks, there was little thought required to make it so but Lucy seemed to like the movement and her Godmother was only too happy to oblige.

“So, when are we getting our big day out of you then?”

Tom sighed to himself at his aunt's words, having heard them a thousand times before, ever since he was twenty-five actually, had she badgered him about settling down and getting married. He also knew his mother had spoken to her sister-in-law regarding not doing so any longer, especially when Danielle and Tom confirmed they too would be coming to the family gathering. “Not yet, Aunt Delia.” He smiled politely.

“And why not, she's as good a girl as any.”

Tom laughed to himself. He knew Delia had not said more than a passing hello to Danielle yet, so her decision that she was a suitable spouse was based solely on observations from afar, in the twenty minutes they had all been at the one house. “Because Danielle is a busy woman and she hasn't time for such things at present and with my upcoming work, I am similar.”

“No one has told me yet what she does?”

Again, Tom found himself groaning internally at his aunt's assumption that she was automatically entitled to such information. “She owns a share in a safety management firm, she's a safety officer.”

“I see.”

Tom waited to see if, to Delia, that was an “acceptable” profession.

“Good.” She declared. “You need a strong woman.”

“Danielle is incredible.” Tom agreed. “She is an amazing woman. When you speak to her, you'll realise that too.” He smiled. “How is Rupert?”

On his asking about her beloved French Bulldog, Delia beamed brightly and took out her phone to show him pictures. Tom was relieved that she had moved on from keeping a bunch of pictures in her purse to show people but groaned at the knowledge that she would now have hundreds more to show. He glanced over to Danielle and gave her a small look to tell her everything he needed her to know.

Danielle chuckled to herself and nodded slightly.

“Dare I ask?” Emma questioned as she sat into a chair and taking Lucy.

Danielle handed her her daughter gently. “Tom is giving the “save me” look.”

“Are you going to save him?”

“No, not yet. You have to do it smartly. You leave it a few minutes and then do the whole 'Tom, your Mam needs you’ routine and save him from...what is she showing him?”

“Probably Rupert, her dog. She is obsessed with him. She had three kids but she loves the dog more than them or her grandchildren.” Emma commented as she put a bib on Lucy and began feeding her.

“Are you okay here? I better put the show on for her by going to your Mam.”

“I'm okay here, thank you. Buy if you see Jack, could you tell him to get me my pump from the car?”

“Of course, and if I don't, I'll grab it in a minute, okay?”

“Thank you.”

Danielle found Jack and relayed the message and then found Diana, being forced to make small talk with who she found out was Delia's husband for a few minutes before going and saving Tom.

Tom's face was nothing short of relief when he saw her coming toward them. He brightened his smile and gently leant forward. “Yes, Darling?”

“I am so sorry to interrupt but Tom, your Mam wants you for a moment, something to do with a photograph, she said you would know what that meant.”

“Darn, I hoped she would forget. Aunt Delia, I would like to introduce you to my wonderful Danielle, or as you have no doubt heard myself, Mum and Emma call her, just Elle and Elle, Darling, this is my lovely aunt Delia.”

“Oh, yes. I was speaking to your husband not too long ago, he says you have a lovely Frenchie.” Danielle smiled.

Danielle could have been the living embodiment of Satan but as soon as she mentioned Rupert with such enthusiasm, Delia deemed her worthy. “Yes, my wonderful Rupert, I was just telling Thomas about him.”

Danielle gave a slight smirk while Tom groaned at being referred to by his full name. “Yes, they're not common in Ireland, or weren't while I was growing up, but they are a big thing here. We meet two on our walks some days and they have to be one of the sweetest breeds ever. A lovely dog.”

“Oh, they are. I was just showing Thomas some pictures. Would you like to see him?”

“I would love to, as soon as I assist with this photograph that Diana mentioned. Is he brindle?” She noticed the screensaver of the phone and the dog on it.

“Yes, that's my Rupert, so handsome.” Delia smiled fondly. “I look forward to speaking with you more about him later.”

“As soon as I am done.” Danielle promised, earning a satisfied nod from Delia. “Run.” She urged Tom as soon as the older woman was out of hearing distance.

“Thank you.” He sighed as they walked through to a different room. “Aunt Delia is a lovely woman, in small doses and her obsession with that dog….it's difficult to listen to. You better find a way to avoid her later because if she thinks she has someone to listen, she will keep you for the whole evening.”

“It's boring but not the worst. I often think with people who focus so obsessively on one thing in their lives because they feel as though that one thing is all they really have.”

*

Tom and Sarah watched in awe as Delia showed what they suspected to be the thousandth picture of her beloved Rupert to Danielle who sat speaking with her as though it was only the second or third.

“How long is she there?” Sarah asked.

“Forty minutes on my last count.” Tom answered, checking his watch.

“Save her.”

“I tried to, she just asked me to get them more tea.” Sarah looked at him in disbelief. “Shit, Delia's crying, why is Delia crying?”

“I wasn't aware she had tear ducts.” Sarah commented. “She's holding Danielle's hand so it can't be something she did.”

“Why is my mother crying?” Peter, Tom and Sarah's cousin asked as he came over to them. “Is she alright?”

“She's smiling, so I think so.” Tom responded.

They watched a time more before Frank, Delia's husband came over and suggested they go to back to their place, that Rupert would be missing them. She said her goodbyes to Danielle who smiled kindly at her before turning to her husband and heading to Tom, Sarah and Peter.

“We best get back to Rupert, he will be pining something dreadful.” She declared.

“You and that bloody dog, Mother.” Peter sighed.

Delia chose to ignore her son. “Thomas, that Danielle of yours is the most wonderful girl. If only Peter had been half as fortunate.”

“Mother, Geraldine is my wife, the mother of your grandchildren.”

“Well, she's no Danielle.”

Tom looked at his shocked cousin, unsure of what to say. “Yes... Danielle is incredible.”

“Do not let that young lady leave. You will never get the likes of her again.”

“I don't plan to.” Tom smiled, looking at Danielle, who was helping his other aunt clean a mess one of the children had made.

“Good.” Satisfied, she left.

Tom looked at Peter apologetically. “So your girlfriend gets my mother to cry and she's the second coming of Princess Diana, how does that work?”

“I genuinely have no idea.” Tom laughed. “I will have to ask her.”

“Please, if it is something I can do, let me know.” Peter sighed in exasperation before going back to his wife.

“I'm curious too.” Sarah confessed. “Go ask her “

On his sister's order, and with a healthy dose of curiosity of his own, Tom went to do so.

“I let her show me her dog, that's why.” Danielle explained plainly. “I gave her forty minutes of my time to tell me about Rupert and that made her tell me how heartbroken she is that Peter, Rebecca and Jessica don't really spend time with her anymore. Rupert needs her and loves her selflessly in return for her attention when her children don't always have time for her.”

“I hadn't realised that.”

“She brought Rupert to a photographer recently and had him professionally photographed. She'd loved to do that with her grandchildren but feels that Peter and Jessica and their partners don't want her to push too much on them and she knows she is overbearing and is trying to rein herself in but she can't help it and as a result, she puts it into Rupert. It's heartbreaking really, she gets jealous of your Mam and how we make time for her but listening and looking at her photos, it made her day.”

Tom smiled lovingly at her. “You are incredible. So caring. Aunt Delia, a woman who is, at best, overbearing, is a fan of yours.”

“She's a nice lady really.” Danielle smiled. “I know she is probably hard to have as a mother but she's not the worst. That dog gets the most of it.”

“He looks peculiar”

“French Bulldogs, they look like they've been hit in the face with a hot shovel. So ugly they're cute sort of thing.”

Tom laughed adoringly, loving the fact they had another two weeks by the coast to enjoy with Danielle by his side.

[darkpoisonouslove]

“Put Out the War Inside You to Let Life Blossom”

Summary: It is not just nature awakening with the arrival of spring but also Griffin's will to get her lost life back. Or it might be Marion's company that is giving her courage to rediscover a passion of hers from the past before the crimes of the war had slain her belief in herself. Either way, Marion is there to stay and support her friend.

Mentions of blood, death and war.

I might have come up with a new headcanon about Griffin that is the extension of an older headcanon. I'd love to hear what you think about it because I am still a bit on the fence about it myself. Let me know! ;)

Marion made sure to make her steps as loud as she could as she approached Griffin who was sitting on a bench in the garden since the witch appreciated the heads-up. Even if she always had her guard up. Letting her know you were there as soon as possible was a simple courtesy even if she rarely got surprised.

She still tensed when she heard Marion's steps. Not quite a startle but it was just her will keeping her from jumping as she almost looked like she would blush. Something was definitely up since Griffin never blushed. She didn't quite respond with shame to being caught red-handed when guilt was the more prevalent reaction and Marion was quite certain she would never witness her blush in a romantic context. Not before the war was done and forgotten at the very least, and she wasn't sure there would be forgetting for any of them.

"Do you want to tell me what you're writing?" Marion asked as she let her gaze drop to the notebook in Griffin's hands when she was a safe distance away still and couldn't read it. She was sure Griffin would appreciate the concern for her privacy since she wouldn't have been clutching so hard at the paper as if it was the only thing standing as a barrier between her and fidgeting if she'd been drafting war plans.

"Not quite," Griffin said and for a moment it looked like she wouldn't offer more but she continued. "It's just something..." she debated with herself whether to phrase it the way she instinctively would or the way Marion wouldn't feel the need to object to her self-deprecation, "something that I shouldn't be doing," she settled on a mix of both in the end and Marion knew that was the best she could hope for.

"You would know that best," Marion said since she didn't want to argue. It was a warm, sunny day in spring and one of the few ones that didn't feel like they would end up in a discussion about casualties and bloodshed. She wanted them both to enjoy it, enjoy the sun shining on them to make them grow as if they were flowers. They didn't get many of those.

"Now you're just not playing fair," Griffin said but the mirth she was forcing into her voice couldn't quite fool her face into stretching into a smile like she wanted it to.

Marion preferred it that way when there was nothing playful in the doubt that had taken over her friend. She just hoped Griffin was seeing that as well and that she planned to do something about it. She couldn't keep going on like that. Marion could barely stand to watch it. She didn't even want to think about how it all felt to Griffin.

"I'm not trying to manipulate you, Griffin," Marion said as she sat down next to her. She knew that Griffin knew that but it was still good to say it after all the time Griffin had spent with the Ancestral Witches and their mind games. And it was good to know that Griffin believed her.

Griffin seemed to pull away but she was just making space for Marion on the bench. Even if there was no need for that as there was plenty left for her to sit down. She seemed like she needed to accommodate to the fact that she was accepting Marion's company now without need for doubts in ether one of them. It was refreshing after the rough start that friendship had had when they'd both been mindful of the other.

Marion waited for her to find her comfort again and look at her before she continued. "I trust your judgment," she said, eyes locked with Griffin's to show her that she truly meant it. Except in cases when it came down to Griffin's own perception of herself as that was too distorted by the guilt she had thriving in her blood soaked mind and any objectivity on the matter had long perished in the flood of self-hate her heart was overwhelming her veins with.

"Well, that makes one of us," Griffin said, unusually open when it came to the mess in her own head. Maybe because Marion had just convinced her that she didn't have to try her best to earn her trust every time anything depended on her. Or maybe it was just the distance from the war that the day offered. In any case, it was still good to see. "I might just start seeking your opinion," Griffin said, far more probing than she needed to be after they'd gotten past their misconceptions about each other and had had each other's backs on missions, laying their lives in the hands of the other.

"I'm right here," Marion said, aware that reaching for Griffin's hand would provide tangible support of her words but she wasn't sure that Griffin needed more invasiveness when it came to what she was currently clutching at like her life depended on it.

"Before I signed up for Cloud Tower, I tried my hand at writing poetry a few times," Griffin wasn't looking at her but Marion couldn't panic over that when she knew Griffin wouldn't have even thought of sharing if she didn't feel comfortable with it. "Before I became too busy being a witch." Griffin said and there wasn't even the usual halfhearted, humorless chuckle that she liked to emphasize the darkness of her tone with as if she was trying to scare away anyone that might feel compassion for her.

Marion was struck by the bitterness in the words when Griffin was always so unapologetic about who she was, especially when it came to the nature of her magic. It seemed that her regrets had spread to every part of her being to taint the entirety of her existence and just the thought seemed too much to bear but Marion couldn't complain when Griffin was the one who had to live with it and refused to let them help her with her burden.

"I thought I could give it a shot again," Griffin said quietly, her voice almost trying to hide into a whisper when the blush threatened to paint her face in red revealing there was something else left in her life besides the war. As if it would be a crime unless she kept it to herself. "Just... live. Without thinking about what I'm supposed and not supposed to be," Griffin looked like she wasn't on the bench anymore and Marion could only guess whether that had anything to do with her mother's death that was still fresh in the witch's mind or with any of the crimes Griffin had committed herself.

"Do you want to show me what you have so far?" she asked to bring her back to the matter at hand when she was pretty sure that wherever Griffin's mind was at the moment was not a good place. The poetry was probably the way to get through it, though Marion wasn't sure whether that was done via escaping the reality or diving right into it. It didn't matter as long as it could get Griffin at a better place.

"I don't think so," Griffin said as she shook her head slightly but it was more apologetic rather than her being on the offense like she'd been every time Marion–or anyone else–had tried to approach her when she'd first joined the Company. "It's not even good enough for my own eyes yet," she said as she looked down at the paper and clutched harder at it as if trying to make sure it wouldn't spill its imperfections all over the ground like a deadly wounded body dripping blood.

"I think you might need to reorganize the levels of your assessment system," Marion said as she tried to keep it lighthearted. It wasn't easy even when she knew Griffin's discomfort was coming from her own expectations about herself. It wasn't easy exactly because of that. She almost found herself wishing that Griffin's problem would be with her instead if that would leave her with a more positive image of herself. "I'm sure your own approval is the highest grade you'll need to strive for," Marion said and was relieved to see the smirk climbing–with a bit of a strain–on Griffin's lips when her words had reached the witch.

"Point taken," Griffin said as she released her work from the death grip she'd been trying to suffocate it in and she seemed to breathe more easily herself now that her muscles were relaxed. "I still think I'll hold on to it a little longer, though," she said. "At least until I can complete it." Her fingers were trailing over the sheets almost playfully now. Affectionately.

Marion couldn't help the thought that she would love to get used to that sight. Maybe she wouldn't have to keep it away if Griffin could find it in herself to stop smothering her own life. Marion could only hope. For both their sake.

"What inspired you?" Marion asked, hoping that her interest wouldn't put Griffin off and would just feed her enthusiasm as well. She'd rarely found support for her own passions before she'd met Oritel and Hagen and she couldn't stand the thought of someone else's creativity dying out at the lack of encouragement. And seeing Griffin revel in the beauty she'd created was bound to ignite her faith that they could not only survive the war but get their lives back once all the monsters were gone.

"All this beauty," Griffin gestured around to the blossoms adorning the trees to make them a painting only nature could create but her eyes were on Marion and on the friendship that was quietly but persistently thriving between them in the understanding they'd uncovered in each other.

Marion let the smile bloom on her face when the happiness on Griffin's was more enticing than the sight of nature reawakening to the call of life around them.

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 6

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which the past is left behind and the future is embraced

Chapter Summary: Wanda adjusts to her new life while also navigating how to interact with Vision outside of the manor. 

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/34942517

I hope you enjoy!

Wanda hunches her back, lifting the wrinkly palm closer to her face, the task of finding the most pertinent lines rendered more difficult by the effects of age and a lifetime of manual labor. “Is fame and fortune in my future?” The question is asked with a good-natured playfulness, a hearty laugh joining the gleam in the elderly woman’s eyes when Wanda glances up at her. This woman is a widow, not a recently made one, or so she informed Wanda the first time she sat on the stool and shoved her hand out. This is, if Wanda is recalling correctly, the sixth time she has read the woman’s palm, the only person from this tiny town that has been willing to dip their toes into mysticism, their avoidance of her more out apathy than fear, she thinks. “So,” a nudge to Wanda’s shin brings her back to the present, “fame or fortune?”

A tight, politely apologetic smile goes along with Wanda’s response, “That is beyond the scope of this reading.” If she wanted to, Wanda could easily delve into the woman’s mind, mine for information she can twist into profoundly prophetic albeit empty statements, but since the séance and its fallout, she has vowed to be slightly more judicious with her powers. “Based on the branching of your life line,” Wanda traces the line etched deep in the woman’s palm, “you have been blessed with extra vitality, some would consider that quite fortunate.”

“You know,” the tone and cadence of these two words is known by everyone, the drawn out, condescending preface of someone who believes they are better versed in a matter than the expert they’re talking to. Wanda can’t afford to lose her one client so she clamps her annoyance down and remains silent. “The readers in the city,” a term that is loosely used by the inhabitants of quiet communities to speak of any conglomeration of people larger than 200, “always tell me fame, fortune, and love are just around the corner.”

Wanda fully believes the other readers claim this, regardless of what the lines actually say, broad optimism the greatest tool of manipulation within the craft, “Well Mrs. Mesnier-”

“Miss—don’t want to scare off potential suitors.”

The wink is salacious, far more practiced than even Stark’s signature smarminess, stirring a small laugh from Wanda’s lungs as she corrects her statement. “Miss Mesnier, I refuse to interpret beyond the lines.”

A succession of four clicks comes from the woman’s mouth making her disagreement with Wanda’s refusal transparent, her interest in the reading waning as her eyes idly scan the sunlit market visible through the swooping part of the curtains over the entrance of Wanda’s makeshift stall.  “Would you mind re-examining my heart line then?”  

This is the most common request Wanda gets in such readings, though usually from tittering socialites who only recently discovered the idea of romantic attraction and courtship. “I am certain it hasn’t chang-” 

Wanda’s assurance of the uselessness of the act is cut off by Miss Meisner tugging her hand, lightly enough that it remains in Wanda’s grip, but hard enough to direct her eyes to follow along with the woman’s. “Are you certain? That dapper yard-of-pump-water* is quite intently staring at me.”   

There is, in fact, a dapper man watching them, his three-piece suit and matching hat impeccable yet jarring against the rougher fabrics of the people milling about around him. His gloved hands are occupied with a simple, unshowy wicker basket, and even from this distance, she can make out the way he nervously wrings his fingers around the handle. Wanda’s lips curve upwards at the sight of him, an antsiness spreading through her body the longer she stares. “I’m sorry, Miss Mesnier,” Wanda squeezes the woman’s hand before dropping it, “he’s here for me.” 

“Oh, well,” the distinctive clink of a coin against the table harmonizes the disappointed of her voice and the rustling of the large, high-waisted skirt, “I predict fortune and love in your future then.” 

Wanda barely registers the woman leaving, her mind far more focused on the approaching form of Vision and the tentative arc of his mouth that matches her own. “Miss Maximoff,” a slight, polite bow goes along with her name. 

“I thought,” she waits until his bow is over, “we were past Miss Maximoff.” 

Embarrassment flits across his face, a quick gaze to his left accompanying the clearing of his throat as a family walks past them. “I do not wish for anyone to perceive my behavior as untoward.”   

“I see,” it’s an unfounded concern, no one in the town will likely notice or even be aware of the norms of high class culture, but Wanda determines to play along for now, both to make him feel comfortable and as a way to channel her own nervousness. “Well, Mr. Vision,” she stands just a bit taller, chin snapping up to mimic how she’s seen women in expensive parlors act, “wouldn’t it be quite untoward if you didn’t offer me your arm?” 

The effect is instantaneous, his discomfiture falling away in time with his lips turning ever so slightly up, a sight she hopes means that he has not spent the last two weeks ruminating about her abhorrent actions and all the pain she wrought on both him and Stark. “I had been informed that such offers suggest a lack of independence and I did not wish to insult your self-sufficiency.” 

His tone is surprising, wholly welcome and exhilarating, but still contrary to what she’s come to expect from him when manners are involved. “Would Robert Robert’s approve of such cheekiness?” 

“Mr. Roberts would not condone this visit in the slightest, so I suppose,” a subdued yet what she can only describe as rebellious smirk goes along with the offer of his arm, “there is no need to strictly adhere to his rules while I am here.” 

“Fascinating.” Wanda slides her arm into the triangular gap between his torso and elbow, her fingers curving gently into the folds of his jacket, and it’s only now that she realizes his hesitation at offering his arm the night she arrived unexpectedly at the manor, even through the multiple layers of fabric she can feel the hardness of the rods, if she extends her fingers she can brush the hinge at his elbow. Shame flares beneath her cheeks, something that has been common in the dark hours of the night since she moved, her thoughts relentlessly cycling through her past actions, identifying all of the signs she missed because of her narrowed focus on revenge. But she has learned that with knowledge comes the ability to rectify past ignorance, more than that, is that she is finally at peace with all that has happened, content and proud that, though she still harbors a strong, unshakable distrust towards Stark, her hands no longer erupt with scarlet when the memories stir. “So,” but now is not the time to delve back into the depths of her regrets, her past is immutable and her hand is on the future, “what is on your list?” 

“Nothing in particular,” the nonchalance of the comment is yet another surprise for a man she assumes has lists and detailed plans for every aspect of his day, control over the environment a vital aspect of his butlering. Vision pulls her gently towards a stall, “I am simply examining the potential of the merchandise.” 

Wanda watches with interest as they move through the stalls, the precision and repetition of his examination mesmerizing, whether he is investigating lettuce, carrots, radishes, cuts of meat, or gaudy penswipers, he is always diligent in selecting the most pristine specimen. “How are things at the manor?” 

A tomato is tossed back into a bin, deemed unacceptable. “Quite hectic, actually.” They move towards a cabbage stall, his lips pursing as he forms his next statement, “Mr. Stark and I are in the midst of preparing for several demonstrations and he seems to prefer completing the work in the middle of the night.” Vision’s distaste for such antics is clear, the shedding of his butler persona more pronounced the more the distance between himself and the manor increases. 

“What are you-” she stops her question, a deep vexation building at the sight of Vision paying the mustached man at their current stop, “Did you just pay forty cents** for that?” 

“I-” Vision’s eyes move between the incredulity on her face and the head of cabbage in his hand, “yes.” 

Wanda shakes her head, lips fighting against showing the mirth bubbling up at the guilty look on his face.  “You’re being swindled.” The comment is loud enough to reach the farmer at the stall, his attention quickly moving on to the next customer as he shoves the money farther into his pocket, but Wanda isn’t going to insist on rectifying the con, if she’s being wholly honest, she has, quite unapologetically, overcharged poshly dressed gentlemen for palm readings before. “I think it’s the hat.” 

Vision’s eyes rotate up to study the brim of his simple, yet elegant top hat, “I believe the absence of my hat would do little to negate the dissimilitude of my clothing.” A fact that is irrefutable, Normanskill is a labor community of roughly sixty people, almost all of whom work at the lumber mill and none of them likely own a three-piece suit, much less one near the quality of Vision’s.   

“It might be worth losing it anyway.” They both know the suggestion is ridiculous, or so she presumes his raised eyebrows indicate, but Wanda uses it as a small redirection meant exclusively to goad a more relaxed quality of conversation from the butler. The absence of any obligation to serve creates a striking difference in Vision’s demeanor, subtle enough she doubts anyone else would describe his precise movements and polite words as casual, but she finds herself growing even more enamored and fascinated with him in this setting. 

Vision gently removes his arm from hers, bending to place the overpriced cabbage into his basket before reaching up and lifting the hat from his head. “Better?” 

He is still overdressed, and will no doubt continue to be taken advantage of, yet it does create a marginally less moneyed persona. Wanda gives an affirming nod, “Much better, you should get lower prices now.” 

“I personally,” a tiny, likely-improper-for-a-butler shrug accompanies his words, “see no reason to argue over cost. Mr. Stark will not care if I pay two cents or forty, so the affront to my dignity is worthwhile if it means giving money to someone who will notice it.” 

The mindset of limitless money is foreign to her, to everyone around them, her own pockets practically empty, the people here are sensible, practical, and have relatively low levels of superstition, a fact that is both an issue for her income but also a boon for her ability to not be chased from town or have her tools thrown into a river. “That’s very noble of you.” 

Vision picks the basket back up, his top hat perched on its lid, and offers her his arm once more, ignoring the sardonic drip of her comment, “Shall we?” They stroll casually along the dirt road, occasionally stopping for Vision to buy more produce, a companionable silence between them that matches the serenity of the cloudless day. “Wanda?” She tilts her head up to look at the budding question on his face, “Are you happy here?” 

It’s a multifaceted question, happiness determined by far too many things to provide a simple but truthful answer. “No one has thrown me into a river or destroyed my belongings, so...” 

“That is good.” 

If Wanda thinks about the question deeper, however, it’s been almost thirteen years since she has experienced a moment like this—her hands calm, mind clear and unworried, and her heart palpitating at a casual, mostly even pace. When she fled to the wilder parts of New York, traveling far from the city that had first welcomed her to this new life, she believed she had left her past behind and with it the turmoil of obsessive vengeance, clearly, however, she was mistaken. Yet now that she’s in this moment, arm linked with Vision and the sun overhead, surrounded by people who are not outwardly staring or crossing themselves, she’s at peace. She squeezes his arm, relishing the small smile he gives her, “It is.” 

They stop walking eventually, the stalls behind them and a small, intricately crafted and easily recognizable carriage in front of them, “I-” the reality of the situation only becomes apparent when Vision eases his arm away, opening the door of the carriage to place the basket inside before turning back to her, hands clasped at his waist, “thank you for joining me today.” 

Wanda almost succeeds at not rolling her eyes at the supposition that she wouldn’t have spent the afternoon with him, “Of course, Vision. When-,” they had not spoken of anything beyond this first meeting, a tentative agreement to explore whether or not this would become a regular occurrence, and now that he’s leaving, Wanda knows what she hopes will be the conclusion of the experiment.  Regardless of her wants, there are two people involved, her powers snaking through her body, tempting her with the offer of an easy way to establish if he feels the same, but she clenches her fingers, determined not to resort to such measures. Wanda proceeds with what she hopes is a casual, unconcerned tone, “Do you think you’ll be frequenting this market?” 

Vision allows his eyes to roam over the small cluster of people and haphazardly built wooden stalls filled with vibrant fare. “I believe it has some merit,” words that send her heart into a maddening rhythm, one that increases at an alarming rate when he looks at her. “Unfortunately,” Wanda’s eyes narrow at the term, defeat harshly pulling her heart back into place, “the carrots are much better up in Schenectady, though,” the twisting of his sentence is dragging her through far too many emotions, the one most prevalent now is hope, anchored both on his word and the shy upturn of his mouth, “the company here is far preferable.” 

“Well there is more to see here than the market,” a fairly empty comment as there is the market, the lumber mill, one tavern, and the ravine, none of which are particularly out of the ordinary. 

Vision glances back towards the market, “I was thinking,” his uncertain gaze slides back to her, “instead, that perhaps I might make good on my promise to teach you paille maille.” 

“I believe that is an acceptable alternative.” 

Elation threatens to break the seam of his polite lips, “Then I will see you next week.”   

Wanda steps back, watching him climb into the carriage and waving as he pulls away. It’s only once he is out of view that a full-bodied grin erupts on her face, her mind already lost in the future.

The sun glints off the metal hoop half buried in the ground, it is idle, nothing changing about its position or size and yet it taunts her.  Wanda squints, readjusting her feet to be just a tad farther apart, knees bent slightly, hands wrapped firmly, but not too firmly, around the handle of her mallet. Off to the side, just barely in her periphery, she can sense an underlying flicker of cockiness in Vision’s silence, two games already down and she has not once gotten close to the hoop before him, something he keeps reassuring her is nothing to be upset about, a sentiment that would be more believable if his thrill at being victorious was not so loudly pouring from his mind. The last game she hit the ball too hard, sending it careening into the tall grass beyond their makeshift alley.  This time she is utilizing a strategy of incremental, easy hops. Her arms lift back as the head of the mallet rises behind her and then it falls with a swish through the grass, sending the ball in a small arc before it bounces and rolls to lay about a foot in front of the hoop. Satisfaction fills her arms as she swings the mallet up in front of her, bringing the head to rest proudly on her shoulder.

“That was a respectable hit.”

The satisfaction crumbles into a glare, “You can stop gloating.”

It is late in the morning and yet it is stifling, not even the shade from the tree providing a reprieve from the summer’s attack, a day that would be perfect for a dip in the lake, a thought that instantly leads to a sharp guilt as she watches Vision frown at her comment. “I am being sincere,” the surest sign of the heat is the sight of Vision sans coat and hat, though he is still in a waistcoat and shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cinched shut with a bow tie. His mallet hovers in the air, directing her attention towards the two charcoal colored balls in the grass, “You have utilized a classic block to ensure a win is not feasible on my next turn.”

“Well that was definitely the intent,” Wanda finds her entertainment at discovering his latent competitiveness outweighing her annoyance at the thinly veiled dubiousness on his face. What does not surprise her is the utter seriousness of his gameplay, every turn he walks around his ball at least three times, scrutinizing its position relative to the hoop, currently he is using his mallet to steady himself as he lowers into a squat, torso moving left and then right as he studies the predicament of her block. “You can concede my victory, if you want.”

“I believe,” he stands with a deliberate slowness, a wince occurring as he straightens his legs, “I shall attempt to persevere for a bit longer.”  One last assessment of the area and Vision nods, strolling up to his ball, mallet lining up just right of the sphere, a couple of practice swings confirm the strength and angle of his shot, and then he moves slightly, body crouching, fingers opening and then closing until his grip is perfect, and with ease he sends his ball rolling across the ground and straight into hers, sending it flying into the trunk of a tree.

“What was that, you hornswoggler***?”

A breathy laugh meets her words, his unabashed amusement in the face of dirty actions threatening to consume her own irritation. “Nothing in the rules prohibits such actions.”

The only rules she was made aware of were that they each get one hit per turn, must stay (as best they can) within the bounds of the course, and that the ball must enter the hoop from the front to win. “How convenient to leave that out.”

“It is far more important to develop the basic skills,” his face attempts to remain serious in light of his surging glee at continued domination in the game, “before introducing the intricacies of the gameplay.”

This development radically changes her perceptions of the sport and her own strategy, a wicked smirk forming on her face as she pokes the tip of her pole against the top button of his waistcoat. “Pride goeth before destruction, Vision.” Despite his face remaining neutral, even tipping towards good-natured, she does not miss the ripple of worry from his mind nor the intrigue as he watches her saunter towards the tree.

Her elbow rubs against the rough bark of the oak, one foot on a protruding root and the other on the ground. It seems impossible to recover from such a disadvantaged spot, but she reasons if interference is allowed then a small utilization of her own unique skills could fall under that rule. She notes the way Vision squints at her, the sun peaking above the tree to obscure his sight, another advantage as she sends a mist of scarlet into the ball. A hard swing and a flick of her wrist and her ball soars through the air, thudding into the dry soil just to the left of the crisscrossed surface of Vision’s ball.

There is no respectable hit this time, just a glower, a suspicious stare, and his brow wrinkling at the turn in gameplay. “Interference,” he explains, feet uncertain where to go with her ball directly in his path, “during the other player’s turn is prohibited.”

“Understood.”

An ungentlemanly sigh accompanies his decision to switch sides, hands rearranging along the mallet to adjust to the change in approach, his stance significantly less confident than before. Wanda is prepared for a conveniently strong wind to knock his ball off its path, but finds such interference unneeded, his shot too weak to reach the hoop. Vision waves his mallet towards her, a silent, somewhat sour invitation to finish the game.

The path to victory is unobscured, a bit farther of a distance than she would like, her accuracy still a work in progress, but it is likely the only chance she’ll get.  Wanda lines up, striving to ignore the intensely focused stare of her opponent, her powers surging through her arms in preparation if things go poorly, and smacks the mallet against the ball, watching it hop with each bump in the ground, its course going exactly as planned until it unexpectedly hits a particularly large rock sending it in the opposite direction of the metal hoop. Anger boils in her chest at her slow reaction, knowing if she uses her powers now it will be too obvious. “I guess you’ll be victorious yet again.”

Vision frowns, eyes flicking down at the sure victory. The moral thing to do is end the torment quickly and painlessly, something he has done quite willingly in the other matches. This time, however, he seems less ecstatic in his movements, still taking the same conscientious assessment and body position as his other turns, but he hesitates. “Vision.” It does not take a mind reader or a soothsayer to predict his considered action, her voice stern in redirecting him away from such perceived chivalry, “I don’t need your charity.” An understanding nod precedes his hit, the ball easily rolling through the hoop. “Congratulations.”

“Wanda, wait,” Wanda pauses mid-bend, her hand hovering over the etched surface of her ball, “I think it would be beneficial for you to continue, your long game is quite commendable,” there is no underlying sarcasm here, a fact that makes the day feel just a touch hotter, “but your short game is absent finesse.”

“Oh? What would you suggest?”

“Please,” he waves towards her ball, “set yourself up as you have been doing.” Wanda plays along, feet out wide and elbows bent, eyes focused on him as she waits for feedback. “This is excellent for a long range shot but for a shorter distance your feet need to be closer,” her boots shuffle towards each other while Vision hovers several feet away, gesticulating with his mallet to emphasize his instructions, “Your right foot should be a bit more forward,” she adjusts her foot, “good, now your right shoulder needs to rotate roughly,” he swivels his own shoulders, assessing the amount of movement and positioning, before providing her directions, “fifteen degrees to match your foot.”  

Wanda relaxes her body as she follows his instructions, “Better?”

“A bit more,” she acquiesces, “too much,” she brings her shoulder back, “no I—” she can sense the division in his mind, whether to remain at a respectable distance (despite the lack of onlookers) or come closer. It’s been a battle he’s been waging all day, the lack of socially acceptable reasons to be close always infuriatingly pulling him away. This time she decides to determine the outcome for him by purposely over-rotating her shoulders. Vision grimaces at her correction, “Not quite—”

Wanda strives to remain outwardly attentive yet aloof, laying the final steps of her war plan. “You can come closer, if that would help.”

Discreetly he scans their surroundings for an audience before placing his mallet on the ground, stepping forward, and puncturing the bubble of propriety, his body a foot away now, hands timidly held in the air, acting as if they have never touched, that she has not held his hand, nor run her fingers along his skin, that he himself did not wrap his hands around her waist and pull her close. But to acknowledge those moments would require them to rip open barely healed wounds, and there has been a silent contract between them to simply enjoy these meetings, pushing back any reckoning and unanswered questions for another time. “May I?”

As much as she wishes to act like he is alone in this nervousness, the question causes her heart to betray her attempt at self-control, face growing hotter as if the temperature of the day is controlled by the nearness of his hands. “Of course.”

His fingers curl around her upper arms, applying a slight pressure to turn her body. Wanda tries to remain relaxed in his grip despite the fluttering tingle overtaking her being while her eyes scan his features, mesmerized at the wind stirring the hairs just above his ears. “There,” the comfort of his touch vanishes and Wanda considers ruining her stance to bring him back but he moves away from her too quickly. “Now you should be focusing on a point just beyond the hoop.” Advice he gave her at the very beginning of their time together, a task that should be easy yet the rustle of his clothing behind her and the proximity of his person is distracting. “I have-Wanda remember to keep your eyes beyond the hoop.”

“Sorry.”

“I have my hand up behind you,” a statement that tempts her eyes but she resists, keeping her attention on the ground while his voice fills the air around her, “on your backswing go until you’ve touched my palm and then let the mallet fall naturally, like a pendulum.”

She doesn’t want to potentially hurt him and so she uses a painstakingly slow pace to lift the mallet, each slight increase in its ascent feels enormous until she finally meets resistance. “So just let it go?”

“Yes, and let your body follow.” She does, arms falling along the arc of the mallet and her hips swiveling slightly at the momentum and they both watch as the ball rolls into the hoop. “Soon,” Wanda turns excitedly towards him, surprised to find him directly behind her, the right side of his mouth wistfully tilted up, “you will be unstoppable and I will need to retire.”

Wanda returns the smile while bringing the handle of the mallet between them, offering it to him, “So would you like to test that prediction?”

“A very tempting offer.” 

“But?” 

“But,” he dips his hand into the small pocket of his waistcoat, thumb clicking open his pocket watch, “I promised Mr. Stark I would be back by sundown and I need to go to Rensselaer before returning.” 

A cloud of scarlet forms in her hands, fingers directing strands to engulf the equipment, drawing the objects to levitate next to them. She is acutely aware of his undivided attention and the way his eyes move with the sway of her powers—intrigued and unafraid, no trace of hesitation as he reaches into the red mist to grab the mallets in one hand and the balls in the other, leaving the hoop for her. There is a tiny smile on his face, the quality of which is different from his others, it is still polite, but almost, if she were to allow a small flight of fancy, adoring. “What?” 

Vision’s shoulders inch up and then drop, the smile disappearing as he talks, though the tone of his voice maintains its effervescent character, “I have found myself contemplating” now he slides back into his typical reserved staccato, “almost daily the efficiency your abilities would add to my work, it’s um,” and now the confession falters, his eyes desperately searching her face for some sign he has not offended her, “not to diminish the—” 

Her powers are a curse, a reminder of all she has experienced, the death of her parents, of her brother, her descent into an unforgivable life, and yet here is someone who sees none of that, considers her powers fascinating and efficient whilst glossing over the horror they have caused to his own life. The scarlet rescinds into her palms, sparking lightly at her fingers. Perhaps it is time to consider reorienting her own views, embracing instead of fearing what is inside her. “It is quite useful,” she closes her hands around the hoop, fully extinguishing her powers and with them the conversation as she parts from him, guiding him down the path back to his carriage, “You are very good at paille maille.” 

“Yes, only because I have the advantage of experience. Mr. Stark and I,” Vision keeps his eyes forward as he answers, “play at least three times a week and I also,” now the surety of his voice lessens, gaze never leaving the gentle slope of the mountains ahead of them, “played competitively while at university.” 

The image of this other version of him is hazy in her mind, a specter of a lost time she has no expectations of ever knowing. “You know you don’t have to tell me about,” she’s not sure what to say, if she means the person he was or the life he had, “if you’d rather not dwell on the past, you aren’t obligated to share.” 

He finally glances at her, his pace slowing moderately, a contemplative silence descending around them. “I truly appreciate that, Wanda.” A tight, painfully mannered smile follows along with the statement. “But I feel disingenuous, given your knowledge, to not share when the information is pertinent.” 

“Thank you for sharing,” the persistent downturn of his features is enough motivation to offer a slightly new focus, “now that I know your expertise, I think it will be my mission to best you next week.” 

Vision doesn’t smile but his lips do return to the equilibrium of neutrality, “I suppose I should leave these,” he holds his hands out to show her the equipment, “for you to practice and, in your favor, Mr. Stark and I will actually be out of town for several weeks, thus you will have ample time to improve.” 

Her feet stop moving as she turns towards him, “You’re leaving?” 

“Yes,” when her stare does not move, Vision swivels to face her, an apologetic, apprehensive slant to his features, “Mr. Stark and I are traveling to New York City next week for the Exhibition of Industry-” 

His admittance from the market floats up from her memories. “Is that why you’ve been working late at night?” 

“Yes, and all the traversing,” something she wondered about as well, each time they’ve met he’s he mentioned numerous towns in the area, but nothing in all the time she has known him indicated his job required much traveling beyond the closest market. “We,” he shifts his arms to counteract the awkward grip he has on the mallets and balls, “well, Mr. Stark, will be bringing three inventions, he is even tasked with performing the opening demonstration for the Exhibition.” 

Wanda can’t contain her scoff at this information, “As if he is not self-absorbed enough.” 

A commiserate and exasperated chuckle meets her words, “Yes, he has required me to watch his performance numerous times, it is unnecessarily showy, in my opinion.” 

It seems wrong for Vision to go, though why, exactly is beyond her grasp of comprehension, or at least, a reason beyond her own selfish desire to spend time with him. If she recalls correctly, Stark returned from the city while she was at the manor, a seemingly clear precedent of traveling alone, a fact that feels pertinent and separate from her own reasons for being upset at the journey. “Why is he forcing you to go?” 

Vision’s face falls at her choice of words. “Mr. Stark wishes to have my expertise in case any of the circuitry malfunctions.” A reasonable explanation, though she would expect no less from the man in front of her.  “I was hoping,” he shifts his body along with the movement of the conversation, eyes glancing towards his carriage down the path, an apparent discomfort at leaving with her annoyed, “if you were amenable, that I might visit before I leave.” 

Wanda scrutinizes him, taking in the slight hunch of his shoulders and the crystalline blue of his eyes in the sun, “Yes,” the effect of assent on his features is rapid, body straightening out while becoming slightly less rigid and a softness overtaking his eyes, “Vision, you are always welcome.”  

Wanda rushes between the lines of laundry hanging behind the house, hands plucking sheets and shoving them into a bag while her powers yank down the few skirts and blouses she has amassed to form a new, measly wardrobe, which is why she’ll be damned if they are ruined in this storm.  She has never lived on a homestead like this, her meager earnings from fortune telling typically affording her a bed in a shared room, at most a single room in a larger tenement, but now she finds herself with space, a small wooden home, sparsely furnished with an actual bedroom, a one stall stable, and a coop she has yet to fill. It is too much, or should be, no one has come to collect payments and Vision tactfully avoids the topic each time it is raised. She doesn’t push him too much though, worried the truth may force her to give this up and the freedom of solitude is far too exquisite, waking to the whisper of the earth each morning a wonderful influence on her mental tranquility. The only downside, so far, to her separation from people, is during moments like now, the sky growing dark, grumbling in the distance as the wind picks up, sending the trees into a shiver. 

She finishes her task, rushing to the porch as a peel of thunder rattles the wooden posts holding up the roof and the sky opens. Her breathing evens out now that she’s protected, heart returning to a normal level that brings it to be just slower than the beat of the raindrops. 

A faint rumble rises from just beyond the hill, too rhythmic and hurried to be from the sky, the likely culprit a carriage, but that seems ludicrous in such weather. Wanda walks to the end of the porch, her hands wrapping tightly around the bag at her hip as her eyes strain to make out any movement through the curtain of water.  No one ever approaches from this direction, the town of Normanskill itself a quarter of a mile south of her, and there are other, better roads to travel for traders who wish to go to the town center. A scowl drags her mouth down, eyes widening when the idiotic traveler crests the hill. She drops the bag immediately, marching to the center of the porch as the carriage pulls up, her voice loud and failing utterly at keeping her worried fury contained, “Vision, are you an imbecile?” 

“Yes,” the tremble in his voice is clear even above the thunder, “may I please use your stable?” 

How he insists on remaining socially respectable confounds and infuriates her, scarlet oozing from her hands as she points at him, “Get down and come inside,” he begins to gesture towards the stable, “now!” 

Hurriedly, and quite uncivilly, he scrambles down from the carriage, four loping steps bring him onto the porch. “Wanda, I—” 

Her hands connect with his back, shoving him towards the open doorway and away from the rain starting to blow sideways into the porch, “Inside.” Thankfully the horse is docile as Wanda leads it through the rain, whinnying softly in what she assumes is contentment once it is safely inside the stable. She turns towards the downpour, fists clenched and pulsing with red.

Wanda stomps through the collecting puddles, the edge of her skirt soaking up the water almost as fast as her blouse, but she doesn’t care, her attention honed in on the worried fluctuations of Vision’s mind. He is standing in the middle of the room, hat rotating in an uneasy circle between his fingers, far enough from the door to escape the stray drops coming in but still close enough to watch her approach. A polite host (or so she’s gathered from watching people at her séances) always offers to free a guest of unnecessary clothing, doubtfully, however, by sheathing a hat in scarlet, roughly tearing it from his hands, and tossing it on the table. “What were you thinking?” 

“In my defense,” statements starting as such are not what she wants to hear as she circles around him, not caring if he views her actions as untoward when she runs her hands along his jacket to assess its saturation, “it was a pleasant day when I left this morning.” 

“Your jacket is soaking.” 

Vision is already unbuttoning his jacket before she finishes the sentence, hands moving automatically as he continues to explain his abhorrent decision making, “I had to go to Clarksville to collect a number of custom welded parts,” he slips his arms out of the jacket and Wanda grabs it with her powers, sending it to hang on a hook in the wall, “it was not until I was several miles from the town that the weather grew menacing.” She walks around him, palms skimming the silk back of his waistcoat before transitioning to the textured brocade of the front, the cloth only mildly damp in some places, “By then I had three options, I could return to Clarksville, I could pull off to the side of the road and sit inside the carriage with the machinery, or I knew you were equidistant to me as was Clarksville.” The explanation, of course, makes sense, his rationale fairly seamless and lacking any sign of illogic despite still being foolish, “Miss Maximoff.” 

“What?” 

There is a gorgeous smile on his face, one so at odds with the anxiety strangling her mind that it holds her body in stasis, “Are you done undressing me yet?” 

“I—” Wanda looks down, somewhat horrified at catching her fingers actively undoing the last button of his waistcoat, a blush searing along her neck at the realization, but she collects herself, sliding the button confidently through its hole while adjusting her tone to match the merriment in his eyes, “Depends, do your gas pipes**** need to come off too?” 

Her forwardness seems to stun him, eyes widening, brows arching, and what might even be a pinkish tinge forming on his cheekbones as he stutters out a weak retort, “I do not believe that is necessary, I was barely in the rain.” He steps back, breaking her contact with him, regaining some semblance of control and rigor over his voice, and finishes removing the vest, his eyes never leaving her. “If it is acceptable to be concerned about clothing, then might I suggest you change as well.” 

“What...” Now that he seems fine, not a trace of concern or fear left in his mind, all wet articles of clothing removed (at least the ones he is willing to part with), Wanda becomes keenly aware of her own dripping garments and the feel of wet hair falling out of her usually tight bun. “I’ll be right back, please um, get comfortable.” 

When she returns to him, clothing blissfully dry and her damp hair loose, he is still standing in the center of the room, absentmindedly plucking his gloves off while his eyes roam over the minimal decor—a table with three chairs, a small cabinet where she keeps her dry food and cookery, a hearth, and a two-seat settee. What she had considered spacious now feels dreadfully inadequate under his inspection. “It’s not a manor.” 

Vision turns to her, confusion marring his forehead at her apologetic tone, “It is perfectly adequate. I apologize for imposing on you, I am certain you had other things—” 

“Vision,” one cycle of apologies is already too many, whatever her afternoon was going to entail, this is far preferable, “I told you, you are always welcome.” Vision is not her first guest, that honor went to Clint and his eldest son, Cooper, the other week, but where that visit felt easy with little expectation of cordial etiquette, Wanda now realizes she has no notion at how, precisely, to host someone who knows every last rule for such things. She is, however, fairly sure that standing in the middle of a room staring at one another is not considered acceptable. “Would you like to sit?” 

The options are limited, his eyes first moving to the couch but that, she has already reckoned, would require their legs to touch, and thus she isn’t surprised, maybe a touch disappointed, when he takes a seat at the table. “Will you join me?” 

“Of course,” Wanda is aware the appropriate seat to take is the one across from him, an innocuous distance for respectable interactions, which is why she bypasses the chair, settling herself at the head of the table, her feet knocking lightly against his as she adjusts to be comfortable. Now that they’re close, the threat of the weather kept at bay by the walls around them, she can see the exhaustion manifesting in darkening circles beneath his eyes, even his body is less poised, leaning forward with his hands on the table. “So,” his hands are actually on the table, no gloves present nor is he shoving them in his pockets, and it sends a thrill down her spine to know he feels this level of comfort around her.

“My apologies.” 

Vision’s hands begin to retreat, but she reaches out, trapping them in a tentative embrace. “No,” the fact he has not flinched nor attempted to remove himself from her grip encourages her to remain touching him, a firm, earnest squeeze hopefully conveying her gratitude at his openness, “I’m sorry for staring.” 

Vision nods, a perceptive smile on his lips as he returns the squeeze, absolving her misstep.  “It is fine.” 

 “Tell me,” Wanda sits back, reluctantly pulling her hand from his, not wanting to cause him too much social discomfort at the onset of their gathering, “what is so important about this exhibition that Stark is fine putting you in danger?” 

The light jab at Stark is artfully sidestepped with a raised eyebrow of dissent, nothing more. “It is an event to showcase the industrial advancements from around the world. Mr. Stark attended the Great Exhibition two years ago in London.” 

“Did you go as well?” 

Vision threads his fingers together, a melancholic air instilling his actions, “I journeyed with him, otherwise I would have had to forgo my treatments and, well, at that point I had finally managed to walk properly and,” the pause in his thought is deafening and she desperately wants to find something to say, yet her own tongue is silent. Vision shakes his head, a small movement not even strong enough to stir his hair, “but I did not attend the actual exhibition, thankfully, as Mr. Stark was approached by several of my prior contemporaries. It sounded marvelous, however, so much so that once we returned Mr. Stark immediately formed a coalition amongst several private businesses and now,” he waves his hands much like she’s seen mesmerists do when the finale has concluded in their show, though Vision’s is less expressive and showy, “the Exhibition starts on the 14th, even President Pierce will be there.” 

“I don’t view that as a selling point.” 

This receives a deep laugh, one she knows would never occur outside the freedom of their current privacy just as the unfettered delight in his voice would be silenced if just one more person were present, “Mr. Stark is actually hosting a private soirée at the same time as the President’s in protest of his tacit support for the anti-abolitionists.” 

An entertaining fact, one that won’t change her view of Stark, only reaffirming the extraordinary protection of wealth. People will no doubt laugh at Stark, roll their eyes and whisper about the eccentric millionaire whereas if she were seen at such an event, her deportation would be imminent, a concern that shifts to the man next to her, “Are you attending that?” 

“No,” the strength and immediacy of his answer is reassuring, “I purposefully remain at a distance from such topics in public. My only occupational requirements for this trip are Mr. Stark’s inventions and upkeep of Stark Tower.” An imposing structure, one of the only buildings in the city over five stories and one she has possibly cursed at several times in passing. “I have also been ordered,” a word she loathes and almost comments on until he smiles broadly, “to take personal time and enjoy the Exhibition.” 

“Good,” she matches his grin, fighting the temptation to reach out and touch his hand again, “You work too hard for that man.” 

Another avoidance of her commentary changes the focus of their conversation, “How is your business?” A topic they have danced around, for the most part, one that veers them awfully close to thoughts they’ve kept prohibited from their time together. 

“Um,” the easiest tactic is to mirror Vision, avoid it with a wave of a hand or a subtle shift back to him, yet that would only continue them down a road of leaving things that might need to be said unsaid and she doesn’t want that as a cornerstone of their relationship, whatever that relationship may be. “Poorly, actually,” Vision sits up straighter, concern overtaking every inch of his face, “they don’t seem terribly interested in palm readings.” 

His mouth opens, then shuts, a finger raised to ask for a moment’s patience and she watches him stand, walk to where his coat is hanging and rifle through the inside pockets until he pulls out a box and a small, leather bound notebook. “Would it help,” apprehension fills his movements as he returns to his seat, laying the easily recognizable box on the table, “if you could expand your offerings?” 

“How long have you been carrying those around?”

Carefully he opens the lid of the box, removing the cards in two stacks before placing them on the table, his eyes never quite meeting hers, “Since you refused to take them, I, um,” he fiddles with the notebook now, flipping the pages back and forth, showing her the meticulous lines of his writing, “have been transcribing the cards during my downtime and thought you or we—” 

When he first offered her this gift it instilled in her an anger, her refusal predicated on not wanting to think of him whenever she used the tarot cards, of needing to throw away all memory of her time at the manor. Perceptions can shift, however, quite swiftly and strongly, a burgeoning excitement now racing through her body at the thoughtfulness of the action. “You want me to write the Sokovian next to each one.” 

“Yes.” The syllable is drawn out as both a statement and a question, his plan predicated on her agreement and also her ability to write, something that is not a guarantee for individuals of their backgrounds. Luckily her parents were strong advocates of education, insisting she and Pietro spend extra time at the synagogue each week to learn all they could. 

Wanda reaches out, drawing the notebook towards her, “Do you have anything to write with?” Another raised finger and another journey to his coat concludes in her holding an intricate metal fountain pen*****, “Okay,” she tests the pen on the paper, impressed at the smoothness of the writing, “what’s first?” 

Slowly he turns each card, reading her the words at the bottom and then showing her where on the sheet he has it written, his face remaining close to hers as he watches her, an inquisitiveness filling his mind at the translations. The whole activity is calming, diversions peppered throughout as he asks her some interpretations. Apparently, he has been reading about the practice of tarot, finding the disproportionate numbers of alternative meanings alarming. It’s as they move from the major arcana to the cups, that his next line of questioning begins, “Wanda.” 

“Yes?” 

Vision stares at a card, lips pursed and eyes distant in thought, “Did you know English, before immigrating?” 

She’d been expecting another spirited debate on whether a reversed card should be interpreted differently from its usual meaning, not a step into her past, but she obliges, not wanting to be disingenuous, as Vision himself argued the other day, by denying such information. “None, I learned it to survive once I got here.” Amazement bursts from his mind, procuring a small half smile from her, encouraging her to share a bit more. “I actually,” at the time she found the method demoralizing, only in retrospect is she able to accept the somewhat humorous methods of her early months in the city, “I would have to mime what I wanted, sometimes I would resort to clucking to buy chicken.” 

“I never,” he pauses, words escaping him as he looks at her, admiration clear in his features, one she doesn’t particularly feel she deserves, “It must have been quite difficult.” 

Wanda nods at the understatement, “It was, fortunately after several months I ended up renting a room from a couple who were kind enough to teach me.” 

The information is factual, surface level, which means the deep contemplation on his face spurs the nervousness growing in her stomach, she has no issue being truthful, but she is worried that too much truth might lead to an irreparable judgment of her.  Wanda stands, channeling her nerves into ambling towards the window to confirm the rain is still falling. When she turns back he is watching her, head cocked to the side and his face serious, “Why did you leave Sokovia?” 

The tapestry of her life is stitched in a complicated pattern, not one thread able to tell the entire story, yet all it might take to unravel the deeply buried secrets of her life is a tug of gentle, earnest curiosity in a tantalizing accent. She needs time to determine what to say, her mind having been consumed with how he would view her simply based on the séance that she devoted little of her cogitation to explaining the rest, justifying the unjustifiable so as not to scare him away. This, she realizes, is a weakness she had avoided since Pietro died, a strong and unwavering commitment to never grow attached or settle roots. How she allowed it to happen is concerning, but not enough to run just yet, the promise of something more buried in his eyes incredibly alluring.  “Are you hungry?”

Vision blinks rapidly, half rising out of his chair as he responds, “I suppose I could eat, may I help with anything?” 

“You can sit,” he’s too kind, too honest, too genuine for her, “I only have bread and cheese inside, not much to prepare.” The cabinet door blocks her from his sight, his attention stifling in a way that is both desirable and terrifying, her heart torn between celebrating his interest and fleeing into the night. The latter option is not actually considered because she knows he’d follow and she won’t do that to him twice. Wanda returns to the table with two tin plates, no ornate designs or even shiny surfaces to compare to what she used at the manor. She lights a lantern, turning the knob to illuminate the tabletop as the sun sets. “So why Vision?” 

“Pardon?” 

Wanda nibbles on her bread, the diversion faltering already, “Why did you choose Vision for your name?” 

His gaze is wary, a flash of hurt at her redirection, but unlike her he answers, keeping it brief yet informative. “Whenever Mr. Stark was explaining the procedures and the results of my surgeries, the one thing he kept saying to me as reassurance whenever I wanted to give up, was that I was a vision of the future of medicine. If this worked for me, think of how many others could be helped by the same procedure.” He shrugs, eyes turned down towards the plate. “It felt appropriate to assume that as my identity, merely a vision, nothing more.” 

“You are far more than that.” 

A small smile dismisses the affirmation, leaving them to eat in silence, the air around them growing more humid as the rain continues, even the small movement of eating a piece of bread meeting resistance. It is not the weather, however, that Wanda finds most uncomfortable, that causes her lungs to malfunction and her breathing to be labored, no it is that his question hangs in the air despite his politeness to not repeat it. If she wants to lose him, to return to a life of no ties then she should remain silent. “I left Sokovia because I literally had nothing left there.” Empathy curves his mouth down, his food forgotten as he stares at her. “After my parents died, my brother,” she corrects herself, deciding it isn’t worth minimizing the uniqueness of the experience nor the striking pain of losing the other half of her soul, “My twin, Pietro, we survived for many years, odd jobs and some stealing,” she pauses, gauging his response to the minor crime of survival but nothing changes, his gaze unmoving and his mind is calm with openness to hear her experience. “I told you that I volunteered for the procedure for,” Wanda sets her hand ablaze. 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Pietro was with me, he went through it too.” 

The first crack in his visage occurs, a wrinkle protruding from his forehead. “Why?” 

Wanda has asked herself this question numerous times, both with Pietro and after, nothing ever feeling wholly right but that assumes all behavior makes perfect sense. “It paid well,” so well that it wasn’t until she moved to upstate New York that she ran out of the money saved from their trials, “really well, on purpose, I assume, to tempt vulnerable people into the program.” The next part of their motivation is stronger than the money, a firmer, more, in her mind, logical reason for their willingness to be turned into monsters, “They also promised employment if you made it through the experiments,” but she can’t bring herself to tell him the whole truth of this employment, of the guarantee of revenge instilled in their duties. 

“Did they tell you beforehand what they were doing?” 

“No.” 

The empathy fades into an irritation, one that keeps descending into anger, his voice hardened, “That is despicable, that is malign manipulation.” 

There is no denying his statement, his anger mirrored in herself as well. “It was,” she and Pietro almost left after the first round of surgeries, the pain immense, debilitating, but with each procedure and each advancement in the program, with each person that died instead of them, the money increased. “But that’s not the worst of it.” She takes his horrified silence as acquiescence to continue, “After they were done we moved back to Novi Grad, were able to afford an apartment, could eat full meals every meal.” 

“Wanda, what happened?” It’s whispered, tentative, almost regretful, but he won’t look away, desperate to show her he is listening. 

She already told him of Stark’s swift removal from Sokovia, the lasting impact it had on the economy which became a major factor in the way their country responded to other regional events, “There was unrest, rumors of revolutions in the other territories of the Empire*****,” she remembers Pietro’s face when they heard of the German resistance and then of the uprisings in Prague, his heart drumming even faster than his feet at the notion of leading a revolt in their own collapsing city. “Hungary had just changed laws, restricted our language, our trade abilities, our religion.” As the tensions rose in the city, they were instructed to keep a low profile while in public, use of their abilities prohibited unless they were on official business for the Baron, but Pietro started pushing back, questioning why he could not use his speed to help his country. “People were angry and superstitious and ready to fight.” It was a fire in a hospital, people whispered that the Austrian army started it, others said it was Sokovian rebels, regardless of the arsonist, she and Pietro determined they had to help. “Someone saw me use my powers to save a woman from a fire.” Wanda can feel tears on her cheeks, a shaky inhale doing nothing to steady the quiver of her voice, and she finds she can’t look at him any longer, can’t handle the sadness and fear in his eyes. “They accused me of being a witch, they started throwing rocks, bricks, whatever was near, and they were screaming, the crowd just kept growing. Then someone tried to shoot me. Pietro, he,” the image of his body stiffening and then folding in on itself as he fell to the ground is forever burned into her memory, the hollowness of his eyes haunt her almost as much as the fact she never got to cradle him or say goodbye, a supposedly well-meaning man yanking her from the crowd before she died too. “I couldn’t stay there without him.” She can’t hold in the sob, feels her own body crumple, mild confusion cutting through her tears when she lands against a shirt and not the table. 

Vision wraps his arms around her, hugging her close while whispering apologies into her hair, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, the metallic waft of his body bringing her gradually back to the present. She weakly attempts to break from his embrace, palms pressed against his chest as she pushes just far enough away to see his dampened eyes. “Wanda,” her name breaks in half as he says it, his arms rearranging from hugging her to tucking his elbows into his sides, his hands cupping her face, thumbs wicking away the tears crashing down her cheeks. “You,” he strokes her skin with each word, “are extraordinary.” 

The barrier of his hands makes it hard for her to vehemently shake her head, “No, I’m not.” 

A smile cracks under his tears, “You are the single most extraordinary person I have ever met.” 

“No,” he doesn’t know what he’s condoning, his basis of her character relying on partial truths that glance over the most unsavory bits of her life, “you should be terrified of me.” 

He shakes his head, denying her statement without reservation, “I have no reason to be fearful of you, Wanda.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

“If you truly doubt the veracity of my statement,” it is almost painful, the loss of his hands on her face until he reaches down and grabs her shaking hand, guiding it to his cheek, “you are always welcome to look for yourself.” 

Only Pietro ever gave such a statement, this level of trust unwarranted, misguided, and exceptionally foolish. It is possible he misunderstands the breadth of his offer. “You’re aware you are giving me permission to access your thoughts at any time?” 

“Yes,” his eyes light up, beckoning her into her head. “I have faith you will do so judiciously.” 

It is very tempting to dive in, feel the soothing rhythm of his orderly thoughts, but she can’t, not without confirming he truly understands his offer. “How?” 

He repeats his earlier sentiment, as if it should be readily assumed and unquestionable, “There is no reason for me to distrust your intentions towards me.” 

“You have every reason to distrust me.” 

“No,” the joy fades from his eyes, replaced by a steadfast certainty and strength that stirs a fire in her chest at how seamlessly his devotion and single-mindedness transfers to her. “I will concede that Mr. Stark has every reason to distrust you,” truer words have possibly never been spoken, “but, I do not.” 

“Vision.” 

He does not allow her to counter him yet, “Did you harm me? Yes, immensely,” an admission that causes her to wince, “but it was done inadvertently. I understand and respect your disdain towards Stark though I do not condone your actions,” a fact he has made clear in his avoidance of her demeaning remarks towards the man. “Yet I also believe that relying only on the worst aspects of behavior and negating the good can lead to illogically prejudiced beliefs. Thus,” Vision bends his head to make sure their eyes are level, the brilliant blue of his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern, “it seems reasonable to separate your treatment and beliefs of Stark from your view of me. Or am I wrong in my assumption?” 

How she found this man must involve sorcery or kismet—kindness, understanding, and a propensity to forgive an uncommon match. “You are nothing like Stark.” 

He places his hand over hers, his face almost as confident as it was during paille maille except for a tenderness in his eyes, one that seems to melt her resolve and give in to the sensation of being two souls swirling together by the flickering light of a dying lantern. “That only confirms my point, you have never harbored animosity towards me. Even after you learned my own secrets, nothing changed. You treat me with the same respect and you still insist on challenging my views instead of reaffirming my place in this world.” 

“Some of your views are terribly askew.” 

His laughter is joyous, twining through her being, igniting her soul, “Yes, I have discovered my ignorance now.” 

Wanda wiggles her thumb free from the cocoon of his hand, running it along his cheek, enthralled at the effect it has, his eyes closing and she realizes how close they are, how all it would take is to lean forward and shatter the last boundary of propriety.  It is immensely tempting, not just to test the waters of mutual affection but to also eschew sleep, stay wrapped in his honeyed voice, allow his subdued laughter and intense gaze to consume her body, but she knows he has barely slept, worries this closeness is a mixture of empathy, exhaustion, and politeness.  “It is quite late.” 

Vision’s mouth dips at her statement, the disappointment in his eyes is painful, but far more excruciating is the moment he leans back, severing their connection as he pats his hands against his chest. A tendril of scarlet leaves her hand retrieving the pocket watch from his discarded waistcoat. His frown deepens when he clicks open the lid. “It is very late.” He tries hard to make the statement sound authoritative, yet his own remorse at confirming the undeniable truth causes a quivering hesitation to shake the words.  A moment later Vision stands, slightly uneven strides bringing him to the door where he examines the pitch black night that no longer rings with rain. “The tavern has beds, correct?" 

“You can’t seriously think it's a good idea to travel now.” 

Despite the gradual easing of his behaviors and the loosening of his resolve to remain proper at all times, the overall influence of his deeply ingrained manners is still strong. “I do not wish to impose further.” 

“You can stay.” 

Her words draw him two steps back into the room, though his face is still not wholly convinced of accepting the offer. “What will people think, if I stay?” The concern in his voice isn’t for him, but for the flimsy social code that polices behavior, particularly against women if there is any blame to be had. 

Wanda shrugs, “No one knows you’re here, Vision. And if they find out,” she channels her own fluttering nervousness at the possibility of staying with him longer into a feigned nonchalance, hoping not only to convince him to remain but to also, perhaps, decipher the true meaning of his intentions, “They will simply assume it was a bundling******”. 

“I-um, I,” 

The fact he does not outright deny it or question it, that he doesn’t ask why they would think such a thing or deem it a preposterous statement enlivens her confidence, a wry smile growing on her lips as she pushes the notion more, “I mean ever since your first visit there’s been a flurry of gossip about my handsome suitor,” a mostly accurate statement, there have been many pointed looks and some bawdy inquiries from Mrs. Meisner and the other bored ladies of a dizzy age******* “No one would mind, they might even expect it.” 

The flabbergasted expression on his face shifts, moving first to denial, then consideration, waltzing briefly with confusion, until it settles on a deeply invested gaze of scrutiny. “Does it trouble you that such prurient******** assumptions may be made?” 

The question brings her to the precipice of her wants for the future, to remain independent, alone, unattached which is safer, or to forge ahead with something new, that carries with it a high price of potential pain if it crumbles. “No.” 

He takes three more steps into the room, the door shutting behind him with an echoing thud and her heart sings at the victory. “I suppose I can stay but I insist on sleeping on the settee.” 

Wanda tamps down the rebellious urge to jostle him further by suggesting her bed, an option he’d in the best scenario laugh nervously at but decline and in the worst, say no and flee into the night. “Of course.”  They find themselves back at the beginning of his visit, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, staring and waiting for the other to set the course of what comes next. Honestly, Wanda doesn’t know what should occur, how far she can interpret his responses, whether he actually wants the people to think they are in a courtship or if he is simply falling back on politeness as he is wont to do. She gives him a curt nod and a “Goodnight, Vision,” turning towards the bedroom to place the decision in his hands. 

“Wanda?” 

The whisper of her name ties itself around her heart and pivots her back towards him, “Vision?” 

“I wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay. I-” the words are ushered out by the restless waving of his fingers and another step towards her, his eyes seemingly torn between her face and watching his hands betray his nerves, “thoroughly enjoyed your company.” 

The emphasis he puts on the thoroughly seems to shrink the room around them, increasing her own awareness of how close they are standing, his even breaths echoing around her and she fears he might be able to hear the rampant drumming of her heart. Wants are dangerous things, unnecessary diversions that can only complicate life, and yet her decision earlier is only strengthened in this moment, staring up into the confused yet curious gaze of this man, of how very much she wants to be closer to him, in numerous literal and figurative ways. Wanda takes a step forward and the room shrinks even more, the space around them narrowing so much any movement, even a simple inhale, would cause them to touch. So Wanda continues, a half step forward brings her chest to brush his and a stream of scarlet from the hand at her hip helps steady her as she rises onto her toes, other hand coming to lay on his shoulder. “Me too.” The cessation of his breath and the crumbling of his calm and orderly thoughts as she presses her lips to his cheek confirms what she had hoped, that perhaps it isn’t merely civility influencing his actions. 

Wanda flashes him a demure smirk as she lowers herself back to the ground, her tongue preparing to say another good night before she sneaks away to privately relish her bravery, but the intensity of his stare gives her pause. “Vision?” His continued silence is disconcerting and a quick, hopefully unnoticed brush of his mind uncovers a fascinating phenomenon as his thoughts seem to collapse into a tight bundle of single-minded ideation. Earlier he had offered her access to his mind whenever she pleased, and now her curiosity, her desire to know his thoughts, gives her the courage to accept that offer, his breath hitching as she lays her palm to his jaw, “May I?” A silent nod grants her permission and she enters his mind.  A broad, goading grin shoves her cheeks up at what he allows her to read. “I’d very much like that.” 

It takes a moment for him to translate her consent and piece it together with her presence in his mind, but once the puzzle is complete, Vision smiles softly, bringing his hands to her face in a purposefully lazy pace, his fingertips skimming along her skin until her cheeks are cupped by his palms.  Wanda’s own smile has to defy the laws of anatomical possibility by growing wider, expanding from her mouth to fill her entire body, her hands wrapping excitedly around his wrists, the contrast between his skin and the metal captivating, and she uses her grip on him to pull herself up just as he bends down. The kiss is tender yet chaste, polite but not devoid of passion, an unspoken, ineffable rightness in the way his lips move ever so slightly against hers. Much too soon he pulls back, his thumb brushing her cheek as he stares into her eyes, flashing her a charming, spoony******** smile that she immediately reciprocates. “You know,” she grips his wrists a bit tighter, “If they believe we’re bundling already…” 

A self-conscious, though charmed, laugh meets her words; if the light was just a bit brighter she knows there’d be a blush on his face to match the one in his mind. “Goodnight, Wanda.” 

“Goodnight, Vision.”  

Victorian Language Decoder:

* yard-of-pumpwater: tall and lanky man

**In 1853, in a small town with steady jobs, the average daily wage was between $1-$1.50

***hornswaggler: cheater

****gas-pipes: Pants, typically particularly tight ones, though I doubt Vision wears tight pants. I just liked the term

*****The fountain pen with an ink reservoir was first available in the 1700s but didn’t meet mass production until around the 1830s in England and the 1850s in the US.

******During the 1840s a series of revolts started where the countries ruled under the Austrian Empire (including Germany, Austria, and most of Eastern Europe) were beginning to demand autonomy, largely encouraged by economic depression and food shortages. The first big revolts were in Poland and Germany in 1846 and then from 1846-1848 there were major uprisings in Slovakia, Romania, and Croatia (there were others but those are closest to where Sokovia would be located).

*******Bundling: a practice in courtship where the two people are wrapped/bundled together in bed (apparently, they were given separate blankets) and were expected to spend the evening talking (I’m sure there was lots of “talking”). It was not super common in the 1800s, but was still practiced in many places in upper NY and Pennsylvania into the late 1800s. There was actually a NY court case (Graham v. Smith, 1846) about the seduction of a 19-year-old woman, but the court was like – “What did you expect to happen when you had them bundle?!” (not a direct quote)

******* Dizzy age: elderly

********prurient: having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters

*********spoony: foolishly amorous/stupid with love

[etcwrites]

The Convoluted Dance

Lancelot Week Day 6 @lancelotweek

Prompt: strengths/insecurities

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences 

Status: Completed

Summary:

There are a few moments when Lance sees it.

One day it is at the corner of Lotor’s smile, the other, it is in his clenched fists as he refuses to give up.

And sometimes -  

Sometimes... Lance can even see it in himself.

AO3 Link

“Alright, team! Look alive!”

Lance adjusts his rifle, voice full of energy as his fingers make quick work of his gun, the scope soon focusing to show the crowd filing the avenue. "And don't get caught with your pants down"

"Tch!"

"Ahahahaha! Lance!"

"Alvarez, SHUT up!"                

“Hey!” Lance argues, voice going high in indignation even though a smile spreads across his lips.

“First of all,” he chats, fingers checking the mechanism of his rifle and making sure it is locked on the ledge. “Zethrid! Rude! Didn't I ask you to call me Lance?”

He makes a disappointed noise at the back of his throat.  

“Second, how could you?! I shared all of my hair braiding secrets with you!”

“Alvarez!”

“He is right you know, I mean he DID share his trade secrets with you"

"Thank you!"

“Ezor, for fucks sake, not you too!”

“Can we please focus on the job at hand?!”

Hearing Acxa’s tone they all fall quiet.

Then...

“Just saying,” Lance murmurs, making sure his voice conveys a perfect kicked puppy imitation. “I feel so betrayed.”

“Lance!"

“Yeess?”

“Enough.”

Swallowing down his nervous giggle, Lance focuses his attention on the crowd, surveying the area through the scope. His nerves tingle with charged energy, paranoia getting under his skin and rubbing him the wrong way, like an annoying itch that he can't scratch.

"Alright, I'll play nice" he adds at last, getting into a more comfortable sitting situation, tone finally turning a touch serious.

Ezor giggles over their communication line, eyes searching the roofs, and locating him to give a small wave. She is positioned inside the crowd, her shapeshifting ability making her the best candidate to hide within the masses.

Zethrid is at the rear, positioned near the ornamental statue of Voltron, her giant body visible through the crowd if not for her sheer size, then because she is accompanied by various Galra peace members and Blades of Marmora agents. They are waiting quietly and patiently while getting various glances from the crowd, some distrustful, others downright terrified. The usual stuff...

And Acxa...

Scope moving Lance traces through the crowd to finally end up at the podium, the stage clear but filled with all kinds of equipment, ready to start the broadcast at any minute.

All according to schedule Acxa is still at back stage, accompanying the King. She is to stay at his side at all times, with everyone nervous of exposing their leader for too long.

Exhaling Lance bites into his lip, suddenly the silence getting to him. Before he can stop himself words tumble from his mouth. "So how is our oh mighty leader doing?"

There is silence for a few seconds then Acxa's voice cracks through the line. "....he is...ready."

Lance swallows down his sigh, giving a tiny eye roll instead. "I'm sure he is," he mutters. "But that wasn't what I asked." Through his scope he catches Zethrid's exasperated eye roll but decides to ignore it. That woman has been crossed of his list for treacherous behavior.

A few tense seconds pass then...

"He says that you should stop worrying."

Stop worrying?! He isn't worried! He is NOT!.... ok, maybe he is. BUT that doesn't give the right to the pretty boy to call him out on it!

"Does he now?" Lance grumbles.

"Lance," Acxa warns again, this time her voice quiet as if she is trying to keep their conversation from a certain Galra King. "I need you to focus"

Gritting his teeth Lance shifts his position and pulling his eye from the scope sends a quick glance to the empty stage. "Yes, fine" he replies a second later, eyes absentmindedly tracing over the crowd.

He knows... he knows how this is supposed to go, how it is planned and yet-

A subtle ripple goes through the crowd, eyes and ears turning towards the stage, a low murmur starting, soon to be crushed into an booming applause. Each and every equipment on the stage suddenly comes alive and as if cued, from the left corner, a hero walks on to the stage.

"Shiro! Shiro! Shiro! Shiro!"

And behind him, Lance finally sees....Lotor...

He stands with his head high, posture relaxed and a pleasant (fake! fake! fake!) smile over lips. Even with the power and confidence radiating from his frame, he looks vulnerable beside Shiro and his paladin armor. His white ornamental robes sway in the light breeze, long hair open and down.

"We thank you for your support! This war couldn't have been won without your faith and support!"

Another round of applause ripples through the spectators, the crowd absolutely in love with Shiro the Hero.

But soon... it will be Lotor's turn.

Determination spreading over his shoulders, Lance takes a deep breath then once again settles into his position, one eye closed, the other at the scope. "-And now please give a warm welcome to our ally, King of Galra, Lotor!"  

A loaded confused silence falls over the crowd, all eyes and cameras turning towards the new Galra King.

Lance takes a deep breath.

It is showtime!

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"King?" Lance questioned, eyes tracking Lotor's movements as the other strolled through the command room.

"Yes," Lotor replied easily, confident in every way. “We've concluded the term emperor can be conceived as... imposing."

Lance gave an unapologetic snort. No shit!

"Think of it as... REBRANDING!" Coran chipped in, his energy and adorable try in jazz hands giving Lance life. "I believe that's what is called, yes, rebranding... I mean a fresh perspective is really needed when it comes to Galra nation, I mean I can't even-" Suddenly stopping Coran gave Lotor an almost apologetic smile. "No offense, Prince Lotor"

A calm and polite smile appeared on Lotor's face, his tone incredibly accommodating when he spoke. "None taken"

Lance’s eyes narrowed, carefully watching the prince. There was something wrong with that smile.

"The people are not ready to face another Galra Emperor" Allura cut in, her tone soft but in control.

Which was fair, Lance supposed. After Zarkon and his crushing tyranny the universe certainly deserved something better.

"What about the Galra?" Keith grumbled.

Immediately Lance's gaze fixed on the other boy, eyes this time narrowing in thought.

The Galra?...

"Yes?" Lotor asked, a brow rising elegantly.

"They can't be too happy about this!"

Oh... As much as it pained him to admit it, Keith was right.

"The mullet has a good point"  Lance supported, ignoring but immensely enjoying the conflicted scowl on Keith's face.  "Your people won't be pleased that you are leaving the title for something less."

They won't be pleased with you leaving the conquest, went unsaid.

Though as if he heard the silent challenge, Lotor turned to him, for a few seconds something dark passing through his eyes before, once again control shifted into its familiar place. "Let me handle my people”

A tight self-deprecating smile spread over Lotor’s lips, causing an unidentified chill to pass down Lance's spine. "You will soon understand how adaptive they can be."

That was the first time Lance ever saw it.

Strength and weakness...all wrapped into one entity...

It was...intriguing.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Lotor looks calm over the podium, his hands open and entirely unthreatening against the defensive faces of the crowd. "People of Naen!" He calls out, voice warm even through the metallic quality of the sound system. "I know you are sceptic at seeing me before you and even though you may have doubts, I want to you to be certain why we are here."

Lance turns his scope away, tracing through the crowd and looking for any disturbance.

"We are here, only because we hope for a better future!"

Breath hitching Lance keeps himself from turning towards Lotor. The line sounds so... sincere, so natural. If Lance hadn't known the production phase, he thinks he would have been fooled by the whole display.

Quickly checking a few faces from the crowd he almost bites his lip. There is shock and disbelief in almost every face, a hushed expectant silence falling over the crowd. There is also a healthy amount of distrust but that ought to be expected.

But one thing is certain. The crowd can't take their eyes of the Galra King.

"That is true" Lotor continues, his voice turning softer. "I don't expect you to believe that I am, we are here for the prosperity of the universe. Because that is simply...not true."

A collective murmur breaks through the crowd, Lance's finger twitching over the trigger. He can't watch Lotor from his current point of view but he knows this is the part where he moves from his position, getting closer to the people.

“It is not the prosperity of the universe that we seek! What drives us is simply... family.

A new kind of silence falls over the crowd as people of Naen turn wistful.

There is a clog at Lance's throat as well, eyes stinging and as he watches he can see similar expressions on other people's faces. Painful or grateful...remembering family matters.

"We want a better future for them, we want to give them hope, to protect them!"

A pause and Lance can swear every heart stops with Lotor's words, his own throat turning tight with nervous energy as sweat breaks inside his palms at hearing this new part.

"But most vital of all...we want to belong."

Lance's heart stops.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Lance has always been a people's person, coming from a crowded and close family culture it wasn't really surprising.

He has always been proud of being a people's person too. Wanting to be close to someone, sharing bits and pieces of your experiences, just reaching out and touching...

Though...sometimes universe was too vast, too hostile to just reach out and connect.

“Was you father an alien? Because let me tell you, there’s nothing else like you on Earth!"

A few amused huffs and disapproving, condescending eye brows later, Lance waved off the passing Galras, his feet moving past them.

"Ok," he smiled over his shoulder. "I get it, you are simply mesmerized by my touching lines. You need time to absorb the beauty of them."

It has been nearly two months since he had started travelling with the Galra nation, the program to ensure the peace and integration throughout the universe requiring the Paladins to connect with their allies. Pidge had got the Olkari, Hunk, the Balmerans (lucky bastard!). Keith was with the Arusians and Shiro with Puigians which left Lance with...the Galra.

It was cool though, it was ok. Lotor was calm, all polished smiles and diplomatic nods and his generals even though tense at times were...civil. Blades of Marmora were still cautious but slowly establishing relationships and starting to trust... and yet, Lance's attempts at connecting with others were not yielding much positive results.

It wasn't that Lance was ostracized or actively shut out. Oh no! He still had a certain level of connection with some Galras, thank you very much. And those were certainly promising but without his lion Lance guessed he would have gone insane by now.

Moving down the corridor, he let his feet to take him towards the communal areas, hoping to actually find an opportunity to start a conversation with a few people. The ship was almost a maze, each and every corridor looking same to him, and two months still not enough time to fully explore the giant space.

But communal area 5 was probably the most popular and easily accessible area within the ship and that’s where Lance spent most of his days. It was always crowded which actually gave him the opportunity to struck a few conversations with the others and it was-

Suddenly stopping at the entrance, Lance found himself looking at the back of a group of Galra, the hall packed with people.

Communal area 5 might have been popular but it was never this crowded...

"Hey, what is happening?"

At his question, the Galra with a red mane gave a side glance; lips pushed together and thin tale flicking against her thigh. "Ragk" she murmured, body moving aside and allowing Lance to see the center of the crowd where a huge Galra was towering over a petite figure, teeth bared and hackles raised....literally.

"You think you have the right?! You need to learn your place, half breed!."

"Huh, and what IS my place, exactly?! C'mon dirtbag, tell me!"

Wait...did he know that small Galra?... she looked so familiar...

Suddenly a growl reverberated from the huge Galra's throat who Lance guessed to be Ragk, sharp teeth glinting in the artificial light of the ship. "Insolent mutt!" A huge hand reached over and before the other could stop it, curled around her throat.

What the hell?!

Lance looked around, expecting to see an inclination towards separating the two, only to find neutral faces.

Seriously?! What was this? Fight Club?!

Before he could authorize it with his brain, he had already moved, body wriggling between the other Galra

and moving towards the two at the center.

“Fuck off!”

The other Galra was struggling, her teeth bared and trying to bite into Ragk’s hand, while her tail swished angrily, almost striking the other in the face.

He knew her but...he just couldn’t pin it down. Though shaking the doubt away Lance stepped forward.

“Heyyyyy guys, let’s try something different today and not rip each other’s throat out, yes?”

He pulled on Ragk’s arm, his other hand reaching out towards the other Galra. At the contact both of them turned towards him, surprise showing on their faces...in fact shock was in every face surrounding Lance, all Galra undecided on what to do with this new development.

At last Ragk decided to take the lead.

“This is not your fight, Paladin!” he growled, eyes narrowing in disdain, the message clear in his voice.

Back off!

“Hey!” Lance exclaimed indignant, his fingers digging into the other’s skin, still trying to pry it away. “This is a peace mission, so yeah it is my fight!”

Ok...that didn’t really make sense, but -

Suddenly the petite Galra’s body twisted, tail turning and swishing across the air to land a solid across Ragk’s face, and subsequently with a quick move teeth cutting into his hand.

A pained howl fell from Ragk’s mouth, blood running down his hand.

Shit!

As the two separated, Lance bit down on his lip but stepped between them, panic churning deep inside him and fear travelling down his spine.

“Chett! You mutt!”

Wait...Chett?! Ah, now he remembered-

Before Lance could take another breath, Ragk gave a loud growl, his body charging towards the other.

“Hey, hey! Back off! Now!”

No wonder finding a skinny human between his body and his target, Ragk looked surprised, his eyes opening wide before narrowing into dangerous slits.

“I said,” he growled. “it is not your fight. Get out of my way!”

Lance took a deep breath, his heart fluttering in his chest.

“No.” he said simply, thanking universe for keeping his voice steady. “I’m not getting out of your way. Not with your attitude.”

“With my attitude?” Danger was extremely clear in Ragk’s voice, his eyes now fully shifting from Chett to Lance. Or maybe it was homicidal intent...

“Yeah, buddy!” Lance said, putting his hands over his hips, chin up with stubbornness. “Your attitude! What gives you the right to call her such names?”

Behind him Lance felt Chett shift, barely getting close to him.

“For one, I know she was one of the few who were stationed on the planet Ers. Half breed or not she fought for your stupid ass so you might consider re-thinking how you are going to address her. Besides -”

Ragk looked only shy away from strangling him but now Lance was pissed. Taking a step towards the giant Galra, he hit across Ragk’s chest with the back of his hand. “- do you really think you can afford fighting amongst yourselves, and alienate each other when half of the universe distrust your nation and the other half hates even hearing the word Galra?! Get real! You need to stick together or you are not going to make it!”

An eerie silence fell over the room.

Shit, Lance thought, panic squeezing around his throat. Great work at making friends, Lance.

Now he was always going to be an outsider and not just any outsider, but an outsider who looked down on them, who scolded them... Great...just great...

Taking a deep breath Lance readied himself to facing the music and drawing every Galra’s gaze on to himself. His hands curled into loose fists, legs shaking slightly, eyes watching carefully –

Wait?... Where were they looking? Somewhere-somewhere behind him?...

Turning slowly Lance surveyed the area, his eyes almost immediately focusing on the all familiar figure of Ezor and right beside her -

Lotor.

Shit...

Breath hitching Lance forced himself to calm down, a nervous tingle spreading down his spine, and his mind trying to estimate how much of the conversation Lotor might have heard.

“King Lotor-” he started, turning his attention to Lotor’s expression, entirely prepared to find anger, annoyance or any other negative feeling, yet-

There was a pleased smirk on Lotor’s lips... not a diplomatic smile, or a controlled neutral expression but a smirk!

“The Paladin is right!” Lotor said, his voice carrying across the hall without any difficulty. “We will only be defeated faster if we start fighting amongst ourselves, if we try to bring each other down.”

Eyes turning to Lance and taking in his surprised expression, Lotor’s smirk got softer. “We need to stick together.”

Lance felt his throat close, face burning.

The second time he saw it...it was a realization, catching him off guard...

It was eye opening.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"Let me tell you a story" Lotor says, causing Lance's head to rise from the rifle and wide eyes to focus on the stage. He doesn't remember any of these being in the original speech, yet they all fit, like puzzle pieces that finally make the picture clear.

Lotor looks entirely too comfortable in front of an unfamiliar crowd, the silver in his white robes catching the lights from Naen's red sun and giving him an ethereal feeling.

Lance wonders if this was planned as well.

"It is the story of a young child born into controversy, persecuted from the start because of looking different, because of not being pure enough. A half breed." Lotor stops, eyes taking in the whole crowd, something rising from his frame, for a few seconds expanding, enlarging, imposing.

A shiver runs down Lance’s spine, his throat closing off.

"That was what the child was called.” Lotor continues, eyes entirely fixed on the crowd.  “‘You don't belong’, was what the child heard each and every day. It was the punishment...of being born different." Taking an audible breath Lotor stops at the edge of the stage. Silence expands before him, all eyes fixed on him.

"... Her name was Narti"

Shock ripples through Lance, similar reactions echoing through the other communication lines as well, each and every member of the audience including his team seem surprised, the world pulled right under their feet.

“What is this?...” Zethrid breathes her voice tight and grave. “What is he doing?!”

Lance swallows, his fingers clenching around the rifle as the same question burns in his mind without any answer.

“She was a half breed as me, she was an ally, a... friend, and yet -  She was let down.” Eyes turning down, Lotor opens his hand, palms towards the audience, his frame looking extremely defenseless on the giant empty stage.

“She died because of her family”

Ezor takes a sharp breath, wetness in her voice calling for Lance’s attention.

Then taking a step back Lotor raises his head, eyes once again travelling across the crowd. “I have never had a family in the conventional sense.” He offers. “For me, it was never about blood”

Eyes fixed across the crowd, he raises his head. “It was about bond.”

Taking a few steps across the stage Lotor inhales with determination, a new kind of power settling over his frame, this time the energy far from hostile. “I am the leader of my people! I am the leader of Galra, of half breeds, of persecuted and persecutors. With their successes and failures, they are my family.”

Looking through the crowd, Lotor soon fixes his gaze on Queen of Naen, her eyes looking even bigger now. “It is a leader’s responsibility to protect his people.” Lotor addresses the queen, his voice kinder. “ It is his responsibility to provide a better future for his family.”

For a single suspended moment, the crowd holds its breath, the queen scrutinizing Lotor, then...a tiny nod.

Replying with a nod of his own Lotor, once again turns towards the crowd. “That’s why I am here.”

As Lance watches the King takes a controlled breath, voice rising with emotion.

“The war wounded each and every one of us! It has left ruins in our cities, yes! But more tragically it has left debris and rubble in our hearts. With every one we have lost-“

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"The war has left ruins behind, not just in our cities but in our hearts as well-"

"Now, that was good!"

"No.." Lotor growled, eyes fleeting across the paper in his hands. "It is too dry, it needs more feeling, a stronger tempo- It has to be more!"

"Uugh!" Lance let his head fall between the pillows his naked legs rising towards the ceiling as he wiggled his toes. "It has enough feeling, Lotor, please. You've been at it for five hours"

Raising his head Lance watched as, spectacularly ignoring him Lotor once again took his place in front of the mirror, eyes carefully fixed on his reflection, clearly ready to take the freaking speech from the top.

With a sigh Lance turned across the bed, face now turned towards the ceiling and long legs rising up and opening to the sides rhythmically. "At this point it is normal that it sounds dry to you" he tried, voice softer. “You’ve gone over it one too many times. You know the lines! That’s why they feel bland.”

There was a brief silence, then...

"Lance..." Lotor warned softly, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "I have to get this right."

There it was...the fear

"My people-"

Turning on his stomach Lance fixed his gaze on the other man. "They know you are trying your best, they have eyes and they can see it!" Then getting up from the bed, Lance let himself get close to the other man, eyes fleeting across his face.

Under the soft lights of the bedroom, Lotor looked tired, shoulders down, blue eyes unfocused but his jaw set, stubbornness bleeding from his frame.

"You need to rest," he murmured softly into the space between their lips, hands settling over the other man's shoulders then moving up to cup his cheeks. "You have been at this for hours"

At the contact Lotor's body relaxed as a whole, a sigh making it past his lips, and eyes closing in relief.

Even after all this time, it was still exciting to see when Lotor showed vulnerability, his carefully built walls coming down around Lance, opening up, trusting...

Encouraged at the reaction Lance took another step, warm body perfectly curling into Lotor's space. "C'mon, pretty boy, you can take another look in the morning." Lips ghosting, Lance gave his lover a look under his lashes. Fingers sensually trailed down the other man's arm, movements slow and careful, almost afraid to scare him. "It will be a fresh start." he whispered, fingers now brushing against the printed copy of the speech. "Just come to bed..."

Lotor opened his eyes to look at him, his breaths already turning tight with arousal...or maybe it was exhaustion...  A second later, something wistful passed through his gaze, tongue peeking out to lick his dry lips before-

He took a step back, Lance's fingers only brushing against the paper, and coldness seeping into his skin with his lover's absence. "I need to get this right."

There was such an edge in Lotor's tone that Lance could only swallow down his objection, concern churning inside him. "Lotor..." he murmured, reaching for him and planting a kiss over his lips.

A sigh tickled his lips, breaths mingling and the moment staying almost suspended between them. Then eyes linked with intent, Lotor raised a hand to run through Lance's hair, fingers settling at the back of his neck. "Lance..." he whispered, causing a lazy heat to pool at his stomach.

Another kiss shared... This time longer, heavier, needier... breathtaking and absolutely toe curling...

When they parted away, breaths still tight with need, Lance raised his eyes to look right into Lotor's, heart soaring without his permission.  "You'll do great... I know you will.”

Brows rising in surprise Lotor inhaled slowly, his breath quivering for a single second. Then with a smile that looked young on him, he nuzzled against Lance's nose, forehead leaning against his lover's.

Slowly...he exhaled.

"Thank you...Lance"

Nowadays he saw it all the time, the convoluted dance of weakness and strength, chipping away and dragging down, supporting and pushing up...

It used to be intriguing.

It used to be eye opening.

Now... it is simply theirs.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"I am not here for the prosperity of the universe...and I am not here for Voltron's quest of achieving peace."

Despite harsh words and commanding voice Lotor looks unsuspecting, his frame centered on the stage, and arms slightly open.

"WE are here for our families! We are here for those we couldn't protect and for those who we still want to!"

For a brief second a pained expression passes through the King's eyes.

"With all of our shortcomings and with all of our strength, the only thing that we want is to move forward!"

Lotor's gaze once again finds the queen, an expectant silence falling over the crowd.

"...And we want to move forward with you"

Silence...

Only shivering breaths and wide eyes fill the avenue...

Then –

Eyes closing, two fingers slowly rise up to touch across the queen's forehead.

The gesture of acceptance...of alliance...

One, then two, then three... Slowly the gesture spreads across the crowd, one by one fingers rising up, and a reverent hush falling over the people.

Across the stage, Naen's red sun raises high, its changing rays painting the King in pink. With a deep breath Lotor raises his fingers to his forehead and repeats the gesture.

"Thank you"

With a sigh and a smile, Lance closes his eyes, head tilted towards the sky.

Together...they will move forward.

[the-faultofdaedalus]

(Not So) Immortal

Inspired by the lovely @itsallavengers , and their immortal!tony fic! Please enjoy.

Steve woke up at the same time as everyone else, which was a surprise, considering he was usually up and about way earlier than everyone other than Thor and Bruce.

He was sure that Tony would have something witty and disparaging to say about that but--

Tony.

Steve craned his head around, doing a headcount. Natasha, near the corner, looking around for possible escape routes. Clint, with Natasha, glaring out of their cell with the same amount of focus. Thor, clutching Mjolnir and eying the wall contemplatively. Bruce, shackled hand and foot and looking worse for the wear, tired and angry and very much not green.

Tony was nowhere in sight, and even hoping, even praying that they hadn’t got him, even knowing that they had, he turned around to look out of the cell.

What he saw nearly stopped his breath cold in his chest, because there was Tony, sitting slumped and unconscious against the biggest bomb he’d ever seen, as supervillains, some old enemies and some Steve had only ever heard of, Loki, and MODOK at the forefront, stood across the room, while Doom himself stood right next to Tony.

There was some sort of barrier in between him, the team, and the rest of the dark room, in between him and Tony, and he raised his hand to punch it, to bring it down, when someone’s hand on his arm stopped him. Not actually physically stopping him, because the hand was too small to be Thor’s hand, but Steve stopped all the same and looked back at Clint, who shook his head. “Don’t. It’ll just hurt you, and no one needs that.” He said in an undertone, and Steve nodded, even though he still wanted to punch the damn thing.

“What is it?” He whispered back, and Clint looked at Bruce, who looked up from where he was inspecting the barrier as best he could with his hands and legs cuffed and shrugged.

“It’s some sort of blend of magic and tech. I can’t make heads or tails of it.” He said, apologetic.

Steve opened his mouth to say something else, but swearing from outside the cell interrupted him, and he spun towards the noise.

Tony was awake, awake and spewing vitriol at their captors, gesturing wildly at them, despite the large ornate cuffs chained together around his wrists.

Steve had a very bad feeling about this, which only got worse when Doom waved his hand, and the screens that Steve hadn’t seen before lit up, showing scenes nearly exactly the same to the one in front of them.

Bombs. Huge, and covered in wires and runes, horrible amalgamations of machine and magic, at least a dozen of them. And, if he was hearing the current monologue right, set all over the city.

His attention was jerked back to Tony when one of them, a man wearing a cloak that Steve didn’t recognize, spoke. “Ah ah ah! I would not do that if I were you, Mr Stark.” He said, as if chiding a naughty puppy, and Tony just rolled his eyes at him and didn’t stop twisting his hands in the cuffs.

“And why, might I ask, would that be?” He asked, and it was a shadow of Tony’s usually flippant tone, because even Steve could tell that those bombs were the real deal.

“Because,” He said, grinning to show too-sharp teeth, “If you tamper with those cuffs, if you take them off or prevent them from doing their job in any way, all 13 of these bombs will go off.”

There was stunned, horrified silence, and Tony’s “I don’t give a fuck” mask slipped into one of grim resignation as his hands froze and dropped back to his sides. “What do you want.” He said, flat and empty and determined.

Like he knew the answer, knew what was going to happen, and still hoped he’d be able to change the outcome. Loki grinned. “What we want, Stark, is for you to die.” He snarled, and out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Thor shake his head sadly.

And then Tony started to laugh. “Are you fucking serious!?” He said, looking around incredulously, like he actually didn’t believe them, “All of this to kill me?!” He shook his head, and gestured as best he could at the screens and the bomb behind him “No. That’s not right. It’s too easy. So, what do you want.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “As I have explained, we want you dead. The… dramatics, are because the Lady here,” He said, sweeping a graceful hand towards a woman crackling with dark red energy, “Believes you to be cursed.”

Tony blinked. “Ok, what the fuck. Why am I cursed. Who the hell even cursed me?!” He exclaimed, looking around like the group of villains standing on the other side of the room had an answer. “And how does me being cursed - if I even believe you - have anything to do with all of this!?”

Loki shook his head, still smiling that sharp little grin. “The maker of the Curse is unknown. Unfortunately, because for a curse for this to work, the spellwork must be…” He said, giving Tony a look that was decidedly unpleasant, “...Incomparable, and unbreakable. Which is unfortunate, because it is a rather large impediment to our goals.”

“And what are those?”

Loki rolled his eyes like Tony was a dull child. “As we have said. Our goal, for today, is for you to die!” He snapped.

Tony looked more frustrated than anything at that point. “And how exactly does a curse prevent that? In my experiences, curses tend to, you know, hurry that along, so-”

“ENOUGH!” Doom bellowed, waving his hand, and Tony’s mouth snapped shut around the words with an audible click. “Not this curse. This curse prevents you from dying any way other than at your own hand.” He said, and whatever magic was preventing Tony from interrupting fell away with a wave of his hand.

Tony laughed, a sharp bite of a sound. “Yeah, no. One, how is that a curse, and two, I call bullshit.” He said, and Steve wanted to shake him because all he was doing was making this situation worse. “Can you see this curse? Do you have proof?” He asked, looking around challengingly.

“Yes. You are still alive.” One of them, cloaked in shadow barked.

Tony shook his head. “Yeah. That’s not proof, because there is no curse. The reason I'm still alive is because I'm better than all of you.” He said, and he was smiling, sharp and hostile and like he’d won the game. “You haven't killed me because I'm smarter than you, because I’ll always be smarter than you, and if any one of you losers somehow manage to off me I’ll crawl back from hell and-”

Doom gestured again, and Tony’s mouth clicked shut, although the strength of his glare spoke nearly as loud as whatever obscenities he’d be planning to say. “Curse or not, you die today. MODOK?” He said, and the head clapped with glee as a timer counting down from 15 appeared above the bomb. Doom leaned closer to Tony, and a gun appeared in his outstretched hand. “This is how this is going to work. The manacles you are wearing are linked to these explosives. If, in 15 minutes, your heart hadn't stopped, they will all go off and you, your team, and a good portion of the east coast will die. If you tamper with the manacles in any way, the bombs will go off. If-”

Doom continued, even though Steve could barely hear him over the roaring of blood in his ears, could barely hear as he described all the ways that escape was not possible, the ways that this was a lose-lose situation, the ways that Tony’s death was a certainty.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, but according to the clock, was only a minute, Doom stopped, and waved his hand so Tony could speak again. He didn’t say anything immediately, but his eyes narrowed, flicking between the bomb and the timer and the cuffs, until they finally settled on Doom. “If I do this-”

There was a violent reaction from the team, and Steve could barely hear his own voice among them, but he knew what he was saying. No, and Don’t, and We’ll find a way, please, God-

Tony ignored them all. “If I do this, I need a guarantee that my team will be safe and these-” He gestured at the bombs, both on screen and not, “Will be destroyed. That no one will be able to use them. Or recreate them.” He said, looking far too serious, and oh God, he was going to do it.

The clock ticked down.

Doom nodded, like he was conducting a negotiation for a pay raise instead of someone's life. Instead of Tony’s life. “All of the spellwork is woven together. The teleportation spell will disintegrate when the bombs deactivate, and the bombs themselves will crumble once the spells holding them together are gone.”

Tony seemed to think that through, and nodded, back straightening and shoulders pulling back, the too-fake grin back on his face, but shaky, cracking around the edges to where Steve could see that he was terrified. “Alright. Is it too much to hope that I can get a last meal? No?” He said, trying for a joke and falling terrible, awfully flat. He sighed, and the last of his mask crumpled. “Ok. Do I at least get to say my last words in private?” He asked, and when Doom didn’t visibly respond, he shrugged. “Thought not.”

With that, Doom held out the gun, and Tony took it, turning it over in his hands with an inscrutable expression. “This is one of mine.” He muttered, holding it up, testing the weight and the balance, and all Steve could do was watch. “You assholes are pretty big on the dramatic irony, aren’t you.”

There was a crack of a gunshot, and Steve had a horrible moment of fear and his eyes closed of their own accord, not wanting to see, and opened them to see Tony holding the gun right at Doom, the bullet hanging between them in a green mist. Doom shook his head, and the bullet dropped to the floor. Tony shrugged, unapologetic. “You know I had to try.” He said, and went back to inspecting the gun.

When Tony started talking again, Steve almost missed it, because he still wasn’t looking at him, was just muttering, more towards the gun in his hands than anything else. “I don’t- I don’t really know what to say, here. I’ve never really thought about what I wanted my last words to be. Not that I didn’t think I’d ever need them, I just didn’t think I’d ever get the chance.” He said, and his voice was so soft that Steve barely heard him. He looked up, towards the cell, but didn’t make eye contact with anyone. “Just- Tell Pep and Rhodey what happened. They- they deserve more than a lie, even if it’s the kinder option. Tell JARVIS India-Mike-Kilo-1-15 and your override code. He’ll know what to do.”

Tony looked back down, to where he was holding the gun in front of his chest, and tapped the reactor where it shone through his undersuit. “Right, and get this back. Do not let these assholes get it, alright?” He said, looking right at them until they all nodded in unison, not trusting their voices not to crack. He took a deep breath, and continued, the words pouring out like a dam breaking. “Take care of the ‘bots for me. They- they don’t do well alone, and, they need something to do. They need jobs, even if it’s just cleaning out the trash, or organizing everything in different ways. And-” Tony started, and glanced up the clock, ticking down to his death sentence. He took a deep breath. “I think that’s all.”

He slid the clip out of the gun, checking the bullets, counting his shots, even though he’d only need one, and slammed it home with a snap.

No.

This couldn’t happen. It just… it just couldn’t.

Because it was Tony, and Steve just couldn’t imagine all that energy gone, the light in his eyes or his voice, because it seemed infinite. Because Tony was so reckless, so haphazard with his own life that losing it had almost become an impossibility. “Tony…” Steve whispered, unable to look away, away from his finger resting on the trigger of the gun with his name on it in more than one sense, unable to look away from the naked terror in his eyes.

“Oh, and one more thing?” Tony said, and he was looking right at Steve, and a grin flashed across his face, sharp and quick and real. “Avenge me.” He said, and for a second, Steve was certain that he had a plan, had some way to get everyone out of this. Had some way to get himself out of this.

And then there was a crack, a gunshot, brutal and loud and horrible, and Tony crumpled onto the floor, boneless and limp and there was blood, pooling at the back of his head and trickling out of the corner of his mouth, and he was still and Steve was shouting, he couldn’t hear the words but he was, frantic and desperate and disbelieving.

The timer had frozen, and Steve was banging on the wards, ignoring the sharp bites of pain as it threw them off with flashes of sparks, and then he was crumpling forwards onto the cracked, scorched street where’d they’d all been bantering cheerfully less than an hour ago.

Less than half that. When Tony had still-

“JARVIS?” He managed to say, managed to choke out, because he’d promised, he’d made a promise to a dead man, and he was going to keep it. There was a crackle of static on the comms, and Steve’s heart sank. “JARVIS?” He asked again, just to be sure, but again, there was no response.

Someone set their hand on his shoulder. It was Natasha, looking more somber than he’d ever seen her. “What do you want us to do.” She said, and Steve straightened to look at his team, to where Bruce was struggling to keep control, and Clint was yanking arrows from doombots with viciousness, where Thor looked as stormy as the sky above him.

Steve stood straight and kicked his shield up to catch it. “We do what he asked us to do. We avenge him.”

 The fight was quick and brutal and bloody. There were no warning shots. There was no chance to surrender, even though their enemies might’ve wished they could. The underground base had been reduced to rubble after the Hulk had taken his turn.

Steve only wished that Doom, Loki, and MODOK had been there when he did.

Thought, quite possibly the worst thing was that they hadn’t found Tony’s body. And they’d looked, searched through the rubble and narrow maze-like hallways that connected with the stormwater drains in more than a dozen places, but they hadn’t found him.

They’d looked until Fury had forced them to leave the search to SHIELD.

And now, exhausted and bruised and grief-ridden, they huddled around the too-quiet dining table, in the dark save for the computer Bruce was typing on, because JARVIS was still offline.

“Anything?” Steve asked, and Bruce shook his head, and pushed his glasses higher on his nose with a shaking hand.

“No, there- this- I’m good at this, better than most people, but Tony is- was, on a whole other level and I can barely make heads or tails of the coding language, it’s like nothing-”

The chirp of the elevator cut him off, and Steve turned to greet whoever it was. Pepper, maybe, or Rhodes. Maybe SHIELD with news.

And stopped breathing as Tony stormed towards them, covered in dust and blood, manacles dented but still around his wrists, though the chain between them had been severed by something. His undersuit was torn in places and lines of fury were etched into his face. He stopped just short of Bruce, and took the laptop out of his slack hands, all but slamming it onto the other side of the table and typing in furious code, and lit only by the glow of the reactor and the computer screen he looked like a ghost.

No one else had moved, still too shocked or… something to do anything but watch, and they all jumped when Tony swore, something about “hardline access” and insults that would’ve made any good army kid blush and slammed the laptop lid down, picking it up and storming back to the elevator.

The doors slid shut, and they all exploded into motion at once.

“Did you-”

“-Yes but how-”

“-Oh God, it’s him-”

“QUIET!” Natasha shouted, standing and marched toward the elevator, everyone else following without question. “He’ll be at the server room, if it’s really him.” She said, the calmness in her voice betrayed by the way her hands curled into fists.

None of them said anything else as they piled into the elevator, not a word spoken as it plunged into the depths of the tower, down through sub basements that they needed override codes to access, that Steve didn’t know even existed.

When the doors opened, it was to an airlock of an entranceway, open to show rows and rows of huge servers, Tony sitting on the floor in front of the nearest one muttering under his breath as he typed on the laptop.

In the new light, his upper back was crusted with dried blood, and his hands came away red when he ran them through his hair. “I’m going to fucking shred them for this.” He bit out, as he deleted an entire section of angry red code.

They took a step closer, and Tony didn’t acknowledge them at all, too focused in repairing JARVIS. “Though, you guys did a pretty good job yourselves. A+ on the avenging, though next time maybe don’t bring the whole damn thing down on my head- Jesus fuck, what did they do to you?!” He said under his breath, keeping up a steady stream of curses and vows to do horrible things to Doom next time, “That ugly plate-faced fucker showed his hide anywhere near New York.”

They stayed like that for a long time, until Tony hit the spacebar with a flourish, and the lights turned on. “Welcome back, J.” He called, looking towards the nearest camera with an uncertain grin.

“It is good to be back, Sir.” JARVIS replied, and Tony just slumped like a puppet with his strings cut, dropping the laptop and holding a hand against his chest.

He looked back to the team, and nodded to something in his own head. “Yeah, yeah. Ok. I’m- ‘m just gonna-” He started, and nearly fell over when he tried to stand, but the fact that he didn’t wave off Steve’s arm was more telling than words about his state.“You remember the code? The one I told you?” He asked, weight stoll mostly on Steve as they shuffled into the elevator.

Steve just nodded, and Tony continued. “Yeah, well, it just means that i’m fine. JARVIS was supposed to tell you, and-”

Steve cut him off gently. “It’s ok. You didn’t know they’d gotten JARVIS.” He said, and lowered Tony down onto the couch before taking a seat himself, not touching Tony, but close enough to hear his heartbeat. In the new light, Tony looked even worse, cement dust and little cuts and his hair still dark with blood. Steve forced away the image of Tony lying on the floor, still and dead with blood pooling behind him. “You’re here now, and you didn’t die. That’s all-” Steve started, but paused when Tony looked away. “Tony…”

“Technically…” Tony started.

Clint interrupted. “Uh, yeah. Are you sure you’re not cursed, because we watched you shoot yourself in the head less than an hour ago, and here you are, up and about and presumably, without a bullet in your skull. Want to tell us how you managed that one, Stark?” He said, sharp and biting and he was twisting an arrow in his hand, because they knew what they saw and what they saw hadn’t been survivable.

Tony winced, and sat up straighter. “Alright, before I say anything, I just want to remind everyone that I’m here, I’m fine, and it was kinda the only other option.”

That… that was so many shades of not good, and Steve had to force himself to breath and not shake the man beside him.

Tony took a deep breath, and started talking, almost so quick that Steve didn’t hear it. “So, about the not-dying thing, technically, I kinda… did. For about three minutes.” He said, and had obviously seen the horrified looks on everyone’s faces, but he just kept talking, even faster than before, fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the arc reactor. “This thing, it’s got what’s basically an emergency defibrillator built-in, just in case things go really really poorly, but since it’s, you know, basically just delivering a shock right to my heart, it can also do the opposite of what it’s designed for. Not’s it’s intended use, sure but, yeah.” He said, still not meeting anyone’s eyes, and lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

“Wasn’t too hard to set it to start it again after a time, and when I, uh, woke up again, everyone else was gone so i just, left. Or, I tried to, got as far as the easternmost tunnel before it kinda… collapsed. Not that I blame any of you!” He said, waving his hand in stringent denial, “But that’s why i took so long to get back. I had to shift some rubble, and trek through the storm drain system until I found an exit. So, yeah. That’s what happened.” Tony laughed, a short mirthful huff. “Looks like the terrible trio got what they wanted after all, even if it was slightly less… permanent than they might’ve wanted.”

There was silence, thick and pressing as everyone absorbed that. “But, there was blood.” Steve said, heard himself say, somewhat distantly.

Tony nodded, a hand going to the back of his head. “Yeah. Ripped my stitches, kinda-sorta on purpose, sorry Bruce, and bit my tongue. Nothing harmfull, but enough for it to be believable.”

“Yeah. It was pretty damn believable.” Steve growled despite himself, and Tony flinched.

“Look, I’m sorry. It wasn’t like I could’ve told you, and I didn’t have a choice. Do you think I wanted to do this? Do you think I fucking wanted to die, no matter how temporary? News flash, It’s not pleasant!” Tony barked back, hands clenching into fists and Steve reared back like he’d been hit.

The fight left him in an instant. “That’s not- that’s not what I meant. Just-”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, sinking further into the couch even as Bruce squeezed in behind him and started trying to find the cut on his head, “Yeah. Can we just agree that today has been remarkably shitty, order a ridiculous amount of food and watch a bad movie?” He asked, and there was a round of quiet but enthusiastic agreements. JARVIS added that their usual pizza order had been called in, and queued up one of the movies in the playlist especially for times like those. At some point, Tony has slumped further until his head was in Bruce’s lap and his legs were across Steve’s, Bruce’s hands still buried in his hair but less checking for injuries, and more just straight-up petting. “I,” Tony stated, “Am never moving again.”

Steve thought that was perfectly reasonable.

No one was really watching the movie, not really, but JARVIS still auto-paused when Clint spoke. “You know, Stark, I’m beginning to think that you might actually be immortal.” He said, from his spot on the large armchair where he was half-under Natasha. Thor grunted an agreement from where he was sprawled out on the floor.

Tony grinned, and tipped his head back so he could look at Clint upside-down. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” He sing-songed, and everyone chuckled before falling back into companionable silence.

No. Tony wasn’t immortal, not even close. He could die, he had died.

The important thing was that he kept coming back.

[askkav-archived]

All of the ♥️s

A♥️ - Who was the first person your muse ever fell in love with?

Define love to this idiot and come back to me

No but how I have Kavandria in this verse! is that she can’t show love in a more positive matter because she wasn’t taught or shown how to do so - it’s abusive and pretty difficult for her to swallow the emotions she feels for another because she believes it as ‘pity’ and pity is the last thing anyone wants to feel from another.

At least that’s what she feels and understands.

The first person she assumed she had feelings for, well - It was Akainu, the only man amd person at the time to tell her to get her shit together or else. She felt else though so don’t ask her about that, having your so called Godly flesh burnt is not the fondest of memories between them.

2♥️ - What’s your muse’s family like?

Kav’s mother is loving and a doting mother; though there isn’t a closeness as she would want between mother and daughter - Kavandria, due to her mother’s health, was taken care by carefully selected caretakers that were trained for the role of raising Kavandria.

Her father, though distant because of his nature to push himself into his projects and side business, is critical and wishes his only child to be raised sensibly. But sensible isn’t for a /God.

He laughs at what the so called Gods of this world believe in. Miracles, they believe in and things unknown to them. It’s ridiculous.

3♥️ - How would your muse react to a confession of love?

With disbelief and will ridicule you. Adoration and admiration of a God is common.

4♥️ - What are your muse’s thoughts on starting/raising a family?

No.

So here’s the thing with Kavandria; she doesn’t understand, at first, that she is born female. None of this has ever occurred to them - whether their body is feminine or masculine because for so long, they were raised to see themselves as God. Genders don’t exist for them, humans have them but they don’t because for so long, it’s always been Saint Kavandria or some other title comparison to them being as such. God, their holiness, etc etc.

Starting and raising a family was never a thought for so long until Akainu came into her life and tear down years and years of her own beliefs. He pushed her and made her see that she is a woman, that she was meant for child bearing and nothing more.

“You’re no god.”

Bitter and upset, Kavandria will make sure of it that she never bears a child and that she isn’t what Akainu says of her - a human woman pretending to be something they aren’t.

So no, they don’t want to start a family - Out of spite and bitterness to a man who despises her and her position. Though it doesn’t mean she hasn’t subconsciously thought or dreamt of a scenario like so.

5♥️ - What was your muse’s most heartbreaking separation/divorce/etc?

Her parents never divorce and she’s rarely felt connected to others’ to feel a disconnection. So she hasn’t felt much of a heartbreak - Not yet from the current timeline I have in my head, at least.

6♥️ - What sort of charity work has your muse done?

Death. Of Slaves and humans. Judgment is her only way of charity work.

7♥️ - Has your muse ever cheated or been cheated on?

There would have to be an established relationship between Kavandria and another for their to be any cheating, to which I’ll say this - Kav hasn’t been in an actual and mutual relationship by both parties (or more). So she hasn’t been cheated on or cheated on another.

8♥️ - How well does your muse perform in social situations?

Like as in, how they will behave and act at a party or some other? Well, at parties, I suppose she is the light of the party due to her status and people trying to suck up to her. To which she’ll greatly enjoy the attention.

She’s neither apologetic or humble so you can understand how unbearable they can be.

Getting her alone and such; oh, hhahaha, I pity the idiot that has given that thought. So used to attention and adoration, one person isn’t enough and if she has someone alone, it only means she wants one simple thing. Them.

9♥️ - Has your muse ever had unrequited feelings for someone?

Yes, plenty. She will not admit it though, it’s often a tough subject for her to come out with as well. As she cannot show or properly demonstrate a positive way to show her love and feelings - (Like, she’ll kill off a slave or a marine she’ll start to have feelings for - especially the romantic kind because it fucks with her head and her emotions. She doesn’t want to be seen as weak or emotional as Akainu says she is for being, yeah, that.)

10♥️ - What was the last party or social event your muse went to?

For being a socialite and loving attention and such things, you would think they would be attending parties every night, right? Not so, the last sort of social event she went to was the reverie.

As she gets older, she begins to see just how shallow and the false faces of those who attend reverie are - With the help of Doflamingo who gets her to see just how much she is hated for her place and standing in this world.

“You aren’t as loved as you thought.”

J♥️ - Who does your muse consider their best friend?

Best friend? What is that? What is a friend to a World Noble or a God, in this case? None, they don’t have much of a friend or someone to rely on.

Saying their mother is their best friend is a sad thing but she’s the only one to be both unapologetic and allows their daughter to do as they please, Veledia spoils Kavandria because she’s there only child to their name.

Q♥️ - Who is someone special that your muse always thinks about?

Rarely anyone has met the bar of being anything special to Kavandria, well, as of yet. Though that’s what she tells you for the most part but there’s a special place for Akainu. (She hopes that it is the frozen pits of hell but saying it out loud stings for reasons.)

K♥️ - Who does your muse look up to as a role model? 

Kavandria, feeling as though she’s on top and there’s no one above her for the majority of her life - Has never looked up to anyone as a role model, they couldn’t possibly ‘lower’ their standards. They feel as though they are a standard though hha.

But I suppose one whom has come close to being looked up to by Kavandria was Doflamingo - before she found out the hard way just how naive she is.