#noretribution

[p3pper]

" i work at stark industries. " air is loud around them, so pepper leans in close to @noretribution to make sure she can hear him and he can hear her. " did you say you worked for the cia? or used to? sorry, it's a little hard to hear. " SC.

[wonedeus]

—   for:  @noretribution​    |         𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔.    a certain way this must be done,    and must be done right.      always one for ritual,   this is one she cannot  ––  will not  ––  back away from:     the gifts are unloaded from her case one by one,   handled delicately and gently,    and the paper she has memorized  (  read over twice - fold,   thrice even  )  is slipped from her back pocket,   regarded,    then put back.      His table is set for dinner,    though she’s sure her appetite has escaped her.      this man  [  as strong and sturdy as her...   half as witty and twice as kind,    she’s come to learn   ]    sits across from her as she works.      she clears her throat,    sets the stage.

❝   we’ve been...   seeing each other for some time.     i thought it was appropriate to present you with these trinkets,    as according to a tradition from home.    ❞     there is a pause,    a moment of waiting,     and then she continues:      ❝   we will begin with this.  ❞    she says,    the first gift of a coconut presented and opened.   inside its hollowed core is a nectarine’s seed strung on a chain and a bracelet,     the first of which she lifts upwards and offers.       her eyes shine with expectancy,    anxiety underneath.      ❝   a bounty,    hoped for and not yet achieved   (   ...   )    here,   lean forwards  –––  let me put it on you.  ❞

[wonedeus]

—   𝐌.    |        𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝:    that what her foot had connected with in the night,    fear - stricken and sharp,     was not simply part of her dreams;     that he had forgiven her over the hours for the vague terror,    forgotten the gasping breath that dotted themselves over the hours until morning.        the worry runs through her as a thread,    as if her skin were a practice suture - kit,   and so she creates her own silent apology:      when he prepares to through the front door in the still - dark morning,    She rises with him,     a hand passing over his shoulders as she exits the shared bedroom,    a kiss to the cheek before he is enveloped by early moonlight.       and then the house is quiet for the moment,    the itching of worry returned.      when he returns,   musted over with sweat and outside,     she is in the kitchen and fiddling with the coffee maker.      a swear under her breath,   exasperation in a single sigh.       ❝   i’m afraid that you must re - fix this maker,    whenever you get the chance.   ❞        in a swift movement,   she kisses his cheek again when he comes up behind her,    turns back around to retrieve a golden box of teabags.       ❝   would you like some tea ?  ❞

close to her,    right against her,    his chin rests against her shoulder.      she feels the vibrations of the hum against her flesh,    as if her bone was connected to his jaw,   fused together at the muscle.      I’ll look at the coffee maker after I shower,    he promises,   mouth soft against her skin.      worry runs atop her as if it wished to take her place,     to switch her out with something full of confusion,   of fragility.      it is as if she were made of static noise,    a balloon over carpet,    hair sticking up at its ends.      their separate reactions are just that:     vague understandings from the other,    influenced by the other:      she feels her body go straight ---  he pulls himself away.       the mug she finds in her hands settles to the countertop with its own unease;    she turns around to face him,   sees a body leaning backwards against the island,    legs crossed at the ankles.      brows knitted to their inner corners;     that once - going mouth now silent.      she foils this expression somehow  (  eyebrows bright and her mouth going up at the corners  )  and she resumes making her tea.        

silver spoon clinks against the rim of teacup.    he  [ @noretribution​ ]  begins first,   they continue in tandem:      you okay,   dee?   ||    chilly,   a bit.   i’m alright.    ||    you’re never tense this early...    he has become familiar with her,   left no stones unturned when it came to her moods,   emotions,    reactions.      a glance is given to him,    a moment taken to give a pointed and casual look.     I’m alright,    she says again,    intonation on the final word,    i don’t want you worrying.      the room is made silent then.     she begins to rustle again,    teacup lifted to her mouth and another spoonful of sugar added.      behind her,    mitch begins his own routine,    a heavy pause between her words and the next.    in an instant,  he asks about her sleep.      in an instant,     she apologizes for waking him,    for accidental bedside violence.     

It was nothing.     and his  [  @noretribution​  ]  voice comes after a moment of consideration,    lighthearted and full of his own worry,   a fine edge of gravitas around syllables:    ❝  It was something  ( you’re not usually so full of disquiet )  don’t say it wasn’t.      ❞        and she turns to him,    her mouth now made into a frown,    expression shifted for the more solemn.      

❝   it was something,   but it is nothing for you to be concerned of.   ❞   her body is still straight as a rod,    movements stiff in some joints.     she moves towards him in a half - step.     her hand presses itself against his,   calloused fingers against rough knuckles.        ❝   i plan on visiting home for a few hours.   i have an appointment set with Epione,    and then with Soroya   ---   physical exam,   and then finding a cure for my lack of sleeping.    ❞      her fingers curl around his hand a little tighter.     ❝   i assure you that i am taking care of it.   no more kicking you in the dead of night,    no more late evenings.   ❞  

[wonedeus]

—   𝐌.    |           𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫:    she feels over - exposed,   her attempted casualness revealed for what it truly is.    as if the wound of her emotions had been exposed and he was watching them within her,    his eyes bright in the presence of her ever - aflame affection.      she hopes he cannot see it;    she wishes to sit in this silly feeling a bit longer,    to catch him in different lights privately,    a secret exposure known to only her.      in the swell of her mind,    the entirety of his face has been memorized:     here,   the crinkle indent of his eye.    there,   a slight graze of skin.      the smile he wears  (  wide and at her,  )  transfers easy from his face to hers,    whatever laugh he gives finding a placement between her tongue and tooth,    pushing from her mouth.       and then he lays his gaze across her,    watches her movements with sweeping eyes,    and she feels as an exposed wound,    raw and red in the neck.

he   [  @noretribution​​  ]   is the first to move from the dining table,   takes both their plates in his hands and walks them to the kitchen.      she does not know what he is talking about,    wine glass of red tapped at the stem as he leaves the room,    words like static through his mouth and against the air.     she hears the dishwasher open and dishware nudge itself over;    the tap turns on and then off.     then,   over everything,    ❝  but, love is a kind of killing. don’t you know that ?    ❞      the world begins to slow down almost instantly.     her head is sharp to turn towards the archway,    hand jerking against glass.     wine spills atop the table,    a pool of ruby.

𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.      the moment the wine spills,   she advances to her feet with a slight noise of surprise.     a napkin is brought to the spill as quick as she can do so,   glass pushed further to the center of the table.     ❝   a kind of killing ?  ❞      finally she answers,   the mouth catching up faster than her mind:      instantly she has been made silly,   nerves bunching with romantic inclination and bursting at their seams.      after a glare at the table,   she changes her mind;    the glass is gathered in one hand,    dyed red napkins in the other,   and she walks towards the kitchen.        ❝   sorry  ---  had a spill.    what do you mean,   a killing ?   do you kill a part of yourself when you love ?  ❞

a pause.     the tongue edges towards the corner of her lip,    napkins still sticky in her grasp.       ❝   do you  ( ... )  feel as if you are killing something now ?   ❞

[wonedeus]

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄,      𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒:      when their playful jabs have been tucked away,     when they are able to hide from Helios’ all - seeing eye...       when he returns home,      she takes the time to patch him back into one piece:     a washcloth dipped in warm water and then applied to tender flesh,     clear liquid gone red from ichor   ––––   but there are no gods here,    not anymore.      they are both made of humanity and humanness,     Him more than her    [   and she does not forget his mortality   ].       whenever he grits his teeth,     she cannot help but do the same;    a hissing from her teeth,    as if she were the one with peeling skin,    with bleeding bones that threatened to break.      She wishes that she could heal him with a simple touch.    Make him as much God as she is.        tonight,    however,     this does not happen.    instead she is gentle with him,    mouth pressing a soft trail of kisses where the skin tightens together with sutures.        ❝   you must be tired of it.    ❞        a moment of silence as she gathers her words,     as she wonders how far is too far.       ❝   this constant source of injury.    ❞

the needle threads into his skin again,      the needle pulls back out of flesh and tightens.        another bout of silence.      she can feel him thinking underneath her fingers,     his mind  (  brilliant,    stubborn,    utterly wondrous.  )  whirring even as she kisses his cheek   –––   a sigh leaves her throat.        ❝  i love you,    though i am sure you know that.     i would love you even in death,     but i do not wish to reach that place so quickly.    ❞      the clock on the wall ticks loudly in between her pauses.     a plea is muttered underneath her tongue.    O’ Aphrodite,   I pray that our time is not cut so short...

at last  ––   mitch  [  @noretribution   ]  grumbles underneath her.      a bit of skin goes red from where he shifts,    a small groan passing through his mouth.     ❝  fuck  ––  well,    here’s a place for it to happen,    ❞     spoken matter of fact,    the place where the skin grew taut rolled and rubbed.     ❝  ––  a place for me to love you.    ❞

the ambassador moves from her seat behind him.      she sits herself across from his hunched form,     a hand reaching to cup his.     her eyes meet his,    searching his gaze for something that she doesn’t know.      the brows crease together as if worry knits them,    though the only worry she feels is towards him,    his vulnerable humanity,    his everlasting mortality.       a pause,    and then:     ❝    i will give you this place.    this lifetime,   this existence   (   ...   )     i just do not want to lose you too soon.    ❞

[wonedeus]

𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙾𝚆𝚂,      𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝙾𝙽 𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝚂 𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙰𝙼𝚂 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙳𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼 𝙵𝙻𝙾𝙾𝚁.         the latch is already undone and unlocked  ––  a moment of stillness and the ambassador   (  in all her flying glory !  )    slips through the unlocked window,    feet gently finding the floor.      the hatch is locked back and she slips off her boots,    her breastplate,    her lasso,    and inches her way towards their shared bed.      a kiss is pressed to his  [  @noretribution​​  ]  cheek,   a moment taken to make sure he is still asleep...      He is not.     the breath is even and controlled,    a small stir when her mouth finds his flesh.      a breathy chuckle leaves her mouth as she crawls to the other side of him,       the sheets split from his torso and then brought back up once she is underneath them.     in an instant his arms go around her form,    pulling her close   –––   and she allows it,    comfort found in his hands against her back.     her ear finding his heartbeat.

there is another moment of tender silence.      his hands thread through her hair and she knows that he is waiting,    waiting.      he shifts besides her,    mouth opening to ask the question that waits on his tongue,    soft and sweet and gentle:       ❝   where did you just go?   ❞       whispered  against the top of her head.

she does not give the full - bodied laugh she usually would.      exhaustion creeps up on her like a long past friend,    the eyes closing as she lifts her head to kiss the side of his mouth.     ❝   you’d never believe how many people need saving in the late hours.     the work never ends,    but right now   (   ...   )    i am taking a break to be with you.     ❞

[wonedeus]

𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝙳 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆𝙴𝙳 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙴𝙻𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂,     allowed herself to become comfortable alongside him.     life had formed around them.    as if they were both its creators,    as if they had forced it to adjust to them,   they changes they had made:    the dual toothbrushes in her bathroom,    the extra pillows she had gotten specifically for him.     she had carved a hollow into her tree  ––  a space for him within her,   and he had done the same.         their existences had melded together;    she looks to him and sees familiarity,   habit born out of adoration,    something similar to home.        there’s a belonging that tugs at her.     a sense of understanding between them that feels more like trust than anything else.       

tonight:    he  [  @noretribution ]  finds her between the setting sun’s rays and his kitchen space,     a spoon scooping through a half - full carton of ice cream.       she fits into this area of living,    this common dance of domesticity that they’ve forged for themselves:     work ends at a reasonable time and she comes to find Him,   comes to hug him,    comes to inhale him...     the spoon dips back into the carton,    a neat ball of vanilla brought up to her mouth as the gaze goes upwards itself  –––  He is spotted in the second;    her mouth curls into a smile.       

❝    𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴?    ❞        asked sweetly,    as if the ice cream were made from her tongue.      the spoon scoops another ball of vanilla,    the chin gesturing towards him.      when he does not advance towards the carton,    instead opting to assume his place behind her,   arms gentle to wrap around her waist,     she stifles a chuckle.    

the words leave his mouth before she can speak,    warm and muffled against her skin but as clear as day.      ❝   i love you sideways daily.   ❞

a mouth presses against the skin between her shoulders.      it is as if she relaxes immediately in his grasp,      a hum leaving closed lips as she slowly turns around to face him.      her arms go around his neck and she feels his hands grip tighter against her skin.    a kiss is placed here,   then there  ––  a trail of love for him to remember later on.      ❝   sideways  (  ...  )   well,   i love you up and down....  forwards and backwards.   how’s that ?     ❞

[alquin2u]

#gentlemenshandbook #greatquote #gethurt #togrow #happinessisagoal #nopain #noretribution