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pixeipixei · 6 days ago

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Ok so it's FATHER'S DAY, and work has had me doing a whole lot of NOTHING except for typing (I'm not really allowed to do anything else :( ), so have a Dad!Loki fic! (Which also just happens to be a very low-key character study of the Marvel Rivals Iteration Loki, with some MCU elements thrown in!)

You can read the full fic here! > https://archiveofourown.org/works/66471130/chapters/171411247

Summary: Loki gains custody of a boy who is undeniably HIS, and is forced, for the first time, to confront what it might mean to be a “father.” AKA: Emotionally constipated parental figure learns how to love small child.

Features: Morally Ambiguous Loki, Denial (so much of it), Fluff & Angst. Gen fic. No ships, just Loki.

/ / /

Sentiment.

Loki, King of Asgard, had long since exiled it from the chambers of his heart. It was a weakness, a crack in the armor that let in the brutal, monstrous cold.

It made you trust. It made you need. It made you lose. This was not a lesson Loki earned in a single blow, but in a thousand cuts– each scar catalogued, each betrayal quietly recorded and filed under “foolishness”.

The heart, he'd concluded, was a muscle best kept frozen. Anything that threatened to melt it risked fracturing the facade he wore so expertly: King. Schemer. Monster. Survivor.

The less felt, the less lost.

So naturally, he did not feel.

Not when the boy appeared in his life like an afterthought of fate. A slight little thing– barely into his toddler years– with wild, raven-dark hair and uncertain footing. A child with his face. His jawline. His posture. His legacy.

Those eyes of his—

(Familiar. Far too familiar. Too much like his own. Too much.)

—stared up at him, imperfect only by the strange flecks of red and blue within them, like blood and lapis on emerald glass. Not exactly pleading, but searching, as though trying to reconcile what he had been told about what stood before him.

“I… I’m Nari,” the boy had said, as if it were a question. A beat. An uncomfortable fidget under intense scrutiny. “Short for Narinder,” he quickly added.

Loki's silence stretched long enough to make the boy wince. The king gave him no answer. Just a flick of his eyes down to the tattered, faded plush wolf in the boy’s arms. Fenrir, Nari had called it.

How unoriginal.

How… sentimental.

(Loki felt nothing).

When they stepped onto the Bifrost together and the rainbow bridge carved its violent streak across the cosmos, Nari had screamed. Not a bold scream, not one of fury or war, but a sharp, startled yelp, and upon landing in Asgard, promptly turned, face sickeningly pale, and barfed in a shuddering, dry-heaving arc.

It missed Loki's leg by a hair's breadth. Heimdall’s expression didn’t flicker, but Loki’s did, just slightly. A faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement. Certainly not affection. Just…

(Disruption. A crack. A flicker).

No…

He exhaled and buried it.

(He felt NOTHING).

When they walked through the halls of gold and marble and judgmental gazes, Nari noticed. Nari felt it. And without thinking, without asking, the boy inched closer to Loki and half-hid behind the edge of his sweeping green and gold cape, peeking out like a stray under a market table.

Loki made no move to shake him off. It wasn’t sentiment.

(It was nothing).

(Loki continued to feel nothing).

When they reached the quieter halls of the palace, where torchlight flickered soft and the stone floors did not echo so coldly, he gestured to Saella. She stepped forward, old and steady. Her wispy, silver hair sat coiled upon the top of her head like a sigil of better days seen, her eyes calm in ways most people mistook for kindness.

She blinked at Nari. Nari blinked up at her, uncertain, and then looked back to Loki. He did not glance down. “He is in your care.”

Saella nodded once, deeply. “Of course, Your Majesty.” The boy did not follow her. Not at first. He lingered, not speaking, standing so close his hand brushed against the edge of Loki’s cape as if it was the only thing still tethering him.

Still, Loki turned and left. No hesitation. No glance back. Just the echo of his own footsteps and Saella’s voice, soft and coaxing in the quiet.

(Nothing).

(Loki has and always WILL feel NOTHING).

/ / /

Evening in Asgard fell like a velvet blanket. Soft. Heavy. Full of eyes.

Loki sat at the edge of a silence thicker than most thrones could bear, letting it stretch across the chamber like a shroud. Gone were the applause, the diplomatic nods, the tedious affirmations of nobility. The court had filed out hours ago, leaving only shadows behind. He could still hear echoes of their whispers, though (King Loki sees and hears everything, after all).

They weren’t loud. Never loud. Serpentine. Designed to slither through corridors and coil around ears that listened too well.

“Who’s the mother?”

“Some common Midgardian whore, I’d wager.”

“Or worse. A frost giant, or perhaps some dark mage. You know what his tastes must be.”

“Do you think it’s really his? The boy barely speaks. Maybe it’s just a political pawn? He’s always been vehemently against taking a wife.”

“He looks exactly like him.”

“The eyes are strange. Unnatural. Probably a bastard spell gone wrong.”

“The child has no mother and no history. He simply appeared.”

“Just like his father, then.”

Laughter. Stifled. Poisoned.

And then, the last one. The only one that really made him consider: "Narinder Lokison. The firstborn son of Loki."

It had been said aloud. Proclaimed, even. The boy hadn't corrected anyone. Loki hadn't either. The name lingered in his mind like an echo in a massive, frozen cave.

Lokison.

A surreal joke. An impossible title. He should have denied it. Corrected it. Banished the thought before it settled. But there it was, planted firmly like a stake at the heart.

And the heart. Loki’s heart… It felt—

(Nothing. Loki felt nothing. Loki has and MUST always feel NOTHING).

The clasp at his shoulder gave a soft metallic groan as deft hands unfastened it. Saella moved like clockwork. Steady, silent, reliable in the way old steel was: not durable, but familiar. She had once tended Frigga. Now she removed the regalia from her son with the same grace, never speaking unless required. She knew what silences were for.

And yet–

He saw the flicker in her eyes. Just once. As she placed the ceremonial pauldron down on the polished table beside them, a quick glance. Not quite curiosity, not quite concern. Something. He caught it in the reflection of his horned helm, warped slightly in the gold. A tilt of her brow. The brief stillness of thought.

But it was there. Of course it was.

She was thinking about Nari.

Loki remained still for a moment, then tilted his head just enough to watch her from the corner of his vision.

“You didn’t ask,” he said. Calm. Measured. As if commenting on the weather.

Saella didn’t look up. “No, Your Majesty.”

“You’re thinking it, though.”

Saella gave the smallest of smiles. The kind that said: Of course I am, but I’ll never say it out loud.

Loki’s tone didn’t shift, but his gaze flicked toward the golden door. Closed. Quiet. “He is asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Did he require a tale, or a lullaby?” he asked dryly, a light sneer twisting the corners of his lips. “Perhaps a glass of warmed milk and a soft song about valiant warriors and noble kings?”

Saella’s hands didn’t pause in their task. “He cried,” she said. “Then he slept.”

Loki said nothing. But he felt something in his chest itch. A quiet, sharp, annoying little tug. He straightened. Rolled his shoulders. Set his jaw.

(Nothing. It’s nothing).

Just noise in a hollow room.

He leaned back slightly as she unclasped the next buckle. The sweeping cape came free with a soft hiss of displaced air.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, voice sharper than intended. “What exactly does a father… do? ”

Saella paused. Not long. Not noticeably, but long enough for Loki to catch it. He turned his head and watched her. She looked thoughtful, maybe a bit surprised, as if she'd expected this question to surface eventually, rather than now. “Well,” she said, voice slow. “That depends on the father.”

Silence.

“And the son,” she quickly added.

Loki’s brow twitched. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” she replied, unbothered.

Loki glanced toward the high window. From here he could see the towers of Asgard, lit from within. Gold upon gold. Perfection upon perfection. And somewhere beneath that light, a small child was sleeping in a bed far too big for him, clutching a ragged wolf made of thread and memory. Loki hadn’t needed to be told how the boy would fall asleep. Not easily, and not without tears.

His pillow must still be damp.

Loki exhaled through his nose.

(Nothing. He feels absolutely nothing).

“I was never meant to be one.”

“Neither was Odin,” Saella said, folding his armor with reverent precision. “And yet he was.”

Loki turned slowly. “Odin was many things. Consistent was not one of them.” Something undeniably sour moved through his voice.

And then, like a blade slipped beneath armor, came a memory–

A vault of cold light. The gleam of ancient relics. The Casket of Ancient Winters shimmering like a trapped storm. Odin’s voice, deep and patient, echoing against the stone. His two sons stood at both his sides.

“Do the Frost Giants still live?” Loki had asked. His voice then had been smaller, curious, cautious. Thor had puffed out his chest, beaming. “When I’m king, I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! Just as you did, Father.”

(And gods— Loki had smiled at him when he said that— really looked at him and smiled at him—)

Odin’s reply had not come with a smile. “A wise king never seeks out war. But he must always be ready for it.”

“I’m ready, Father,” Thor had said.

“So am I,” Loki had added. Not boastful. Just… true.

And Odin, with the weight of centuries in his gaze, had looked at both of them. Really looked at them. “Only one of you can ascend to the throne. But both of you were born to be kings.”

Loki pushed away the memory like mold under creaky floorboards. “Is the boy afraid of me?” he asked, abruptly.

Saella didn’t answer right away– her bony, delicate hands pausing for longer than a fraction of a second. “I think,” she said finally, continuing to work Loki out of his armor, “he is waiting to see if he should be.”

Loki didn’t respond.

He simply stood there, back half-turned to her, jaw tight and shoulders rigid. The very image of a king. And far beneath that: a man reeling.

Not from fear. Not from anger.

But from possibility.

With the practiced silence of one who had served in too many royal chambers, Saella gathered the last of his regalia, bowed once, not deeply, not differentially, just enough to mark the space between them, and slipped out. The door shut with a faint click.

Loki remained.

The room was quiet now, lit only by the flickering wash of fire’s light against dark stone and carved gold. Shadows clung to the corners like buried feelings.

( –Like sentiment. No, not sentiment. NOTHING. Absolutely NOTHING).

He moved to the chair by the hearth. Not his throne, just a chair, and lowered himself into it like a man unsure whether he’d earned the right to sit. One elbow on the armrest. Fingers against his temple.

Father.

The word curled around his thoughts like smoke.

Narinder Lokison. Nari.

He almost scoffed aloud. As if the name could make it real. As if blood was all it took to bind ‘family’ together.

He stared into the fire. It only offered warmth, not answers. Somewhere beyond these walls, a boy slept. A small, fragile piece of Loki. Something he could not quite dismiss nor acknowledge.

Possibility. It echoed louder among the nothing than he expected. Loki sat still and let it echo.

/ / /

Morning in Asgard arrived with ceremonial precision.

No chaos. No mess. Just golden light spilling through arched windows. Loki did not rise immediately. Kings had the luxury of not rushing, after all.

When he did move, it was without fanfare. All robes instead of armor. Long, shoulder-length hair tied back with the kind of exacting sharpness that dared anyone to see disorder. He did not summon his ornate scepter, did not call for court. He simply left his chambers in silence, footsteps absorbed by the thick runner beneath his boots.

He didn’t intend to visit the boy.

Truly, he didn’t.

He was simply... walking. That was all. Through the wing where the lesser-used guest chambers resided. Coincidentally. Quite so.

He hadn’t asked where the boy was staying. That information had been volunteered. Loudly. Repeatedly. By servants who spoke just a little too clearly within earshot.

He wasn’t following the memory of Saella’s footsteps from the night before. And he certainly wasn’t retracing them. He was absolutely not checking in.

He was simply ensuring that all was as it should be. That no one had... interfered . That the boy hadn’t, in some fit of childish frailty, wandered off and expired in the dead of night from sheer sentimentality. (Or something else for that matter. Loki didn’t care. Nope. He didn’t).

He happened to pause near one particular door. One wooden, old, dingy door untouched by renovation. It had once been used to house visiting dignitaries with children– those who didn’t trust nannies.

Now it temporarily held a boy. His boy. Nari Lokison. The name still curled bitter on the tongue. Not for what it was, but for what it might mean. What it threatened to mean.

( —Possibility. Nothing. Possibility. Nothing–)

He didn't knock. He didn’t enter. He simply stood there, still as a statue, as if the door might confess something. Then, faintly–

A sound. Muffled. Shifting blankets, a soft thud, a whispered, uncertain voice. Loki’s brow creased. He leaned slightly closer.

“…Fenrir?” Nari murmured. A pause. Then, sleep-blurred: “Do… you think I did something wrong?”

Loki stilled. Something in that whisper rooted him to the floor like a spell gone wrong.

“I think he doesn’t like me,” Nari whispered to the toy. “Because I almost barfed on him. But maybe… I just have to be good today. And then he’ll like me.”

The voice was small, but practiced. Too practiced. The kind of voice used when speaking to someone or something you trusted not to laugh at you. Or abandon you.

(Or lie to you).

The bed creaked again. “You always know what to say to make me feel better, even if you don’t talk much… But that’s okay, you can stay quiet.”

Loki could almost see it. The boy sitting up in bed, clutching the plush wolf in both arms as if it were a confidant. A familiar ritual. The way one’s hands might hold the only thing left unchanged.

(Weakness).

“What do you think about Asgard? I think it’s kinda scary. Too big. Too many people. I don’t like when they look at me. They seem weird.”

Loki’s jaw tightened just slightly. He was speaking to the thing like it was a person. Not play-acting. Not performing. Confiding. Pouring his heart out to the only thing still allowed to love him back. And it wasn’t even well made. Its stitching was uneven. Its left ear drooped like a broken branch. One button eye was larger than the other. The fur was the kind of dull, matted gray that came from too many nights clutched in sleep and too many days dragged across floors. One could breathe on it and it could fall apart.

Yet Nari held it as if it were sacred.

There had been a time, long ago, beneath Frigga’s patient hand, when he, too, had spoken to things that could not answer. When silence had been less an absence and more a companion. He exhaled slowly through his nose, banishing the thought.

Inside the room, Nari tucked the wolf under his chin and lay down again, whispering: “Maybe today he’ll talk to me. But I’ll talk to him if I have to. Will you stay by my side when that happens?”

A pause.

“Do you think he would wanna see me?”

There was no reply, of course. The silence that followed was almost unbearable.

Loki stepped back from the door as though it had threatened to burn him. He turned sharply on his heel, robe sweeping behind him in crisp arcs. He made it precisely eight paces before a quiet voice called from behind him–

“…Are you… leaving?”

Loki froze. He turned. Slowly.

The door was cracked open– just a little. Nari stood in it, arms tight around the mangled plush, his hair still tangled with sleep, one side of his face pressed with pillow lines. He blinked up at Loki with tired, puffy eyes, unsure if he'd broken some unspoken rule.

“G…Good morning,” the boy added, more quietly. Just in case.

Loki looked at him. No armor. No throne. Just silk robes, a high collar, and an inscrutable expression. He nodded once. “Good morning.”

It came out smoother than expected. Nari looked faintly relieved. “Miss Saella said I might have breakfast with you. If you… if you weren’t busy being king.”

Loki’s gaze flicked down the hall. The council chamber waited. So did half a dozen emissaries. So did half a dozen plans.

Then, back to the boy.

The wolf plush dangled from one arm now, like a forgotten limb. Nari shifted from foot to foot, like he expected to be told to go away.

“I am,” Loki said at last. Nari’s face fell a fraction. He turned his gaze downward.

“But,” Loki added slowly, “perhaps not for some time.”

The boy looked up sharply. “Really?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

(Liar).

Nari didn’t notice. He smiled– small, unsure, the kind that barely tugged at the corners but was real all the same.

“Okay,” he said. “Can Fenrir come too?” He held out his plush as if to emphasize the importance of his request.

Loki regarded it briefly. “He can come.”

Nari beamed. He began to turn, then hesitated again, glancing down at himself. “Um… should I get ready?” he asked quietly. “I mean, we’re going somewhere fancy, right? For breakfast?”

Loki didn’t answer right away. He glanced past Nari into the room. Modest. Quaint. Sunlight just beginning to filter through the long, emerald drapes. A low table sat by the window, unused. A cup of untouched water. A chair much too big for a toddler.

He should summon servants. He should call for a royal breakfast. Take the boy to the formal dining hall, where everything was gleaming and controlled. Where there were expectations, distance, formality, and–

No…

“There’s no need,” Loki found himself saying instead.

Nari blinked, confused. “Oh.”

Then Loki stepped past him into the room. He didn’t ask permission. “This will do,” he said, inspecting the space with a glance. “You may sit. I will have breakfast brought here.”

Nari looked startled. “Here? But… don’t you eat somewhere else?”

“I eat where I choose,” Loki said. “And I choose here.” The words left his mouth with more force than intended. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was arguing with: the boy, the air, or himself. He raised two fingers, called out a quiet rune under his breath, and sent the enchantment spiraling down the corridor to Saella. Orders for food. Nothing heavy, nothing too formal. Something manageable. Something safe. For a child—

His child.

(Nothing. Loki feels absolutely nothing).

He took the seat by the low table without fanfare. Crossed one leg over the other. Folded his hands as he watched Nari carefully. Let the silence settle. He saw the boy hesitate, before warily padding across the floor as if approaching a monster, clutching Fenrir like a hero might clutch a shield. With a bit of effort, he lifted himself into the chair across from Loki, eyes wide, posture tentative.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat.

“For what?”

The boy shuffled uncomfortably. “For not taking me to the big scary places.”

Loki didn’t meet his eyes. “I simply didn’t feel like dealing with you spilling anything upon royal garments.” That was all. That was why . Not kindness. Not comfort. Certainly not sentiment. He sat straighter in the chair, as if that could settle it. The boy nodded solemnly. “I won’t spill anything anyway. I’m big now.”

Loki gave no reply.

When breakfast arrived, the scent of warm bread and spiced tea curling through the air, he poured Nari’s tea first. Not because it meant anything. Because it was practical. And practical things were… safe. They ate in relative silence at first. Not the uncomfortable kind. The sort of quiet that comes when one person is trying not to notice that the other is trying very hard to be noticed.

The food was simple by palace standards: slices of fruit arranged like constellations, fresh-baked bread, soft cheese, and tea that didn’t scald the tongue. Nothing too rich. Nothing too sharp. Saella had understood the assignment, of course. She always did. Nari’s legs swung just above the floor, his wolf plush tucked snugly under one arm like a quiet observer. He reached for a bit of bread, hesitated, took the smallest piece, and nibbled it with great care, as though afraid that chewing too loudly might invite a scolding. Loki, for his part, merely sipped his tea.

“I’ve never had bread that didn’t taste like… crackly before,” Nari said at last, voice soft but serious.

Loki glanced up. “Crackly? ”

“Crackly-crunchy,” Nari clarified, as if afraid of being taken literally. “Not really… squishy.”

“That’s still not much of a consultation," Loki replied dryly.

Nari blinked. Then, after a moment, smiled wider than before. “…It’s good.”

A pause. He took another bite, chewed, then said through a mouthful, “Even Fenrir likes it.”

Loki arched a brow. “I was unaware cloth had a palate.”

Nari looked down at his toy, then back at Loki. “He doesn’t,” he whispered simply, as if it weren't common knowledge (It was). “But he’s still real.”

Loki sipped his tea again, unimpressed, but his gaze lingered on the boy longer than it should have. The logic was maddening. Juvenile. And yet... he understood it. The things you imagined into reality often meant more than the things you'd been given.

He looked away.

Nari busied himself with a grape, fumbling with it before popping it into his mouth. Then, after a few moments of nervous fidgeting: “Do you eat breakfast with other people a lot?”

“No,” Loki said slowly. “Almost never.”

Nari nodded as if that confirmed something he'd suspected. He looked thoughtful. “…So I’m first?”

Loki’s brow furrowed. “That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s sorta what you meant.” There was no arrogance in Nari’s voice. Just quiet, unfiltered reasoning, the kind children were rarely credited for, but frustratingly good at. He took another bite of bread, then reached for his tea with two hands. It trembled slightly, but he didn’t spill. Loki set his own cup down. “Is there a reason you’re cataloguing my habits over breakfast?”

Nari froze, mid-sip. Then set the cup down as carefully as he could manage it. It hit the table with a light thud, the liquid slightly spilling over the lips. “…I just thought maybe it was impor... impor’ant," he said after a moment. “When grown-ups do stuff they don’t usually do.”

Loki said nothing. Nari looked down again. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad,” Loki said.

Nari nodded again, still studying his plate. “…Would you tell me if you were?”

Loki blinked. “Tell you?”

“Yeah.” Nari ran a hand through his bed-ruffled hair. “Sometimes grown-ups just get mad. Or they do stuff. Without saying. They don’t always tell you. They just… stop looking at you. Or get quieter. Or send you away. And you don’t understand why they won’t tell you, because you’re doing everything right. At least, you think you are. I dunno. I want to think I’m doing everything right. I don’t think I can, though.”

Loki stared at him for a long moment. Long enough that Nari began to look uneasy again. It wasn’t what he said. It was how he said it. Thoughtfully. Carefully. Like someone much older trapped in a body far too small. The boy was barely a toddler, and yet he was already deciphering silence like a scholar of the unsaid. Already trying to adapt, to shrink, to please, to survive inside a world ruled by monsters, chaos, and self-interest. Loki knew that language. Had spoken it fluently long before he ever understood what it meant. What it cost. Something in his chest shifted. Not painfully, just... uncomfortably.

Too familiar. Too close.

He pushed the feeling away before it could settle. Children mimic what they’re given, that was all. Reflexes born from necessity, not depth. Nari wasn’t like him. He couldn't be. Loki picked up his cup, and took a long, deliberate sip.

Nari shifted in his seat. “I… Sorry. Am I talking too much? You can tell me to stop.”

“I could,” Loki said, between sips.

Nari looked up, waiting.

“But I won’t.”

The silence that followed was warmer than the one that came before it. Less like velvet, all cold and barely insulated. More like wool. Itchy, but comfortable and natural.

Nari bit his lip. “Okay.”

Fenrir, of course, said nothing this entire time. But Loki could've sworn the toy was looking at him. Judging him. He met its gaze coolly.

He was not feeling anything. Not connection. Not sentiment.

Just… having a tolerating breakfast.

Nothing more, nothing less.

/ / /

#fanfic #ao3 #writers on tumblr #loki laufeyson #marvel rivals #marvel rivals loki #marvel rivals fanart #marvel art

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pixeipixei · 5 months ago

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Nothing too crazy. Just something I wrote for Creative Writing class...

Copycat Exercise #2: THIRD PERSON ft. ZERO, Azrael, and Shikabane

The dark, candlelit room was quiet, save for the soft click of chess pieces and the occasional rustle of fabric as Shikabane shifted in her seat. The candle beside her cast a flickering light on her face as she stared at the board, her ears twitching and tail curling idly in sync with her thoughts, or lack thereof. Her brow furrowed, but not out of frustration. Instead, she seemed wholly absorbed in the game, even if the finer points of strategy eluded her.

Across from her sat ZERO, lounged in his seat with the effortless grace of someone so utterly unconcerned with the passage of time. He had one hand resting on his cheek as he regarded his opponent's pondering face and the other idly tapping the edge of the chessboard with a finger as if this game were nothing more than a mild amusement to him. His unnatural, compass-shaped eyes flicked lazily to the clock, and he smirked. "Y'know, Kitty, if you keep staring at that knight, it might just start feeling sorry for you."

"Hmm?" Shikabane blinked, the hairs on her tail puffing slightly at the nickname. But she didn't seem to mind as much as usual, too caught up in the attention this perfect, ethereal man was giving her. "Oh. Sorry, I was just… thinking about how it looks like a little horse," she giggled softly as she nudged it with a clawed hand. "It's really cute!"

ZERO's smirk faltered briefly before returning, sharper than before. "Adorable," He said, his tone smooth and teasing. Leaning forward, he tapped the board again, staring at Shikabane with half-lidded eyes, "But maybe we should focus on the bigger picture? The purpose of a game like this is to win, not to bore your opponent to death, y'know?"

Shikabane hummed, her eyes lighting up as if she just had a revelation. She moved her queen two spaces forward and smiled, looking at ZERO with unguarded excitement. "Aha! That's a check! I got your king cornered! I win, right?"

From the corner of the room, Azrael stood like a silent shadow, arms crossed and his expression unreadable. His gaze shifted from Shikabane to ZERO, but they lingered on the latter for longer. To anyone else, he might have appeared indifferent. But the faint tremor in his hands, clenched tightly into fists beneath his crossed arms, betrayed the unease simmering beneath his observant exterior. He hated how ZERO spoke to Shikabane. The way his words danced just close enough to affection to make her cheeks flush but sharp enough to sting Azrael's pride. Or how he'd subtly insult her intelligence with just enough fire to not burn Shikabane’s dignity.

But what could he do? Shikabane adored ZERO, and he couldn’t bring himself to break that perfect image she saw of him when she looked so happy to be with him. That, and Azrael's own debt to ZERO was a constant weight. He owed ZERO his life, and even if he hated it, loyalty bound him tighter than chains ever could. And ZERO knew. ZERO savored it. Azrael saw it in the amused flicker in his dark, compass-shaped eyes whenever she laughed at one of his quips. He wielded the knowledge of Azrael's affection for her with the same casual precision he used to move chess pieces on a board. Just what had he done to deserve this?

"Win?" ZERO laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, my sweet, sweet Shikabane. You've only made it easier for me to destroy you." He reached out and captured her queen with his rook, the move deliberate and slow.

"Oh," was all she had to say as her smile melted into a confused grimace.

"Nevertheless," ZERO started, winking at her as he leaned back with an air of nonchalance, "it was a bold move. Tell me, have you been practicing in secret? I could swear you're taking this more seriously than usual."

Azrael's eyes narrowed. "She's always serious about the things she loves.”

"Is that so?" ZERO's said, not even dignifying Azrael with a glance. His smile deepened. "How lucky am I to have such dedication directed my way."

"I-It's nothing, really," She said. "I just like chess! And you're so good at it. Like... a chess wizard. I want to get better, too!"

ZERO chuckled, a low melodic sound. He glanced at Azrael, the smirk on his lips deepening into something almost admonishing. It was a silent, unspoken message. Azrael understood it instantly: Stay out of my way, or I’ll remind you why you owe me. And for Shikabane’s sake, he instantly relented, silently abiding to the order to remain quiet with a slight nod.

Then, ZERO reached out, his movements careful and deliberate as his fingers lightly brushed along Shikabane’s chin. With a gentle touch, he tilted her head upward, guiding her gaze to meet his. A faint flush spread across her cheeks as their eyes locked, her breath hitching under the intensity of his attention as she stared at him the same way Azrael wished she’d stare at him.

"You really are full of surprises, Shikabane.”

Azrael's nails dug so deeply into his palms that he was sure he had pierced skin. Warmth, sharp and stinging, seeped from the crescent-shaped wounds and settled at his knuckles. But still, he did not speak.

#oc #scrabble #short story #creative writing #writing #my ocs #my oc stuff #ocart #my oc art #my ocs <3 #my oc character #third person #chess

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