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spacegoldilocks · 3 years

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The Gods Demand a Queen

Bjorn Ironside x F!Reader

Summary: You're a thrall in Kattegat, under the rule of Bjorn, who desires to one day be Queen and sit on the throne. He helps you realise these dreams, in more ways than one.

Tags/Warnings: NSFW, smut, rough sex, throne sex, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, bit of choking, bit of spanking, size kink, praise, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.5k

The Gods have never favoured you.

You’ve been at someone else’s will for as long as you can remember. Not all of them have been nice. It’s toughened you up, though. You’ve learnt your place and your manners. You’ve learnt when is the correct time to speak, and definitely when isn’t the correct time.

You’ve been in Kattegat, under the mercy of Bjorn Ironside, for a few months now. He’s fair. You mostly stay in the shadows and out of his way. He’s not even here most of the time, anyway. You can’t really complain about your time here, even though you dream of a different life.

You dream of sitting high on a throne somewhere. Anywhere. Not having anyone to answer to. Your own thralls and slaves to do with as you please. A thousand people who call you their Queen, who sit around you, showering you with compliments and gifts. Sacrifices in your own name. A crown upon your head and your face smeared with colours that tell everyone that you are the Queen.

Alas, dreams are dreams. And you don’t dare defy the authority that lingers over you. The fate that awaits your disobedience and failure to capture the power you so desperately crave is worse than simply maintaining your fantasy. You listen attentively to the every need of the family in charge. Most notably, Bjorn.

He’s away more often than he’s here. In those moments, the throne lays empty. Practically begging to be used. At present, no queen resides in Kattegat and you long for the feeling of the throne beneath you. It calls to you like no other.

It’s more than a feeling that tells you that you belong on the throne. You feel as though the Gods have a plan for you. They keep you waiting, so you can ready yourself for when the times comes. It is a question of when not if. The Gods demand a queen for Kattegat, you can hear them.

You say Bjorn is away more than he’s here, yet today is one of the rare times he’s here and he’s active. A room full of people and many duties to attend to. Which also means you’ve been on your feet all day. With Bjorn home and his being busy, you’ve had no end of tasks to complete and requests to indulge.

It started this morning when he and his men arrived on the shores of Kattegat. You having to draw baths and prepare a feast, wash clothing and all the while do it quickly to keep time for any other jobs that might need doing. This included waiting on their every need as they enjoyed festivities for returning safely from their travels.

And so, the throne has been occupied. The only time Bjorn left his seat was to eat with his men, and he quickly returned to it when he was finished. You’d been watching him since he returned. The way he sits, spreading across the chair. Arms thrown over the sides, legs parted, head resting against the back as he looks down at everyone else.

Despite everything you feel, there’s no denying that power suits him. He makes a good king. He is fair and strong and courageous. And he is a son of Ragnar. He speaks with a loud, commanding voice when he addresses his people, thanking them for their bravery and telling them that they live to face more battles before walking the halls of Valhalla.

You won’t lie to yourself and say he’s not attractive, you’ve thought about it before. If you weren’t a thrall and spent more time with Bjorn, you like to think that something might’ve happened between the two of you. But you really have a knack for staying in the shadows, hidden, and only coming out when absolutely necessary.

Throughout the entire evening into night you’ve stayed hidden away as much as possible, watching Bjorn in his position on the throne. Gods, he’s so big. You shake the thought from your head, feeling the pain in your shoulders from so much time racing around today. Your back is killing you. But it’s getting very late, not long and you should be able to go to bed. Not long, you tell yourself. Everyone in the hall should be getting tired too, a long day of celebrations after an even longer time travelling.

They start disappearing in small numbers. Many women leaving in the arms of men, some already married, others seeking comfort in one another just for the night. You’ve made it your business to become familiar with a lot of people around here, not just so you can be a good thrall, but just in case. In case of what, you don’t know. You just think it might be good to have a good indication of who people are, and what they do, in case you need it.

Eventually, there’s only you, a few other slave girls and a handful of men, who are outrageously drunk. They’re so loud. They shout and bang their fists and cups on the table, spilling their drinks and making an even bigger mess that will need to be cleaned up.

Bjorn looks almost fed up, scowling as he watches the men from his seat. He holds his chin, elbow propped up on the arm of the throne. “That is quite enough.” He calls.

All eyes shoot to him. The men look like they want to argue back at him, but ultimately know better than to do so.

“Finish your drinks and leave. Everyone needs their rest.” He gestures around the room, even though there are only a few men, all concentrated on the table nearest the fire. “We have a long few days ahead of us.”

They chug their drinks, not wanting to disappoint or annoy Bjorn any further. They leave one by one, as soon as they each finish drinking, bowing to him before swaggering out of the hall.

You and the other girls are expecting Bjorn to up and leave, letting you all take care of the mess in the hall. But he doesn’t.

You each look at one another from across the room, spaced out along the walls. You’re all as confused as each other, trying to look for someone, or something, to take a cue from.

One of the girls, directly across from you, begins to move. She steps forward gingerly, looking at Bjorn as she does so for any sign that he wants everyone to remain as they are. It’s incredibly tense. This has never happened before. You’re waiting for his voice to boom and echo throughout the mostly empty room, telling the girl to return to her place.

His eyes flick to her, watching as she goes to the table, picking up as many items as she can carry, before returning to stare at the ground, lost in thought and twiddling his fingers. He doesn’t seem to have a problem - you’d know if he did.

And so the rest of you follow her lead, carrying things out of sight to clean and making the hall look more presentable after being thoroughly worn out by the returning warriors.

Your whole body aches. Your back, your feet, your head. Everything. At this point, you just want to sit down. The soles of your feet are probably worn from standing, walking, rushing from one place to the next.

You take any little milestone you can get. You told yourself everyone in the hall would leave and they did. Check. Now it’s four more tables to clear, the fire to put out, the goblets and cups to leave soak. The list goes on.

You and the other girls are dotted around the hall, cleaning and collecting different things when Bjorn gets up. You all make it your duty to not look at him.

Do not make it obvious that you were waiting for him to do something.

You hear him make his way across the room, his heavy boots making the wood underneath him creak, thumping across the stone floor as he descends from the elevated throne. His footsteps stop much too early for him to have already left the room, let alone the building. It’s unbearably quiet.

You audibly gasp when you hear whispering voices - much too quiet for you to understand what they’re saying, and thankfully they’re too far away for them to have heard your embarrassing gasp. Although, you immediately recognise one of the voices as Bjorn’s. Gods, you’d love to turn around to see what he’s doing. His behaviour tonight is continually fascinating.

You try your best to keep going with your task. ‘Just clean the table’ you tell yourself. ‘Focus on that. There’s a stain, try to get it out. Pay no attention to the-‘. Now there’s two sets of footsteps. One Bjorn’s, the other one of the girls. Is she leaving?

The stain. You scrub at it, trying to ignore the way Bjorn’s footsteps stop again. Followed by more whispering. And more footsteps. What the fuck is going on?

You think another one of the girls has left too. You scrub harder at the stain, thinking that perhaps if you channel enough of your remaining energy into removing it then your brain won’t have any to think about what Bjorn may or may not be doing.

Gods, why are you so on edge? Would you be this tense if you could actually see what he was doing? Shit, is that more whispering? And it’s closer. Maybe if you stopped scrubbing the table so loudly you could just about hear…

No. The stain.

Fuck, what is happening? In the room, to the girls, to Bjorn, to you.

You can probably guess what’s happening to you - you’re tired. You’re becoming delusional from being so exhausted by today. You’ve worked hard. You’re still working hard. This damned stain. You’re working so hard to remove it, to distract yourself, you’re only now feeling the way your shoulder is pulling from the harsh movements of your arm.

The stain’s probably gone. You lift your arm up to check and, sure enough, it is. Surely, you’re done for the night now? You’re exhausted, the long hours you’ve worked today are starting to catch up with you. You want to sit down. You want your bed. You want to rest. You want the hand that’s just started rubbing circles across your back to keep doing it. Gods, you could fall asleep right here, the motions lulling you.

Fuck. You flash back to your reality, your head whipping around as Bjorn’s eyes meet yours. He looks aggressive, towering over and shrouding you against the table. His hand rests on the small of your back as he just looks down at you. Maybe its your exhaustion, or perhaps its seeing him this close up for the first time, but Gods is he gorgeous.

Well, you’ve always thought he was handsome but something about seeing the many scars on his face that you’d never had the privilege of seeing before, and the brilliant blue of his eyes somewhat dimmed in the firelight, and the coarse hairs of his beard like this snaps you awake. His smile breaks through the tough exterior he presents, making you relax just a little bit.

The next words that come out of his mouth take you by surprise more than his hand that smoothes across your back. “Have a drink with me.”

Have a drink with him? You probably look insane because you just stare at him. Completely dumbfounded. Somehow you manage to nod your head, letting him lead you away from your lovely, clean table to a slightly dirtier one. At least he appreciates your hard work.

You set yourself down on one of the benches by the fire, resting your arms on the table to try to find a comfortable position where your back doesn’t ache. Bjorn, meanwhile, crosses the room, fetching with him two cups of ale. He sits down right next you, leaving a bit of space but not much.

He looks at you quizzically as he takes a gulp of his drink, whilst you sip. “What is your name again?”

You’re not surprised he doesn’t remember, it’s been many months since you last spoke to him outside of his instructions to you. You answer him between sips of the ale. It’s not your favourite drink in the world, but you like it. And you’ll probably get a small buzz off it between your sleepiness and the lack of water you’ve drank today.

“Hm,” he hums. “That was it. You have been here for several months now, no?”

You can’t help but wonder why he’s sat with you, asking you questions about yourself. Is he expecting you to ask questions back in return? You don’t think there’s a thing you don’t know about him. He is the king, after all.

You nod. “And what do you think of Kattegat?” He swigs from his cup, eyes staying on your face as you carefully consider his question.

You have nothing negative to say about the place, but you still try to choose your words carefully in case you say the wrong thing. “I think it is lovely here.”

He stays silent, willing you to keep talking.

“The people are nice, the food is good. And it is a beautiful place. There is much to see and do.” You elaborate.

He smiles under his beard, nodding in approval at your answer. You sip some more, waiting for another of his questions. He gets up to refill his cup, having finished it rather quickly. He checks yours, seeing it still mostly full, and walks across the room.

Just when he’s about to sit back down, he asks you another question. “And what do you think of the King?”

Your heart starts hammering against your chest - what sort of question is that? Moreover, what the fuck does he expect you to answer if not praise? You see his kind smile has turned into a devilish smirk when you look at him. Are you imaging it or has he sat ever-so-slightly closer to you?

You straighten yourself up, ignoring the painful tugging of your shoulders. “Well,” you begin. “I think that he is just, and fair. And that he makes a good leader.”

The smug look on his face stays, not bearing to stay silent long enough for you to make the decision to keep talking on your own. No, instead he insists you keep feeding his ego as soon as you take the smallest break in talking. “Go on.”

This time it’s you who smirks at him. “I know he is a fierce warrior. And I think that he looks rather good on the throne.” You mean the last remark in that the symbol of authority suits him. But, if he decides to take it … another way, then that’s up to him. Either way, you don’t mind what he interprets the comment to mean.

He looks away from you, chuckling, but giving nothing away. It makes you laugh a little bit too, any tension from earlier having melted away with your easy interactions.

It doesn’t last, not for you at least.

“Tell me, have you ever thought about what it would be like to be Queen?”

With one single sentence, you feel as if he can see right through you, right into you. Fucking of course you have, but how should he know? How can, in one sentence, he be able to floor you like he this, to ask you a question so unintentionally personal? One that pulls something deep within you, something you’ve never voiced to anyone and suddenly now it’s being unearthed by the one person who you should never have to confess it to. Not that you necessarily need to confess the degree to which you have thought about it, but even the insinuation that you have is enough for you to begin flustering, muddling any answer that comes into your head into an unintelligible mess that you can’t verbalise.

You’re quiet for much, much too long. You need to say something. “I’m sorry?” You settle for pretending not to understand.

But it’s no use. The damage caused by you silence is done. His jaw rocks to the side, clenched so hard his jaw bone juts outs under his beard. “So you have.”

Your drink lays forgotten, only serving as a distraction for your anxious hands as you fidget with the rim of the cup. You avoid his gaze, unsure how to act. Then again, surely everyone has dreamt about being king or queen? Maybe not to the degree you have, but doesn’t everyone strive for power? You hold your head up a little bit, feeling slightly reassured by your own line of thinking.

You keep your eyes trained forward, though. He tips his head to look at your face and you can just feel the way he’s smirking at you. He’s left you looking so stupid, stewing in your own thoughts.

“Come with me.” Is all he says as he swings his legs over the bench to stand up. When you look up he’s waiting, hand held out for you to take.

You get up, smoothing your dress out and taking his hand. He guides you out to stand with him on the other side of the bench and leads you towards the very far end of the long room. Towards the throne.

Your eyes flick from him, to the throne, to him again - back and forth as you walk the length of the room.

He stops at the chair and you stop with him, still with your hand in his. Is he doing this as a display to taunt you? Show you up close what you can never have? It’s fucking cruel if he is.

You wait for him to do something so you can take a cue from it. You look up at him and he simply motions with his hand to the throne. You frown, waiting for more information from him. “Sit.” He says.

Sit? On the throne? On his throne? Gods, is this some sort of test? Is he giving you a taste, a mere crumb, of how it might feel to actually have power? Or is he just pushing you to see how far you’re willing to go to obey him? It’s his throne, it belongs to him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone else use it - not even while he’s away, far gone on a raid somewhere.

He drops your hand, using his own to push gently on your shoulders. He spins you around, pulling you down to sit on the throne as he stands behind you.

The room looks huge from this position. Slightly elevated above everyone else and able to see everything and, should the room be full, everyone. It’s comfortable too, and big. You expected as much, Bjorn doesn’t even fully fill the chair and he’s the biggest, broadest man you think you’ve ever seen.

He lowers himself to your ear behind you. “How does it feel?”

‘Correct’, is what you want to say. “Good.” Is what you settle for.

He straightens back up, placing his hands on your shoulders. He’s so big, and he’s putting far too much weight on your already sore shoulders, causing you to wince. “Are you alright?” He asks, alleviating some of the pressure.

“‘M fine, my back hurts is all.” You try to make it not seem as bad as it is, but truthfully you’re in pain.

“Let me help.”

“N-no, it is fine, really.” You lean forward to get up from the throne just as he starts using his thumbs to dig right into a tight spot in the middle of your shoulder blades. You let out a groan at how good it feels, closing your eyes and slumping your head against the back of the chair. Any desire to get up leaves you as Bjorn works the muscles at the back of your neck.

“Tell me if it is too hard.” The calloused pads of his fingers trace firmly across the tops of your shoulders, barely grazing your collar bones as his thumbs work into the top of your back.

It’s a power trip. You sitting on his throne whilst he massages the knots out of your back and shoulders. It’s getting you high, and you open your eyes to look out across the room. You imagine how it would look full of people. Like it was earlier tonight. Packed full with people there to see you. You'd kill for it.

Gods, his hands feel so fucking good and they spread across your shoulders so big. Your eyes flutter back closed, wanting to enjoy his touch without much other sensory experience.

You’re reluctant to acknowledge the fact that it’s turning you on, too. The pain of him rubbing away the aches mixes with just how amazing his warm hands feel against your bare skin. It makes you moan, forgetting where you are as you revel in his hands taking the pain away from you, leaving only traces of his touch behind.

He focuses on your arms now, the clusters of dull ache now gone from your back. His palms work down your biceps, squeezing your soft flesh over your clothes and coming back up to massage your shoulders. His fingers spread out over your chest, rubbing the skin there. You hum under his touch, which he can probably feel reverberating on your chest under his fingertips.

You didn’t tell him your chest hurt, but he spends time concentrating on manipulating your flesh there anyway. His fingers dig into the bones, coming up momentarily to wrap his thick fingers around your neck, squeezing before dipping back down. He repeats this a few times, making you whimper every time he does.

“Is this good?” He whispers from behind you.

You moan out a small ‘yes’, letting him continue with his handy work. His splayed hands come further down your chest, beginning to dip below the necklace of your dress. Your heart beats faster and fuck, you’re wet. You’re trying not to let it get to you but in this moment, you’d let him do anything to you, you realise.

You furrow your brows, trying to push it to the back of your mind, but his hands keep working further and further down, in tiny increments. You swear he’s going to reach your breasts any moment. But he doesn’t. It feels like he’s teasing you. In fact, he goes anywhere besides them. He massages the skin directly above them, kneading into it with the heel of his palm. Then, he dips his fingertips deep into the neckline of your dress, drawing a long, hard line through the middle of your chest, dragging between your breasts. He starts near the bottom of your sternum, feeling the rapid beat of your heart as you try not to think about the warmth pooling between your legs.

You don’t see the way his jaw clenches as he realises how rousing you’re finding this, being groped and touched by him. He told himself he wasn’t going to take it any further, but he can’t help himself. Not when you respond to his touch like this. All the little moans you’ve been making, and the way your heart thrums against your chest. He wants more from you. He wants to hear and feel more of you. Fuck it, he thinks.

He touch leaves you, and you feel yourself come down slightly from a high you didn’t even realise was so severe until it cuts short. You open your eyes to see him walking around to the front of the throne again. He extends his hand to you, much like he did earlier, and you know its your signal to get up from the throne.

You take it, feeling no pain whatsoever in your back, nor shoulders, when you hurl yourself from the comfort of the chair.

He surveys you, using his free hand to cup your cheek. His touch is intoxicating. You don’t know what it is, but the way his hands feel on your skin makes you chase the warmth of him, needing more than the short strokes he gives you. You lean your head into his palm, only slightly but enough to indicate your interest to him.

He’s trying so hard not to give into the part of his brain that tells him to kiss you and to touch you even more. But he hasn’t done well at fighting it up until now. And, unless he’s deluded, you want this too.

Your chest rises and falls, waiting for him to do something. It’s not your place to. His hand stays holding your cheek. It’s so fucking big. It’s big enough for his palm to cover your entire cheek. Gods, his hands were big enough to almost spread out across your chest. His long, thick fingers working at the base of your neck and down past your breasts. Your mind drifts as you stare at him, thinking about how they might feel somewhere else.

His hand drops from your cheek. You think he’s going to walk away and leave you desperate for his touch again. Instead, he sits back down on his throne, looking up at you as he settles against the back of it casually.

Fucking Gods, if he keeps looking at you like that you’re going to jump on him. It’s him that made you feel like this anyway. You were perfectly content to go to bed after finishing cleaning, but no. He had to ask if you wanted a drink with him, and ask you questions, and fucking massage you as you sat on his throne.

He keeps looking at you, considering what to do next. All he knows is he wants you out of your dirty, worn clothes. He flicks his hand up and down, gesturing at them. “Take it off.” He tells you.

Finally, you think, trying not to be too eager in removing your garments.

You start with your shirt, unhooking the top few buttons to allow you to slip the long sleeves down your arms. You let the sleeves fall and the rest of the garment goes with it, left in a heap at your feet. You’re completely revealed for him, your body glowing from the light of the fire behind you.

His cock twitches in his trousers upon seeing you bare before him. He’s trying not to be too obvious, trying to be patient in looking at your body, but he’s greedy. His eyes roam over you, drinking in every inch of your exposed skin that he can see.

You look down at the slight tent in his trousers, smirking at him. He returns it, curling his finger at you to beckon you forward. You’re much too far away, he wants to let his hands explore you. Much further than they already did.

You walk to him, meeting his hands as they come up to hold your tits. Those big fucking hands that trace under the swell of your breast. That grope at your flesh, and his thumbs that brush over your nipples, hard in the cool night air that makes its way into the hall.

He alternates between pinching your nipples, pulling them so hard it almost hurts, and soothing them again by gently rubbing over them.

Everything about this feels so dirty. Displaying yourself to Bjorn. The literal king. Offering yourself to him naked like this whilst he sits completely clothed on his throne. You know you’re probably not the first thrall he’s done this with, but it’s a first for you. And you actually like it. It’s a thrill. Whimpering at every roll of his fingertips over your nipples.

You ache for his touch somewhere else, trying to subtly squeeze your thighs together to relieve some of the ache. He doesn’t seem to be in any sort of hurry, taking his time to study every detail and flaw in your skin. It could be ages before he touches you elsewhere - if he decides to touch you elsewhere.

He pinches you again, but you’re so sensitive from his hands that you yelp, chest jumping under his touch. He looks up at you, looking at your face for the first time since you removed your clothes as he leans forward, enveloping your breast in his mouth. His tongue is hot but does wonders to soothe the slight stinging. He maintains eye contact as he swirls gentle circles around your nipple, leave a small bite before he moves to work on your other one. His beard scratches at your skin as he moves his mouth, melting in with the pleasure he's already giving you.

You snake your arm around his head, holding him to you as you watch him in awe. He’s an expert with his tongue, flicking and drawing patterns over the peaks. He moves on from focusing all of his attention on them though, sucking sloppy wet kisses into the bouncy flesh on your tits. He travels the kisses across your chest, leaving you glistening with his saliva. He goes down, grabbing at your hips as he traces his tongue down the centre of your breasts to just above your navel.

You want him to go further, resisting the want to buck your hips towards him to will him to go on. He draws his head back, his hands still resting on your hips.

He shifts his gaze down, watching his own movements as his fingers move across your lower abdomen, combing through the curls that lead him down.

“Is this okay?” He asks.

You nod. Gods, it’s more than okay. You’ve been waiting for him to touch you for the last … how long? You’ve lost all sense of time. All you know is you’re needy for him.

His tips of his fingers travel further, stilling as they reach the beginning of your slit. He lifts his head, studying how your face contorts in pleasure as he moves his fingers again, pressing one of them against your clit.

He pushes his finger down further towards your entrance, feeling how wet you are there. He smiles at this, satisfied knowing how turned on you are for him. He drags his finger back through, now wet with your slick, using it to draw an irritatingly weak circle around your clit. You try to push your hips further forward for more pressure, but the hand that remains on your hip prevents you from doing so.

Your breath staccatos as he pays not nearly enough attention to your throbbing clit. You moan at the loss of contact when he removes his hand from your cunt altogether, spinning you around so your back, and ass, face him. He almost pushes you over as he grabs handfuls of your behind, spreading your cheeks apart to really get a good look at you.

All you need is just a little push, a minute or so of strong, steady work on your pussy to send you over the edge. He’s intent on making you wait though. It’s cruel, you think. He knows what he’s doing to you - he’s fucking felt it. It’s sadistic. Making you wait. Teasing you.

He kneads your ass, his thumbs dipping into the space between your cheeks, so close to where you need him but never quite reaching there. It’s torturous. You know if you push your rear out against him, it’ll probably result in a longer wait before he properly pays you the attention you desperately crave. And so you stay just as you are, letting him manipulate your flesh as he so pleases. You can wait, you tell yourself.

Suddenly, he takes one of his hands away, using it to place a hard smack against your ass. You cry out as you feel heat rising where he’s slapping you. It stings and you’re surprised you like it. He watches your body shake, eagerly awaiting more. You clench around nothing as he lands another one. And another. He huffs a laugh, seeing how your body jolts at every strike, continuing to land a few more as he pleases.

He seems satisfied with his work on your behind, raising his hands to your hips once again. He places a soft kiss on your burning skin and then you’re being hurled backwards, landing on his lap.

He immediately starts attacking your neck with tongue and teeth, hands roaming around your stomach to pull you into a comfortable position on him. He then uses them to pull your legs over both of his, spreading them to give himself access to your body.

And he makes sure he makes the most of it. He grabs your tits, letting your head roll onto his shoulder as he continues his assault on your neck. You feel your skin going tender as he sucks harsh spots against the delicate flesh there. You feel the irritation there as his rough beard scratches your skin, with the potential to leave your skin marred.

“Do you want me to touch you?” He whispers between sloppy kisses.

“Gods, please.” You moan in response.

“Where?” He grabs your hand, placing it over his and pressing firmly, letting you guide him wherever you want him. You take his hand down, letting it hover over your trembling cunt. He nips at your jaw. “I thought so.”

He repeats his motion from earlier, pressing a single finger against your clit, but instead of only dipping down to your entrance, he opts to slide an entire finger into you down to his knuckle. Your back tries to arch away from him, but he keeps you locked down against his chest with his spare arm.

He pumps the finger in and out of you, making the most obscene squelching sound from the warm wetness he uses to ease the movements of his digit. Your arms lay useless at the side of you, letting him do all the work to pleasure you.

He adds another finger, scissoring the two of them inside you, stretching you open as he brings his thumb down onto your clit. To go from one lone finger to this makes you cry out, hips spasming from the shock. You can’t help moaning with how he works your pussy, curling his fingers to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you feel dizzy.

“If you keep being so loud people are going to hear you.” He warns.

“Maybe I would like that.” You retort, bucking your hips as far as you can with him restricting your body’s movements.

You feel his cock twitch against you as he snarls into your ear. “Such a filthy girl.” One of his hands begins snaking its way towards your throat, grabbing at it harshly to cut off any noise that tries to escape your mouth. “But as much as I like hearing your pretty sounds, I need you to be quiet.”

The moans get trapped in your throat, and you can’t warn him of your oncoming orgasm. It starts creeping up on you, burning low in the pit of your stomach as his hands work to push you further and further. You hit at the hand on your neck, trying to get him to let you go.

He loosens his grip but the fingers inside you work faster to make you cum. “What is the matter?”

“Close.” Is all you say, the oxygen able to reach your brain again momentarily before he constricts around your neck again.

He nods into your shoulder, kissing you there as he pumps, nudging your clit with his thumb as he does so. The way you make the smallest noises that he feels trying to escape beneath his fingers makes him groan. You’re making him so fucking hard. Your pussy clamps down around his fingers, preparing for your climax when he slows his movements down entirely, sending you spinning away from coming. He removes his fingers from you, bringing them to trace small wet circles around your nipples, as his other hand eases its grip on your throat.

It takes you completely by surprise, only seconds away from finishing when he rips it all away from you. You’re breathless, asking him why he stopped. “I didn't cum.” You tell him.

“No, I know.” He laughs the deepest, filthiest laugh you think you’ve ever heard in your ear. “You’re not coming yet. I want you wetter before I make you cum on my cock.”

The words hit deep inside you, making you clench on instinct. So this is what he wants to do? Prepare you to take him. Or maybe he just likes seeing you squirm and fidget on his lap, completely in control of your body.

Either way, it’s doing wonders to keep you wanting him.

He slowly drops his hand back down, bringing the same two fingers into your warm heat. He leaves your clit alone, focusing all his attention on dragging the rough pads of his fingers against the sweet spot inside you. He curls them, hitting just where you need him to every single time. It’s bliss and before long your walls start fluttering, a sign of your peak.

He feels it. He feels how your pussy starts spasming around his fingers, clenching the very tips of them as he pushes them so fucking deep into you. He loves this. Getting to push you further and further. He wants you begging for him to let you cum. Begging for him to fuck you and let you cum all over him. He wonders how many times he can edge you before he gives in to your sweet little cries and pleading eyes.

Both of you knew it wouldn’t take long for your high to burn back up as quickly as it diminished. It makes you crazed, letting your loud moans fill the hall with nothing around your neck to stop them getting out. He works faster, now knowing how you respond to being so close, pushing his fingers into your opening and using his other hand to absentmindedly play with your tits.

He knows now how to work you up unbearably quick and strip it all away before you're pushed too far - and it’s exactly what he does. As you're sent hurtling forwards towards your high once again, he takes away his fingers, leaving you edged again.

You slump back against him and let your head rest on his shoulder, already exhausted from the whiplash of pleasure and it being stripped away before it’s able to consume you.

He rolls your head towards him, pressing his lips against your forehead. “You’re doing so well.” He praises. He rubs your thighs, waiting for the right time to start playing with your cunt again. It’s surprisingly soothing.

He waits for your breath to become steady and for your body to cool down. You’re worked up beyond belief

Your body’s covered in a cold sweat, worn out from all the edging he’s putting you through. You don’t even know how much more of this you can take. How much more you can tolerate before you take matters into your own hands, giving yourself your own release. It sounds good, but truthfully? Waiting it out for the prospect of being fucked by him? Gods, it sounds a thousand times better. You can’t see it but you can just feel how big he is, his cock pressing hard into your back. You want to feel it stretching you, filling you in a way his fingers fail to achieve.

He decides you must be ready, because he takes two fingers to rub against your clit. Your hips buck up, the nerves in your clit overworked and yet desperate to chase any contact to give them release. Your moans come out frantically, whimpering in your slumped position lying against him as his hot breath fans over your face.

His fingers work around your bud with ease, using the excessive slick you’re producing to slip through your folds. He loves this, watching how your body looks, so worked up. You’re shining with sweat, an icy sheen over your entire body, coating your chest, your legs. Beautiful.

You’re so sensitive and you haven’t even cum. You writhe in his lap, waiting for the moment you feel yourself about to peak and trying to prepare for the eventual fall away from it. You know it’s going to happen. He told you he wants to fuck you through your orgasm, so you know you’re about to be denied three times in a row.

You feel it, again. Your clit becoming more and more needy as his fingertips swirl around it. Your back starts to arch, preparing for a climax that’s not going to happen. You push his hand away on instinct, already accustomed to being denied your high. The quick movement of your hand takes you both by surprise.

You keep a firm grip as your fingers lock around his hand, keeping it held hovered above your pussy. Your eyes flutter closed. You know you can’t take another round of this … whatever it is. Fucking torture.

“You learn fast.” He remarks, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly, your orgasm slipping away from you for the third time.

“Please, let me cum.” You plead with him.

“Here, get up.” He helps you to your feet as you stand on weak, shaking legs.

You get up, feeling just how wet you are at the apex of your thighs as they press together for the first time since he pulled you onto his lap. They move together, sticky, as you pad around to face him.

He’s spread out across the chair, just as he was earlier when you saw him. The only difference is the huge bulge in his trousers, and the wet spot - evidence of the messiness between your legs.

He dips his hand below the loose waistband of his trousers, pumping himself without you being able to fully see. With his other hand he pulls you by your hips onto his lap, facing him this time. You place your knees in the free space left on the throne on either side of his legs. You reach your hand to meet his in his trousers and feel how big he is for yourself.

Your hand can barely wrap around his girth. You give him a hard tug, making him grunt. It’s like music to your ears. Finally getting to hear the noises he makes, instead of him pulling the sounds out of you as he denies you. He twitches in your hand as you free him from the confines of his trousers.

And if you couldn’t feel it in your hand, you fucking see it. He’s huge. You bite your lip, anticipating the difficulty you’re going to have letting him fuck you. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone this big before, let alone let them inside you.

You look up at him, seeing how smug he looks knowing you’re gobsmacked. He knows he’s impressive. Just knows you’ve never seen a cock that big. He probably knows you’re going to find it hard to take, too.

So you’re determined to take it. And you’re so fucking ready to cum. You need it.

You rise up on your knees, lining him up with your entrance. You're wet enough, but even the nudge of his head against your opening makes your mouth fall open. He pulses in your hand as you stay there, trying to let your cunt adjust to the intrusion.

The way he stretches your tight hole makes it sting. But you can’t help but think it feels fucking amazing - he fills you so well as you sink down onto him. A different kind of pain and pleasure mixture than when his big, warm hands were caressing your shoulders and chest, earlier. It’s not warm and soft like that, it’s blazing hot and fiery, perfect around him as he throbs.

Your hands find their way back onto his chest, confident that he won’t slip out of you by accident. You move up and down on just the top half of his length, taking yourself further down with every jolt of your hips.

The hands on your hips still you as you move down on him. “Do you want me deeper?” He pushes his hips up, nudging his cock further into you by a mere fraction. “Tell me, is that what you want? You need me to fill you?”

Fucking of course it’s what you want, you want to feel him all the way inside you. You want to be able to feel him when you walk tomorrow. You’re just nervous at having to take all of him. “Yes, just go slow.”

He stays holding your hips, lifting his hips up to push into you. He loves watching it. Loves how it feels. How your tight heat clenches around him as he pushes into you. He takes it slow, like you asked, gently lowering you back onto him a little as he watches himself move inside you. You’re almost there and he thrusts the rest of the way into you, burying himself to the hilt.

You mewl, completely filled by him now. You roll your hips against him, feeling every time his head moves against your walls and nudges against your cervix.

“F-Fuck. Bjorn -“ you begin.

He feels your thighs clenching on either side of him, a sign that you’re about to cum. “Do it.” He says. “Cum for me.”

The relief washes over you just as your orgasm does. Your body jolts forward, unable to hold yourself up anymore. You cum hard. So hard. He feels his cock get flooded with more of your arousal as you squeeze him with the flexing muscles in your cunt. Your eyes roll back as you hold yourself against him for security, clutching onto him hoping to ground yourself against something.

He keeps moving his hips against your writhing ones, dragging his cock inside you. It makes you scream. The sound gets muffled against his clothed chest as you crumple into a spent heap on him.

You feel more than hear the guttural moans that escape Bjorn as he feels you coming undone so hard on his lap. The sounds reverberate in his chest underneath you and he holds you close to him. You nuzzle into his chest, letting him take over the movement to chase his peak now that you’ve reached yours.

He meets virtually no resistance from your cunt now, easing in and out with your slick and the slackness that came with your orgasm. He thrusts a few times before starting to hammer into you with zero remorse.

You try to thrash out, but he’s holding you so tight against his chest that there’s nowhere for you to go.

“You didn’t think I was only going to let you cum once, did you?” He growls into your ear. “You worked so hard, you deserve one more.”

Your arms are trapped under the weight of your upper body, all of which is held flush against him as his arms wrap around you. He holds you in place as he brutally fucks up into you, his skin slapping against yours and making the filthiest smacking noises that echo around the empty room.

You relax against him, feeling every inch he buries into you and letting yourself be carried away by the euphoric way he’s making you feel. You swear, no one’s ever made you feel like this.

He notices the way you go slightly limp against him, using the opportunity to keep one arm around you and wedging the other between the two of you. There’s just enough room for him to reach his middle finger up to stroke over your clit in perfect time with his thrusts.

There’s no sound that escapes your mouth when you open it to cry out. Only a hoarse, throaty moan that gets caught somewhere. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as you feel another peak approaching. It’s debilitating. Your cunt's been teased so many times and then allowed to cum, it’s as if it doesn’t know how to deal with the oncoming climax. You clench, drawing higher and higher and higher, waiting to be dropped down to your pleasure.

When you cum, it’s even more brutal than the time before. He has no consideration for your spasming body as his pace never falters, only becoming even easier for him to fuck you now with two orgasms worth of your cum to guide him.

You cry his name out, begging him to cum soon. You don’t know how much more of his savage, relentless thrusts you can take.

“P-perfect. So good.” He replies, losing himself in chasing his high. He can feel himself getting closer. And the way your pussy gets so wet and how you clench so hard around him. Gods, he’s surprised he didn’t cum with you. He has always prided himself on his ability to last, though. “W-won’t - fuck - won’t be long. Want to cum in this cunt.”

Fucking please, you think. You want to feel him fill you in the only way he hasn’t yet.

His movements begin to falter ever-so-slightly, so you know he means it when he says he’s close. He tries to get a few more good, deep thrusts into you before he cums. He lasts for maybe five or six more.

Everything about him is big and excessive. Big hands, broad shoulders, big cock. And even his fucking load is huge. He pushes into you as he spurts his cum, feeling it drip down his cock and drilling it back into you as he tries to keep fucking you while he cums.

He sounds so good moaning in your ear, louder than he’s been moaning this entire time. The noises he makes are gorgeous - low, husky groans right next to you.

He drops his hips down, but even still half his length is still buried inside you. You feel his cum leak out of you, probably mixed with some of your own wetness. And he, in turn, feels it run down his cock, dripping down onto his balls.

You’re both left breathless and completely exhausted. He rests on the chair, one of his arms still haphazardly thrown around you, the other hanging over the arm of the throne. You lie on top of him, still curling your upper body to huddle into the warmth of his chest.

He clears his throat. “I must confess something." He begins. You lift your head up slightly to look at him. The sweat gleams on his forehead, dripping down from his temples. "I have heard the demands of the Gods. And they demand a queen for Kattegat.”

Your eyes go wide, not that he can see.

“So,” he sweeps the hand on your back upwards, coming to hold your face as he asks you one final question. “How would you like to be Queen?”

#Bjorn ironside x reader #Bjorn ironside x you #Bjorn x reader #Bjorn x you #Bjorn ironside #smut #Bjorn fanfiction #vikings fanfiction

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llitchilitchi · 2 years

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I saw a tag on the au comic of George wrapping the burn from sapnap about making excuses to push that nothings wrong and it’s been churning in my head since, is George’s willingness to ignore the bad stuff something that gets confronted or addressed?

Like does George see it’s affects on dream or when a particularly bad reaction to a trigger gets worse? Does dream bring it up in anger about what he sees as a transactional relation (his life for George’s kingship) or when he pushes down his trauma too much and backfires? Is it something sapnap notices once he doubts dream’s trauma less or (if the situation with the burn isn’t the only time his anger hurts dream physically/mentally) is it guilt that sees how pretending nothing wrong is causing more cracks?

Or does it resolve slowly as they trust more and begin to see what’s really happened?

Sorry if this is too long or a bit confusing! I’m a bit of a sucker when it comes to angst that gets worse before the healing starts 😅

ohhh this is a juicy one, thank you anon

for a disclaimer I want to say that while a lot of the fun in this au is the exploration of how thoroughly toxic c!dream team would be if they were to team up now and address their problems in an in-character way (which is not addressing anything at all lmao), I as a major dteam enjoyer would feel far too guilty about not trying to fix their relationship. so while I have no plans of a direct confrontation of MR!George's attitude and blantant ignorance of issues at hand, especially not by MR!Dream, he will eventually have to face reality and change his attitude and live with the simmering guilt of telling Dream to suck it up after Sapnap defended the man who tortured him for months in his face.

before anything else, Dream does try to make the relationship as close to purely transactional as possible. he finds comfort in putting a pricetag on everything he does and doesn't dwell on anything that happens between him and George or him and Sapnap, at least not externally (though he does keep track of things, for his own safety).

George takes care of him, mentally and physically, but he never goes beyond what is absolutely necessary, and Dream very much sees it as a good thing! it gives him space he needs and the fact that George "doesn't care enough" to pry means that the relationship is transactional and not something much much deeper (even if it hurts and he wishes they could go back, sometimes). he treats it very much like c!dream treats his relationship with c!punz - definitely close, definitely friends, definitely give each other enough space and don't ask uncomfortable questions so they can keep a vague facade of both of them doing it for personal gain.

because George will wrap the burns, and he will check on Dream's injuries daily, and he gives Dream regen potions, and he holds him in his arms when Dream has a particularly bad panic attack, and he knows when to step back because Dream faced an unexpected trigger. but he doesn't ask what the trigger was, doesn't ask why Dream cried for Sam in desperation through a nightmare. and I will not say much more since the next comic should cover this (hint hint: dream has a fringe in this au despite the rest of his hair being long)

it does become significantly easier for them to actually notice things when they are willing to look though. when they actually think about the subtle changes, the flinch away from Sapnap's axe, the crease in his brows when Sam or Quackity are mentioned. it's an equal part of Dream revealing something after being pushed and the two of them being more willing to listen after he has said (in Dream's opinion) far too much.

but the resolution is a slow process. threads unravel on their own when given enough time. and once the unraveling goes too far they can't go back, so might as well make the best of it and maybe for once, in a quite out of character way, sit down and communicate.

tl;dr: it's a mix of natural progression of time and a series of incidents that prompt them to actually confront their views and properly talk. there might have never been much of a change without Sapnap pushing until Dream snaps, or Dream having a moment of weakness and telling Sapnap how he views his attachments, or him melting into the familiarity that is George's hands cupping his cheeks as George counts to 10 and Dream slowly remembers how to breathe.

#monarchy restoration au #asks #dsmp #the eternal battle of 'there is comics for this I will draw them in the future' and 'i dont wanna brush off all asks I get with 'lol SOON''#I still think that some of these things are subject to change depending on how I develop other aspects of the AU #especially the later parts #Im a huge softie that wants everyone to make up and get along but Im also a sadist who wants to push the angst as far as I can go #the real question is 'how far is too far and beyond repair'#and what will Sapnap and George have to do to prove to Dream that the shit they said and did was result of their own ignorance #and how much would dream be willing to have either comfort him #how out of character would it be of him to cry?#how much hurt/comfort can I fit into their dynamics for it to make sense and not just be completely different characters #I walk a thin line #ngl the best way to describe dreamnap relationship in the au at first is the attachments comic except sometimes it results in the argumens #and dnf in this is very much summed up as the two panel 'dream look at me' snippet I drew #gentle demands and gentle hands but they are demands and orders nonetheless #anon if I made no sense or sounded stupid Ive yet to have my coffee I am so sorry

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free-pool-trash · 4 years

Text

happiness - peter maximoff

yay a new peter fic <3 i was feeling a little unmotivated for a few days (since our boy wasn’t in episode 8 at all :/) but im back 😎 although im back in school so i might be on and off for a while 😩✋🏻

!!!it’s not a songfic those lyrics at the start are just my inspo!!!

word count: 5k <3 😳

warnings: maybe swearing but i dont think so i cant remember, peter being sad, angst, but mostly fluff, WandaVision spoilers maybe??? I pretty much made up this plot so idk, endgame spoilers, reader was an avenger, kissing but it’s not graphic😽 probably some mistakes yk how it is

feedback is appreciated <3

tagging: @enchantedcruelsummer (should i make a peter maximoff taglist? let me know and I’ll do it)

masterlist

haunted by the look in my eyes that would’ve loved you for a lifetime

leave it all behind

& there is happiness

Loneliness had always been something that plagued him. That and a plethora of other negative emotions.

There wasn’t a day that went by where Peter Maximoff wasn’t made to feel like a loser. Admittedly, he’d never held himself to a high standard, he grew up thinking that he’d never fit in anywhere and eventually that thought mutated into a lifestyle as he began isolating himself from the world around him, either far too good or heartbreakingly not enough to be a part of that crowd.

He liked spending time with himself. Nobody else knew him the way he knew him, and still, he found nothing but an overwhelming hollow space where his deepest most important hopes, aspirations, dreams and self discoveries should have resided.

Peter had always put this feeling of exile down to the fact that he was a mutant, it was the most likely explanation, right?

It was only when he’d decided to join the X-Men that he finally came to the conclusion that maybe the rest of the world wasn’t the problem, nor was his mutation the problem, but that he himself was the problem. For even in a school full of people exactly like him he was still the same loser that he was in his mother’s basement.

And he was under no illusions that that was exactly what his teammates saw in him; nothing. No potential. Just a space holder to bring the numbers up.

Super speed was incredible. That’s how Peter acknowledged jobs well done, he praised his speed but never himself. He just saved Charles and Erik from a room full of armed guards? No that wasn’t him, that was simply his speed. He saved an entire mansion full of people from a potentially fatal explosion? Nothing special, Kurt probably could’ve done the same.

Forget all of the good deeds and saved lives because the bottom line of it all, to him at least, was that all he was good for was cheeky one liners and hopeless kleptomania.

His life took a turn for the worse when he found himself being mind controlled in an alternate universe. And even then, he was playing the part of someone that wasn’t him, the thought humbled him, reconnected him to his roots and reintroduced him to his life long philosophy that he’d never be anything more than a social pariah. Not even an alternate reality could accept him for who he was. There wasn’t a warm welcome and despite not knowing what was going on, the definition of “imposter” or the weirder, “recast”, still shot to kill.

He settled on the notion that he was an inter dimensional waste of space. At least in WestView he could be blissfully ignorant, let the real him be drowned mercilessly in favour of being an integral part of someone’s life- to feel important, even if it wasn’t real.

When WestView fell apart he was completely lost. In every sense of the word. In a new world with no way home and as it turned out, nobody was looking for him. Although he didn’t expect anyone to care, it still stung that nobody did. He always hoped that one day Erik would step up as a father figure for him, this; getting kidnapped and smuggled into a different dimension, seemed like the perfect moment for that epic father son moment, but it wouldn’t surprise Peter if his father has yet to notice his disappearance.

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he came into contact with a beacon of hope. A guiding star that might possibly lead him to an existence consisting of something other than misery and self loathing.

It offered him a choice; return to being the self proclaimed loser he was known as or start fresh as someone new and mysterious, with first impressions yet to be made and conclusions about him yet to be drawn. Peter had known himself to be rash in the past, when it came to making decisions he had the tendency to act impulsively, never putting too much thought into how his decisions would affect his life in the long term. The choice before him now is no different, he knew exactly what he wanted going forward, however selfish the choice may have been, the second he realised it was an option his heart was set on it.

That previously mentioned beacon of hope arrived to him in the form of a girl, in the form of you. An ex-avenger and close friend of Wanda’s, you were hired by S.W.O.R.D to help them clean up the more ‘sensitive’ fallout that the fall of WestView brought about. Obviously, they were sticking you- the only other avenger with magik- on babysitting and rehabilitation rather than letting you go after your best friend who had gone completely off the rails. Having said that though, you didn’t want anyone else handling him.

You hadn’t watched WandaVision, nor were you even aware that any of it was going on until it had reached a boiling point and you got a call from Monica Rambeau, she’d begged you to come and wait on the edge of town while she went in and act as her eyes on the outside along with Jimmy Woo.

That’s where you stayed until the hex broke down.

As soon as the barrier came down the base you manned was overrun by an armada of terribly confused and distressed citizens, Monica and Wanda were not among them but in their places stumbled in Darcy and the man playing the role of Pietro.

Jimmy appointed himself to Darcy, who in all honesty seemed relatively unscathed by the situation while you made a beeline for the dirty blonde charading as your former, dead teammate.

Peter was, to put it simply, completely enthralled by you as soon as you’d strolled over to him and in the moment he’d put his almost magnetic attraction to you down to the fact that you were the first friendly face he’d seen upon breaking free of Agatha’s possession.

But one thing in particular struck him; you’d asked him his name. You hadn’t immediately assumed him to be some knock off Pietro, as everyone else had. You acknowledged that he had his own personal identity and despite how often he caught himself hating the person he was, he found that when it was torn away from him that he wanted it back. The simple question you posed gave him the opportunity to regain his identity.

“Peter. My name is Peter.” He answered you, almost unsure of himself and you found your interest in the man piqued even further.

He remembered with perfect clarity the way you’d offered him a grin, tilted your hand, extended your hand and said, “Well it’s nice to meet you, Peter. Come on, I’ll be your babysitter for the next while.” There was something about the way you’d laughed after saying the words and the slight, yet unmistakable, glint of mischief in your eyes that had him captivated from the get go.

With you came a whirlwind of new emotions. After only a few weeks of knowing you, Peter noticed he wasn’t as lonely as he had been back home. He didn’t hate himself half as much either, he wasn’t entirely free of self deprovative tendencies and maybe he never would be, but undoubtedly, he likes himself more in this world than he ever had in his last. He thanked you and your determination to make him “a functioning member of society” for that.

It didn’t feel belittling, the way you helped him. You hadn’t dragged him to your favourite mall every weekend just to taunt him about how he couldn’t stop himself from stealing something. Even the very first time, when he’d sped away from you and returned within a second adoring a pair of freshly stolen sunglasses. Your only reaction had been to laugh and casually place your hands on both sides of his face.

“At least remember to take the tag off next time, speedy.” You’d muttered, subtly pulling the tacky stickers off the arms of his shades. No, you weren’t dragging him sight seeing or forcing him to help you go clothes shopping because you thought he was a loser who needed reforming you were doing it because you were a true friend who wanted him to succeed.

The pair of you seemed like two peas in a pod. Which to be fair, you were. Peter Maximoff intrigued you in every sense of the word. He was new, quite literally other worldly, he was kind, he was funny, he was perfectly mischievous and completely wonderful.

What caught your eye the most was the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable in his own skin. It became apparent to you that he lacked confidence with the phrases he usually tacked onto the ends of his sentences. When you’d invite him to hang out in the beginning his response would always be something along the lines of, “Sure. If you want me to.” But the excitable puppy dog eyes told you that he was dying for someone to want him to tag along some place.

There was a certain understanding between you. You were both more than accustomed with the harrowing feeling of being alone and even though you’d never exactly voiced those thoughts with each other, you couldn’t deny that his was a spirit kindred to your own and he felt it too.

Since the Avengers has disbanded, one of your best friends, Natasha, was dead and your other best friend, Wanda, was gone completely off the rails and the people chasing her wouldn’t let you anywhere near her or even attempt to help pull her out of her darkness. You were being kept as a wildcard in case they needed her taken down. Peter was no stranger to the feeling of being cast aside and so he quickly responded to your frustrations, and in doing so, forced himself out of his comfort zone to be there for you. To his complete shock though, you’d been so appreciative of his efforts.

You never failed to thank him for the little things he did for you, always complimenting his mutation when he’d use it and giving him the recognition he never received at home. The friendship he formed with you was so… two sided, again, something he wasn’t accustomed to before. It didn’t involve him giving everything he had to offer and receiving nothing in return, you matched his energy meticulously and never left him hanging.

In a series of firsts, he didn’t wonder whether or not you genuinely liked him, never feeling the need or want to question it as you’d left him with no reason to doubt.

As he walked around the mall with you now, his mind brought his attention back to the question you’d asked him rather casually a few nights ago. You were both lounging on your couch, watching some ridiculous reality show (a favourite of yours and Peter’s) when you’d turned your head to look at him, a thoughtful look on your face. “Do you think when S.W.O.R.D figures the technology out to crack into other realities, you’ll go back to yours?”

The question had taken him aback for a second, in all honesty, he hadn’t thought about going home, not when he was with you at least and considering he’d become your roommate about three weeks after he got out of WestView, the thought of returning to his old life had barely crossed his mind.

Being an ex-Avenger you were fairly well off, you lived alone in a two bedroom apartment in New York that you’d bought to be closer to Stark tower. Peter had nowhere to go and aside from having a spare room to offer you’d also been sort of lost in the current of the busy city with everyone you once loved in the area either dead, on the run or busy elsewhere.

While the question hadn’t crossed Peter’s mind, it had crossed yours on several occasions. He’d been staying with you for six months and the moment you realised that he was becoming one of the most important people in your life, the thought of him leaving you too weighed on your mind but at the end of the day you wanted him to feel happy. He deserved to feel happy and if going back to his reality brought him that happiness then you’d support him.

“Dunno,” he’d replied, turning to face you, chucking a handful of popcorn at you when you looked incredulous at his response, “To be honest I haven’t really thought about it, m’way too busy babysitting you anyway.” He joked, effortlessly dodging the few pieces of popcorn you attempted to throw at him.

For the last few nights, the question haunted him, but it wasn’t just the question that was bothering him. You were at the forefront of his mind as he replayed the past six months of his life which also happened to be the best six months of his life. WestView put him through hell but coming out the other side of it and meeting you felt like heaven.

He weighed up the pros and cons of returning to his native timeline. The cons: he’d have to leave you behind, he’d go back to being the loser who nobody took seriously, his talents would be downplayed and disregarded and he’d inevitably end up revisiting his lifestyle of solitude. Then there was the pros: he’d get to reunite with his pac man machine. He couldn’t manage to think up anything else.

If he stayed he’d have everything he ever wanted and needed. You’d be there and he knew you always would be, besides he couldn’t leave you knowing that you needed him. If he left who would wake you up when you had night terrors about the catastrophe that your reality was still recovering from? There would be nobody there to comfort you when you woke up from the nightmares, reliving the deaths of Natasha, Tony or Vision and the experience of being snapped out of existence? If he wasn’t there to make you laugh when you were about to cry then who would be? In his heart of hearts he knew you had a huge support system at your disposal, he’d met most of them. Even though he was well aware that Sam visited you as often as he could, that Bucky wrote you letters on a monthly basis and sometimes tagged along with Sam on his visits, that Stephen Strange appeared in your apartment whenever the urge struck him, that the literal god of thunder invited you out for beer whenever he was visiting Earth, that the little spider-kid, also named Peter, swung by your apartment at least once a week to tell you all about school and his good deeds. Despite knowing all of this and knowing all of these people loved you dearly, Peter wanted to be your main source of support, he didn’t want to be someone who came and went, who’d love you then leave you. He wanted to be with you through anything and everything and the feeling that you’d love him for a lifetime had him satisfied with the decision he was about to make.

If leaving his old life meant he could stay here, with you, and experience happiness for more than a fleeting moment then he’d simply; leave it all behind.

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me the other night.” He spoke through a mouthful of curly fries. You were sitting in the food court of the mall when he decided to let you in on his desire to stay with you indefinitely.

You raised your eyebrow, “You? Putting thought into an answer? Peter, I think I’m starting to become a bad influence on you.” You told him teasingly, taking a long sip of your drink as he rolled his eyes humorously.

“You’re a terrible influence which is exactly why I’ve decided to stay here and put you on the straight and narrow.” The glee you felt at his statement was undeniable, your eyes lit up and your lips curled upwards.

“You’re staying? Really staying?” Your smile was contagious, Peter’s face now painted with a wide grin as he nodded his head.

In a moment of weakness he frantically added, “Y’know only if you want me to though. If you don’t that’s completely cool.” He rushed through the words, feeling more embarrassed when the fond look on your face never faded.

“Of course I want you to stay. You mean a lot to me.” You reassured him, a gentle smile on your lips as you reached across the metal table, intertwining your fingers with his.

Peter squeezed your hand gratefully, holding it in his grasp securely and allowing his smile to return to his face, “I know. You mean a lot to me too.” It was somewhat of an understatement, he was starting to understand that you didn’t just mean a lot, but that you meant everything.

His resolution lifted a huge weight off your shoulders that you wouldn’t be losing yet another best friend. You were glad he’d be with you when everything blew over with Wanda, the two of them definitely had the potential to develop a beautiful sibling relationship and they both deserved that. Of course, Peter would never replace Pietro and having known them both it was obvious just how different the two men were, the only thing they had in common being their powers and last name. Still, he and Wanda would still be able to work on it. He didn’t hate her after WestView and you knew Wanda well enough to know that she was kind hearted and she’d be more than willing to give him a chance. When she eventually comes back to her senses, that it.

As the months went on, life with you and Peter seemed to only get better. You never stopped laughing, your nightmares died down and Peter had taken on a whole new lease of life. Yourself and Peter were the perfect example of meeting the right person at the right time, you balanced each other out and accentuated the other’s good qualities.

Peter could now say with complete confidence that he was happy and what’s more is that he was finally sure that he was making someone happy.

Up until nearly eleven months of living together your relationship had been purely platonic, save for the constant flirting but flirtation pretty much ran in yours and Peter’s blood. Peter wasn’t going to lie to himself, he’d fallen for you the second you’d peeled the security tags off his stolen sunglasses.

You, on the other hand, had been fighting with yourself because yes, you love Peter but you couldn’t have told him when there was the possibility he’d eventually leave and now so much time has passed and you’ve got such a good thing going you didn’t have it in you to ruin it.

However, all of that changed when your original Maximoff best friend came knocking on your door.

Wanda was on the run. She’d caused an amazing amount of chaos but Stephen Strange and S.W.O.R.D were hot on her trail and now she needed a place to lay low with the twins. She figured there was no place more reliable to go than to the always open arms of her best friend, who conveniently had a divinity for earth magik and could muster up a protective barrier without raising suspicions. And that’s exactly where she found herself; outside your door.

You’d been chasing Peter around the apartment when you heard the knock on the door. Peter was on the opposite end of the kitchen to you, using the bar as a shield from you. “You better get that.”

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you?” You glared as you spoke, it was his own fault really. What sort of idiot jumpscares a witch while she’s mid-meditation? He’d frightened you so badly you accidentally blasted a ball of your signature green energy and ruined your favourite couch throw pillow. When you were ready to pounce on the scared speedster the knocks sounded again, more frantic this time.

With one last glare towards Peter you stomped towards the door. Your anger melted away completely when you saw her. Her hood was up and she looked completely exhausted, two small hooded little boys by her side.

“Wanda…” You breathed out, relief flooding your system at the sight of her alive. She didn’t get a chance to speak before your arms were pulling her against you tightly, hugging her as if your life depended on it. Wanda returned in your embrace, allowing herself to relax for the first time in nearly a year, she sniffled against your shoulder, holding back tears as she realised how much she’d truly missed you.

Billy and Tommy watched in confusion as their mother cried into your shoulder. They didn’t know who you were, all their mother had told them was that they were going somewhere safe.

It was the yell of one of the boys that caused you and Wanda to separate, “Uncle P!” With that you felt a familiar rush of air across your leg but instead of Peter appearing one of the kids was gone.

You shared a perplexed look with Wanda, although your confusion was for different reasons.

“Hey hell raisers!” Peter responded, catching the mini speedster who all but threw himself at him barely regaining his balance before the other child had flung himself into the hug.

“Wanda? Those two… are they...?” You started, at a loss for words Wanda cut you off quietly, her tone as disbelieving as yours.

“My children? Yes. Is that…?” You nodded your head numbly, anticipating the end of her question.

“Your fake brother? Yeah.” Quickly, you realised you and a wanted woman catching up with the door wide open wasn’t ideal and you ushered Wanda inside, shutting the door when she walked in.

“Hey.” Peter greeted her simply, as if he hadn’t been used as a meat puppet in her altered reality. It wasn’t in his nature to hold any grudges.

“Hi?” Wanda replied, her voice still twinged with confusion.

“Peter, will you keep an eye on the kids for a bit? Wanda and I have some catching up to do.” You asked him with a nervous laugh, just thankful that Wanda was too tired to argue with your suggestion.

Peter ruffled the boys’ hair and gave you a grin, “Only if you stop trying to kill me.”

You rolled your eyes as you began to lead Wanda into your bedroom, “You’re on probation, jerk.” You called over your shoulder.

Once you were securely in your bedroom, the door locked and sitting comfortably you fixed Wanda with an amused look, “I’d ask you what’s new but I’m not sure I even wanna know.”

Wanda gave you a sad smile while she shook her head, “No, you probably don’t. I will tell you tomorrow, I don’t want to get into it tonight. I’m so tired.” She admitted, her voice overcome with sadness.

“I’ll pump up the air mattress and you and the boys can sleep in here for however long you need. I’d offer you the spare room but that’s where Peter’s been staying and I don’t think empty food containers are the kind of decor you’d be into.” Wanda nodded, squeezing your hand gratefully.

“So his name is Peter?” She asked, curious about the man Agatha had used to trick her in WestView.

You nodded in confirmation, “Yeah. Peter Maximoff, actually.”

Wanda’s brows came to a furrow at that, “Maximoff? So he’s a relation?”

“Yes and no. Peter is from a different reality but he’s still a Maximoff and he’s got super speed. So, and this is just my theory, while you’re not directly related he could still be your brother- if you wanted him to.” You explained, as gently as you could, not trying to push her too far but to nudge the idea in her direction.

Wanda, to your surprise, didn't seem to hate the suggestion, “What is he like?”

A genuine smile made it onto your face then, as you shot into your description of your roommate, “He’s caring, funny, a little bit of a kleptomaniac but he’s working on it. He’s understanding and moronically selfless, moronic in the sense that he doesn’t even realise he’s being selfless. Huge pain in the ass too.” Wanda had a soft smile on her face by the time you’d finished.

“You like him.” Was all she said and you let out a laugh in disbelief, standing up and opening the door.

“Go grab a shower. I’ll have Peter blow up the air mattress while I go introduce myself to my god sons.”

“I thought you’d at least wait until I actually asked you.” Wanda laughed as you walked out of the room.

Things moved fairly quickly after that. As promised you introduced yourself to Billy and Tommy as their god mother, which they seemed more than thrilled about and you assumed that excitement had to do with whatever description of you Peter had given them. Wanda and the twins were all cleaned and fed and had all but collapsed into bed, foregoing the air mattress and huddling together in your double bed instead.

“Where are you sleeping, mother Teresa?” Peter teased as he noticed your eyes drooping where you stood.

“On the couch probably. Or the air mattress.” You mumbled, cutting yourself off with a yawn.

Peter, unimpressed with your options, scoffed, “No way. Come on, you can bunk with me.”

Much like Wanda, you were too tired to argue and you let Peter pull you to his, surprisingly clean, room by the hand.

You both crawled into the bed, lying close together despite the amount of empty space on the mattress.

“How are you feeling about all of this?” Your soft voice broke through the silence and Peter turned his head to look at you.

“About Wanda?” You nodded your head, watching him intently as he rolled onto his side, facing you more comfortably.

Peter shrugged lightly, “I’m feeling ok. Just glad the twins still see me as their cool uncle.” You let out a small laugh at his response.

“Wanda was asking about you. Seemed interested in getting to know the real you.” You informed him, your heartwarming as you watched a hopeful look fall across his face.

A lull settled over the room once again and Peter caught himself staring at you. His eyes drifted over every visible part of you, reminding him of most of the points on his pros list for staying in your universe; your eyes, your lashes, your nose, your lips, you.

“What’re you thinking about?” The sound of your tired voice pulled him out of his thoughts and ultimately pushed him to bite the bullet and tell you how he’s feeling. With you curled up beside him, in his bed, fighting sleep just to stay in his company for as long as you could; he knew there would be no better time.

“Just about how happy I am to be here with you.” He answered you honestly, the butterflies in both of your stomachs fluttering in sync at his words.

You trailed a hand under the duvet and onto the bedsheets between your bodies, feeling around until you found his hand and gently intertwined your fingers. “I’m happy you decided to stay.”

“What you’ve all gone through in this timeline sucks- don’t get me wrong-“ Peter started sincerely, scooting closer to you and dropping his head back down on the edge of your pillow, leaving the pair of you practically nose to nose as he went on.

“And I hate that Wanda had to go through so much… but I’m really glad that it led me to you.” Peter swore in that moment, right after the confession left his mouth, that he could die right now and be completely content knowing that you now knew how he felt.

His heart stopped, and he thought that maybe he was about to die, when you gave him the softest, sweetest smile he’d ever been on the receiving end of and whispered, “I feel the same.”

Time moved in slow motion as he felt you moving your intertwined hands towards your lips, your lips pressed gently against the back of Peter’s hand before you brought them to rest against your chest.

It was a fact to say that Peter Maximoff had never felt intimacy quite like this before. But, experiencing it now, with you, led him to wonder how he’d ever survived without it. He wasn’t sure whether it was natural to crave more, especially when the affection you were showing him was so gentle, but he didn’t care as he let the impulsive side of him take over.

Not sparing another word, Peter closed the small distance between your lips and his. His free hand cupped your jaw while yours wasted no time in getting tangled in his silver hair.

His lips moved softly and surprisingly slowly over yours and he savoured the feeling of your hand holding his while your other got lost in his hair, your body pressed up against him, the way your jaw moved against his palm as you reciprocated the movement of his lips and the taste of your lips, promising himself he’d never let the memory slip from his mind for as long as he lived.

With complete clarity, Peter could say he had felt true, genuine happiness and he had no doubt in his mind that there was absolutely nothing Charles, Hank, Scott or anyone else from his original timeline could say to make him leave this happiness behind. Because in the process of forgetting his old life, he couldn’t deny that he has undoubtedly found himself in the position of a man who had so much more to live for.

#peter maximoff #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wandavision x reader #wandavision spoilers #x men x reader #avengers x reader #marvel x reader #mcu #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

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Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 14

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“It was so good to see you, Will,” Valerie says in a muffled voice against his chest as he has her wrapped up tightly in a bear hug.

“I know, I’m so glad I ran into you,” Mulder replies, brushing his hands over her back. He pulls away and kisses her softly on the cheek.

“It makes me really happy to see you so happy,” she says with a smile, her long brunette hair lifting softly in the breeze, brown eyes holding affection that can only be held between two people who have the type of bond that can withstand a breakup and then a transition from lovers to friends.

“Likewise,” he says, nodding towards the small swell of her growing belly.

“I’d love to meet your girlfriend someday, if you think she’d be okay with that,” she says, collecting her purse.

“Yes, I’d really like that. I think you two would get along really well, actually,” he says, and she smirks at him.

“You’re not afraid we’ll bond over having to sit through your shitty movie collection?” she teases, and he laughs good-naturedly.

“Hey, Scully likes my shitty movies, that’s why we’re a perfect match,” he retorts.

She squeezes his arm.

“Call me sometime, okay?”

He nods and watches her walk away, feeling like he’s on cloud nine. A great friendship with his ex-girlfriend, a promising new love with the woman of his dreams; he can only imagine what lies in store next. He practically skips on the walk back to his car, wondering if Scully might let him come by tonight, hoping that he won’t have to wait until the weekend to see her again. He decides to call her as soon as he gets home.

The first few times he gets her machine, he assumes she must be at her mother’s. When she still hasn’t answered or called back by 9:00 pm, he’s confused. When he emails her the next morning and still hasn’t gotten a response at 10:00am, he’s officially worried.

Something is wrong.

———

She had eventually turned off the ringer on her phone and put the volume all the way down on her answering machine so she wouldn’t have to hear his increasingly obsessive attempts to get ahold of her, then slept fitfully all night.

She knows that she needs to give him some kind of response or he’ll show up on her doorstep, but she can’t bring herself to face him, even in voice. Every time the image of him with that woman pops back into her head, she feels a lump form in her throat immediately, a sick sadness welling in her belly. She’s pored over every memory in her mind, every interaction they’ve had, searching for signs. Signs that he was seeing someone else, that he wasn’t interested in anything other than getting in her pants, that he was lying to her. Her thorough inventory brings up next to nothing, which almost makes it worse; how adept he must have been at creating a false reality for her to exist in. Perhaps he’s garnered some tips from the sociopaths he studies, or maybe his background in psychology allowed him to manipulate her.

When she arrives at work, she is unsurprised though still dismayed to see an email waiting for her.

From: [email protected]

Sent: May 5, 1997 7:57 am

To: [email protected]

Subject: Where are you?

Scully, you’re freaking me out. Are you okay? Please respond.

She deletes it immediately and tries to focus on work. She performs an autopsy and teaches a class, both welcome distractions from her emotional torment. Just before 11:00 am, the phone rings.

“Autopsy bay, this is Trudy…yep, she’s here, one second.”

Trudy turns and opens her mouth to speak, but sees Dana waving her arms and shaking her head. She makes a confused face and puts the phone back to her ear.

“Oh, actually she just stepped out, sorry. Can I take a message?”

She watches as Trudy scribbles something on a piece of paper.

“Uh huh…yes. Okay, I’ll tell her…you have my word.”

She replaces the phone on the receiver and hands Dana the paper with a sympathetic frown.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks rhetorically.

Dana looks down and deciphers Trudy’s messy scrawl.

Call Mulder immediately. Send a sign of life.

She crumples it up and tosses it into the trash can.

“You wanna talk about it?” Trudy asks.

“Nope,” Dana replies, turning back to the computer.

From: [email protected]

Sent: May 5th, 1997 11:03am

To: [email protected]

Subject: PLEASE RESPOND

Scully, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but if you don’t reply to this within an hour I’m driving down there.

Please respond

She feels fresh tears well in her eyes. Why is he trying so hard if he’s seeing someone else anyway? Why is he doing this to her? With a surge of anger, she hits reply.

From: [email protected]

Sent: May 5th, 1997 11:05am

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE:PLEASE RESPOND

I’m fine, Mulder. Please just give me some space.

With that she closes her email, begs someone to take her second class of the day, and goes home.

———

He feels like he’s stepped into an alternate universe. He’d left her happy and satisfied, and out of nowhere she’s shutting him out. What does she need space for? Space from him? Why? Did he come on too strong and freak her out? He thought they’d moved past that. He picks up the phone again.

“Autopsy bay, this is Trudy.”

“Trudy, it’s Agent Mulder again. Look, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but is Dana there?”

She pauses. “No, she went home for the day. She seemed pretty upset.”

“Do you have any idea why?” he implores.

“No, other than the fact that it seems to be directed at you.”

“Yeah, that much I gathered. Thanks, Trudy, sorry to bother you.”

“No worries, good luck.”

He slams the phone down, grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and leaves.

———

She is half expecting his knock, but it still makes her jump, nearly causing her to spill her wine. She wants to just ignore him until he goes away, but she knows his proclivity towards persistence won’t let him do that. Better to just get it over with, she thinks as she slumps towards the door.

The second she lays eyes on him in his slacks and dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie discarded, she feels her chin pucker and tears threaten her eyes. As angry as she is, she immediately wants to go to him, to curl up within his embrace so he can comfort her. The problem is, what she needs comforting from is him.

“What is going on?” he says with a mix of frustration and fear.

She stands in the open doorway, not making space for him to enter.

“I saw you,” she says, her voice strained with emotion.

“You saw me...what?” he asks, his face a mask of confusion.

She lifts her chin, clenching her jaw and summoning strength.

“I saw you with her. Yesterday, at the Bluebird Cafe. After I had lunch with my family.” her voice holds steady, anger carrying her through.

His face falls and her gut twists. She wishes she didn’t have to watch this.

“THAT is what this is about?” he asks, but there’s no shame or regret in his voice. If anything, he sounds a little mad.

She nods curtly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spits out, and she recoils a little at his vitriol. “Let me in, Scully. Right now,” he demands, and against her better judgement she moves aside.

He pushes past her into the apartment and she closes the door softly, leaving it unlocked in case either of them decides to make a hasty exit.

“Did you consider,” he begins, his back to her, “maybe, I don’t know, asking me about what you saw?” He turns to face her, one hand on his hip and his face contorted with anger. “Or were you just planning to avoid me until I gave up and went away again?”

She doesn’t know what to say. She’s confused about why he’s yelling at her when he’s the one who did something wrong. She just looks at him, expressionless.

He juts his chin out expectantly, waiting for an answer, but gets none. She averts her eyes.

“Is that all this is worth to you, Scully?” he continues, “you’re ready to throw this away over a simple misunderstanding, without even talking to me?”

She lifts her head and looks at him with a pained expression. “Okay then, talk,” she gets out.

He drops his head in frustration. “The woman you saw me with,” he says flatly, lifting his head to meet her eye, “was my ex-girlfriend, Valerie. I ran into her while I was running errands yesterday, and we had lunch. She has a boyfriend and is three months pregnant. We spent the majority of our meal together talking about you.”

She shakes her head gently, her throat closing as a tear rolls down her cheek. “I saw you kiss her,” she whispers, her jaw quivering.

“You saw me kiss her on the cheek? I also kiss my mother on the cheek, Scully, it’s hardly an intimate gesture.”

She feels a new wave of sickness pass over her, but this time it’s entirely different. This time it’s the sick feeling of realizing that she was very, very, wrong, and that she has, yet again, hurt the man who loves her. She opens her mouth to speak but she can’t find the right words.

He steps forward but doesn’t touch her. When he speaks, his voice is softer, more defeated than anything else.

“I’m sorry that you saw something that upset you. But if you actually thought for a single second that I want to be with anyone but you, you’re fucking insane. I meant what I said the day you left my apartment last year. I felt it then, and I feel it now. I want this to work more than anything, Scully, but for that to be possible you have to trust me. I can’t live with the knowledge that you might just shut me out at a moment’s notice when you get scared.”

She keeps her head down, overwhelmed by a combination of shame, embarrassment, and gratitude that he wouldn’t let her walk away. She does not deserve this man, but she wants to.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, still unable to meet his eye.

“I know you are,” he replies, moving towards the door. “Take the space you need, and let me know when you’re ready to trust me.”

When she hears the click of the door closing behind him, she collapses to the floor, sobbing for so many reasons she couldn’t possibly name them all. When it’s faded to snivels and hiccups, she stands and goes to the hallway, picking up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Missy,” she chokes out, “Can you come over?”

———

He’s not sure if leaving was the right thing to do. The risk that she might not come back around is one that sends his stomach into knots, but at the same time he finds it hard to accept that she wasn’t even going to give him the opportunity to explain. He’s been actively working to temper expressing his feelings so he doesn’t overwhelm her, but then she gets it in her head that he’s not invested. It feels like he can’t win.

He goes back to work and stops by Kirkbride’s office to apologize for disappearing. Kirkbride just gives him a quizzical look, clearly not having noticed he had left. The rest of the day he buckles down on his caseload, distracting himself from the catastrophic thoughts that dance through his head, and gets more work done than he has in quite a while. When he leaves the office just after 5:00 pm, he feels melancholy and grouchy, and annoyed that he left the ball in her court.

The elevator dings to announce his arrival on the fourth floor and he steps out with a takeout bag in his hand, eyes downcast. Halfway down the hall, he readies his key and looks up, startling when he sees Scully sitting on the floor against his door, knees tucked up against her chest and her forehead resting on her kneecaps. She’s very still, and as he gets closer he realizes that she’s asleep. His heart aches knowing that she’s been waiting that long, that she didn’t want to leave without talking to him.

He crouches down beside her, setting his dinner on the floor, and gently touches her shoulder. She jerks, her head snapping up and her eyes wild for a moment while she tries to orient herself. When she focuses on him, she immediately starts crying, reaching out to wrap her arms around his neck. He’s surprised by her uncharacteristically emotional response, but says nothing and just holds her until his knees start to ache, at which point he sits down on the floor and pulls her into his lap. They stay this way for several minutes, long enough for one of his neighbors to walk by and politely avert their eyes, entering their apartment as though there was nothing out of the ordinary happening in the hallway. When the crying seems to have subsided a bit, he gives her a little squeeze.

“Wanna go inside?” he asks, and she nods against his chest, his shirt damp from her tears.

She stands unsteadily and he follows her, grabbing the takeout bag off the floor. They enter the apartment and Priscilla plods up to them with an excited meow. Scully leans down and picks her up, tucking the cat against her neck as they nuzzle each other. Mulder smiles at them with a bemused expression.

“She was talking to me through the door,” Scully says with a small smile, “she heard me knocking and was meowing from the other side. We had a conversation.”

Affection swells in his chest and he steps forward to kiss her. Her shoulders drop and she lets Priscilla down so she can get closer, threading her arms around his waist and kissing him back in earnest. Desperate, thought I’d lost you again kisses that are as arousing as they are a relief, because he knows that they will be okay.

He pulls back a little and she makes a whimpering sound in protest.

“I’m gonna go change really quick, okay? Then can we talk?” he asks, and she sighs and nods. “You can have half my Chinese,” he adds, and she gives him a tight-lipped smile.

When he sits on the couch beside her five minutes later, she scoots closer so they are pressed against each other, and he gathers that she needs physical closeness right now. He loops an arm around her shoulder and she crawls right back into his lap, curled against him as though trying to fuse her body to his own. Her head tucked beneath his chin, she holds one of his hands in her lap, fingers laced tightly together, and begins to speak.

“After you left, Missy came over and we talked for a long time. I’ve come to realize how much I’m still affected by...what happened last year. I harbor a lot of guilt for being unfaithful to Ethan, and that’s actually largely why I married him even though I knew my heart wasn’t in it.” She pulls in a deep breath, pressing their joined hands tight against her belly, trying to get even closer. “When you and I reconnected, in a way it felt like a chance to validate it. As though things working out with us would mean that what I did wasn’t as bad, because there was something real between us. But at the same time, a big part of me doesn’t believe that I deserve to be happy.” Her voice remains steady, but he feels the wet drop of a tear on the back of his hand.

He tightens his arm around her waist. “I’ve always been a person who values doing the right thing, and integrity was something that was very important to my father. It was his measure of a person’s character, and that’s something he instilled in me as well.” She sits up a bit so she can look at him, and his heart breaks at her red-rimmed eyes, her icy irises so mournful. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mulder. You haven’t given me any reason not to. It’s just that I don’t feel like I deserve this, especially with you, and I’m waiting for the moment it all comes crashing down. So when I saw you with that woman, it was almost like I’d been waiting for it, expecting it. Getting what I deserved.”

He brings his palms to her cheeks, brushing away the tears with his thumbs.

“Thank you for telling me that,” he says softly. “I wish I could change how you feel, but I know that I can’t. I do know how it feels to spend your life harboring guilt over something you could have done differently, and I can tell you that punishing yourself won’t make it any easier. It makes me really sad that you’ll always regret how we met.”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head gently. When she opens them, her expression is more tender than it is mournful.

“I don’t regret it, Mulder. I do feel guilt, and shame, for not ending it with Ethan so we could have done things the right way, but I could never regret meeting you.”

He pulls her back into an embrace, her arms wrapping around his ribcage, and plants a kiss to the top of her head.

“Are we okay?” he asks softly.

“I hope so,” she says hoarsely.

“Is this a bad time to tell you that Valerie wants to meet you sometime?” he asks, and she laughs.

“I don’t know, did you tell her that I freaked out on you because you had lunch with her?” she replies, and he can already hear her tone shifting back to their typical lighthearted banter.

“No, of course not. That’ll be our little secret. Well, plus Trudy. I think Trudy knows too much honestly.”

She laughs again, and god he could spend the rest of his life trying to make her laugh. In fact, that’s exactly what he hopes to do.

“Speaking of meeting people,” she continues, “Missy mentioned you to my mother yesterday and she wants to meet you.”

A grin stretches across his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. She pulls back to look at his face, to gauge his reaction, and smiles softly in response.

“You want me to meet your mom?” he asks, the delight on his face carrying over to his voice.

Her mouth screws up shyly. “My little brother will probably be there too, and Missy. Is that too much?”

He shakes his head. “Sounds perfect. But, there are some friends I’d like you to meet too, if we’re meeting people.”

“The Lone Gunmen?” she asks with a skeptical lilt.

“Those are the ones. They’re my only friends, actually. Aside from Val.” Just then, Priscilla hops up onto the couch beside them. “Oh, and you Priscilla, sorry,” he adds.

Scully smiles at the cat, and then at him. “Can I bring Missy as a human buffer?” she asks hopefully.

“Of course. You may set a record for the highest number of female visitors to their lair in a day.”

“Lair?” she asks with wide eyes.

He chuckles. “They’ll grow on you, I promise.”

#the x files #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #txf #msr #sculder #x files fanfic #alternate universe

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ravenvsfox · 3 years

Text

Things Fall Apart; the Centre Cannot Hold

Summary: He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

(Adam's perspective throughout Mister Impossible, as his worry reaches a fever pitch, and the two versions of himself begin to converge)

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: mi spoilers, death/suicide mention

A/N: batshit middle books my beloveds. adam pov or bust 😌

Read on AO3

In high school, Gansey would very occasionally call Adam in the middle of the night.

He would speak low and fast, his panic pinched between thumb and forefinger and held at a respectable distance. Adam would smother the receiver with his palm and step outside of his family trailer, listening hard for movement at his back.

The news was always the same: Ronan Lynch was on his latest rampage or bender, exercising his dark talent for bullying his way into people’s lives and then breaking down all of their windows and doors trying to get out again.

Gansey would fret and apologize, guilty for luring Adam out of his wolf-den, guiltier for neglecting his duties as Ronan’s warden. Adam would wait tiredly on the line for Gansey’s anxiety to exhaust itself, and then dutifully join the search party.

He would step into his beaten tennis shoes and pry his bike from the fence, silencing the silvery shock of metal on metal, and avoiding the reedy whir of the spokes by holding the whole thing aloft until he reached the gravel road.

From there, he would venture out into the abandoned Henrietta streets, the crunch of his tires cutting clean through the woolly midnight silence. He often circled the perimeter of the park nearest Monmouth, stepped through the great dark portal into St. Agnes, and nipped under the old bridge, squinting into the darkness for the challenging shoulders, the oil-slick BMW gleam, the slump of a body or clatter of bottles.

This is a part of Gansey that I admire, he would think. And with equal fervour, this is a part of Gansey that I resent. This blood attachment to Ronan, who was not even attached to himself. The insomnia that seized two heads of the lopsided Cerberus that Adam, Ronan, and Gansey were all part of, a restlessness on either side of him that shook him awake over and over again.

He chased Ronan’s shadow, hating him. Hating his thoughtlessness, his privilege, his chokehold on Gansey’s interests, his purposefully and continuously ruined potential, and yet bristling with anxiety at the idea of finding him bleeding.

They hadn’t known then that he was a dreamer, but they’d felt the ear-popping pressure of his grief, glimpsed the hulking animal of his self-loathing, urged onwards by the twin spurs of Declan and Gansey, the past and the future, digging into his sides.

Adam had seen Ronan, teeth bared, hurling himself at rock bottom, and he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled him back by the collar.

Things are completely different now, but he still finds himself sleep-raw and petrified, reaching after Ronan in the dark.

He examines himself in the mirror of the communal bathroom in Thayer hall. The overhead lights are an unflattering yellow, the sink has a long dark hair stuck to its basin, and Adam’s face is gaunt and bruised with lack of sleep.

He’s losing it, a little bit.

He takes his own pulse, focusing on the faraway burble of the ley line. Everything, lately, seems far away.

As if through a stranger’s eyes, he slips from the seafoam tiling and bleach tang in Thayer’s North bathroom to the accordion door of the trailer toilet, the creaky cubicle shower, his gawky, hurt reflection in the burnt-out light. This version of Adam had to watch his best friend’s best friend escape suicide watch and get screaming drunk in public, treading mud and malicious dreams all over Monmouth manufacturing.

He can still smell the salt tang from teenaged Adam’s ocean of disdain.

Now that he loves Ronan, his irritation has only gotten sharper, more deadly. Ronan performs each perilous swan dive into the unknown, each foolhardy act of self-sacrifice, as if the people who care about him aren’t gasping spectators. It makes Adam furious.

Perhaps neither of them have changed as much as they wanted to believe. As Gillian keeps advising the crying club—with the confidence of a seasoned psychiatrist—progress isn’t linear.

He keeps remembering the chafe of Ronan’s shoulder against his ribs as they got oriented in his little bed, the glisten of tears and nightwash wringing his lovely eyes, the lonely twist in his unguarded late-night voice over the phone, the one that Adam had almost liked, because it meant that he was indisputably missed. It was worse, that Ronan had been trying so hard for Adam, because it was easier to tell when he stopped.

He slides fingers over his temples, smooths a knuckle over each eyebrow to ease the tension he always carries there. Sleep is a little knot of gristle lodged at the back of his throat; he can’t swallow it and he can’t spit it up. It never used to be this hard to put his problems to bed. He would worry the weight on his chest into small pieces, and go to sleep knowing that even the worst things about his life were organized correctly.

This time though, he’s out of sorts, divided, always busy but always spinning his wheels. He has a white-hot secret pressed to the roof of his mouth.

Every time he folds himself into bed, his subconscious helpfully reminds him that Ronan might be dead. And then a highlight reel plays in his head like an In Memoriam: Adam’s hand cupping Ronan’s nape, a barn silhouetted against a melancholy sky, a fistful of dreamt light, a dozen hard-won smiles and a hundred easy ones, a white handprint on a flushed thigh, a colourful joke to placate a brother, a kiss pressed to a dream’s forehead. All of that—gone. And Adam, at Harvard.

He highlights long patches of text in his sociology textbook, drinks a sensible amount of jack and coke at Eliot’s birthday party, declines Gansey’s calls by sending cheerful and conciliatory texts, and drifts through the library with his hand knotted in the strap of his satchel, looking for something that he can’t really articulate. He reads the same line of theory over and over and over and over, feeling like he’s scrying, like his focus isn’t his own.

He did all of this before Ronan went missing too, but now it’s a whole different class of performance. It used to be, I’m convincingly attentive, I’m sipping overpriced coffee on the way to class like a good Ivy leaguer, I’m making an impression on my professors, I’m forging friendships. Someday I will cash in these relationship tokens, and it all will have been worth it. It felt impossible that his life could be so simple and rewarding.

Now he thinks, I’m studying for finals and my boyfriend is being hunted by people whose job it is to kill him. I’m drinking a latte and the only people I’ve ever loved have left me, and I'm alone again. I’m putting my hand up in class and somewhere, Ronan’s life is changing, rapidly, dangerously, without me.

He lies to everyone, all the time, and tells himself that this life he’s building is more important than anything.

Once, as they cleared placemats and mugs full of stagnant coffee from the kitchen table, Ronan—still cobwebbed in his most recent dream—had detailed the sensation of hovering over himself afterwards. He was unable to manipulate his physical body or even really recognize it as his own, and his consciousness, detached, had its own limbs, its own intentions. He was like a parasite trying to wriggle back into its host.

Whenever Adam consults his double in a bit of glass, he imagines himself as a nimble dreamer, peering down, working to bring a fantasy to life. He can see his own outline, a slick college student with a flat, pleasant affect and a gaggle of soft-shelled friends. He plays his role impeccably well, but he can’t fit himself into it. If he passed himself in the hallway he would not stop.

Looking in the mirror now, he feels a red pang of fear, then a supercut of the ways he used to let himself love and be loved, then resentfulness hot on the heels of his worry.

His reflection withers, and he looks deliberately down at his hands. It’s a Tuesday, and he needs to sleep, or his tightly-scheduled Wednesday will be a misery. It’s a Tuesday, which means he hasn’t spoken to Ronan in—he stalls. Call me, he thinks, miserably. Just call me.

He can deal with a multitude of challenging and improbable situations if only he can see them clearly. Ronan is, for whatever reason, keeping him in the dark.

The not knowing is bad. It’s not how he functions. It’s not how they function. But instead of dwelling, he puts his back into the narrative that is now his reality: Impeccable student. Devoted friend-group. Tough break-up. Bright future.

Ronan isn’t here. Can’t ever be, physically, so far from the ley line. Adam has to be.

“Croissant, as ordered.” His gaze snaps up, connecting—not with his own image, but with clever, horn-rimmed Gillian. “They tried to foist it upon me without butter, if you can imagine that.” She deposits a crinkly brown and tan paper bag in front of him, and then two little plastic pots of butter. Adam regards the squashed shape of the bag’s contents with confusion.

It’s— “Is it Tuesday?”

“Wednesday,” Eliot corrects airily, licking jam from their thumb.

“My god, Adam. Whatever happened to your infallible circadian rhythm?” Fletcher asks. “You are the Swiss timepiece by which we measure our days.”

A terrible wave of vertigo strikes him, and he’s grateful to find himself sitting, at one of two conjoined wrought-iron tables in the courtyard near Thayer. He can feel the ley line breathing for the first time in a long time.

He must have gone to bed after his late-night breakdown in the bathroom. He must have. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. His hand strays to his hair. Wet. He’d woken, showered, and met his friends for breakfast, and he can barely remember it.

“Sorry,” he chokes. “Sleep deprivation is catching up to me, I think.”

“Aw, chicken,” Benjy says affectionately. “I’ve sung those end of term blues. The profs think we’re machines. Don’t even get me started on Dr. Fraundberg’s Lit Crit for assholes.”

“Whyever would we?” Eliot says. “We want to make it to class before noon.”

“Har-har. You wound me. Adam you’d better get a tissue ready, I’m about to tear up.”

“Also,” Gillian says, pointing her be-honeyed knife in Eliot’s direction. “Speak for yourself. I want to make it to class never.”

“Your presentation is going to be exceptional,” Fletcher tells her. “Your rough draft already drove me into paroxysms of jealousy. I don’t know why you’re so concerned.”

“I don’t just want to pass,” Gillian says. “I want to win.”

“Admirable,” Benjy sniffs.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Adam,” Eliot says, at length. He’s aware that they’re all trying very hard to act like they don’t notice how poorly composed he is.

“Can’t a man savour his pastry, Eli?” Fletcher rumbles.

“No, that’s fair,” Adam sighs. The four of them peer at him expectantly, eyebrows arranged into an array of benign and non-threatening shapes. “It’s possible I’m having a slight breakdown,” he says, adopting the grim hyperbole of a student for whom finals are the beginning and end of their emotional upset.

Everyone at the twin tables indulges in a bit of mild laughter.

“What a coincidence, so am I!”

“Well if it’s only slight, I’ll stow my concern.”

“Harvard or personal?”

He smiles faintly, and says, “kind of both. The personal is political, or something.”

He thinks he’s laying it on thick, but Gillian grins at him. “'Atta boy.”

Fletcher goes to take a sip of his tea, but chokes when his phone lights up with an incoming text message. “Criminy, is it eight already? Starting the day with a bang, as usual. I’ll meet you at Weld this evening, yes?” he asks, shaking out his tweed jacket and thrusting an arm through it, securing the remains of his bagel between his teeth with his other hand.

“Of course,” Adam says. Fletcher gives him a thumbs up, mouth charmingly stuffed, and sweeps away across the now bustling courtyard.

“Hey magic man,” Eliot says. “Will you do a reading for my sister tonight? The break-up with Margot is hitting her kind of hard. I’m pretty sure she just wants to be told she’ll find love again.”

Adam watches the juddering impact of Benjy kicking Eliot under the table.

He shrugs. “First come first serve, but I’ll give her the friends and family discount.”

“You’re a prince,” Eliot says, blowing him a kiss. Adam tries to imagine any of his friends from Henrietta doing such a thing, and can’t. “Come along Benjy. Bookstore or bust. They’re giving out discount computing textbook codes at sixty dollars a pop.”

A slip of paper for sixty American dollars. Adam’s head aches profoundly.

Gillian waggles her fingers at their friends as they depart, then she turns and fixes Adam with that familiar amateur therapist look.

“What?”

“Are you sleeping?” she asks bluntly.

“I’m a very good sleeper,” Adam says wryly. “Ask anyone.”

“But are you actually doing it?”

“Yes, Gillian.” Liar, liar. “Do you want me to keep a dream journal as evidence?”

“Oh, yes please.” That shark’s grin. “I’d pay to know what the fuck is going on up there.” She taps her own temple to indicate Adam's guarded mind.

He spreads his hands between them. “I’m an open book.”

She hums, only half-smiling now. “I dunno. That Southern charm. I’m never quite sure if I should trust a politeness that perfect.”

“On that note,” Adam says, standing. He’s relieved to find that he’s wearing matching socks, and his pant legs are rolled just so. There’s a tiny streak of yellow on one of his shoes, and with a jolt he realizes that it’s dream-crab guts. He presses on. “Thanks for the croissant. And the psychoanalysis. Send me the bill.”

She salutes him with her coffee cup. “You couldn’t afford me.”

He laughs, and turns, and then spends the whole walk to his 9 AM class trying to straighten all of the haywire compasses in his brain so they point due north.

His assignment is in his bag, pressed neatly into a navy blue folder. He has three classes today, a meeting with his supervisor at three, a study block set aside from four to six, then dinner, then tarot readings all evening—his phone rings. His treacherous heart leaps. Ronan.

He stops mid-stride, scrambling for his cell in the front pocket of his bag.

“Hello?”

“I—oh—Adam! I didn’t expect you to pick up. How on Earth are you?”

“Gansey.” He exhales through his nose. “I’m just on my way to class.”

“Fantastic to hear your voice. How’s—not that one, Jane, the I-90—exactly. How’s Harvard? Are you batting away job offers yet?”

“Constantly. How are your nature hikes and hippie communes? Contracted any backwoods diseases yet?”

“Charming. I’m actually in remarkably fine form, health-wise.”

“Is that a brag?”

A guffaw. “More of a curiosity. It’s actually part of the reason I’ve been trying to get in touch. Have you noticed any surges of power from the ley line lately? I mean, of course you have, but do you have any idea what’s causing them?”

He frowns, pinning his cellphone between his good ear and shoulder as he heaves open the ancient door to the physics building. “I could give you my best guess.”

A beat, and then, “I’m listening, Parrish.” Something about the way he says it makes homesickness pulse painfully in Adam’s chest.

He finds a semi-secluded stone slab bench behind an empty stairwell, and slings his belongings across it before he replies, “Dreamers.”

“Dreamers,” Gansey repeats, but it sounds like he’s saying of course! “Plural?”

“At least three.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet.”

“Ronan hasn’t spoken to you,” Gansey guesses.

“Not—in a few days.”

“Is everything alright?”

He swallows, and is horrified to find tears burning at the back of his throat. There’s no pretending with Gansey. It’s why he never calls him.

“Adam,” he says quietly. “Is he in trouble?”

He struggles with his composure for several long seconds. “Possibly.”

A world-weary sigh. “I really wish you had called.”

“Yeah, well,” he says vaguely. He checks his watch. 8:23.

“So he’s playing with others. Why would Ronan want to do that?”

“I think—he’ll do anything not to feel powerless.” He understands as soon as he says it that it’s the pockmark in the windshield from which all of the damage is splintering outwards. “And people take advantage of that.”

Gansey makes a thoughtful noise, somewhere a thousand miles away, and it clicks in a lock and opens Adam’s shoulders up. Maybe he doesn’t have to be alone in this fight. How could he have forgotten careful, persistent Gansey?

“Well. He’s certainly not powerless. I almost feel back to my pre-Cabeswater self. Everything is pleasantly linear. And Blue is—lighting up.” In the background, he hears her say supercharged with relish. “I can only imagine what it’s like for full-blooded dream stuff, with all of that energy at their disposal.”

“I don’t know if I like it,” Adam says carefully. “It’s good for a while, helping all the Matthew’s of the world, and then what? Where does all of that diverted power end up? What makes dreamers qualified to harness it without their worst nightmares manifesting?”

“You’re worried about the Lace.”

The last time they spoke, Adam had told them briefly about his last scrying session, warning them to look out for the hateful, faceless thing that had pierced his cells and magnified all of his pain and fear until all he could possibly do was scream.

“I’m worried about Ronan. I know he’s in over his head, and I know he won’t believe it until it’s too late.”

“Sounds like someone I know. Don’t bite off more than you can chew with this, Adam. I know you’re enormously busy.”

It stings, a little. “I’m still going to—I’m obviously still going to make time for him. Especially when he’s—“

“Struggling. Yes. I understand perfectly.” It occurs to Adam that, unlike his well-meaning Harvard friends, he actually might. A needling murmur in the background, and then, “listen, Blue’s telling me that you should get in touch with the psychics, and Mr. Gray.”

He nods. The rhythm of problem-solving is soothing his frazzled nerves. “I’ve been considering it. I’m also pretty sure that Declan has been keeping his own tabs on things.”

“My money’s on yes,” Gansey says. Adam half-smiles. His money has been on a lot of things. “Poke around when you can. See what turns up. I’ll give Ronan a call, not that it’s ever done me much good before.”

“I’m pretty sure he ditched his phone.” He checks his watch. 8:24. It feels like it’s been much, much longer than a minute. There is so much day ahead of him.

Ordinarily, he would be compartmentalizing better than this. No feverish Gansey phone calls directly before class. No pleasure with his business. No finesse when logic will do the job just as well. But the subterranean, black-eyed Adam is still within him, tethered to the ley line and to his friends, and he wants very badly to fix this.

“Ah, Ronan,” Gansey sighs. “It’s always got to be him, doesn’t it?”

“I know,” Adam says narrowly. “If he’s not looking for trouble it’s looking for him.”

“You sound like Declan.”

Adam makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. Blue must be leaning across Gansey, because she says “that’s a new low,” almost directly into the receiver.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says flatly.

“Update me if anything changes? We’ll come home the moment things go south.”

He resists the urge to check his watch again. “Don’t cut things short on my account.”

“Well. Don’t disrupt your studies on Ronan’s. I’ve never known you to put your future on hold for anything.”

“I’m not—“ he stops. “Ronan is a part of my future.”

“Good,” Gansey says warmly. A test, then. And like most tests, there was never even a possibility that Adam wouldn’t pass.

______

It’s easy to tell when a dreamer is suffering.

As the energy from the ley line ebbs, dreamt creations judder and bolt like horses loosed suddenly from the service of a carriage, galloping towards safer pastures. If the dreamer is in more immediate peril, the dream simply folds its limbs into an agreeable shape and passes into sleep.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, Adam lies awake in bed, dangling his hand between the wall and his bed frame, feeling along the subtle unfilled crack in the plaster. A flagpole casualty, from the day that everything stopped being enough for Ronan, and he slipped away on a dreamt current like a dark Ophelia.

He’s being dramatic.

He feels the drywall flaking, and digs his thumbnail into the split, wanting to rip the whole wall open with his fingers.

He keeps picturing Matthew’s half-lidded eyes, cloudless and blue as a wide prairie sky. The slouch of his posture, the tarnished golden head, the body briefly without a pilot.

Matthew had looked—Adam turns in bed, taking his chalky hand from the wall and fisting it in the sheets. He had looked like a faded old pillow, tucked unobtrusively into the chair by the window. He wouldn’t respond to Declan’s call, fluttering his drowsy lashes, and Adam had thought, ah. This is how I find out. His heart slumped over in his chest, dizzy with sudden grief. The tarot cards in his hands were dead leaves.

This is what happens when your life is tied to my brother’s, Declan had said, diverting his horror into scorn as he often did. The death of any one member of his family ensured the destruction of another. It had always been that way.

Matthew eventually roused, and Adam had closed his eyes and turned his face towards the ceiling until he could be normal again. He felt suddenly foolish for peddling lies to college students when magic was so obviously in the room with him.

Earlier, he had called Maura over lunch, and she vaulted right over small talk to ask him, with concern, about his loosening grip on his psychic inclinations. She’d said, “You do know that the ley line isn’t the source of your problems, right? Give yourself some credit. You can fuck things up in a completely non-mystical way.”

She pulled the Magician, reversed, and the eight of wands, and then, without further comment, passed the phone to Mr. Gray.

Unexplained weaponry, he’d reported. The Lynch brothers loosed on two separate worlds at the same time. Buttoned-up Declan for the first time unbuttoned, schmoozing with an array of dangerous and connected people, trading in secrets just as his father had. Purposeless Ronan for the first time with a purpose, wading out from the murky waters of his dreamspace and bringing the tides with him.

Bryde, the name in the corner of everyone’s mouth, joined all at once by Ronan’s and Hennessy’s.

Renegades, liberators of dreams, scorchers of earth. He could see, easily, why this would appeal to Ronan. A mission, finally. A father figure to guide his hand. A world that wanted his dreams, and wouldn’t crumple under the weight of his unusual ambition.

When they were teenagers, Aglionby was just another one of Adam’s jobs, but it was one of Ronan’s nightmares. He would go to school, a hooded bird of prey, seething with resentment and squandered ability. He longed for the Barns because of what they represented: the childlike belief that his family would never die; the possibility for creatures like him to roam free; a landscape powered by unconditional love.

Bryde, Adam knows, must be offering him the same relief. Exquisite flight, after the cage.

It’s not possible, is the thing. It’s a pipe dream. A Niall Lynch fairytale.

Foresight has never been Ronan’s strong suit. He gets it into his head that a solution is right up until the point that it falls apart in his hands. He throws himself entirely into belief. It makes him an extraordinarily loyal and trusting person. It also makes him stubborn, rash, and susceptible to manipulation.

He believes in one facet of something, and the rest follows. He can’t just take a sip—he downs the bottle.

Adam is a boy on a bicycle in November, needing to find Ronan alive so that he can hate him without feeling guilty about it. He never stops oscillating between resentment and love, reality and unreality, understanding and disappointment. He wants to be normal so that he can choose to be abnormal. Sometimes he wants the cards without the magic.

He closes his eyes and remembers a slumbering mouse against an angular cheek. He imagines Matthew like that, perpetually immobile, perpetually innocent, like a taxidermied puppy. The pieces of Ronan’s consciousness that will linger after his death, statues in a graveyard. Tamquam—tamquam—

What would Ronan be without his dreams? Here, Adam thinks. He’d be here.

He stays in bed for another wasted hour, and then stands up, disoriented, in the dimness of the room. Fletcher is snoring softly. Someone outside their cracked window is shuffling over the concrete stoop. His upstairs neighbour is playing tinkling soundtracks while he sleeps. Adam can’t be here anymore.

He plucks Fletcher’s laptop silently from its charging station, tucks his bare feet into stiff leather shoes, drags the cardigan from his desk chair, and lets himself out into the hallway. The glare from the overhead light pins him against the wall for a moment.

He shuffles half-blind down the hall and upstairs to the solarium, nearly losing one of his unlaced shoes in the stairwell in the process. The lights are blessedly shut off up in the attic, and he feels his way to the nearest of the tables hunched in the shadows. Aching with fatigue, he sits, unfolds his stolen laptop, and gets quietly to work.

He’s never had the time nor means to be truly proficient with technology, but he extracted a handful of leads from Mr. Gray, and he’s been in touch with a friend of Benjy’s—a computer science grad student and hacking hobbyist.

He chases key phrases down rabbit holes and assembles news articles, tracking Ronan’s movement by his “unexplainable” signature (code for mind-fuckery, joyful innovation, and dark humour). Adam is a practiced note-taker and serial obsesser, so it’s barely a strain to find Ronan—whom he knows better than anyone—cropping up all over the continental United States.

“What are you doing,” Adam murmurs. The sky lightens gradually to periwinkle. He has work today, but his shift doesn’t start until noon. His mouth is bone-dry, and his head feels cotton-stuffed the way it always does when he’s pushing his body to its limit.

When it’s late enough in the morning to be socially acceptable, he messages Benjy’s friend with the bare bones of what he’s looking for: a project under wraps, a lonely last name, a suppressed pattern. They correspond, remotely, until Adam is reading government files over watery coffee, wearing sweatpants, dress shoes, and a cardigan with cracked elbow patches.

He pores over it all, cross-referencing dates, and ignoring the widening sink-hole in his chest.

Industrial espionage isn’t at all Ronan’s usual brand of destruction. Highly controlled, not much up-front gratification. A little more political than Ronan usually leans. A lot more ambitious. Whatever their agenda, ley energy is flowing more easily now that it's unobstructed on such a large scale. Adam has been feeling its effects rippling all the way out to Boston, a persistent background pressure, unavoidable as a migraine.

It’s clear that the Moderators are desperate to eliminate Bryde’s party. Their reports are a comedy of close calls.

Slowly, Adam begins to understand the scope of things.

Billions of dollars in damages, manmade structures ripped from their foundations. Magical fugitives hunted by a team that specializes in murdering the targets they call Zeds. Visionary headlights pointed towards certain apocalypse. A world that is always awake, but always, always feels like it’s dreaming.

It’s pretty much exactly as he feared. Night terrors. The Lace. Beasts and legends. Adam holds his head in his hands. It’s more than what Ronan must be imagining. It’s more than Aurora waking happily in Cabeswater, powered by the swaying trees. It’s the indiscriminate waking of every incredible thing that’s ever been dreamed.

He’s struck by a wave of hopelessness that rushes all around him and tears at his hair. Ronan, dreamer of baubles that dispense music and light, cars that go very fast, and menageries of curious creatures, recruited to a cause that transmutes creation into chaos. Ronan, promising to wait, and then running full tilt at a future that can’t possibly keep Adam in it.

His dream half is going to destroy his human half, and he’ll take everybody else down with him.

If he could just see him, maybe—

His jaw creaks, teeth clenched tight against the emotional groundswell. The late morning sunshine strikes him, and he feel more like a vague, pale shape than a person. Like a dream, maybe.

Alter idem.

If Adam can’t reach Ronan, maybe the Moderators should.

He feels the weight of that awful thought burning a hole through his stomach lining. He can’t think about it. He needs to go to work.

_____

The next evening, he experiences a surge of power so acute that it nearly puts him in a coma.

It’s another Wednesday night, and another batch of his peers hitch polite smiles to his heels as he passes them by, winding his way up into the high, arched sunroom at Weld hall. They’re all wishing for magical solutions for their mundane problems, the opposite of Adam in nearly every way.

He bumps knuckles with Benjy and Eliot in turn, pulls up his chair, and knocks his last reading from Persephone’s deck, mostly out of habit. He consults his phone idly as his friends try to make pleasant conversation, holding up a finger when he finds a new batch of texts from Gansey.

John Amos power plant in WV shut down Monday

Intense. maura said she could’ve brought HER dreams to life afterwards

no word from Ronan yet? Leads from Declan? pls advise

I’ll assume no news is good news

He puts his phone in his satchel and fastens it closed. Every new scrap of information he gets feels like a stroll through Ronan’s security system at the Barns—hopelessness compounding and compounding until he staggers out the far end weeping.

He needs to focus on something productive. He nods at Benjy to start letting people inside, straightening the notebook where he usually scribbles his observations. Here, he is an adjudicator: powerful, organized, and reserved, tallying points and offering constructive critique.

His curious audience starts pouring in then, amateur wiccans and wannabe believers, aggrieved last-resorters and skeptics following friends’ recommendations. It’s a brighter collection of characters than Aglionby could ever have hoped to foster.

Gillian texts him to say that she just passed Weld and his line-up was out the door. He is a prim and unobtrusive con artist, a false prophet, and business is booming.

Eventually, a bespectacled girl who looks anywhere from five to ten years his senior sits across from him, tucking a bag armoured to the teeth with candy-coloured enamel pins between her feet.

“Hi,” she says nervously. “Anna.” She stretches her hands out in front of her, then thinks better of it and drops them into her lap. “I’m not sure how this usually goes, so you might have to hold my hand a little bit.”

“No problem,” he says smoothly, passing his deck across the tabletop. “Just go ahead and shuffle. Concentrate on what you want to ask the cards.”

She does as directed, struggling a little to keep the papery stack in check. Not a natural born card sharp, then. He studies her neat black shirt, tucked precisely into a plaid skirt. A Marilyn mole drawn on just above the corner of her mouth. A pride flag pin he doesn’t recognize next to a cat wearing a cowboy hat, and the word “rude” in cursive.

She holds the deck fleetingly to her chest, eyes squeezed shut like a child making a birthday wish, and then plops it in the centre of the table. A card slips near the top, slightly uneven, and Adam plucks it free.

He hums thoughtfully. “Eight of cups. Okay. So you’re having some trouble with letting go.” She frowns and nods once, quick.

He lays out the rest of a simple five card spread neatly between them. A couple of stray swords, the chariot, a wand.

“It seems like things are stagnating in your personal life. Maybe your friend group used to feel like your family, but you feel like they’ve lost interest in you. And you love them, but Anna, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re pretty sure you were done with them before they even started pulling away. Right now you’re kind of just going through the motions. A couple of years overdue to convocate, right? Everyone else moved on to greener pastures.” He taps his thumb thoughtfully against the bones of his opposite wrist. “It’s not even the loneliness that gets you. It’s the not knowing. Are you supposed to chase after them? Is there another community out there for you? There is, you know.”

He notices another card spilling loose, and he grabs it without thinking. The Magician again. He thinks, huh, caught in the coils and dust of Persephone’s overturned cards.

And then the waking world disappears.

Adam is airborne, tumbling up into the atmosphere on a geyser of ley energy, whipped by branches and light. He throws his arms out to stop himself, but he’s only a projection, so his momentum doesn’t slow.

Something—Lindenmere? The cosmos?—shows him a series of images: an upturned nose made from oil and turpentine, a coiled old tree stump, a red-haired woman grinning toothily and then exploding, a rose the colour of warm dark skin, a pale scar-split hand cradling a silky head, the animal haunch of something black, a terrible voice booming turn back—

He skitters away, panicked, and bumps into his own body. Or not his own body. A double, blinking confusedly in the bathroom mirror.

His doppelgänger turns to leave, and Adam reaches after him, through the mirror, following himself into a version of Thayer which is not Thayer. Everything is alive, in this reality. Energy sings and saws its fingers together.

It’s a memory, but it’s also the present, and it’s also a nightmare. Wake up!

Obediently, the city wakes.

He gasps, although he doesn’t have a mouth. It’s the heaving first breath of a sleeping witch, like Gwenllian turning in her grave.

Adam struggles against the current of wild power, thick and pungent as gasoline. Everything feels more intense near magical artifacts, dream stuff, supernatural fault lines, and it is with great effort that he hunts for something familiar, something heavy enough to bind him. He was unprepared for this, and although everything around him is bitingly familiar, he's lost. He wheels around and around, reaching for his most trusted tethers—Gansey, Ronan, Blue, Persephone—

Persephone.

He follows the lingering perfume of her intuition, feeling blindly for those old handholds in her tarot deck, that familiar grip, like the hilt of a trusted weapon.

And then he finds himself looking again at the girl, Anna, her fate bunched around her narrow shoulders. And then at his own empty body, a glowing card clamped between his fingers. As soon as he’s aware of looking at himself, he’s looking out of himself, and he stands up quickly, overturning his chair.

“—Adam? Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

“What on God’s green Earth was that?”

A palm between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t touch me,” he chokes.

The hand retreats. A murmur: I’ve never seen him like this.

“Is it—is it bad? Am I going to be okay? Is it bad?” Anna keeps asking, horrified.

“You’re fine,” he manages to say. “I’m sorry.” The ‘o’ in sorry comes out a little wide and swerving.

“You went blank,” Benjy says, voice high with residual panic. “For like—ten minutes. Beyond hyper-focus.”

“I thought it was a gimmick,” Eliot says. “But a ten minute gimmick? What is this, Las Vegas?”

“I got carried away. I have to,” he swallows. “I need a minute. I promise everything’s fine.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” Eliot says quickly. “But, fair warning, I’m going to ask you a hundred questions when you get back.”

“And then I’m going to ask another hundred,” Benjy says. “Magic man.”

“A riddle, inside an enigma, wrapped in a sweater vest,” Eliot muses. He can tell they’re still shaken. He’ll have to deal with that, later.

“I'll be right back,” Adam says, touching them very lightly on the shoulder as he passes. The ley line is bursting, and he feels so flushed with its vitality that it almost makes him sick.

He stumbles past them, all the way out of the building and into the street. The winter air tears at his thin shirtsleeves, nips at his sock-less ankles. He shields his eyes against the sun, watching a bird swoop low overhead. A silvery, seagull-sized thing, but with knobby legs that taper into—he squints. Hooves?

He keeps moving, propelled by the mad urge to catch the bird, to pin the wild magic down so he can understand it.

Adam walks for what feels like a long time, trying to find the source of all of this haemorrhaging power. He spots a couple of fidgety-looking students, a few more curious creatures. Somewhere, faraway, there’s music crooning, and it sounds exactly the way a hot shower feels.

He stops in the middle of Oxford street, head cocked towards the natural history museum across the way, the orderly buildings, the sparse evening foot traffic. Business as usual. All of it screaming with energy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a parade of scuttling creatures marching towards an invisible destination. Frowning, Adam crosses the street, chasing the peacock blue shimmer from an unfurled wing. He slows, stooping in the alley to pick one of the strange insects from the stream. He peers through a nail-sized hole in its head. Its spindly legs wave fearfully for a moment, and then it goes limp in his hand.

The ley energy punches out of him, and he sits back on his ankles, winded.

Adam gazes down at the jewelled beetle in his palm, its siblings scattered out like shell casings around his knees. Dreams, all of them. Briefly, impossibly roused in a dead city. He stands, letting the beetle drop from his hand and bounce across the concrete. He kicks them all hurriedly behind a nearby bench, mind racing. Bugs from an exhibit next door, no doubt. Dormant animals, transplanted from their habitats and pinned in place for decades.

What kind of ecoterror was wrought to bring about a flash flood of energy in a drought? How must Ronan be feeling, out there in the world, wracked with waking dreams? What unimaginable monsters were just stirring in the shadows because of him? Is Bryde one of them?

His lives are merging. The distant rumbling of thunder is overhead now, and the downpour is rolling in. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep dry.

Standing in that alleyway by himself, drained and ordinary again, he feels terribly alone.

He weighs his feelings against his logic for several agonizing minutes, standing still and watchful as a predator. He recalls the jarringly clinical accounts of Ronan's most intimate dreams, the sparsely encoded language in those government files outlining the world-ending dangers of something Adam had, for a long time, shared a bed with.

If something happens to Ronan now, it might kill Adam. If something happens because of Ronan, it might kill everybody.

Another minute, and he has his phone out and ringing.

“Hello?” Declan answers. Oddly, it’s not his usual prickly greeting. He sounds almost jovial.

Adam looks out into the darkening street, feeling like a death omen, a shadow across someone’s doorstep. “We really need to talk about Bryde.”

______

It’s the worst possible time for Declan to be withholding information from him.

Adam had graciously tipped his hand and Declan was, infuriatingly, holding back, as if this was a low grade in Ronan’s high school algebra class, and not the cataclysmic fuck-up of a powerful dreamer.

Declan, so uncannily like his brother in vulnerable moments like this, had thought of Matthew first. A world where dreams could stay awake, he’d marvelled. As if they could afford to think so small.

Once, Adam had awoken to find his arm glued to the bedspread. Ronan had dreamt a bee-less hive in the night, and it was oozing a steady stream of honey into the sheets between them.

“Score,” Ronan had said, when he’d rolled back into his body. “Sting-free. Fucking vegan.”

“What happens when we don’t want any more honey?” Adam had asked, critically. Ingesting dreams always felt like a slippery subject. “Does it shut off like a faucet?”

It didn’t. Ronan filled a dozen amber jars full, and then abandoned the hive in a dusty kiddy pool in one of the barns near the back of his family property.

A month later, Opal had crept in through a window looking for trouble, and emerged, shrieking, in a viscous flood of syrup.

Combing the mess out of Opal’s fur, her little legs slung across his lap, Ronan had complained about the magnitude of the clean-up job he would have to do, the special honey hoover he would have to create, what a waste of a dream it would be. Adam reminded him of his faucet idea.

“Too late for that, Parrish,” he’d griped.

It was their pattern. A marvel, too good to be true. Adam, the skeptic. Ronan, too in love with creation to care about consequences.

Eventually, it will all be too late.

Ronan will pursue this liberation fantasy, this golden daydream, even if it never stops oozing. Even if it makes the whole world uninhabitable.

______

That night, Adam tries to scry for the first time in months.

He gently pushes the crying club—only tenuously placated after the tarot incident—to have drinks without him, claiming stress-induced fatigue. He leaves his study notes open and blinking on the bed, lights a sad little tea light, and casts himself out into the ether.

Straining hard, he searches for the familiar contours of Ronan’s dreamspace, plucking the distant strings of the ley line and listening for the particular timbre of Ronan’s consciousness.

He doesn’t like walking this tightrope without a net, but Harvard isn’t exactly flush with psychic spotters. He keeps a delicate balance, far from his body, inching closer and closer to Ronan’s mind, the safe plateau at the end of this rope.

Eventually, he finds himself in a grey bedroom. It's full to the gills with water, there's a toy sailboat bobbing past at chest height, and storm clouds huddling nervously on the ceiling. Adam’s hair plasters instantly to his scalp.

“Ronan?” he calls, sloshing through the curiously luminous water. It starts raining harder. A familiar, curly-headed child stares at him through the darkness, eyes sharpened into silver points in the moonlight. “Ronan?” he asks again, gently this time.

A muffled sentence, a sad, crumpled expression, and then Adam is staring at a closed door.

“What—let me in! Ronan!” He pounds at the door. “Come on!” He can still feel rainwater, unnaturally warm on his neck.

A voice in his head, not Ronan, whispers, turn back.

“No,” he snaps, knocking harder. “Just let me—“ A sudden gust of wind in his sails, and he’s ejected from the dream altogether.

He pinwheels for a horrifying, weightless moment, struggling to tune back in to the feeble light from his stubby candle, and then dragging himself, hand over fist, back to his dorm room.

“Fuck, Lynch,” he says, when he has a voice. “Don’t be stupid.” He recrosses his legs, shaking off the pointless, clinging feeling of rejection.

When he tries to reach out again, searching, searching, Ronan’s expecting him. He never makes it past the threshold.

Back in his body, he knocks his candle over, relishing the controlled destruction, the spill of wax, the sizzle of the squashed wick. A fire he can actually put out.

______

The next time Adam scrys, Ronan looks like himself. Maybe a little scruffier, with what looks like a tunnel piercing on his right ear, and a rare openness to his posture. He’s lounging in a pasture up against a sleeping cow, boots up.

As Adam watches, he tips his shaved head back into its mottled hide, and the sun makes his eyelashes into lit matchsticks. He loves him very much. He’d almost forgotten.

“Don’t lock me out,” he says quickly. Ronan opens his eyes, and when he sees him he smiles instinctively.

“Adam,” he says, vaguely. And then he locks him out.

“No,” he cries. “Would you listen to me.” He feels for the fissure in space and time, the pocket where Ronan is dreaming, sweetly and inaccessibly, about the only home Adam has ever known.

Nothing gives. Nobody replies. He crawls back to Harvard, weak with misery.

In the next dream, Ronan is older, driving a boxy jeep over a foreign landscape. Rolling Irish hills, skies humming with artificial energy. A woman who can only be Jordan Hennessy, chattering in the passenger seat.

Then it’s Ronan with his head in his dead mother’s lap, stroking the downy wing of a black swan.

Then Ronan and Hennessy again, opposite one another in a sunny gallery. One of them examining an impressionist portrait no bigger than a postcard, the other examining the exit.

Then Ronan, discovering Matthew’s corpse in a dim hallway, blinking furiously at the stranger crouched over his prone body. “What did you do?” He sounds like a kid reprimanding his sibling for getting them both in trouble.

Every time Adam gets close, some defence mechanism stops him, like a firm hand against his chest, pushing him away again and again.

He doesn't know what to do except keep trying.

______

Blankly, he looks down at a sink full of tinfoil and uneasy water. In pieces, he becomes aware of his surroundings—green stalls and laminate countertops, a row of hundred-watt lightbulbs, and somebody rattling the locked doorknob.

“Adam, are you in there?” Fletcher. “We’re going to be late. It’s nearly ten. Adam?”

“Just a minute, sorry,” Adam slurs. He stares closely at his face in the mirror until he recognizes his own features. He has an exam at 10:30. He glances down at his watch. 9:52. He had been so sure that he could just drift for a few minutes, maybe catch Ronan before he woke up. That was almost an hour ago.

He drains the sink, hands shaking, cuffs getting damp. The lightbulb filaments float behind his eyelids when he blinks. He throws his satchel over his shoulder, smooths his hair up and out of his eyes, and rubs the bags under his eyes until they hurt.

When he lets himself out of the bathroom, Fletcher is directly outside, tapping a nervous rhythm on his hips. His hands fly from his body and into the air at the sight of him.

“Adam! Thank god. I’ll cancel the search party.”

“I got lost in my notes,” Adam says, as they both make for the stairs.

“Of course you did,” Fletcher says warmly. “A supremely Adam move. I just hope you’re taking care of yourself. Gillian thinks you might be—well—not spiralling, but—“

“I’m handling it.” He takes several mental paces backwards. “Uh—poorly, clearly. I’m sorry Fletcher, I didn’t mean to snap.”

Fletcher, to his credit, recovers quickly. “I can’t imagine going through my first semester of college and a break-up at the same time. You’re a stronger man than I.”

Adam rather doubts that Fletcher can imagine going through a break-up at all, but he nods conspiratorially. They hop down the last few steps and out into the chilly sunshine together.

“You’d be amazed what one can do out of necessity.”

“Too true. We all have our hidden depths, don’t we,” Fletcher says thoughtfully. For a moment, Adam considers telling him—something, looping him into this tangled web with him, but then he says, “now, chapter twenty-three wasn’t on the outline, was it? I beg you to say no. Lie, if you must.”

And Adam is a student again. He doesn’t have out of body episodes. He doesn’t carry wads of tinfoil in his trouser pockets. He doesn’t keep deadly secrets from people whom he is mostly pretending to like and understand.

They walk onwards, towards a test which Adam will rouse himself for long enough to ace. Then he will think of the next thing, and the next. Appease these school acquaintances of his. Tinker with finicky car engines. Make flash cards. Drift into the beyond using one of Fletcher’s three-wick candles from pottery barn. Text Declan, who activates Ronan’s accountability in a way that Adam does not. Call Gansey, if he can bring himself to face his disappointment.

And clear away his feelings, which keep pouring out of him like so much honey.

______

Ronan hangs up on him, and Adam holds himself in the biting wind outside the library for a very long time.

He’d thought, if he could only speak to him, that he could begin to undo Bryde’s poisonous influence. They know each other. They’ve known each other. Ronan would listen to Adam’s fears as he always does. Adam would appeal to Ronan’s heart, which tends to ache for helpless things. They would see how lost they had become without each other. Adam would be allowed back into Ronan’s dreams, and Ronan would be allowed back into Adam’s future.

Why didn’t you text back?

As if they’ve been suspended in time since Ronan’s last tamquam, and none of it—the running away, warding his dreams against Adam, abandoning his phone, trusting a complete stranger over his friends and family—had ever happened.

It’s absurd. He should have expected it. Ronan was searching for a reason to stay, and when he looked for his reflection, his second self, Adam wasn’t there. For a single moment, he wasn’t there, and now he’s paying for it.

Impatient, wrathful Ronan. Leaping from the moving vehicle because Adam was going the speed limit. Going rogue, and then calling Adam with all of these stinging accusations, like he was the one who’d been abandoned.

He thinks again of Bryde manipulating Ronan, preying on his loneliness, his love for his brothers, his fear of himself. This big bad rumour, older and crueler than the Lace itself.

And Ronan letting himself be manipulated, putting on blinders, using Adam’s brief silence as an endorsement for a glorified joyride with unthinkable global ramifications. Self-destructing because things got a little too quiet.

Adam feels hot rage taking ahold of him with its sticky fingers.

Then he thinks of Ronan saying I need to see you, his thin, frightened voice finding Adam from somewhere out there in the city, and his anger goes clammy.

There’s no way Ronan will call again. Negotiations were off as soon as Adam refused to house them both from the Moderators.

And now, without Hennessy, Ronan is the last arrow in Bryde’s quiver. He’s going to be the explosive that brings everything down. He’s going to be buried at ground zero.

If I'd replied an hour sooner, would he really have waited? If I’d gone to school closer, would I have noticed him disintegrating? If I explained that my dream isn’t what I thought it would be either, that he’s the only thing that feels real, would he have said it back to me?

After everything that’s happened, am I going to be the one who gives up on Ronan Lynch?

Everything is so fucked.

He calls Declan.

He picks up on the first ring. “Parrish—”

“He hung up on me,” they both say at the same time.

“Mother of God,” Declan moans. “Then there’s no hope. He thinks I sold him out to the Mods.”

“Did you?”

“No. I did exactly as we discussed. I negotiated for his safety. I thought—I mean, you said it yourself, Adam. Being anti-apocalypse is a pretty solid platform.”

He shakes his head. “Ronan won’t see it that way. He’s not like us. He doesn’t want to be moderated even a little bit.”

“Believe me, I know that. The way he was talking—about the world screwing them over, all of them, dreamers. That’s not the way my brother thinks. That’s all Bryde. And now he’s taken him—Christ—Christ knows where.”

“He wanted to see me,” Adam feels compelled to say. “He was trying to come here.”

“He said that? That's good,” Declan says, relieved. “Where—“

“I let him get away,” Adam says, through numb lips. “I let him go.”

______

He texts Gansey, things have gone south, and then he turns his phone on silent.

His puts his fingertips to the floorboards, a knobbly hand on either side of a scrying tableau: the leaping flame of a candle, a well-organized pile of cards, his overturned phone and discarded tie. He’s just finished crying, and he feels volatile and ill-prepared even as he ties himself to the flickering light.

His mind races through the night like a skipped stone. Vaguely, he pictures a vast body of water and a glittering mountain range, with no horizon line in-between. Darkness reflected in darkness.

“Ronan,” he calls. The dreamspace whirs and grinds its gears and won’t reply. “You know this is wrong. You know, or you wouldn't be hiding from me.”

It’s all water out here in this sublime mirror-space, but it’s also warm, like the steam rising from a hot spring. Something is moving, changing things on a chemical level.

For a moment he thinks he sees himself, a wan doppelgänger with its hands raised. But it’s not Adam. It’s Bryde. Cool, sturdy, a pale Atlas holding the dream together on his back. He recognizes him instinctively.

Adam deliberately throws his mind closer, into the terrible heart of this fire Ronan is creating. Smoke whispers and catches all around him, and it’s even harder to tell the difference between things now. No horizon, no seam, no reality, no death.

What have you done? What are you doing?

The heat is quickly becoming unbearable. Adam is stretched too thin, and the fire is fraying him, eating through each fibre of his connection to reality.

Ronan, please, I need you to stop. I’m losing my grip. Listen to me.

And then, without any warning at all, he collapses on his dorm room floor.

He hacks and retches, lungs full of phantom smoke. Everything feels very wrong. He thinks for a second that he’s blind, but it’s not his vision, it’s another, less tangible sense, it’s—

He scrambles backwards on his hands, heaving. He tries to pull himself up onto his bed, head first, then chest, but he has to stop with his face buried in the comforter.

Ronan is—he must be—he’s—

“God, no, oh my god, no, no.”

He needs to throw up. He needs to call somebody. There’s complete silence in his head.

He was slingshotted back to Cambridge, swatted back along the zipline to his body, because there was nowhere else for him to go.

He’s sure, in a very non-magical, intuitive way, that every dream in the world has just collectively collapsed. Adam staggers to his feet. There’s a smoke alarm going off, somewhere. A background hum of electricity groaning as it shuts off. A high, scared voice.

As if in a trance, he goes to the window.

There are five dead lightbulbs in the nearest row of street lamps, what looks like a sleeping child out in the middle of the square, and a woman clutching her chest and sitting slowly on a bench.

Panic is deadening his senses, crawling blackly into his mouth and nose and eyes. He thinks of Matthew sitting weakly by the window. Opal slumped over a stump in the woods. Chainsaw falling from the sky like a stone. Gansey’s Cabeswater heart decaying in his chest. Ronan, either dissolving into nightwash or felled by a Moderator’s bullet, dead, lost, or powerless.

Every morsel of magic, every innovation, every cherished friend, every sacred place, turned off like a faucet.

The world outside, drooping and disconnected, is now exactly as ordinary as Adam has been pretending it is.

The ley line is gone.

#mister impossible #the dreamer trilogy #mi spoilers #tdt #adam parrish #trc #trc fanfic #pynch #mine #my tfc besties...... soon #in the meantime. here's some adam pov please clap

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chilly-me-softly · 3 years

Note

Your best friend introduces you to their new partner. when you lock eyes, about to greet each other, you and your best friend's partner freeze up, horrified. You had a summer fling and suddenly, everything you felt back then comes rushing back to the surface. you thought you'd never see each other again, but now, you can't get each other out of your heads. Can you do this one with Dcl? I hope it’s not too detailed for you to work with x

You were supposed to be at your best friend's house half an hour ago but another errand turned out to be longer than expected so here you are standing at her door with the sorriest look on your face ever and hoping she didn't mind. Although she should be with her new boyfriend, whom she's due to introduce to you that very evening, so she might not have noticed.

Who are you kidding, she did notice but she's so excited that night that she's not giving you a hard time about it. You are curious to meet this guy who has driven her crazy, she has spoken very highly of him in the previous days and your curiosity has only increased because, unlike the other times, she has not allowed you to spy on him on his socials. She didn't give you a first or last name and you really have no idea what he might be like. But if she had, all that could have been avoided.

As soon as your eyes meet, a shiver runs down your spine. Time seems to stop and you can't quite register whether you've said or done anything. When you come to your senses, your friend has dragged you into the kitchen where it's just the two of you.

"I know why you're like this"

"Huh?" you open your eyes wide surprised and even more confused, ready to panic.

"It's not every day you get to meet a famous person isn't it!" you almost breathe a sigh of relief hiding it with a very fake giggle, agreeing with her even though you don't know what she's referring to. "And sorry I didn't tell you but I really wanted you to know him as the simple person he is" she continues but you're so relieved that she doesn't know your secret that you can't hear anything anymore.

That summer you've been visiting some relatives and taking a bit of a break from your daily problems, and that's when you had a little fling. One of those stories that doesn't really matter, because you know that once you get back to your everyday life, you'll go your separate ways and all you'll keep is the memory of a dreamy summer.

And your friend had followed the whole thing from afar, asking for constant updates, intrigued by this guy who seemed to have bewitched you. Of course, you had told her everything, including how you dreamed of staying there forever without worrying or doing anything and enjoying the view and that kind of relationship. Only she didn't know that the boy in question was her boyfriend, the one in the living room now. You didn't know that months later you were thinking about him from time to time and more importantly you didn't know how you should act.

You thought you would never see him again and that belief had helped you to put it behind you and get on with your life, but seeing him again so suddenly had triggered too much inside you in such a short time. You feel stupid because he obviously told you a bunch of lies, but at the same time you also decided to omit details of your life; what you felt that summer comes flooding back, every laugh, every moment together that seemed so special; and you feel like a bad friend because you're thinking of lying to her so she won't suffer, because you see her hopeful smile for that story and for having found a nice person; you feel like a bad friend because you're jealous of her cause she can have him all to herself. You feel like a bad friend because you see that you still have feelings for that guy, now her boyfriend.

And after thinking about it again and again you decide it's best to come out to her. You have never liked the same guy since you met and you have no idea how it will end but you don't want to lose her as a friend and you can't keep it to yourself much longer. If the situation was the other way around you would want to know, no matter how much it would hurt; it would be even more painful to find out by accident or after years and feel used or worse still humiliated and made fun of.

You ring her door hoping she's not home but the door opens and you are forced to face reality now. She greets you beaming as always, looking worried slightly at your expression thinking it's due to work but you explain that you need to talk to her and you sit down in the living room as always.

"It's not easy and I don't know where to start but please listen to me all the way through okay?" she nods and something you can't decipher crosses her gaze. However you take a deep breath and begin to talk.

"Remember I told you this summer I had that affair with that guy?"

"Yeah, the cute and super sweet one"

"Yeah" you sigh, "I-I told him I wasn't local and he hadn't given me too much information about him either. It didn't matter, because after the summer was over we'd all go our separate ways and never see each other again. And I swear I didn't know. I thought I'd never see him again and I kind of forced myself to think it was just a summer fling" you have your gaze on your hands that are nervously torturing each other, missing her wiping away a tear that rolls down her cheek.

"I never thought about what might happen between us if we shared even the most intimate details of our lives, if we exchanged numbers... and every now and then I thought about it but only you know out of curiosity. I always thought I was just nostalgic for the good holiday. Until-"

"Until you met him here" your friend's trembling voice makes you turn your head in surprise towards her.

"How...?"

"He beat you to it" she states bitterly and it takes you a moment to realise her words. "He said he's fine with me but ever since he saw you again he can't get you out of his head"

"(Y/F/N) I swear to you that-that I didn't think... there was nothing between us after the summer" you mutter helplessly as she shakes her head. "I know"

"I wouldn't do that to you, but I thought you should know" she nods lowering her gaze. And you don't know what else to say, you know the next thing will be bursting into tears as the lump is getting bigger and bigger and these start to fall at her words.

"It hurts, I can't hide it. But if you want to..." you shake your head interrupting her realizing what she's getting at.

"No. I wouldn't do that to you"

"The way he talked about you got to me you know. I mean I thought I liked him but I realised I'm not there yet. And I can't hold him to me, I'd be selfish" her voice cracks in several words and you squeeze your eyes tighter and tighter, trying to keep yourself from sobbing as you continue to shake your head.

"No" is the only thing that comes out of your lips at the moment.

And then comes the biggest blow when after a while of crying next to each other without acknowledging each other's presence, she asks you to go and leave her alone. You are tempted to impose yourself and say no to that too but you know she needs it and with a heavy heart you walk out that door, leaving but telling her to call you when she feels ready.

Part 2

#thank you anon #dominic calvert lewin blurb #dominic calvert lewin

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lilyofthesword-writes · 3 years

Text

Kokkuri-san (Loki Oneshot)

Summary: You are on your way back to the Tower when you sense a strange energy emanating from it. Loki is there to help.

Pairing: Loki x F!Reader (established relationship)

Word Count: 1,718

Warnings/Disclaimers: Opens with description of being unable to breathe.

A/N: I tried to provide enough information for this to be a stand alone, but it does still act like a follow-up to Sorceress. And if you would like more information on the game Kokkuri-san, I highly recommend checking out the podcasts Kowabana and Toshiden both created by Tara A. Devlin at Kowabana.net. Just a heads up, this is NOT sponsored by anyone. I just enjoy listening to scary stories, and this became one of my favorites.

Masterlist

Molasses had seeped past your skull, compressing your brain uncomfortably. Or at least that’s what it felt like. A wavering darkness flowed around you as if you were underwater. Your lungs were sluggish to take in air, and it was getting worse. The longer you were forced to endure this pressure, the harder it was for you to focus, to breathe.

-up...

A voice muddled through the inky blackness.

Wa- up...

It sounded so familiar...

Wake up...

Nat, maybe? Were you asleep?

WAKE UP!

Your eyes shot open, unwillingly taking in the light of the Quinjet. The air you sucked in felt like gravel in your throat. Nat’s steely grip on your shoulders were beginning to ground you in reality.

“Wha- What happened?” Your throat burned as you spoke.

“Some kind of dream.” Her concerned eyes bored into you as you tried to blink yourself to full consciousness. “You were breathing heavily before you just stopped altogether. You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you half lied. You didn’t feel nearly as bad in the dream but it still felt like sludge was creeping across your mind. Whatever energy you were getting close to was some kind of nasty. “How far are we from the Tower?”

Nat released you from her hold. “About an hour out.”

The pressure on your head was only growing worse the closer you all got.

“Okay...” you sucked in a deep breath.

Sitting in the seat across from you, Nat eyed you wearily. “You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, pulling out your phone. “Just going to break one of Fury’s rules. Something is going on at the Tower.”

An eyebrow shot up her forehead. “One of those sixth sense things, again?”

“You could say that...”

You pulled up Loki in the messenger app. You could astral project yourself to talk with him, but that could be more dangerous with whatever energy was infecting the Tower.

You: Hey. We’re almost back. What’s going on there?

Loki: Good evening to you as well, Darling. You can feel the energy from where you are?

You: Yes, it’s very... Palpable. ☹️

Loki: Well, we could use the extra help. It seems that the Ant-Man’s daughter played some spirit summoning game before joining him here for the summer.

You: And it followed her... Great... Is she at least okay?

Loki: She is unharmed. More spooked than anything.

You: Good, good. Did she mention any specifics? Like which game?

Loki: She did, yes. Although, she is unsure if she remembers it correctly. I believe she said it was Kakariko.

You: That can’t be right... That’s a village from a video game series.

Loki: So I learned recently with the Spiderling’s assistance.

You: Did she mention anything else?

Loki: She spoke of strange symbols as well as numbers being written in rows on a piece of paper. A coin was used as a conduit to pick each symbol.

You huffed and smacked your head in realization.

Kokkuri-san

Similar to a Ouija board in nature, missing or mucking up a step could be dangerous. Summoning spirits really should not be a game, something you concluded after cleaning up several messes on campus caused by the students who believed themselves master magicians despite their lack of experience. You couldn’t blame them too much for wanting to try since you had played a variety of those games in traveling with your family as a child. In Japan, Kokkuri-san was all the rage in schools.

Bumping your head on the back of the seat impatiently, you checked the time on your phone for the millionth time. You were about twenty minutes away now. Estimating the physical distance, you debated on just teleporting to the Tower instead of waiting in agony during the small amount of time.

Your phone pinged with a new message.

Loki: How are you faring?

You: Better than before. Energy barrier helps. How’re things there?

Loki: I have Lang and Cassie in her room with protection. The spirit cannot reach her there. However, it is lurking about. Stark is none too pleased.

You: He’s not blaming you, is he?

Loki: He tried. It did not last long.

You: Good. We should be there shortly.

Loki: I’ll be waiting, Dove.

Placing the phone in your pocket, you huffed.

“You know,” Nat chimed in, “We should be pretty close now. Just go already.”

Contemplating a moment, you answered, “I don’t know... I’ve only practiced long distance teleportation a few times.”

“And you were successful. Count this as extra practice. Now get out of here.” The harsh sound of her words was mitigated by an encouraging smile.

With a nod, you took a deep breath and teleported to the landing pad. You were about a foot away from the floor when you reappeared. Loki was already there to catch you. The god knew you too well.

“I dare say you might be getting the hang of this.” He held you close like he was making up for lost time.

You reached up and cupped his face to pull him in for a kiss. “Only because I have a very patient teacher.”

“I have missed this,” he breathed, his lips brushing against yours. “But I believe there is a young girl waiting for our help.”

Aside from Stark’s ranting about how ghosts weren’t real, setting up the library went off without a fuss. Between the salt, candles, charms, your spells and Loki’s seiðr, there was no way this could go wrong.

After confirming with Cassie that she had indeed played Kokkuri-san with a new friend who had recently moved to the States from Japan, you had coaxed the whole story out of Cassie. At their slumber party, they had started to play and were spooked by a sudden power outage and strange noises, causing them to let go of the coin used to slide over each symbol. With their connection to the conduit broken before properly closing the game, the kami/spirit latched onto Cassie and followed her here. The best bet was to re-summon the kami in a more secure environment and properly close the game. Luckily for all of you, she had kept the 10 yen coin her friend accidentally left behind, something you needed for all this to work.

You were quadruple checking the last set of charms when Loki snuck up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and nuzzling your hair. “Everything ready, my little sorceress?”

“As ready as it will ever be,” you huffed before turning on your heel to face him. “This always makes me a bit nervous.”

He pulled back to look at you while he spoke. “Everything will go according to plan. Besides, you have me here. Nothing could possibly go wrong,” he chuckled, a teasing grin painted his face.

“What an ego,” you exclaimed and lightly smacked his chest. You couldn’t help your own smile. “Just go get Scott and Cassie so we can get this over with.”

“As you wish,” he relented, teleporting away after stealing a kiss to leave you flustered. It was certainly one way to lighten the mood.

The summoning had gone well enough. Both you and Loki knew for sure just by the feel of the energy the right kami had come. It was getting it to leave that was the problem.

“Kokkuri-san, please return.”

The coin slid to いいえ/iie no matter how many times you all reset it to the middle of the board.

No.

While you and Loki both grew in frustration, Scott was busy keeping Cassie calm. As level headed and clever this girl could be, the repetition was getting to her. Loki decided another tactic was in order. A few unintelligible words under his breath that you barely heard and the kami was visible on the table.

A tall kitsune clad in white and red robes hissed and glared at Loki, but made no move to attack. It knew it had no chance with all the preparations you two had done. Its four tails flicked in annoyance and its white, almost silvery ears pressed back. You held back a sigh of relief. This kitsune was not as strong as it could be, having not lived long enough to acquire its maximum nine tails and its full power.

“What is it you desire, Spirit?” Loki spoke loud and unwavering.

“Same as Mischief God. Fun,” it growled through its broken English. Despite the ability to hear it now, none of you dared remove your fingers from the coin.

“Well, you certainly have had your fill. Now begone! Return to your realm,” he challenged.

The kitsune’s tails waved wildly as it contemplated its next move. Its eyes flitted to Cassie, softening almost apologetically as it gazed upon her. Similar to its Western Fae counterparts, it did not fully understand that its version of fun was not the same as it was for mortals.

“分かりました。/Wakarimashita,” it huffed, bowing as it turned its attention back to you and Loki.

Understood.

You felt the coin move again. This time it was to the top left of the paper to hover over はい/hai. Yes.

It then promptly glided to the torii gates drawn in the top center. The kitsune vanished from the table, the energy it left behind dissipating rather quickly. You all said, “Thank you,” in unison before pulling away from the coin.

“So... Is that it?” Scott asked with a mixture of confusion and the need to ensure his daughter was safe.

“Not quite,” you mused while picking up the paper.

“What do we do?” Cassie chirped.

Your raven-haired god looked to you curiously. You didn’t tell him about the next part.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you grinned, “The next two parts are easy.”

Picking up the paper, you began tearing it. You counted as you went until you hit forty-eight.

You held up the coin for all to see. “Now. Part two is going to be more interesting.”

“Do tell,” Loki purred.

“We have to spend this within three days.” Your grin slipped into a more mischievous smirk.

Cassie’s eyes sparkled with hope. “So does that mean...”

“Uh-huh. It’s time for a vacation. Who wants to go to Japan?”

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bifrostarchivist · 4 years

Text

tma fic recs

hi i’ve been been going through my bookmarks so here’s a list of some of my favorite tma fics! a lot of these are pretty angsty though so you should heed the trigger warnings!

jon-centric fics

Farewell Wanderlust by CombatBootsAndDreams

Jonathan Sims never had enough time. It was always slipping through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. He could see it passing but could do nothing as it took more and more things from him. So he learned to measure everything in actions instead of seconds.

Or: The many moments used to measure the life of one Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

i love this one it hurts me real bad!

the bell tolls by softlyblue

Jon knows about death, and he knows about dying. He tries to plan around his own.

this one also really hurts me!

Touch Me, Even it Hurts by AuralQueer

People don't really touch Jonathan Sims unless they want to hurt him. That's mostly fine. Jon has never been a tactile person, and he doesn't need anyone but himself.

Except the world is falling down around him, and loneliness aches, and sometimes he'll take anything - even cruelty - just to feel human again.

*A story set between s1 and s4, looking at Jon's relationship with touch, friendship, and his own humanity.

i cried over this one a lot yesterday! it’s wonderful and so fucking sad

jonmartin fics

the garden of forking paths by bibliocratic

Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.

Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

i love this one a lot! made me really fucking emotional

The Power of Self-Respect by IceEckos12 & PitViperOfDoom

Jon's life has never been easy, but he's now in a place where he has friends, his job isn't wretched, and best of all, he's dating Martin Blackwood. Things are finally starting to turn around for him, so of course that's when he learns that he must defeat Martin's seven exes in order to stay with him.

There's something fishy about this whole thing, Jon is sure of it. But the only way to find out what is to throw down the gauntlet and fight for his love.

the scout pilgrim au i never knew i needed! i went into this expecting crack but now every time it gets updated it’s all i can think about for the rest of the day and it is very painful. it’s so good.

Desperate Measures by quantumducky

Helen offers to help, and Jon is just tired and miserable enough to accept. Turns out her idea of "helping" is to turn his brain into confused mush and then make that Martin's problem. Somehow, it all works out.

this one! fuck! i love it. made me so sad. but also. a happy ending! i miss helen.

See the Line, where the Sky meets to Sea by The_Floating_World

When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space. The Vast looks back into him.

also has some jon/oliver! some found family! vast!jon my beloved...

jongerry fics

Til Death, Parted by Hecatetheviolet

“But, yes, if you all really must know, I married Gerard Keay in Las Vegas.” The total stillness at the table would have better suited a painting than a group of very confused archival assistants. A blob of ketchup falls from the chip frozen halfway to Melanie’s mouth.

“You… married a ghost,” says Melanie, eventually, in a stilted, leading tone.

“Mhm,” says Jon.

A ghost story is something that can be so matrimonial, actually. Too bad Jon and Gerry didn't find that out until the wedding.

I ADORE THIS FIC. U KNOW THAT ONE JONGERRY LAS VEGAS WEDDING SHITPOST? IT’S THAT BUT SO MUCH MORE. GOD IT’S SO FUCKING HEARTBREAKING BUT ALSO HAS LIKE THESE COMEDIC MOMENTS THAT ARE JUST SO FUCKING GOOD. THE WAY THE WRITER WRITES THE JONGERRY DYNAMIC IS JUST. FUCK. IT’S AMAZING.

eager eye and willing ear by graveExcitement

Gerry investigates a paranormal mirror and is pulled into another universe, one where Jon has just burned his page.

i just. love this one.

jongerrymartin

Ghosts without Graves by Ostentenacity

“I’m already dead, after all.” Gerry smiles, a mirthless flash of teeth. “If I pop out of existence tomorrow, fine. If I stick around for a while, well—at least now I’ve got someone to talk to.” His tone of voice is still blasé, but his gaze falls heavily on Jon, as though asking, Right?

“Yes,” says Jon. “Yes, of course.”

---

When Jon wakes up from his coma, he finds that while Gerry may still be dead, he’s not exactly gone.

i love this one so much. made me happy. made me sad. it’s just wonderful.

jontim fics

Between Sleeping and Waking by voiceless_terror

So they curl up in his bed, an arm slung across Jon’s waist, his back to Tim’s chest. There are no spiders here, not in this bed that smells of dryer sheets and detergent and Tim. He’s almost asleep when the arm around his waist tightens suddenly.

“My brother always said the pressure helped. When he had bad dreams.”

Jon has nightmares and Tim attempts to chase them away. In the process, they learn a few things about each other.

the comfort. the understanding. it’s just so nice.

enemy of my enemy by beeclaws

Jon comes back from his time with the Circus a little worse for wear. Tim has some feelings about that.

it hurts so bad. but. fuck. the tim & jon somewhat fixing their relationship fic that i just really needed.

Tear Out All Your Tenderness by With_the_Wolves

"He’s been doing such a good job of ignoring it, up until now, pretending he didn’t know how he survived the Unknowing. Pretending he didn’t hear the constant rhythm of hunt hunt kill kill rushing through his veins in time with his blood. He didn’t used to be able to smell fear.

In the aftermath of the Coffin, Tim decides that he's going to be there for Jon. But Jon's fear is intoxicating.

THIS FIC! THIS FIC! JESUS CHRIST IT’S SO FUCKING PAINFUL. JUST. HOLY SHIT.

jonmartim fics

beautiful and annihilating by advantagetexas

But reality was a lot harsher than dreams. He admitted that to himself now, as he gently moved a piece of hair from Jon’s unblinking eye. Daisy Tonner was dead. Sasha James was dead. Daniel Stoker was still dead, or disappeared, or whatever woe begotten fate had befallen him at the hands of that wretched circus.

And here was Tim. Alive. And forced to deal with the fallout.

this fic <3 i love it very much. it’s updates are the highlight of my day. really fucks with my emotions. it’s just great.

#the magnus archives #tma #fic recs #tma fic #tma fics #magnuspod #if you write tma fics at all you are amazing and i love you #minus the like. people that erase jon’s asexuality obviously. but i would die for the rest of you #writing this made me realize how little i read fics that aren’t like. heavily involving jon. so if u have any other recs feel free to add

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official-weasley · 3 years

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Meant to Be (Charlie Weasley x OC)

What happens when Bill brings home a girl and Charlie is completely awestruck by her?

WARNINGS: cursing, mentions of alcohol, struggling with self-love, emotional self-destructive behavior, and mentions of mental health problems

Chapter 19

Rhylee

“I am so glad that you’re a Muggle-born.” I shifted on my heel, turning away from the mirror to Lyla who was laying in her bed, her head resting on her crossed arms, her eyes on me.

“I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me.” Confusion creased her face. “It’s supposed to be a compliment, right?”

“Yes.” I grinned at her. “If you weren’t Muggle-born, you wouldn’t know about therapy, and the therapist you recommended me might have just saved my life.” By inhaling sharply I turned back to the mirror and stared at my figure.

“It’s been all you, darling. You have to want help to actually gain something from therapy.” I locked my eyes with hers in the mirror.

I loved nothing more than her friendly smile. She was the best friend I could ask for and I am the luckiest person alive for her not to give up on me.

“I know.” I turned around to look at my arse.

“Can you stop checking yourself out in the mirror? The dress looks great on you!” She rolled her eyes at me.

“I don’t know.” I pouted. “Perhaps the blue one would be better.”

“You do realize that we have been doing nothing else but picking your dress for the last two days.” She smirked at me.

“Don’t give me that face! I’m nervous, okay!” I stomped my foot against the floor as if angry.

In reality, I was just hoping to calm down my nerves.

“It’s time to move on, Rhylee. You said it yourself that your therapist said it’s time you forgive yourself.” She stood up and took the blue dress which was hanging over the dresser door and took it off the hanger. “But just in case, try this one again.” She winked.

I appreciated how supportive she was. She was all I had left.

I was such a mess. I still can’t believe that I let myself get so low. I hit rock bottom and then went even deeper. It’s a miracle what 6 months of therapy can do for a person. How do wizards not have that!

Perhaps, they are afraid of the pain that it brings. Because it was painful. Especially the first few sessions when the therapist is getting to know you and you start figuring out what your problem is. I knew what it was. I just couldn’t get over it.

Everybody telling me it was an accident doesn’t just make the guilt disappear. It doesn’t make you feel better. You don’t just forget about it. When you do what I did, you don’t just move on. But as I learned from my sessions, you can’t blame yourself forever either. Forgiveness and loving myself was something that was missing from my life.

It’s crazy to think that so many people around you keep telling you that it wasn’t your fault and that you can’t just go around and search for things that will make you miserable just to punish yourself and you never believe them and always brush it off. But when you hear it from someone specialized to tell you things like this, you suddenly think that maybe, just maybe all your friends were right.

Of course, it didn’t happen overnight and I even tried convincing Dr. Whitmoore that I will never stop blaming myself for what happened in my seventh year at Beauxbatons but I got there…eventually.

“So what are you going to say to him?” Lyla asked as she zipped the dress for me.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I bit my cheek. “I don’t even know if he’ll want to talk to me.”

“Right.” She raised her eyebrows at me and laid back on her bed. “Are we going to go through this again?”

“I’m serious! I’m just going there to celebrate the love between two people.” I finally stopped looking at myself in the mirror.

I still don’t know which dress to pick.

“Mhm.” Lyla nodded once. “Let’s pretend that you have been picking out a dress for this wedding because you want to be there for Bill when he says his ‘I do’ with his future wife.”

“It’s…the main reason.” I proudly lifted my chin.

“Stop lying to yourself, love. This is all about Charlie Weasley.” She sent me a wink, got up, and went to the bathroom.

She was right. It was all about Charlie. There is no point in denying it any further. It has been all about him ever since Bill brought me home to meet his family for Christmas. I still remember the moment we were introduced as if it was yesterday.

He enchanted me the moment I sat down opposite him. With his smile and eyes full of passion about the creatures we both worked with. I know he wasn’t doing it on purpose but he was so flirty. With his eyes, his gestures. I just couldn’t stop staring at him.

And the feeling, the feeling I got while talking to him. I never felt that before and it was so strange. I knew Bill for years and here I was talking to his younger brother and it was as if someone ignited a fire between us. And the strangest part was that I am certain he felt it too.

The second I allowed the feeling to overwhelm me, fill my body with energy like nothing ever did before, my past came back to haunt me. I couldn’t sleep that night. The nightmares came back. Sweat running down my temples. I was glad Ginny was a heavy sleeper, she would think I was insane. Nobody in England knew my secret. It was the reason I ran away.

I buried the feelings, guilt and constant need to punish myself, make myself suffer and got the job at Gringotts. I was doing great for 3 years. I was quite proud of myself. I wasn’t hurting anyone and I didn’t let anyone get too close to me.

I allowed myself a fling here and there and I was happy with the way my life was. I could totally see myself doing this for the rest of my life and I was completely fine with it.

I was lying to everybody including myself when I said I didn’t know Bill fancied me but I ignored it, hoping he would move on if I seemed uninterested. Not that I wouldn’t want to date him. Are you serious, it’s Bill freaking Weasley, who wouldn’t want to date him!

But I made a promise to myself. I couldn’t. I knew what a good guy he was and I couldn’t allow myself to be happy. I didn’t deserve it.

I never expected him to get hurt because of my foolishness. Getting drunk and having sex with Charlie was a big mistake that I shouldn’t have allowed. Not that it wasn’t good, damn it was great and I let myself go and forgot about everything just for one night. Charlie had that effect on me. He made me forget about my worries and my troubles, even if just for a little while.

And how stupid it was of me to flirt with him the morning after and telling him it wasn’t just a one-night stand. What was I thinking! I should’ve just ignored the situation and moved on. But I couldn’t and I hated that I couldn’t. Something was pulling me closer to him. The curiosity of getting to know him better. To hear him talk about dragons. To feel his touch again. His lips against mine. His breath on my skin.

I had zero control over myself and I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. Of course, the aftermath was something I didn’t expect. Bill asking me out was the last thing I wanted and then I was stupid enough to tell him I slept with his brother. The look on his face, telling me just how much I hurt him broke my heart.

I broke my promise of not hurting anyone and everything from my past came rushing back up. I didn’t dare to ask Bill if he and Charlie talked about the whole situation. I was even surprised when only a month later Bill started speaking to me again. I definitely thought I didn’t deserve that.

After that, things calmed down again and I hoped that I could put it all behind me again. I bottled everything down before, I can do it again, right?

Wrong.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Charlie and it was driving me mad. Lyla, Lizzie, and I got drunk one night and they teased me and said that I should go work in Romania to be with him. My dumb arse actually wrote an application and we sent it that night. The second I realized what I have done in the morning I applied for the American Sanctuary too to calm the guilty feeling in my chest.

I can’t be trusted when I’m drunk. I relax too much and forget about my past and make mistakes like having sex with Charlie at the Burrow and then my actions hurt people and I feel even worse.

But the second I got the reply, seeing how excited they were to work with me I got so conflicted. They were offering me my dream job but I wanted to stop myself from accepting it because I knew Charlie worked there. I couldn’t face him, not even after more than a year.

However, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling the excitement brought me either. I just had to see him again. I wanted to talk to him and tell him everything. I accepted the job anyway, despite my better judgment. I was selfish, I know that now. I should never have done it, my mind being in a state as it was back then.

I don’t think I was ever so nervous as I was when I was standing in front of the Sanctuary gate. I tried calming myself down by thinking that perhaps I will work in an entirely different section than him and we even won’t see each other.

I couldn’t believe how wrong I was when I saw him approaching the gate. I wanted to apparate away, be swallowed by the ground below me, be fed to a dragon. I knew I made another mistake the second I saw the look on his face.

I know he wasn’t expecting me to stand there, how could he. It pained me to know that he wasn’t exactly happy to see me but at the same time, it gave me confidence. Perhaps, we can work side by side with each other and simply be friends.

The fact that I am never right about these things and usually the opposite happens could already tell me that it was only going to go downhill from there.

I tried staying away from him but I was pushing myself into him just as much. I just couldn’t help myself. In a different life, if I wasn’t as fucked up as I was, we could’ve been so happy together. I knew that and it hurt so much knowing that. What hurt, even more, was the look in his eyes every time we exchanged looks.

I knew how he felt, I knew he was falling for me and it was wrong. It was so wrong and I felt so helpless knowing I can’t do anything about it because I felt the exact same way. I was falling for him so fast that I didn’t even have the time to stop myself and at some point, I simply gave up trying.

The fact that everything that was happening between us was happening while I had a boyfriend waiting patiently for me to visit him once every 14 days made me an even worse person. I never wanted any of it to happen.

I knew I did the right thing finally giving in to all the nagging and going out with Nick. He was the only man I saw a future with because I knew how wrong he was for me but it was exactly what I deserved. An idiot without an ounce of empathy or feelings for anyone else but himself. For me, it was a match made in heaven and I knew that nobody would understand why I thought so.

I knew what I deserved. I wanted to be punished. I wanted bad things to happen to me so I could finally redeem myself for what I have done all those years ago. But nobody understood why I was doing it. Why be with a guy who doesn’t even make you happy instead of someone loving and kind?

Lyla got into so many fights with me over this. Many more than Charlie did. I know he couldn’t wrap his head around it. He caught me crying so many times because of Nick, because of my guilt, because of his gestures that told me just how much he cared for me.

And what did I do? I got drunk and had sex with him. Way to go, Rhylee! Way to break so many hearts, you idiotic bitch!

That night we spent together was the most beautiful night of my life. It showed me how happy I could be with him. How much joy he could bring me. He showed me my future with him and all I could think about was how wrong it was. How I have to run away from everything. What a horrible person I was to do this to him.

There was a moment when I thought about telling him everything but stopped at the last second. Truth be told, there were many moments like this and he knew it. He knew I had so many things I wanted to say to him but simply couldn’t. I was a coward, locked inside a loop of my own mind.

What I did at Beauxbatons was still haunting me at the time. The fact that everybody forgave me haunted me. That I begged the Ministry to send me to Azkaban and they laughed at my plea, telling me that people don’t go to prison for making a simple mistake.

That’s what they called it. A simple mistake.

A simple mistake that almost ruined my life and because of which I made so many people around me suffer. They just didn’t see it as I did and I knew they never would. But did that give me closure? Did that make me stop feeling sorry for myself and move on with my life?

No.

I was determined that if they weren’t going to punish me and lock me up, I will do it to myself. I wanted to completely destroy my life for it and be miserable as much as I can be. I will date a guy I know doesn’t love me and pretend I can’t hear the screaming voice inside my head telling me to be with Charlie because he’s the one.

He has been from the moment we shook hands and started talking about dragons.

I closed all the doors that could bring me happiness. I tried so hard to stay away yet I couldn’t. Yet I hurt him and Bill and even Nick in the process. They all suffered because I wanted to bring pain to myself.

How fucked up is that?

All because I just couldn’t stay away. No matter how destructive my mind was, no matter how much I was telling myself that I don’t deserve someone like Charlie, my body and my heart were guiding me right to him and I didn’t have the strength to stop it.

A few weeks after I told Nick and he told me that I have to stay away from Charlie, something broke in me. I couldn’t do it anymore. I made Charlie so miserable and my heart shattered every time I saw him. The longing in his eyes to save me. To do something to make me feel better.

I was completely aware of the fact that I let myself go. I isolated myself, barely ate anything, and tried to work on Kyan’s case so that I would do one thing right in my fucking pathetic life.

I was naïve to think that would do the trick. That Charlie would finally let me go. Move on. Find a nice girl and settle down with her. Be happy. That’s what he deserved. That’s what I wanted for him, ignoring the fact that I wanted to be his girl more than I wanted anything in my entire life.

But he didn’t. He didn’t want to give up on me.

So I did the only thing I thought would help him move on. I left. I didn’t want to, but I did. The second Nick opened the door, me standing there with all my bags, I knew what a mistake I’ve made.

For the first time in years, I thought that perhaps I suffered enough. Perhaps it was time to stop tormenting myself. I made a decision to stay overnight and then go back to the Sanctuary and beg Peter for my job back.

That night we fought and I suddenly started to feel dizzy and everything turned black. I woke up at St Mungo’s the next day and all my plans to return to Romania fell through when the healers told me I was pregnant.

I knew I couldn’t run now. I sealed my destiny and serves me right for doing so. I brought it on myself and since I was so convinced that I deserve a life full of misery the pregnancy was just perfect. Ironic but perfect.

I didn’t expect Charlie to come to the trial. I hoped he wouldn’t come. I just left without saying goodbye and I thought that would make him mad enough for never wanting to talk to me again. But there he was and he stopped me from fleeing.

He kept pressuring me to tell him the truth. I hated how well he could read me. How well he knew I was lying and yet I fed him more lies. I already knew the pain that he must’ve felt at that moment. How confused he must’ve been for me just disappearing, for acting like I don’t care about him.

I know he needed answers and Merlin knows he deserved them more than anyone but I couldn’t. I needed him to move on. It was too late for the whole truth. It wouldn’t have done either of us any good. I was carrying Nick’s baby and there was nothing he could do about that.

If I wasn’t pregnant I know I would’ve told him everything. I wanted to return to the Sanctuary for him for fuck’s sake. But it was too late now and he needed to know that so I told him about the baby. Just reminiscing on it makes me want to throw up. The pain in his eyes when he was trying to comprehend what came out of my mouth.

The painful goodbye when he wished for me to have a good life, knowing full well that it’s probably the last time he will ever hold me in his arms. It was good closure in a fucked up kind of way. If someone with so many mental issues wrote a fairytale I am certain it would make perfect sense.

I was fighting every muscle in my body not to go after him once he started to walk away. I knew that was it. He finally did it. He is going to move on and be happy. I regretted putting him through what I did, I still do. But at least he will be able to forget about me by hating me. It was for the best.

He deserves so much better than me. Someone who will love him unconditionally and bring a smile to his face and flutter the butterflies in his stomach not put him through the shit I put him through.

I finally got what I wanted. The punishment I thought I deserved. All my self-destructive behavior finally paid off. I was pregnant and living with a man that I despised. Welcome to my bloody fairytale!

If it wasn’t for Lyla, being the best friend she is, I would probably do much worse than hurt myself mentally. She was the one that opened my eyes and got me a therapist without even asking about my opinion.

After my first session, I decided to tell her everything. What I did, what Dr. Whitmoore and I talked about. Everything. We cried, sitting on her bed for hours. She couldn’t believe I hated myself so much to do these things to myself but in the end, she told me she understood why I tried so desperately to punish myself.

I felt relief knowing she understood and still wanted to be my friend. I was so lucky to have her. I don’t even want to think where I would be if it wasn’t for her.

A/N: I know that what Rhylee is dealing with can't be solved with 6 months worth of therapy as is stated in the story. I needed to fit it in the timeline to align everything with Bill's wedding and is the only reason why I picked 6 months. One of my best friends has a Ph.D. in psychotherapy and she told me that with everything Rhylee has been through (to be revealed in tomorrow's chapter) it is very unrealistic that she would be as fine as I wrote her to be - I am fully aware of that. I apologize if I made anyone uncomfortable with it or if anyone finds it offensive in any way.

#harry potter fanfiction #charlie weasley #charlie weasley fanfiction #the weasleys #weasley family #hp imagine #charlie weasley x oc #charlie weasley imagine #the burrow #harry potter imagine #weasley fanfiction #charlie weasley x mc #bill weasley #harry potter #wizarding world

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immortalcoelacanth · 4 years

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Between the Walls, Chapter 2: Salutations and Explanations (Dream SMP fic)

... Although, I should probably tag this as more of a Sleepy Bois Inc thing given the content... Anyways, onto chapter 2!

Word count: 5356

Summary: At it was at this moment that Tommy knew, he fucked up.

“Let me tell you one thing, you pig bitch-”

There was a tiny child in his walls.

“And I bet your mum ain’t all that-”

A tiny child who was yelling at him, insulting him.

“So, you better listen up! Motherfucker-”

Techno was almost impressed.

He wondered if the kid was aware of how absolutely not intimidating he sounded at the moment. His voice cracked and broke occasionally as he cursed, he was visibly trembling in what Techno assumed to be fear, and he looked like he was moments away from crying with those wide eyes and that terrified look on his face.

The kid reminded him of a cornered animal, terrified and lashing out to try and protect itself. He was doing the same thing, trying to scare the hybrid off with harsh words and false bravado.

Techno quietly thought about how young he must be. It was a good thing Phil was nowhere nearby since nothing would have saved both him and the kid from the ensuing lecture and interrogation period. Questions about where the kid was from, who he was, what he was doing here…

Questions he should probably be asking before the kid broke down crying. He had a feeling it would happen eventually when all that adrenaline wore off and the reality of the situation fully sunk in, so the currently shrinking window of opportunity was the best chance he had for finding out what he needed to know.

“And do you know what the fuck a breath mint is?”

… But first he had to shut this kid up.

“You got anything to say? Huh? Or are you just gonna-HEY!”

The tirade was cut off when, without warning, Techno reached out and pinched the back of his shirt, using that to lift him up in the air and out of the shelter that had been provided by the wall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” The kid squawked as he struggled and squirmed in an attempt to escape Techno’s grip. The hybrid rolled his eyes as he continued looking the tiny being over, occasionally turning him so he could inspect the rest of him. The only thing of note he found was the belt the kid wore that had various tools hooked onto it.

Nothing that really posed a threat to him, but it was still good to take note of it.

“Trying to find the off button.”

“The-OFF BUTTON?! EXCUSE YOU, YOU BITCH-”

“Damn, doesn’t seem to be one.” He noted in that same, monotone voice. Of course, this ended up enraging the kid further, his shouts and curses growing louder.

His wild, frantic eyes growing wider.

Well, now was as good as time as any to start asking some questions before he ended up pushing the kid too far. He swore he could hear that tiny heart pounding away in the kid’s chest, and the hybrid realized it was entirely possible for the tiny being to pass out on him, or worse, have a heart attack from the stress.

Double time on that interrogation, then.

Techno changed his grip, wrapping his fingers around the kid and getting bit in the process-

This child was absolutely feral. He’d probably need a rabies shot by the end of the day.

Eventually, and with some careful maneuvering to make sure didn’t drop the struggling figure, Techno was able to place him down on the top of the small shelf located near the entrance of his house. It was right in front of a window, too, and he saw the way the kid’s eyes flickered between him and the possible escape route.

Nope.

Not a chance.

The hand placed between the kid and his freedom earned him a scowl and being flipped off once again, though he was quickly getting used to this brash and foolish behavior. In a way, it reminded Techno how he had acted when he was much younger. How cocky and overconfident he had been before the world brutally showed him where his place was.

Now, his confidence was backed by years worth of training. By the lives he had ended and the blood he had spilt.

It made him smile at the memories, oddly enough. Naturally, the kid immediately took his smiling to be about something far more sinister, and he started shouting once more.

“What the fuck do you got planned, huh? Got some creepy shit planned? You… you gonna need a bone saw or some crap like that for me-”

“Oh please, all I’d need is a decent nutcracker.” Techno scoffed, completely oblivious to the look of horror that passed over the kid’s face before it was quickly replaced by that false bravado.

“Can’t believe you’d threaten me like that-”

“Not what I was talking about!” The hybrid quickly interrupted, visibly shuddering and in turn making the kid let out a loud laugh.

Just how in the hell was something that small so loud anyways? Weren’t there rules about that sort of thing, mass being proportionate to how loud something could be. There was a reason why he had hated hanging out with kids when he was younger.

… Except for Wilbur, he had always been the exception.

Not wanting to take an agonizing trip down memory lane back to when his family had been whole and alive, Techno decided it was time to start asking the questions he wanted answers to, beginning with the most important one of course.

“And why are you in my house, anyways?”

“Your house?” The kid scoffed and crossed his arms. “It’s mine! I called dibs!”

“Heh?” Techno found himself at a genuine loss here as he tried to comprehend the logic behind that statement. “You can’t claim-I built this place.”

“Doesn’t mean you called dibs, bruv, and you did a shit job of buildin’ it, too. It could use more decorations that aren’t you! And music!”

The hybrid let out a frustrated groan while dragging a hand over his face. Why had one of the most annoying, obnoxious, and loud people he had ever met decide that his base was the perfect place to invade. Why had this kid picked him instead of somewhere else, like L’Manberg.

… Actually, that was another good question to ask-

“So, when are you gonna clean up this pigsty?” The kid asked, completely derailing Techno’s train of thought.

“I fear for your brain cells if all you can come up with are pig jokes and saying fuck over and over again.”

“... Fuck you-”

“And my concerns are proven to be valid.”

“My brain works perfectly fine! It’s just yours isn’t big enough to get it!” He snapped back.

“Suuuuure, pipsqueak, whatever you say.” Techno sarcastically drawled. It seemed as though either the aloof expression on his face or the nickname he had granted the boy only enraged him further, as he watched the kid start stomping the ground as he continued shouting.

He was witnessing a literal tantrum.

“I’m not a pipsqueak! You’re the one who's freakishly tall!”

“Like I couldn’t tell with you calling me big man every five seconds, and I’ll just keep calling you that since you seem to like it so much.”

“Then just call me Tommy! It’s not that hard!” The now named Tommy exclaimed, and it was only when a smile appeared on Techno’s face that he realized he might have messed up.

“Uh… I mean-”

“So, that’s your name.” Techno interrupted, grin growing as he leaned forward and rested his chin on a closed fist. He was enjoying messing with this kid. It was almost as fun as terrorizing Quackity. “Got any other important info you wanna share? Credit card number?”

“No! No, no way!” Tommy let out a nervous giggle and took a step back. “C’mon, man, let’s see some manners! I told you my name, so you should tell me yours-”

“Technoblade.”

“... What?”

“Or Techno for short.” The hybrid continued, not caring about the stunned and confused look on the kid’s face. He was used to people looking at him weird, especially when they heard his name. “No pig-pun name here.”

“... You were so close to having a cool name.” Tommy bluntly said. “You’ve got half a cool name. Now Blade, that’s intimidating! Big man Blade-”

“Never call me that.”

“Alright TechnoBitch-”

“Your insults are getting worse by the second, I fear you’re undergoing cellular brain death.”

“Are you making up fancy words to sound all smart now? Cellular?” Tommy scowled. “What’s next? You gonna start talking about other made up stuff, like leprechauns, or dolphins?”

“... Dolphins are real-”

“That’s just what the dolphin believers want you to think! The… the dolphevers!”

Techno threw his head and started laughing, the noise surprisingly loud. It made Tommy jump as he winced at the volume. Discomfort ran through him, and he started to slowly realize how dangerous the situation he was in might be.

He had always been warned to stay away from humans, and while this guy didn’t look all that human, he was sure the same warning applied. He could be trapped, hurt, tormented…

Why, why had he decided to stick around instead of just running off, or trying to barter for his freedom? He had always lived his life on the edge, flirting with danger instead of women. The thrills and excitement of interacting with a human could have driven him to do this.

Or perhaps it was that quiet voice within him that begged him to interact with Techno, to reach out and be social and finally interact with someone after all the days he spent alone.

A voice that kept insisting that things would be alright, that he would be okay.

A voice that could result in his demise if he listened to it.

He would never see Tubbo again...

His mind made up, Tommy slowly backed away from the hybrid, one hand raised while the other behind his back towards the belt that Techno had noticed earlier. “Well, this has been fun and all but I’ve got to head out and you’ve got some cleaning to do, roomie.”

Techno’s eyes narrowed as his bout of laughter finished, aware that he had something planned that would probably cause some problems, but before he could act on his suspicions, Tommy made his move.

And chucked a fist full of sand in the pigman’s face.

Immediately, Techno let out a shout and recoiled, lifting his hands up to his eyes in an attempt to scrub the gritty substance out of them. Tommy took his chance and pulled out his grappling hook, attached it to the side of the shelf, and quickly slid down the rope. In his haste, as well as the movements caused by the hybrid’s thrashing, the grappling hook came loose, and he dropped the rest of the way to the floor.

Tommy landed, cringing as agony raced up his legs, and did his best to ignore it as he shot off towards the space under the shelf, knowing he would be hidden from sight and have a better chance at escaping.

He had to escape since he doubted his captor would be that nice to him again.

Meanwhile, Techno was currently battling every urge he felt to lash out and kill the kid. His mind and soul screamed for blood, for death and revenge for the humiliation and pain he had been put through. It took all of his willpower to stop himself from grabbing his trident and slamming it into the floor in an attempt to find, and kill, Tommy.

The main source of his restraint came from a voice that sounded a bit too much like Phil’s calmly whispering that there were other ways to do things, that he did not have to resort to violence.

This was then converted to make him pay, but not with death. Death is a release, not a punishment.

His eyes burned.

He let out a pained hiss and blindly reached towards the nearby brewing station, managing to get the bottle of water he had placed in it for potion brewing. He uncorked the top, looked up to the ceiling, cracked his eyes open, and quickly flushed them out to get rid of the sand.

All in all, only a couple seconds had passed since the sand had been thrown and Tommy had escaped. He could not have gotten far, but the more time the hybrid wasted sitting here, the further the kid would get.

Techno tossed the bottle to the side and quickly crouched down, still aching eyes scanning the wall as he tried to figure out where Tommy had gone. He spotted a flash of blond ducking behind part of the wooden shelf, and he quickly moved the wooden panel that covered the bottom part of the shelf. It was like a box of sorts and that could be used as storage space, but he had never put anything there and just left it closed.

So, naturally he had not at all been expecting to lift the panel up and find a tiny hole in the wooden floor, the perfect size for Tommy to fit through. His mind ground to a halt as he processed what he was seeing.

THERE WAS A HOLE UNDER THE SHELF?!

WHEN HAD THIS HAPPENED?!

Okay, okay, now was not the time to get caught up on. The kid was under the floorboards, possibly heading towards the basement. He rushed over to the ladder, slid down it, and jumped onto the stone flooring. He looked up at the ceiling, not seeing any obvious sign as to where the kid must have gone and decided that using another one of his senses might pay off.

Techno shut his eyes, ears twitching, and listened carefully. Listened for that one, signature noise that would tell him where Tommy was.

The sound of someone running over wood.

There!

On instinct, he swung the axe towards the sound, the blade chopping into the ceiling and exposing the hidden passage that had been carved into, and the boy who had been sprinting through it.

Now, this was where things took a bit of an interesting turn.

You see, despite the fact that Tommy had spent his life in a borrower settlement, he was quite experienced in building structures and had frequently challenged Tubbo to speed bridging contests. The adults always hated whenever he did that, claiming that the flimsy structures would alert humans to their hidden home, but Tommy had always ignored them and kept building.

… Until they resorted to hitting him. Then he stopped, but the skills he had developed over the years stayed with him, so the second he started falling he also started building. He had managed to place a couple blocks down as he fell and grabbed onto the little outcropping he had made. He was vaguely aware of Techno moving below him but was far more focused on trying to pull himself back up into the remains of his tunnel.

Can’t fall, gotta stay up! Have to run!

Unfortunately, his hand slipped off the planks, splinters sinking into his skin as he started to fall. Falling, and-

Landing on the top of Techno’s head. Surrounded by the crown the hybrid always wore and with no escape in sight, he decided to cling to the strangely soft, pink hair below him. It smelled… weirdly nice. There was a hint of a herbal scent he could not place, but it didn’t smell super flowery or anything like that.

“You’re pretty fruity, aren’t you big man?” Tommy impulsively asked, and he felt Techno freeze below him as the hybrid realized what the sudden, impossibly light weight belonged to. Seeing an opportunity to get another jab in, he immediately went for it with little regard to how precarious the situation was. “Lookin’ all… all flamboyant with your fancy dye!”

“I doubt you know what that word means, and it’s not dye.” Techno dryly retorted, tilting his head upwards so he could try and glare at the kid.

Seeing that nothing bad had happened, the hybrid had not tried to crush him, nor had he been grabbed and flung towards the nearest wall, Tommy decided to take a risk and started speaking once more.

“.... Hehe, guess things are fine then, big man-” He nervously laughed before he was cut off by Techno picking him up once again. The kid immediately started thrashing, squirming, and cursing as he tried to break free.

The hybrid rolled his eyes at the unnecessary dramatics and made his way over to the collections of chests on the other side of the room. A quick search resulted in him easily finding the item he was looking for.

A bottle.

He caught a glimpse of Tommy glancing between him and the bottle, his face shifting between pure rage and fear, but before he could object to what Techno was planning on doing, the cork in the bottle was removed and Tommy found himself being trapped inside.

“LEMME OUT YOU PRICK!” He shouted as he slammed his fists into the glass wall, wincing as his hands started aching.

Techno just chuckled and put the cork back in, preventing the kid from escaping and making it much harder to hear his shouting. A blessing in disguise, really. “Think of this as karma for the sand from earlier.”

Seeing no way to get out, Tommy flipped the hybrid off and slowly slid down the side of the bottle until he was resting on the ground. His arms crossed, knees were tucked to his chest, and he looked down so his face was hidden from sight. At least his silent moping made it easier for Techno to think.

What to do next…

He had the kid who had been borrowing through his house like some oversized termite, and he knew the kid’s name. There was still so much information he was missing that he wanted to know. What the kid was, if there were any more of him nearby-

An infestation was the last thing he needed.

… Perhaps the librarian back in the village would know something about this tiny kid. He knew that the somewhat eccentric villager had a large collection of books about all sorts of topics, so there was a chance he might have some kind of information he could dig up.

It was worth a shot.

He mentally debated on whether it would be worth it to bring Tommy with him, and ultimately decided he would in case he needed to show him off to the librarian, or one of the other villagers who might know about him. Without bothering to warn the kid, he quickly scooped the bottle up and fastened it to his belt.

He faintly heard the sounds of someone shouting and cursing, and decided to ignore it as he left the house. Techno hummed to himself as he made his way over to the nearby village, not bothering to waste any ender pearls since he still lacked a consistent source of them. No villagers were able to trade them, so his only option was relentlessly hunting down Endermen until a pearl was dropped.

Annoying, but necessary for now.

Speaking of annoying, he spared a glance down at the bottle on his hip that contained the furious Tommy, taking note of how the kid was smacking the glass walls and trying to find a way out. The red hue that had taken over his face also made it clear that he was still screaming.

He let out an exasperated sigh and picked the bottle up off his belt, lifting it up so it would be easier to talk to the kid. Now that he was up close, the hybrid could easily see the look of frustration on the kid’s face, as well as how red his eyes were.

It looked like Tommy had been crying.

“Calm down. I’m not gonna kill you.” Techno grumbled. “And stop screaming before you lose your voice.”

“You’re a bitch!” Tommy spat, not at all paying attention to what he was saying. “Fuckin’ dragging me out to who knows where, planning on doing who knows what-”

“I’m not going to sell you.” The hybrid interrupted, lifting a brow as he watched pure shock cross Tommy’s face. “... You really thought I was gonna sell you-”

“Well yeah!” Tommy sputtered as he flailed his arms. “The fuck else would you be doing?!”

“Interrogating people.”

“The fuck-”

Those were the only words Tommy was able to get out as the bottle was clipped back onto Techno’s belt. He shifted his arms a bit so his cape hid more of his body, and in turn the bottle, from sight. When that was finished, he strode into the village.

Children ran to and fro, some pausing to wave at him or whisper among themselves. He ignored them, as he always did, and continued on towards his destination. He also steered clear of any of the villagers he normally traded with, not wanting to get caught up in some unwanted conversation. He kept walking, picking up the pace whenever he heard someone get a bit too close to him until he reached the library.

It was far from your traditional library, much more of a home with a massive collection of books available for people to read. Techno didn’t bother to knock on the door, opting to instead open it and walk inside. A somewhat large, sparsely decorated room with simple shelves greeted him.

A moment later, the sound of rustling in one of the small side rooms filled the air and the familiar face of the local librarian popped out of it. He resembled your typical villager, though the spark of curiosity made his eyes glint and shine. He was obviously curious as to why Techno had shown up, but before he could ask the hybrid spoke.

“So, what do you know about tiny people?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be a bit more specific than that.” The librarian cheerfully replied, not at all phased by the seemingly random question. “Are there any particular features you can describe? Do you have an example?”

Immediately, Techno’s hand moved to his side, ready to grab the bottle and use Tommy as his example. However, just as he was about to snag the bottle-

He froze.

Dread coiled in his heart, an uncomfortable sensation that he had not felt for many years. He grit his teeth as he struggled to sort out exactly what he was feeling, what his instincts were trying to tell him.

Tommy’s wide eyes, tears still lingering in the corners-

Was… was this guilt?

There was no way he was feeling guilt! It couldn’t be. He had felt no guilt when threatening the kid earlier, didn’t really care all that much about him. So, why did the thought of showing him to someone feel…

Wrong.

He was unable to come up with an answer, feeling frustrated with himself. It was a stupid emotion, a weakness, but at the same time his instincts, those same feelings, had gotten him out of dangerous situations in the past. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t keep listening.

So, he dropped his hand and opted to explain instead. “Short, couple inches tall. Uses tools like grappling hooks to get around. Lives-”

“In houses?” The librarian finished, that sparkle in his eyes growing brighter. Looking a bit thrown off, Techno nodded.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“You have perfectly described a borrower!”

“... A borrower?”

“Yes! Humanoid beings who are only a few inches tall! Generally, they tend to live in already inhabited homes, or with other borrowers in hidden settlements! They’re signs of good fortune.” The librarian explained as he scanned the shelves, looking for a specific book. “It is said that there is a powerful connection between borrowers and humans, their companionship offers a kind of peace and feeling of completion that we cannot hope to feel on our own-”

“I’m assuming that doesn’t apply to hybrids as well.” Techno interrupted, brow raised in a combination of curiosity and disbelief.

Borrowers… so that’s what Tommy was. And the kid had chosen to live with him? Why? And what had he been doing in a frozen wasteland before that? Was there one of those settlements nearby, or was there some other factor that had driven the borrower into staying with him.

So many questions, and so few answers.

To his surprise, the librarian quickly shook his head. “Your assumption is incorrect, Blood God. On the contrary, borrowers and hybrids have been known to share settlements in the past, working together and helping one another out-aha!”

A book was pulled out of the shelves, cover worn and title nearly illegible. After the book was given a quick once over, it was presented to Techno. He immediately took it, held it up in the dim lighting, and read the title aloud.

“A Historical Investigation into Borrower Society…?”

“Indeed! That should be a good starting point for your research on borrowers, and I can search for other texts if you wish to read them.”

“... That would be helpful, thanks.” Techno nodded while adding the book to his bag. He then pulled a couple emeralds out of it and looked at the librarian. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing at all! It warms my heart to see someone else taking an interest in borrowers,” The librarian exclaimed while clapping his hands. “And for my library to be blessed with the presence of one.”

Ah, Tommy.

He must have either spotted the bottle the borrower was in, or one of the other villagers must have and then passed the information along to him. Either way, the hybrid felt…

Annoyed.

His eyes narrowed and he unconsciously shifted so the side of his body the Tommy was on was further away from the librarian. He also flared his cape out, so the borrower was completely hidden from sight.

He was unaware of how Tommy had pressed himself against the side of the bottle upon realizing he had been seen. Unaware of how the borrower had tried to take shelter in his presence despite the rough start to their meeting.

Unaware of the wide, confused eyes that stared up at him, trying to comprehend that his captor was protecting him.

The librarian, seeing the change in Techno’s mood, quickly backed up and lifted up his hands. “Fret not, Blood God, I would do no harm to your charge.”

… Charge?

Before he could question what the librarian meant, the robbed man quickly ducked into some side room and started rummaging around in it.

“The next time you visit, I shall have something to give you! I promise!”

Had… had he just been given the signal to leave? Techno stood around awkwardly for a couple more moments as he waited to see whether the librarian would make another appearance. When he did not, the hybrid decided it was time to go.

Social interactions had always been a critical weakness of his. For how intimidating and threatening he could be, that mask would dissolve in an instant if he started floundering while talking to someone.

Wilbur had always teased him about it…

The walk back to his house was, thankfully, silent and allowed him the perfect opportunity to think about what he had learned in the village. Tommy was a borrower, a tiny being that lived in houses and stole for a living. He had no real magic or other noteworthy skills, aside from the advantages brought to him by size. He could be sneaky.

However, he still had to think about what to do with the borrower. Let him stay, or kick him out.

Soon enough, the hybrid found himself making his way up the stairs to the front of his house, letting out a relieved sigh once the door shut behind him. His shoulders loosened, the tension he had been carrying since he first entered the village fading in an instant.

He hated talking to people, so much.

Techno glanced at the nearby table and then looked down at the bottle on his hip. He promptly lifted it up, met Tommy’s eyes, and spoke.

“If I let you out and you don’t behave, I’m gonna fill the bottle with water and stick you back in it. Got it?”

Tommy shuddered and quickly nodded.

Stupid, he was so stupid for getting himself into this situation, and now he had no idea what Techno was going to do with him! Of course, he could always try to escape again, but he doubted he would get far, and if he got caught…

Nope. He was just going to sit, wait, and try to be as quiet as possible.

Upon seeing that Tommy was listening and actually keeping his mouth shut, Techno uncorked the bottle and tilted it towards the table so the borrower could easily slide out. Once he was settled on the table, the hybrid walked over to the other side of the room and started thinking.

Thinking about what his options were and what he should do.

Was it worth it to keep Tommy around? To have to deal with an annoying presence constantly in the place he had created as his retirement home. Would the aggravation be worth it? What would he get out of it, anyways?

They’re signs of good fortune.

Borrowers and hybrids have been known to share settlements in the past, working together and helping one another.

…That librarian had a point.

It would be useful to him to keep Tommy around, or kill him, even if the kid didn’t give him any good luck. He definitely couldn’t let the borrower leave, lest someone from L’Manberg snag him and get him to spill everything he knew about Techno, and if he kept the borrower around there was always the potential to use him in the future.

To have a tiny spy on his side could be quite the valuable tactical advantage, especially for when L’Manberg came after him.

He doubted Quackity would stay down for long.

So, with a plan properly in mind, he directed his attention back towards the borrower who was, thankfully, still sitting on the table. It looked like the kid had been zoning out until he heard the sounds of Techno’s approaching footsteps. He got back to his feet and glared at the man staring down at him.

Was… was he trying to be intimidating?

Techno let out an amused snort, ignoring the resulting remark about him really being a pig, and started explaining his deal.

“Alright, tiny-”

“TOMMY!”

“ Tiny.” Techno insisted, and to his surprise Tommy actually shut up.

It was probably due to the fact that he wasn’t really in any kind of position to argue or make demands. His life was on the line and he knew. All he could was hope the human would show him some mercy and not chuck him out into the freezing cold.

Whatever it was, it worked in Techno’s favour.

“So, here’s the plan. I’ll let you stay here, give you food and shelter, but you have to give me something in exchange.”

The deal was simple, with the benefits to Tommy being obvious. Something that he hoped would distract the kid and prevent him from questioning what Techno got out of their agreement.

Or what he would get, that is.

“What the fuck do you mean, big man?! Give you something in exchange?! I don’t have anything to exchange!”

“Well, since you said you don’t have anything to exchange,” The hybrid began, taking another step forward so he was closer to the table, already witnessing the real purpose behind his plan coming to fruition.

Tommy paled and took a step back as Techno loomed above him, shadow engulfing his tiny frame as that scheming smile crossed his face. Okay, it was clearly an awful decision to agree to his idea. Abort, abort-

“You’ll just have to work for it, then.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Techno's character arc for this fic is literally him going from exploiting one orphan to two XD

#my story #fanfiction #dream smp #dream smp fic #borrower au #dsmp tommy #dsmp techno #borrower!tommy #sleepy bois inc #sleepy bois inc fic

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pandoraborn · 4 years

Text

Part three

(previous)

Characters: c!Tommyinnit, c!Ranboo Word count: 1598 Content: dark!fic, angst, ranboo-as-puppet, tommy-as-puppet, manipulation, heavy conversation, tommy is conflicted and depressed, mention of torture, mention of abuse, tommy&wilbur sibling dynamic, ask for tags.

---

He’s the only one who can’t really sleep. Normally, it wouldn’t bother him, but this time, it means he’s left alone with his thoughts. Ranboo can’t remember anything. He can’t remember how he got here, or why he and Tommy are stuck with two of the worst people on the server. He doesn’t even know how Tommy and Wilbur are even alive.

What had he missed in his enderwalk state?

It’s not the first time’s he’s blanked out and woken up somewhere different. This just happens to be the first time he feels guilty over it, because he’d blanked out in front of Tubbo. God, Tubbo. Ranboo has no idea what Tubbo’s thinking now, or even if there’s still even anything between them. His stomach is churning with guilt and nausea, because anything could happen at this point.

Ranboo forces himself to stare at Tommy. Tommy’s asleep, held tightly in Wilbur’s grasp. If he squints, he can almost see puppet strings protruding from Wilbur’s fingers and wrapping around Tommy, but Ranboo knows that’s just his vivid imagination at play. He knows Tommy wants this about as much as he does, which is not at all. But he’d also seen the way Tommy had leaned against Wilbur. It all reminds him horribly how little he knows about Tommy at all.

The kid had crumbled.

Everything Ranboo had heard about Wilbur had been negative, how no one liked him, everyone was glad he was dead. He’d even heard that Tommy detested Wilbur, but the way Tommy’s defenses had shattered...or the way Wilbur had called them brothers... it doesn’t make any sense.

Inching closer, Ranboo shakes Tommy, trying not to wake Wilbur as well. “Tommy?” He keeps his voice low, hoping Tommy hears him. “Tommy, wake up.”

“Hmm?” Tommy turns his head toward Ranboo, blinking his eyes open. “What?”

“Can we go talk in private somewhere?” Ranboo nods pointedly at Wilbur’s sleeping form. “Just the two of us?”

There’s a moment where it seems like Tommy is going to ignore him, but he’s de-tangling himself from Wilbur before pulling himself out of bed. They glance over at Dream’s sleeping form, deciding he’s not a problem either. The pair retreat over to a corner far away from the sleeping ‘guardians’, then Ranboo grips Tommy’s arm.

“Tommy, do you want this?”

Tommy stares at Ranboo for a moment, chewing on his lip. Shaking his head, he whispers a single ‘no’. It’s enough that Ranboo’s shoulders are slumping. But Tommy’s not done speaking yet.

“Ranboo, I have Wilbur back.”

“What is he to you?” Ranboo asks. “Because he sounds off the rails, if I’m being honest. You can’t possibly-”

“I don’t want this Wilbur. I don’t want either of them to do anything. God, I want to go home and stay home. I want my hotel, I want my friends, I want to be left alone. But... Wilbur’s here, and alive, and I don’t know how, Ranboo. I’m confused and honestly, kind of scared.”

“You heard what he said Tommy. He and Dream are going to destroy everything. They’re the bad guys. You don’t... we don’t...”

“I know. I know they’re the bad guys. Ranboo, Wilbur was like a brother to me. He was the only one I had for a long time. You...you weren’t here back then.” Tommy leans back against the wall before sliding down. “You weren’t here when Schlatt took over L’Manburg. Everyone acts like he was such a good leader but like. He exiled us on the day of the election. He had everyone try to kill us. We had to live out of a ravine, start over from scratch. That wasn’t exactly fun for either of us.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.” Ranboo sits down next to Tommy. “Is that when Wilbur started going downhill?”

“Yeah. Everything seemed to make it worse. Nothing I said or did made any difference to him. But I still had him. Yeah, he was bad and scary and turning into a prick, but I didn’t have anyone else. I was okay with our situation because I still had him and he still had me.”

“You stayed with him knowing he was going to blow up your country?”

“Yeah.” Tommy sighs heavily. “He picked me, Ranboo. Wilbur always picked me. That meant something. Because even now, when it feels like everyone else is against me, he’s still choosing me out of the crowd and making me feel like I matter.”

“You matter to a lot-”

“Shut up.” Tommy’s tone is harsh now. “You don’t get to say people care, not when you yourself have turned your back on me.” He points an accusatory finger. “No one was there for me. I was exiled alone. I was tortured alone. I was trapped in prison alone. I was killed. Alone. Do you see a pattern here? You think I don’t know what people are saying? I’m a menace, I’m as bad as Dream, I’m annoying. You even said it. You and Tubbo both talk about it.”

“That’s banter, Tommy. No one actually means it.”

“Wilbur sat there calling me his brother and promising nothing else would happen to me. I want the pain to stop, okay? I want it all to stop. I’m tired of hurting, I’m tired of feeling like I have to defend myself. I’m sixteen years old and taking on everything. Alone, again. You even have Techno and Phil on your side. I don’t even have Sam, I have his robot.”

“Tommy, if we run away and go back, we can fix it. We can talk to your friends, we can make sure you have people to talk to.”

“Ranboo...” Tommy trails off and turns back toward Wilbur. He’s silent for a long time. “Ranboo I spent two months in the afterlife, or void, or wherever the fuck I was. I spent two months with people who...yeah, they’re my enemies. But they welcomed me with open arms. They didn’t make me feel like shit. It was a shit place and I hated it, but I felt wanted for the first time in a long time. And then I come back to life, with Dream stood over me and... I have no idea anymore. I just want the pain to stop.”

“You can’t seriously be considering sticking around here.”

“What about you?” Tommy asks. “You really want to go back to a life where you have to hide from people? I’ve noticed you acting shady and avoiding everyone when the tiniest conflict rises up. Is that the life you want? Where you don’t trust anyone and you live in self isolation? Because I’ve been isolated and separated, and it fucking sucks.”

“I know it sucks!” Ranboo’s voice rises with frustration, so he hunches over and glances back at their still-asleep handlers. Dream rolls over onto his stomach and lets out a quiet snore. He turns back to Tommy. “Maybe I want it all to stop too. I want everyone to be at peace, but I don’t want to destroy an entire world for that to happen. This isn’t right.”

“Isn’t it?” Tommy scoffs. “What even is right versus wrong anymore? No one can do anything without being labeled as a villain or a hero. I’m labeled as a hero and targeted, you’re labeled as a hero because you can touch grass.”

“Tommy that’s not...mm. Okay.” Ranboo resists the urge to snicker at that. “I see what you’re getting at. But... you remember Dream is a monster, right?”

“Yes, and he’s torn both of us apart. I don’t think there’s any coming back from this. Everyone watched us leave the prison. You don’t remember because you were...whatever that was. But we enderpearled away. I wouldn’t be surprised if people thought we were in league with them already. People already hate me.”

“No one hates either of us,” Ranboo insists firmly. “None of this is our fault. You can’t think that way, or you might as well side with them.”

“Ranboo...”

“What?”

“...I don’t want to leave Wilbur.”

Ranboo waits for the cold, depressing shock to settle over him, but instead, he nods. He’d known Tommy was going to say that this whole time. In a twisted way, he can even understand Tommy’s reasoning. Seeing his brother figure come back from the dead has to be shocking; Tommy’s emotions are probably all over the place. This is only Tommy’s view, though.

“What about me though?” Ranboo’s voice cracks when he asks that. He could leave and go back, but...

“I don’t think Dream will let you.” Tommy looks away. “Ranboo I’m so sorry. Neither of us deserve this. But... what other options do we have?”

“We can leave! We can...we...” His expression crumbles when he realizes Tommy’s right. “Dream won’t let me, and... and Wilbur won’t let you...and that means...”

He remembers his earlier vision of Wilbur holding Tommy on puppet strings.

“Tommy, did we just lose our free will?”

Tommy doesn’t have to say anything. He doesn’t even have to nod, the stare alone answers everything. It’s depressing, but there’s one ray of sunshine in this dark reality. Only one: Tommy.

The pair continue to say nothing as they lean against each other. He doesn’t know when Tommy’s fallen asleep again, but he wraps an arm around him anyway. If no one else is going to look after Tommy, then he will, even if it means protecting him against Wilbur.

They’re stuck in this situation together, but Ranboo knows they can eventually get out together too. At least he has one person he can semi-trust.

#dream smp #tommyinnit #c!tommy #ranboo #c!ranboo #dsmp fanfic #tommyinnit fanfic #ranboo fanfic #dark!fic #tommy-as-puppet #ranboo-as-puppet #manipulation #heavy conversation #torture mention #abuse mention #isolation mention #wilbur & tommy sibling dynamic #long post #miishae writes

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visionsofus · 3 years

Note

Hey what's up? I was wondering if you still take requests for the wanda and vision mixtape. It's one of my favorites. If you have time I would love for you to consider the song Rewrite the Stars from the Greatest Showman. I love this song and I think it really fits them. Thank you so much for your work and what you contribute to this Fandom!

hi! I do still take song requests for Wanda and Vision's mixtape (despite the stack of them waiting in my inbox - I'm so sorry to those I haven't gotten around to yet, creative flow comes and goes) This song is such a great fit for them so thank you for requesting, it was lots of fun to write! thank you for your support 🥰

Track #26: Rewrite the Stars - Zac Efron and Zendaya

| read on AO3 here | mixtape playlist | send me an ask with your song/prompt request |

Synopsis: Things are changing between Wanda and Vision. Naturally a big charity even is the best place to confront their confusing emotions, no? featuring some serious yearning and a dance scene, because I love confessions mid-waltz.

Vision frowned at himself in the mirror.

There was nothing wrong, in fact the suit he had on had been perfectly tailored. Vision had been excited at the premise of having a piece of clothing that was made specially for him, and real at that. Tony had presented the options and given how significant the event was, Vision thought it might be worthwhile to have a proper suit that wasn’t just one of his constructs. He enjoyed being able to create whatever he wanted to wear, but he wanted tonight to be normal, as normal as he could be.

Now that he had it on it was underwhelming. Not to say he didn't appreciate the gift. It was a piece of art. A three piece of different shades of something similar to charcoal. The jacket glittered; its fabric featured iridescent silver threads that shifted when he moved under the light. The trousers matched the double-breasted vest, though they were a lighter shade of grey.

No, no it wasn’t the suit that was the problem.

It was the prospect of the event itself, the idea that all eyes would be on the Avengers, expecting a certain level of behaviour. Vision much preferred the days he spent with his friends at the compound, secure in the fact that they knew the real him. And more than anyone else, Wanda knew the real him, knew the face that he showed to the public and the press wasn’t.

Plus, Vision would be expected to dance – he had never had reason to dance or move in such a way before and he was dreading it. But then there was also the prospect that he might dance with Wanda and that raised his spirits marginally. Though, whether or not she would wand to dance with him was another question.

Things had been changing between them and Vision felt as though Wanda was even more hesitant to confront those changes than he was. All it had taken was one fateful night together. He hadn’t stayed by her side since Wanda’s first month at the compound, when her rest was so riddled with nightmares that she couldn’t bear to be alone. In the year since it had become a growing rarity for Vision to stick out the night by her side.

But then a week earlier Vision had been preparing to sleep, even if it just meant lying in his bed and doing nothing for eight hours. His body had been in need of a little downtime after several missions in quick succession. He’d been settling in to rest when there had come a knock at his door, of course he said come in, less phased than his teammates by the prospect of unannounced guests.

It was Wanda, who else would be knocking at his door so late at night. She’d walked in hesitantly but there had been a hard set to her jaw. Vision hadn’t asked for her reasons, had just shuffled over in the double bed to make space. So, it was not common, this behaviour, but what had come next was worse. Vision winced recalling the memory with the vividness enabled by his high functioning mind. But he entertained his brain and let the memory play out, hopeless to prevent it. If anything, he wanted to relive it.

Vision woke slowly, relishing in the well-rested feeling that spread throughout his body as his awareness increased. For the first time it felt as though he had really slept.

As he became aware of his body he frowned and opened his eyes. In the memory he blinked a few times, as though trying to clear a dream from his eyes. There was Wanda, her face relaxed in slumber, one side of her mouth turned up at the corner as though she were in the middle of a good dream.

One of her hands was wrapped up in the cotton of his t-shirt, gripping it tightly like she was afraid he might float away. At that moment Vision had felt so light it was at risk of actually happening.

He stayed totally still as he gradually became conscious of where their bodies were in relation to each other. Their legs were tangled, one of Wanda’s knees hooked around his, the bare skin warm against his. One of his hands was tucked under his cheek and the other had apparently possessed a mind of its own and gravitated down to rest on Wanda’s hip.

Slowly he removed his hand, wincing as Wanda registered the movement and opened her eyes. The blue of her eyes was bright in the dimness of the room, but her pupils still turned to pin pricks as they adapted to the light difference. And then she caught sight of him, centimetres from her own face. Vision watched long enough to see her pupils dilate.

Vision shook his head and returned to reality, pressing both hands to his cheeks and feeling them as warm as they had been on that fateful morning. Wanda had mumbled something about training and practically fled his bed, her ears an alarming shade of red. And Vision had been left to sit there for a further half hour trying to absorb exactly what had happened.

Wanda was running late. She hadn’t meant to take so long to get ready, but it was just so difficult to figure out what she wanted to do with her hair. Ten minutes before they were due to leave for the function, she decided on leaving it down, curled loosely so it settled about her shoulders.

Heels in one hand and holding the edge of her dress in the other she hurried down the stairs for the front door. There were three cars waiting outside, not the usual SUVs they traveled in but sleek BMWs.

A couple of smart cars held nothing to her dress. It had been a gift from Nat a few months earlier, but Wanda hadn’t had the opportunity to attend anything fancy enough that merited putting on the gown. Earlier she’d struggle to make it to the bodice through the pleats of rich red fabric that made up the skirt. Now that it was on it was a perfect fit, flowing off her hips in waves of fabric that shifted with every move. It was the most elegant thing she had ever worn, Wanda only hoped she would do it justice as the evening went on.

The doors on the front two cars were shut so she hurriedly made her way round to the backseat of the third.

Steve sat in the passenger seat with Natasha and Vision taking two of the spots in the back. As Wanda went to step in Natasha caught her gaze and smiled mischievously.

“Hang on, Vision do you mind swapping with me? It’s hard to sit in the middle with my heels and the console.”

Wanda’s stomach dropped as she settled into her seat and Vision and Nat got out of the car to trade spots. And here she had been worried about holding them up. Frustrated, Wanda huffed her hair out of her face, pushing the waves off her shoulder as Vision settled himself into the middle. The backseat was spacious enough, there was no way Nat had been that uncomfortable. No, it had been for Wanda’s benefit. She had confided in Nat on some of the changes occurring between her and the synthezoid now at her side but never had Wanda thought Nat would pull something so obvious and foolish.

It sent her cheeks turning a shade of red not so different from her dress.

The drive felt painfully long. Steve had kept it going with some small talk but that had died out into a stagnant silence. She was being dramatic; the others were probably fine with the silence but for Wanda it felt suffocating. Any other time and she and Vision would have been talking. They could talk for hours about anything, and he always knew what to say to put her at ease. Even their silent moments together felt comfortable. It was never like this.

In the end, she spent most of the drive focusing on moving with the car when it turned so she didn’t accidentally brush Vision. How had they gone from the casual intimacy of friends to this strange tension? It annoyed her, though she felt powerless to change things. Wanda didn’t know a whole lot about chemistry, but she knew whatever she and Vision had would blow up in their faces if they weren’t careful.

Finally, the glowing street lamps turned into the staticky light of cameras. For the first time, Wanda felt relieved by the assault of flashes on her eyes.

They approached a line of similar vehicles, all likely full of celebrities who had managed to scrape together enough of a network to score an invite to the Stark Industries charity event. Hurriedly, Wanda bent over and set about lacing her shoes up. The thick platform heels were chunkier than what would go with her dress but they made up for it in their steadiness. There had been talk of dancing and Wanda figured she was best off in comfortable and stable shoes than trying to balance on stilettos.

Busy fiddling with her shoes, Wanda didn’t feel the car turn until she was sent sliding across the leather seat. Vision’s reflexes were fast as always, his hands quickly steadying her, one at her back the other coming to rest at her hip. They both froze and Wanda looked up, hating how easy it was to lean into his touch. Vision’s eyes glittered in the dim light of the car, their brightness shifting as he took in her face. Suddenly she was taken back to that fateful morning the week before. She’d known it was a bad idea before she’d even made it to his room. Had known she should have run before he woke up instead of pretending to keep sleeping in the warmth of his presence, relishing in the familiarity of his hands on her body. What she would give to wake up to that every morning. But no – no this wasn’t happening, it couldn’t, it wasn’t in her cards.

“Alright, here we go,” Steve said unaware of what was unfolding in the backseat. He swung open the passenger door and they were immediately met with the clicking of cameras and shouting of the crowd.

Wanda moved away and Vision’s hands disappeared from her body so quickly she felt sure he had used his superhuman speed. She quickly finished tightening the strap of her shoe and threw her door open, taking Steve’s arm as he came to help her up.

Vision was left to scramble out of the car on his own as Nat hurried after Wanda who had practically stormed away from the car. He hung his head sadly, trying to pull himself together in time for the cameras.

At the front of the glamorous hall that was the location for the evening, Vision managed to skip the questions from the reporters outside. He didn’t often get questions, with the Tony and Steve taking the blow for the rest of them. Wanda had disappeared in a flash of red, heading up the stairs and into the hall before he could catch her. Tony caught Vision’s elbow and pulled him over for a photo. They smiled genially at the cameras which were entirely unaware of the underhanded question Tony asked.

“Everything alright, bud?” Tony whispered through his smile. “Wanda looked a little frazzled.”

“Everything’s fine, we’re fine,” Vision lied, doing his best to smile in the direction of the cameras. He was yet to master Tony’s people pleasing smile.

A break in the flashing allowed them to speak a little more candidly. “Anything you need to tell me about?”

“Nope,” Vision said confidently, backtracking towards the stairs. “Everything’s peachy!”

The inside of the hall was larger and more confusing that Vision was prepared for. The dancing was in full swing. It surprised him, he didn’t know that humans still danced this way, it didn’t match up with what he had seen on television or the internet. It made him grateful for the simulations he’d been running in the back of his mind all afternoon in the hopes that he wouldn’t be caught unawares. He must have included a waltz or two in there somewhere.

The building itself was grand, its ceiling arcing high above not unlike the interior of a church. Enormous windows lined the walls, curtains shifting as couples span around the dance floor. The architecture felt old, the whole building felt old to him. The chandeliers that hung from the ceiling felt out of place, overly modern compared with their surroundings. He was momentarily distracted by curiosity, reaching into the power source of the building the electricity surging through its walls to power the bright lights. Interesting, he thought. It was all authentic wiring but he couldn’t understand how such old powerlines could power the sheer amount of light sockets the room held. He reached further and felt the familiar warmth of an arc reactor, hiding in the basement of the building. It made sense, this was a heritage building that Tony had received patronage of from his parents. This tangent came to a quick end as Vision made his way around the edge of the crowded middle of the hall. He ignored the looks he was getting, the general curiosity of the humans for once felt unimportant.

Vision bit his lip as his eyes search for Wanda. What he would say when he found her, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if she wanted an apology or if he even wished to give one. Vision couldn’t feel sorry for the emotions that thrummed through his heart when he saw her. He didn’t feel sorry for wanting to be more than a friend to Wanda. And it was difficult to see such feelings as one sided, not when the tension between them had become so tangible in recent days.

He caught sight of Wanda near the centre of the dancing pairs, Sam Wilson was twirling her around and around. It was a wonder she didn’t get dizzy. Even from here, and over the sound of the string quartet, Vision could hear her peal of laughter as they goofed around. Vision was about to start making his way through the crowd when Natasha grabbed his elbow. It was the second time he had been forcibly stopped from going to Wanda’s side and he was beginning to get frustrated.

“Are you about to cause a scene?” Natasha asked, her grip tight on his arm.

Vision didn’t reply.

“Because I am all for making scenes,” Nat smirked, “but maybe not at a charity event?”

Vision looked sideways at Natasha, wondering precisely how much he should tell her. He trusted her, but also knew she was usually Wanda’s confidant.

“I just want to talk to her,” Vision said quietly. Natasha smiled fondly at him, her eyes shining with understanding.

“I’ll get you close enough.”

Vision was about to ask how she planned to do this when she grabbed both his hands and pulled him out into the swirling mass of couples. Vision thanked his lucky stars that he had taken the time to pick up some basics before tonight.

Natasha led, using her hands to weave around dancing couples. Vision smiled. He was nervous but Natasha’s ease as they danced made him feel more relaxed. Her grace on the battlefield had never been in doubt, but he had never seen her properly dance before. This Natasha was something else.

She smiled brightly as they spun around and around, getting closer and closer to Wanda and Sam who were still dancing on the other side of the room.

As they neared Natasha had Vision spin her around once before extending her out towards Sam and Wanda.

Nat tapped Wanda’s shoulder and held her hand out to Sam. “Mind if I steal your partner for a bit?”

Wanda grinned and scrunched her nose, “be my guest, I’m sure he’d appreciate someone who actually knows how to dance.”

“Yeah, but not someone’s who’s better than me!” Sam said indignantly but smiled at Nat and took her hand. Nat sent a meaningful look at Vision over Wanda’s shoulder.

Wanda turned around to leave the dance floor only to come face to face with Vision’s outstretched hand, and the barely restrained nerves on his face. To Vision’s surprise she didn’t hesitate in taking his invitation. Slowly they eased themselves back into the crowd for a waltz. Her hand slid onto his shoulder, as Vision rested his hand on her waist. This time Wanda didn’t pull away.

“You look beautiful, Wanda.” It was something of an understatement, but Vision didn’t quite know how to put into words exactly the reaction Wanda was giving him.

“Thank you, Vision,” she smiled her eyes looking everywhere except his face. “You look nice too.”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Vision began hesitantly.

“Yes,” Wanda sighed, not unhappily, “we do need to talk.”

They were quiet a few more moments, swaying with the violins echoing to the ceiling high above them. Wanda’s dress swirled about her legs, and Vision had to take care to note step on her hem. He’d never forgive himself if he stepped on her toes. The music shifted and the dancers began to change directions. Wanda and Vision did their best to follow suit. Vision pulled her closer to avoid the clumsiness of another couple.

Wanda shivered under his touch, her hand had shifted to brace herself against his colour bone, her thumb brushing his neck. He gazed down at her, wondering if she could feel how quickly his pulse was thrumming.

They must have looked strange, standing still that and so Wanda broke the spell by taking a step back. Vision pulled his arm back around, finding her waist again and began to dance slowly.

Wanda was looking at him fully now, and it took all of Vision’s periphery senses to make sure they didn’t get too lost in each other’s eyes and start crashing into other couples.

“You know I want you,” Vision said, hating how the words caught in his throat, a last attempt to stop himself from crossing their self-imposed line.

“No,” Wanda murmured, her eyes darting around apprehensively. “There are too many people.”

“Are you ashamed?” Vision pushed. He needed answers and if he had to be let down, he’d rather it be now.

Wanda frowned, her brows pulling together. She shook her head, looking down from him to gather her thoughts.

Vision started a little as she spoke within his head, she glanced up at him, her eyes glowing a dark red that matched her dress. ‘Of course, I am not ashamed of you, I would never, ever want you to think that.’

“Then—” Vision said out loud, but Wanda continued.

‘But there are doors we can’t go through.’

Vision did his best to think clearly so that she would hear his thoughts. His words were becoming too personal to speak aloud. ‘You say that, but the only thing that matters here is us, what we think and what we want.’

When Wanda didn’t reply for a moment, he repeated himself. ‘I want you.’

His meaning couldn’t be lost with her in his head. He knew she saw it, saw his feelings.

‘I know,’ her voice whispered somewhere between his ears. ‘It’s hard for me too—’

Vision waited for her to continue, barely conscious that they were still spinning across the marbled floor of the grand hall.

‘But I’m afraid – how can you be sure this will work. How do you know we won’t break each other?’

Her words said one thing, but his mind heard another. Wanda wasn’t worrying about herself, no, she was consumed by the fear that she would hurt him, break his newly fragile heart.

‘You underestimate my strength,’ Vision replied, smiling. ‘You couldn’t break my heart; it is what it is because of you. Will you not let us even try?’

When Wanda didn’t reply Vision spoke aloud. “No one gets to decide who we are without our permission.”

“This is bigger than us,” Wanda whispered, leaning closer to him.

“It shouldn’t be.”

“I know.”

Vision dipped his head down, to reach Wanda’s cheek and press a tender kiss to it. “I want to decide my own destiny, with you. I would rewrite the stars if it meant a lifetime by your side.”

Wanda didn’t say anything, and he wasn’t able to see her expression before she sent herself off twirling away. When she reached the end of his grip, he pulled her back in. For a second Vision thought his bold words would all be in vain, that his confession wouldn’t trump Wanda’s fears. But then she was right before him, nose to nose, sharing the same air. He gazed into her eyes, slowing their dancing until they had come to a stop in the centre of the dance floor.

“Okay,” Wanda said, her eyes bright and a smile on her face. “Let’s rewrite the stars then.”

Vision was starstruck, both hands on her waist and totally lost in what she had just said. He was equally as shocked when Wanda slid her hands up over his shoulders and pulled him down to her mouth.

Vision stopped breathing, lost in the sensation of her lips moving against his own. It felt right, as right as anything could feel.

Vision felt Wanda jump before there was a harsh ringing above them and a fizzling pop. When he opened his eyes, sparks were flying down from above and the room sank into darkness. There was a commotion of cries of shock from the patrons. Vision pulled back to look around, trying to figure out what had gone wrong and then he felt it, the absence of a connection he had forgotten he had even forged. Vision laughed, feeling giddy. Slightly embarrassed that all it had taken was Wanda's kiss for him to overload a building's power source and blow every fixture.

“I, um,” Vision bit his lip, “I might have had something to do with that.”

Wanda laughed and it was music to his ears. He kissed her again, smiling into her embrace. Wanda was wrong about this not being in their cards. They were chaos and order, destined to collide.

#wandavision #scarletvision #WandaVision fanfiction #scarletvision fanfiction #wanda x vision #wanda maximoff #the vision #visionsofusfics #its about the yearning #rewrite the stars

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authoressofdarkness · 4 years

Text

Guide Me Safely To Shore (Chapter 4)

And then he’d apparently crashed through the side of Stark tower. Because this was the safe spot now, apparently, though he hadn’t consciously decided that. He hadn’t consciously decided anything, really. Instinct and subconscious had completely taken over. And apparently, they were still in control, because how the fuck else would he have ended up pulling Tony Stark into bed with him? Or begging him to stay?

Notes: Yeah, I’m still a dumb bitch who keeps forgetting to update here, so here is the link to this story on AO3, if you’re tired of waiting on me. Mind the warnings/rating, though.

Tony is so used to the way he wakes up screaming that he automatically assumes it’s him. So it takes a minute to process the facts; that yes, his heart is pounding; yes, he feels adrenaline, the familiar fight or flight reflex, coursing through him, but the pain, the memory of the nightmare, isn’t there. Just a warm body pressed up against him and breathing fast and-

Shit. It’s Peter.

He barely has a moment to register the fact that Peter is actually pressed up against him, that they’ve apparently gotten much closer through the night and that he frankly can’t believe the pressure of Peter’s body against his hadn’t fed into his own night terrors or caused him to wake up at all. But then Peter gasps and jerks in his arms again and he refocuses on the problem at hand quickly.

He lets go of the omega when he jerks, realizing his eyes are open, pupils blown wide with fear — an effect of the dream more than seeing him, he hopes.

For a moment, they’re frozen, just staring at each other. Tony feels the nearly overwhelming urge to reach for him, but he doesn’t, not wanting to scare him even more.

Finally, Peter refocuses a little, eyes flickering around the room again. “Where- where am I? What did you do to me?”

He makes sure to keep his voice soft and steady, not wanting to start him more. “Nothing, Peter. Do you remember crashing in through the side of the tower?”

His eyes go even wider for a moment. “I- oh my God. I didn’t mean to, I-“

He holds up a hand. “It’s alright. It’s already fixed. But you crashed in and passed out right around the time I got to you. I just took care of your injuries and cleaned you up as best I could.”

Peter just stares at him. His eyes are almost comically wide as he seems to try to put all of the details together. He looks around the darkness of the room again, then glances down at himself. “So… now we’re in your room?” he asks, tentatively.

“No. We’re in yours.” Another confused look, so he elaborates. “I started setting up a room for you after… the other day. I intended to put you to bed tonight and let you rest, but you wouldn’t let me go.” He lifts up his hand, showing him the ring of bruises around his wrist and pillow marks from where Peter had clung to it and subsequently had been laying on it for hours.

Peter flushes after a moment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs, unable to meet his eyes.

“Hey.” They’d talked this long without him running or freaking out, so he takes a chance, reaching out to tilt his chin up. “Don’t be. We should just… get some more rest. I’ll leave you be, if you want.” He moves to sit up.

“No!” Peter’s body slams up against his chest, surprising him. “I mean… stay,” he mumbles, voice muffled by Tony’s shirt. “Please. I just… it hurts, Mr. Stark. I… I need you to stay.”

Tony wraps his arms around him, gently but firmly, pulling him tight against him. “Then I’m not going anywhere.” It’s a relief, frankly, to be given permission not to, because Tony feels the exact same way. He hadn’t realized precisely how much their separation was hurting him until the seemingly massive hole in his chest felt filled waking up next to him.

Peter just nods against his chest, arms tight around his back. The weight of the smaller boy is comforting, nice and warm and solid against him. Any worries he has of hurting him just seem to melt away with him so comfortably wrapped around him like this. How could he possibly have a nightmare with this sweet thing holding him tight?

How could he possibly stay awake, seems like the better question. Within a few minutes, he’s out like a light again.

~~~

Peter doesn’t last long, either.

He doesn’t know what possessed him, honestly. He doesn’t remember consciously deciding to come to the tower. He barely remembers patrolling, just the getting hurt and the sensation of panic, Spidey sense telling him if he didn’t get out of that situation right now something horrible was going to happen and that he needed to get somewhere safe , and then-

And then he’d apparently crashed through the side of Stark tower. Because this was the safe spot now, apparently, though he hadn’t consciously decided that.

He hadn’t consciously decided anything, really. Instinct and subconscious had completely taken over.

And apparently, they were still in control, because how the fuck else would he have ended up pulling Tony Stark into bed with him? Or begging him to stay?

When he woke up screaming, the response had originally been at the visions of the nightmare, the green and orange still flashing behind his eyes. But the terror lingered when he realized that there was another villain entirely laying right beside him.

But then the initial panic faded, and his own body returned to betraying him. Panic and relief somehow flood him simultaneously when Stark says he’ll leave, and he opens his mouth to agree, though that’s not what comes out, and curse this fucking bond . Like the pain and physical illness that have tormented him this week haven’t been enough.

And yet there’s none of that now that Stark is pressed up beside him. In fact, he falls back asleep easier and rests better than he has in… years. Since Ben’s death, at least. Saying this week is hardly sufficient, considering he barely slept at all, and the trend of horrible sleep has been happening forever, now.

Surprisingly, though they sleep straight into the morning after that, Peter wakes up first.

For a long moment, before reality comes rushing back, it almost feels… good. One of Stark’s arms is securely wrapped around him, keeping him close, and Peter has nestled into his bare chest in his sleep. He’s warm and solid and his scent is just so nice up close like this. Relaxed and protective and strong and just pure alpha -

And shit. Peter's eyes flutter open and he moves to stretch automatically before realizing his legs are wrapped tightly around one of Stark's, hips pressed right up against him. He can feel Stark’s morning wood pressing against his stomach, almost terrifyingly large, and firm against him in a way he can’t ignore. And apparently, his body can’t, either, because when he shifts again, he can feel that he’s not entirely unaffected either. Between the effect of the bond and their time apart, and the fact that his body knows this is his soulmate, that he’s warm and comfortable and safe, even if his mind isn’t quite convinced of it… well, maybe it was only to be expected, but he is soaked. And scent aside, if the dampness he can feel on his thighs is any indication, there won’t be any hiding it when Stark wakes up. It isn’t exactly being contained.

Peter swallows thickly and lets out a shuddering breath. Fuck. What is he supposed to do now? Lay here, pretend to be asleep, and see what happens? Or does he risk trying to move and clean up before Stark wakes up, and maybe wake him sooner in the process?

Too late. He should have realized Stark would be a light sleeper. His squirming around had caused Stark to start to as well, and he must feel the same thing as Peter, because he hears his breath catch as the movement stops abruptly.

It’s silent for a moment, and Peter just hides his face in his chest, unsure what else to do. Then, after a moment, Stark’s voice: “Peter?”

Cheeks flaming, but knowing he’s been caught, Peter tilts his head just enough to peer up at him. “Uh…”

Stark’s face is only inches above his, close enough his warm breath causes the curls on Peter’s forehead to flutter. He can smell it, too, though even his morning breath isn’t that bad — and it’s completely overpowered by his scent, anyway, as it continues to grow stronger, arousal and curiosity and something that might even be nerves and resignation mixed in. To his horror, Peter’s seems to grow stronger in response as well — fear and arousal and growing emotions of curiosity and desire all in turmoil.

Again, the silence stretches for a long minute as they seem to search each other’s faces — Peter almost desperately, and Stark seeming to be calculated but undeniably curious.

Finally it’s Stark who breaks the silence. “I’m… I’ll leave,” he says shortly, looking away as he starts to sit up a little.

The words spark panic deep in his chest again, though he tries not to show it. Yeah, he’s terrified, that much is undeniable. But he doesn’t want to go back to feeling the way he did the week they were apart. He could barely function. And it’s going to be worse now that he’s been so close to him, he’s sure of it.

“You’re going to leave me like this?” The words come out quietly, tentative and scared, but he forces himself to speak all the same. “Is that my punishment for leaving?” Why does he sound so small? Why does he shrink in fear even talking to him out of the suit but still feel so safe laying beside him?

The nerves that feel like they’re gripping his chest are all the worse for the fact that he isn’t that far off from what could be true. He knows enough to know that the moment their marks changed color that he became Stark’s. Not even the law could come between them, and Stark is the law, now, so even more so than anyone else, he’s completely at his mercy. He could do whatever he wanted to him and no one would care. Even if someone did, they couldn’t do anything.

And, yeah, the fact was, scared or not, he’d been an asshole the last time they met. Their fight and everything that occurred before they knew they were soulmates could be excused. But after… Stark is well within his legal rights to punish him. Even if there was someone to enforce them on him, they wouldn’t stop him.

Stark stops, letting out a little breath and looking down at him. Confusion is the prominent emotion in his scent, now, though the arousal is still undeniable. “No. I hadn’t intended to punish you for leaving. I’m sure the bond did enough of that,” he says gently. “I just meant… I won’t stay, if you don’t want me to. I’m not going to force you into anything just because our bodies respond naturally to each other.”

“Why not?” Now Peter is confused. And yeah, it’s a dangerous question, but he just doesn’t understand. Tony Stark is supposed to be a monster. This behavior, none of it, none of their encounters besides the first, add up to what he’d expected and been so afraid of. “I mean… you own me now, don’t you? You could do whatever you want.”

“I can do whatever I want. That doesn’t mean I have to. And it’s all the more reason I don’t need to rush it,” Stark answers. He sits up completely, running his hands through his hair, but doesn’t move to get out of the bed. Peter doesn’t move, letting his arms and legs fall away but staying there flat beside him. “And believe it or not, I don’t take pleasure in forcing anyone to do anything. Especially things that should be pleasurable for you.” He shakes his head. “Why does it matter? Do you want me to punish you?”

“No- I mean, I don’t know, I just expected it, I guess.” Peter looks away. “You have good reason to. Past aside, I haven’t been… good this past week.”

He sighs. “I let you walk away, Peter. I told you, I’ve no desire to keep you here against your will.” He pauses, glancing back down at him. “Why did you come back? Last night? And why didn’t you just come in the open balcony door, for God’s sake?”

Peter blushes again. He has no recollection of an open balcony door — or anything else, really. “I… I don’t really know. I was scared and kinda on autopilot. It just… happened. I didn’t even really realize it until this morning.”

“That’s the bond at work, then.” Stark gnaws on his bottom lip, eyes far away for a moment, and then refocuses. “You were scared and hurt. What happened?”

Peter swallows hard. He doesn’t like to talk about what he does as Spider-Man, and telling Tony Stark of all people… this morning really can’t get much crazier, can it? “I… do I have to tell you, sir?” he whispers, tentatively, avoiding his eyes.

Stark draws in a little breath. “No. Not right now, at least.” He tilts his head, looking down at him. “Look, I just… do you want me to leave you alone? I can let you get cleaned up and make breakfast and we can pretend this didn’t happen, at least the… messy part. I really just want to talk without you running away, Peter. Everything else is up to you right now.”

The right now doesn’t slip his notice, but for the first time, his stomach flips with something like excitement as the possessive words, instead of immediate fear. There’s a little of that, too, but not quite as intense as before. And it does make him feel better, a little bit, but…

He’s just never been so wet like this before. He can’t fathom being left like this. It aches for fuck’s sake, in a way he can’t even begin to place or imagine having to deal with for however long it takes.

He swallows again, audibly, throat clicking as he looks up at Stark, who’s still watching him intently, waiting for an answer. “I… we can talk, I promise, I just… I’m really wet, Mr. Stark,” he whispers, tentatively, face flushing red again.

The alpha’s pupils flare at the words, but he doesn’t immediately say anything, to his credit. “I can take care of that, Peter, if that’s what you really want. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to. No punishment here, one way or the other.”

“Even though I deserve it?” He bites his lip.

He tilts his head a little. “Yes… unless you really want me to punish you.”

Peter looks away. “I don’t want you to be mad at me later,” he murmurs, unable to meet his eyes. He’s well aware of exactly how much trouble he’s caused. And getting it out of his head is going to happen… probably never. “I know I deserve it. I’ve done a lot of things. You have a lot of reason to be mad.”

Stark considers him. “I’m not mad. You do have a long list of discrepancies, though, I will admit, and I would like to discourage you from doing anything like that again… but, for right now, let’s shelve it, yeah? If me punishing you would make you feel better, then we can talk about it, after. Over breakfast. Yeah?”

Peter just nods. He can’t pretend he’s not still scared of it, of him, but he’s kept his word thus far, so he agrees. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t do that right now. Come on. You’re my soulmate. You can call me by my name.” He reaches out, tilting Peter’s head up towards him when he shakes his head, years of instincts telling him not to. “You can do it. Say my name, Peter .”

The way he says his name sends a tingle down Peter’s spine and tickles his wrist. He shivers and bites his lip nervously. “Tony…”

The alpha smiles a little. “Good boy, Peter. What am I?”

“Alpha…” Just saying it makes him relax a little. This is his alpha. His body knows that, if nothing else.

“Good boy. Now tell alpha what you want.” Those eyes, so bright and unnaturally blue, flash, pinning him to the bed with a look that makes his breath falter a moment.

“Alpha… want you to… um…” He stops, squirming and biting his lip. “Want you to help me. Please.”

“So polite,” the alpha cooes gently, smiling a little and running a hand down his chest. “Help you what, omega?”

Peter shivers again, at the touch and at the sound, the way Stark- Tony pronounces the word, like his tongue is stroking it, almost obscenely. The thought makes his face flush bright red. It only reminds him of his needs, and he can’t bring himself to say it. “Alpha, please… I… it’s dirty… you know…”

“I do know, Peter, but I want to hear you say it. Ask me for it, omega. Tell me what you want. There’s no shame in asking alpha to fulfill your needs.” He waits, looking down at him.

Peter gulps. Unable to look at him, he grabs the pillow Tony had slept on, hugging it to his chest and breathing in the lingering calm scent to steady himself and let him hide his face. Then he blurts, as quietly as possible, “Please, need you to touch my pussy, alpha.”

He hears Tony purr in response. “Good omega, telling alpha what you need. Touch your pussy, hm? Like this?” He feels the hand slide under the over large shirt he’s wearing, calloused and warm as it presses against the soaked material of his panties, cupping him. “Is this what you want?”

“No, sir, please…” Peter whines into the pillow. Of course an alpha like Tony Stark would want to tease, want the control and to make him tell him everything when he’s undoubtedly smart enough to figure it out.

“Please, what, then, omega?” Tony’s eyes are on him, he can feel it, but he doesn’t look at him, even as the fingers stroke over the wet material, tracing the line of his slit, and his hips squirm in response. “You want me to take them off? You asked for touch, not skin on skin. You want alpha to finger you, is that it?”

Peter whines again. He doesn’t want to say no and risk Tony stopping, but that’s not what he really wants. “I- if you want, but I…”

“Yes…?” he prompts. “What do you want, Peter? Tell your alpha. If it’s not my fingers…”

“Don’ wanna say it…” Peter whines, hiding his face in the pillow. He hates to admit that this whole thing is making him so much wetter, even if it’s frustrating.

“That’s okay. I’ll just sit here and play with this while I wait, hm?” He feels two fingers pinch his little clit through the panties, rolling it between them.

“Ah!” Peter’s back tries to arch off the bed, but the other hand is there, just above his hips and splayed across his stomach, stopping him. “Oh sir, please, ugh- I just- just want your tongue!”

It stops, and the hands lift away. “Oh, my tongue touching you? You could’ve just said so, sweetheart.” Something warm and soft pressed against his thigh — a kiss. Then hands are at his hips, peeling the panties down and off, and a moment later, on the inside of his sticky thighs, pushing them open. Peter bends his legs automatically, but doesn’t look up.

He feels the bed shifting as Tony gets in position, and his breath hitches, but he still doesn’t lift his face from the pillow. His hips twitch a little as the first warm breath of air touches his inner thigh, and he holds his breath, but then — nothing.

Tony’s voice a moment later explains why. “Peter. If I wanted to not see those pretty eyes, I’d have blindfolded you. Can you look at me?”

Peter jolts at the words, the idea of being blindfolded apparently going straight to his core if the rush of slick is any indication. He doesn’t really have much access to porn, as it’s considered distasteful for omegas, though all of them have to touch themselves occasionally, if they don’t have an alpha by the time they start their heats. Still, of course he’s had fantasies, and he’s heard of it, though he hasn’t expected it to be such a turn on right now. They always scared him more than anything.

Still, he lifts his face from the pillow, nervously biting his lip as he looks down at him. Tony’s eyes are a deep blue, dark with arousal, face just inches from where he wants him most.

Holding eye contact, Tony kisses the inside of his thigh, making him shiver. He smirks. “Is this what you want? You want my tongue in your little pussy?”

Peter’s breath hitches. “Yes, alpha, please ,” he breathes.

Tony flashes a dangerous grin, and then he’s leaning down, and oh , fuck- conscious thought goes immediately out the window. The way the alpha’s tongue feels, touching him there , and he’s all wet and so sensitive, and fuck. It’s so different from touching himself with his fingers to get through his heat.

Tony’s tongue is wet, in a different way from his slick, and the way it feels, is just so different from the press of a finger; it’s firm but soft, longer than his own fingers but not Tony’s, from what he’s seen, and God suddenly he can’t wait to find out how those feel, thick but flexible and wet but warm and oh fuck the way it just felt on his clit-

“Alpha!” Peter keens, unable to help himself. The words are torn between a moan and a sob. It’s just too overwhelming for him. Of course he’s had an orgasm before, but it’s never come close to feeling like this, and he’s not even cumming yet. His legs shake around the alpha’s head as his hips start to squirm instinctively from the intensity. “Please, alpha, please !”

All he gets in response is a growl that goes straight through him, and then hands wrapping around his hips, pinning him in place. He can’t help the moan that tears out of him again at the realization that he can’t move now and the feeling as the warm tongue keeps moving, teasing him for what seems like ever and lapping up all of his slick before going up and up and just attacking his little bud relentlessly. He barely tolerates a minute of it before he’s cumming, crying out loudly, hopelessly overstimulated with tears streaming down his face.

He must dissociate for a minute, drifting in the pleasure, because when he comes back to, Tony is sitting beside him, gently wiping him down with a warm washcloth; first his face, then between his legs and down them, touch so light so not to hurt where he’s still sensitive. He’s shushing him gently, too, murmuring something, but his hearing hasn’t come completely back online yet for him to understand. It takes a moment for it to, but he slowly tunes in to what the alpha is saying.

“-alright, yes, see, all clean now… nice and clean… breathe for me, Peter, and calm down some, hm?” He seems to realize suddenly that Peter’s eyes have refocused and he’s actually listening, and he stops. “There you are. Are you alright? You dropped off there after you came.”

Peter blushes a little. “Yeah, I, uh… overstimulation. It happens a lot.”

“Does it, now?” Tony sounds bemused, like he’s trying not to laugh at him.

Peter blushes deeper. “Not- like that. I just… my senses are dialed high all the time. If I get too much sensory input of any kind I can just kinda… power down for a minute or two.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Interesting. I didn’t know that,” he says, sounding actually surprised.

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me yet,” he murmurs, cheeks still red as he moves to get up.

“I guess so,” Tony agrees. He stands up behind him. “Would you like to go get some food?”

Peter glances back at him, then looks around the room, humming a little. The mention of food has his stomach growling. He hasn’t eaten in hours, which means his stomach is… severely unhappy with him. Even if it wasn’t, he’d probably have to agree. They can’t avoid talking forever, especially after… that.

“Uh… yeah. Food would be nice. I just… can I get some pants, first?”

Tony blinks, like he hadn’t considered it. “Oh yeah. There’s some clothes in the dressers that will fit you. Go ahead and get in something comfy. I’ll just... wait outside.” He walks to the door, stepping out and closing it behind him with only a cursory look back.

Peter moves slowly to the nearest dresser, gnawing on his bottom lip. This room is larger and so much more grandiose and furnished than he’s used to, so it takes him a minute to find what he needs. In the end, he manages to find some clean underwear and a pair of pants. He keeps the alpha’s shirt on. He’s not cold enough to want something heavier and it smells good.

When he’s done, he stands there for a minute, soaking it in — and psyching himself up, to an extent. There’s no going back, now, but he can still be nervous, right? He doesn’t know whether it’s really reasonable or not, now, but he still is.

Oh well. It’s only going to get worse if he doesn’t face it. And the idea of leaving again now is too painful to even consider.

With these thoughts in mind, he makes his way to the door. Slowly, so slowly, bracing himself for the deep dive, he opens the door.

“Alright. I’m ready.”

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