my life is boring have some fic
Title: The Boy That Wouldn't Talk
Pairing: RathWil
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 800
Notes: Apologies to Maxine Hong Kingston. Wil is most likely OOC. Slight blood kink.
He never spoke.
His lips were sealed tight, drawn into a thin line of apathy. All he gave was a simple nod or a shake of the head, eyes equally untelling. It was incorrect to say that he had never spoken before; on very rare occasions, he would speak up, an inaudible whisper of words slipping past his lips. Such words would be revered and well thought upon; if the boy who never spoke had something to say, it must be important.
Wil hated it.
“I have important things to say too, ya know!” Rebecca would nod her head in solemn understanding to appease him; it wasn’t worth it to argue. “Just ‘cause I talk a lot doesn’t mean what I say is any less significant!”
Rath spoke with his arrows, with his bow and quiver; when his arrows sped across the sky and into the hearts of his enemies, his voice flew with them. Battle was all he knew; what better way to say his part than with death?
Resentment ran deep in Wil’s veins.
“Say something,” says Wil one day. They’re alone. “You’re always so quiet.”
Rath looks up at Wil from his spot on the ground, eyes dull, only the vaguest hint of intrigue locked deep within them; continuing to restring his bow, he pays Wil no mind.
“Hey! Pay attention to me!” He stamps his foot; Rath pauses. “Don’t ignore me!”
Looking up once more, Rath’s eyes are just as dull as before. Blood boils within Wil and he kicks Rath’s bow away, body moving before he can think. The unstrung bow string whips across Rath’s hand and he hisses, sound low and barely audible.
“I’m so-” Wil stops, swallowing his apology. “…Say something.”
Rath looks down at his hand, the thin line angry and red, then back up at Wil, frowning deeply.
Still, he says nothing.
Crouching down, Wil scowls at him, fists clenched. “I’m not gonna apologise until you say something.” His stomach turns; he doesn’t like this. “So say something.”
Rath looks at Wil a moment longer before leaning over to retrieve his bow, completely unfazed.
“Come on! I know you’re not mute!” Wil makes a wild grab at Rath, yanking the bandana off his head. “I’m not giving this back until you say something! I mean it!”
Fingers inch toward the bow, impervious to the archer’s frantic cries. Wil jumps on Rath, pushing him on his back and straddling his waist. The long blades of grass press against Rath’s cheeks, but he makes no effort to brush the dark green irritants away.
“Just say something! Anything! Please!” the desperation in his voice is a shock to himself, and for a split second he thinks he sees Rath’s face change.
But it’s nothing; Rath’s back to looking impassive. A trick of the eyes.
Grabbing Rath’s injured hand, he squeezes it hard at the wrist. “Tell me to stop! Tell me to stop or I won’t!” He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. “I’ll hurt you!”
Closed eyes are Rath’s only response, face and body unresponsive.
His tongue drags along the cut before he can think, lapping up the blood; it tastes like dirt. Finally opening his eyes, Rath stares up at Wil, emotion at last blooming in them;
Shock, confusion.
His heart beats like a caged bird in his chest, frantic and unruly. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore so he kisses Rath, kisses him hard and forces him to taste his own blood. Rath’s muscles are drawn tight as Wil snakes his tongue into his mouth, further forcing the taste.
To both their surprise, Rath obliges Wil, wrapping an arm around his waist; their awkward movements and more awkward kisses sending a scintillating shock down both their spines. Whimpers and little gasps fall from Wil’s lips, but the nomad is as silent as ever; for a moment Wil wonders if Rath really is mute.
When their kiss ends they breathe in time, breath shallow and heavy all at once. Wil hides his head in the crook of Rath’s neck, shame settling deep within his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks out; his voice breaks. “I, I don’t know what I was thinking and and I don’t know I’m sorry I’m sor-”
Rath lifts Wil’s head up, kissing him quiet. With one arm wrapped around Wil’s waist, he strokes Wil’s cheek, touch comforting.
“Rath,” Wil’s voice is a high whine, an unspoken plead of please say something please please please.
A sly smirk spreads across his lips and he tilts his head up, warm breath close enough to Wil’s ear to send a satisfying shiver shooting up Wil’s spine. In a whisper-quiet voice he says,
“Thank you.”
Pairing: RathWil
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 800
Notes: Apologies to Maxine Hong Kingston. Wil is most likely OOC. Slight blood kink.
He never spoke.
His lips were sealed tight, drawn into a thin line of apathy. All he gave was a simple nod or a shake of the head, eyes equally untelling. It was incorrect to say that he had never spoken before; on very rare occasions, he would speak up, an inaudible whisper of words slipping past his lips. Such words would be revered and well thought upon; if the boy who never spoke had something to say, it must be important.
Wil hated it.
“I have important things to say too, ya know!” Rebecca would nod her head in solemn understanding to appease him; it wasn’t worth it to argue. “Just ‘cause I talk a lot doesn’t mean what I say is any less significant!”
Rath spoke with his arrows, with his bow and quiver; when his arrows sped across the sky and into the hearts of his enemies, his voice flew with them. Battle was all he knew; what better way to say his part than with death?
Resentment ran deep in Wil’s veins.
“Say something,” says Wil one day. They’re alone. “You’re always so quiet.”
Rath looks up at Wil from his spot on the ground, eyes dull, only the vaguest hint of intrigue locked deep within them; continuing to restring his bow, he pays Wil no mind.
“Hey! Pay attention to me!” He stamps his foot; Rath pauses. “Don’t ignore me!”
Looking up once more, Rath’s eyes are just as dull as before. Blood boils within Wil and he kicks Rath’s bow away, body moving before he can think. The unstrung bow string whips across Rath’s hand and he hisses, sound low and barely audible.
“I’m so-” Wil stops, swallowing his apology. “…Say something.”
Rath looks down at his hand, the thin line angry and red, then back up at Wil, frowning deeply.
Still, he says nothing.
Crouching down, Wil scowls at him, fists clenched. “I’m not gonna apologise until you say something.” His stomach turns; he doesn’t like this. “So say something.”
Rath looks at Wil a moment longer before leaning over to retrieve his bow, completely unfazed.
“Come on! I know you’re not mute!” Wil makes a wild grab at Rath, yanking the bandana off his head. “I’m not giving this back until you say something! I mean it!”
Fingers inch toward the bow, impervious to the archer’s frantic cries. Wil jumps on Rath, pushing him on his back and straddling his waist. The long blades of grass press against Rath’s cheeks, but he makes no effort to brush the dark green irritants away.
“Just say something! Anything! Please!” the desperation in his voice is a shock to himself, and for a split second he thinks he sees Rath’s face change.
But it’s nothing; Rath’s back to looking impassive. A trick of the eyes.
Grabbing Rath’s injured hand, he squeezes it hard at the wrist. “Tell me to stop! Tell me to stop or I won’t!” He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. “I’ll hurt you!”
Closed eyes are Rath’s only response, face and body unresponsive.
His tongue drags along the cut before he can think, lapping up the blood; it tastes like dirt. Finally opening his eyes, Rath stares up at Wil, emotion at last blooming in them;
Shock, confusion.
His heart beats like a caged bird in his chest, frantic and unruly. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore so he kisses Rath, kisses him hard and forces him to taste his own blood. Rath’s muscles are drawn tight as Wil snakes his tongue into his mouth, further forcing the taste.
To both their surprise, Rath obliges Wil, wrapping an arm around his waist; their awkward movements and more awkward kisses sending a scintillating shock down both their spines. Whimpers and little gasps fall from Wil’s lips, but the nomad is as silent as ever; for a moment Wil wonders if Rath really is mute.
When their kiss ends they breathe in time, breath shallow and heavy all at once. Wil hides his head in the crook of Rath’s neck, shame settling deep within his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks out; his voice breaks. “I, I don’t know what I was thinking and and I don’t know I’m sorry I’m sor-”
Rath lifts Wil’s head up, kissing him quiet. With one arm wrapped around Wil’s waist, he strokes Wil’s cheek, touch comforting.
“Rath,” Wil’s voice is a high whine, an unspoken plead of please say something please please please.
A sly smirk spreads across his lips and he tilts his head up, warm breath close enough to Wil’s ear to send a satisfying shiver shooting up Wil’s spine. In a whisper-quiet voice he says,
“Thank you.”