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loverstrings · 1 month ago

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Something Like Home - Bucky Barnes x F!Reader | Platonic!Sam Wilson x F!Reader

In the sun-soaked calm of Delacroix, Louisiana, the world slows down for once—giving Sam, Bucky, and Y/N a moment to breathe. As Sam trains with the shield that now bears the weight of legacy, Y/N brings levity and light, her telekinetic powers flickering like fireflies in the Southern dusk. Between laughter, shield tossing, and quiet porch conversations, bonds are strengthened and love quietly blooms.

a.n - i was at work thinking about writing this LMAOOO but im happy with how it turned out. its so cute and fluff that it physical makes my heart melt. ooo project spindle edits have been made and will get posted tomorrow!! im so excited for you guys to read the next chapter!

| can be read as a standalone or apart of project spindle |

The shield gleamed in the golden light of Louisiana.

It had been days since the confrontation. Days since John Walker had been stripped of the title and the weight of it passed—finally, rightfully—to Sam.

Now, it rested against a weathered wooden railing on the Wilson family dock, catching bits of light off the water. Sam stood beside it, sweat on his brow, muscles taut from training. Y/N sat cross-legged on an overturned cooler, sipping from a bottle of water and watching with a grin that only grew each time he missed a catch.

“I think the shield’s mad at you,” she said with a lazy smirk.

“Oh yeah?” Sam caught it mid-flight this time, turning with practiced grace. “Think you could do better?”

“I know I could.”

He arched a brow, playful challenge blooming across his face. “One rule,” he said, holding up a finger. “No powers. You use that pink sparkle magic, you're disqualified.”

Y/N stood, rolling her shoulders with exaggerated drama. “Fine. No powers. Just raw talent and pent-up aggression.”

Bucky snorted from where he leaned against the railing, arms crossed and clearly enjoying himself. “This should be good.”

Sam stepped aside, holding the shield out to her like an offering. “Go on, then. Impress me.”

She took it, feeling the surprising weight, letting it settle in her grip. “Okay,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Easy. Death frisbee. Nothing fancy.” Bucky said with a grin.

Y/N inhaled, planted her feet, and with one clean movement, flung it. The shield arced through the air perfectly—slicing across the open yard, hitting a tree trunk with a satisfying clang, and bouncing back cleanly.

She caught it on reflex, though the impact nearly knocked her on her ass. “Holy shit,” Y/N breathed, eyes wide.

Sam blinked. “...What the hell.”

“Told you,” Y/N said, panting a little, a smug grin stretching across her face.

“You cheated.”

“Did not.” She held out her hands dramatically. “Not a flicker.”

Bucky tilted his head. “I’ve never seen Sam look so betrayed.”

Sam was already walking toward her, mock horror written all over his face. “Alright, alright—new rule: No secret assassin training while I wasn’t looking.”

She giggled, clutching the shield to her chest. “I didn’t train. I’m just better than you.”

“You’re infuriating,” he said, taking it back from her, trying not to smile.

“You love it.”

Sam gave her a look, then passed the shield to Bucky. “Okay, Barnes. Your turn. Let’s see if you can beat Sparkle Fingers.”

Y/N groaned. “That’s not going to stick.”

“It absolutely is,” Bucky said, already winding up for a throw. “You just made it worse.”

They stayed like that for the rest of the afternoon—laughing, ribbing each other, tossing the shield around like it hadn’t just been a symbol of war and loss. For once, it felt like something else. Something hopeful.

The next morning came slow and warm.

By the time the sun was high again over Delacroix, the air had thickened with bayou heat, the kind that made the wood of the Wilson family boat steam where it met the water. Mornings bled into afternoons with the steady thud of tools—hammers tapping, wrenches clanking, old rusted bolts groaning their last under Sam’s determined grip.

And laughter. It was always louder with her around.

Y/N stood near the stern of the boat, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back messily, a streak of oil on her cheek. She was attempting—badly—to loosen a corroded panel, muttering curses under her breath when Sarah walked up behind her with a grin.

“You planning to sweet talk that thing loose or what?” Sarah teased.

Y/N jumped, then grinned back. “Hey, I was just about to get it.”

“Oh, I bet,” Sarah said, arms crossed. “You’re cute with all that fake confidence. Come on—I need backup. The vendor brought the wrong parts again and I need someone with a terrifying death glare.”

“I’m honored,” Y/N deadpanned, mock bowing.

She wiped her hands, tossed a wink over her shoulder at the boys, and let Sarah drag her down the dock. Sam raised an eyebrow as he watched them go.

“She likes her,” Bucky said, nudging a loose nail with the toe of his boot.

Sam squinted at him. “Sarah?”

“Y/N.”

“Oh, I know Y/N likes Sarah. But the real question is—” He dropped the wrench and leaned back against the hull of the boat, arms folded. “What’s your deal?”

Bucky blinked.

Sam smirked. “You and Y/N. Are we pretending you’re not already halfway in love with her? ‘Cause I’ve seen the way you look at her like she might vanish if you blink too long.”

Bucky paused for a beat, eyes fixed somewhere distant, toward the path Y/N had just taken.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said finally. “But yeah. I think I’m ready to try. With her.”

Sam tilted his head. “And does she know that?”

“She will.” Bucky scratched the back of his neck. “Just need to make sure I’m... not dragging her into something broken.”

“She already knows you’re broken,” Sam said. “We all are, man. But she keeps showing up. She’s not afraid of the mess.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said quietly. “She never was.”

They worked in silence for a few more minutes, the creak of the dock and the slap of water against the shore filling the space. Then:

“I’ll say this,” Sam added. “She’s been through enough. If you’re gonna be serious, be serious. She deserves that.”

Bucky nodded. “She’s getting all of me.”

“Good,” Sam said, handing him a wrench. “Because if you screw this up, Sarah’s the least of your worries.”

Just then, laughter rang out again—Y/N and Sarah returning, carrying a toolbox and a sack of parts. Sarah was smirking. Y/N had that telltale pink shimmer on her fingertips, barely noticeable.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Did you use your powers to get a discount?”

“Depends,” Y/N said, hopping up onto the dock. “You want the good news or the illegal news?”

Bucky grinned, catching her hand as she passed by him. She smiled at the contact—fingers brushing for just a moment too long.

And Sam? He just shook his head and muttered, “Lord help me, they’re so in love.”

That night, the Wilson household was alive with the soft chaos of dinner—dishes being passed, glasses clinking, laughter cutting through stories. The air smelled like spice and salt, like gumbo simmering in the kitchen and the marsh breeze rolling in through open windows.

“Okay, okay—but wait,” AJ interrupted, halfway standing in his chair. “Uncle Sam says you can fly, but I didn’t see any wings. Do you have wings like him?”

Y/N chuckled, resting her elbow on the table and leaning her chin into her palm. “No wings, kiddo. That’s all Sam. I’m a little more… glowy.”

“Glowy?” Cass piped up, wide eyed. “Like, sparkles?”

“Like fireflies?” AJ asked, visibly vibrating with excitement.

“Like this,” she said, and lifted her hand.

It started slow—a soft, warm pink mist gathering in her palm, coalescing into threads of light that danced upward like tiny ribbons. They shimmered gently in the air, humming with something ancient yet tender, until they formed a swirling little sphere that floated above the table, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Both boys gasped. Sarah froze mid-sip of sweet tea, her expression somewhere between impressed and “oh lord, not at the table.”

“It’s not dangerous,” Y/N said quickly, giving Sarah a sheepish grin. “Just... pretty.”

“Can I touch it?” Cass whispered.

“It won’t hurt,” she said, guiding the orb closer. Cass reached out, and it brushed against his fingertips like warm velvet before vanishing into a burst of glittery sparks.

“WHOA!” the boys shouted in unison.

Bucky leaned back in his chair with a lazy grin. “She didn’t show me that until, like, our fifth mission.”

“Fifth?” Sam scoffed from the head of the table. “You mean after she threw a Hydra agent through a cement wall.”

“Oh, don’t tell the kids that,” Sarah scolded.

Y/N smirked. “Fine, I’ll keep it PG. Only sparkles and floating fruit.”

As if to prove her point, she flicked her fingers and made a single grape rise from the bowl near Sam, floating it across the table like a tiny UFO before gently landing it in AJ’s mouth.

He cheered. “Best. Dinner. EVER.”

Cass was already halfway out of his chair again. “Do you do that when you fight bad guys? Do you make them eat fruit?”

Bucky nearly choked on his cornbread.

“She does a lot more than that,” he said, laughing. “But only if they’re really bad.”

“Are you two superheroes?” Cass asked suddenly, his gaze flitting between them with something like awe.

Y/N’s smile softened. “We try to be good people. That’s what matters most.”

Later, as the dishes were cleared and the sky darkened to a soft velvet, the porch swing creaked gently under Y/N and Bucky. The boys were still wide awake inside, retelling the “sparkle magic” story for the fifth time while Sarah rolled her eyes and quietly smiled.

“You’re good with them,” Bucky murmured, watching her face under the porch light.

“I like them,” she said, pulling her knees up and resting her head on his shoulder. “They’re loud, but honest. You can’t fake it with kids.”

He reached for her hand, gently rubbing his thumb across the inside of her wrist where that pink glow still lingered.

“You scared of them seeing who you really are?” he asked.

“I used to be,” she admitted. “But tonight felt... right.”

He was quiet for a second. Then he pressed a kiss to her temple and whispered, “You are magic, sweetheart. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She smiled, her eyes already on him.

“You ever think about it?” he asked.

Y/N tilted her head. “Think about what?”

“Settling down,” he said. His voice wasn’t unsure, but there was a vulnerability in it—one that only surfaced when the world was quiet and his defenses slipped. “Stopping the running, the missions, the war.”

She let out a quiet breath, her fingers brushing along the edge of the swing’s armrest. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “I never used to. I didn’t think I’d get the chance. But now... maybe. With the right person.”

She turned, looking him fully in the face now. Her eyes, glowing faintly from the residual energy of her powers, locked with his.

“What about you?” she asked. “Will you ever settle?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. Not this time.

“With you,” he said, his voice steady and low. “’Till the end of the line.”

Her breath hitched.

That phrase—so simple, so familiar—held the weight of decades. Of loss, survival, and choosing someone, again and again.

Y/N reached for his hand, interlocking their fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was. The porch light above flickered once, like even the house was holding its breath for them.

“Guess that makes two of us,” she whispered.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #marvel masterlist #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fluff

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slaytheusurper · 5 months ago

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⭑ Parthenos ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Five)

Masterlist

A/N: I got really frustrated that I didn't seem to write to flow of sentences that well and experimented with Grammerly (as english is not my first language) and it ended up amazing and just how I see it in my head, so yes it is still written and made up by me but without mistakes and with better wording. Enjoy!

Pairing: Emperor Geta & Caracalla x Noble!Reader

Warnings: Angst, angst and some angst, Acacius and Lucilla get reader into big trouble, Macrinus is just a fucking rat one again, hopefully more historically accurate?

Summary: The insurrection has been revealed...

Word count: 3.3k

The silk fabric of your garment was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the night before. For a moment, you lingered in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, but as your senses sharpened, reality settled in. The space beside you was empty. The warmth of their bodies, their presence- gone.

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, casting golden streaks across the now more familiar chamber of your fathers estate. Had it been a dream? No. The ache in your limbs, the faint traces of their scent on your skin- it had been real. Finally they had taken you and you knew there was no going back, neither for them as for you.

Lazing around in bed all day would not help your state of mind, so you decided to rise from your bed and leave your chambers. After having searched for your servant, she helped you prepare for the day. Even though you did not know what the sunny day would bring, you hoped it would involve the Emperors. Your heart was already aching for their touch.

Later, you found yourself in the solar, still no invitation from the Emperors. The fine thread slid between your fingers as the spindle hummed softly while you worked. This fine art required focus but yet you could not put your mind to it. Weaving was also supposed to calm the mind but it was not able to put yours to rest.

All you could think about was them, anxiety ever growing as the day went by far too quickly. Why had they not invited you? Did something happen? Had Macrinus somehow gotten to them- A sharp snap pulled you from your thoughts. The thread had broken, once again. The attendant hesitated before speaking, sensing your tension. “Shall I fetch new thread? My lady?” She asked.

“Yes.” You exhaled, it would be a long wait.

The damp air of the Colosseum’s underground cells clung to General Acacius like a second skin, thick with the stench of sweat, decay, and something more rancid he dared not name. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that made the passage feel like it was breathing- watching.

His boots pressed against the uneven ground, the squelch of filth punctuating each step. Water dripped from above, forming small puddles that rippled as he and his men passed through. He refused to consider what mixed with the water beneath his feet. The dungeons of the Colosseum were a place of suffering- forgotten men left to rot, their fates determined by the will of the crowd and the cruelty of the arena.

A sickly cough echoed from one of the cells, followed by a weak groan. A pair of beady eyes stared at him from the darkness- a rat, large and bloated, scurrying over the outstretched hand of a prisoner too weak to swat it away. Acacius barely spared the man a glance.

Lucilla had told him Lucius would be in a newer cell, all the way at the back. That meant he had much ground to cover before reaching his goal. Yet, as he treaded deeper into the halls of suffering, an unease swirled in his gut. There were no guards. Why did it seem so easy?

The absence of Praetorians gnawed at him, setting his instincts on edge. This place should have been swarming with them- watching, waiting. Instead, there was nothing but the soft footsteps of his men, their presence barely disturbing the silence. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the rough leather grounding him.

As he turned corner upon corner, the walls seemed to narrow, the shadows growing denser, as though the Colosseum itself wanted to swallow him whole. He could feel it now- his goal was close. The weight of his mission pressed against his ribs, the danger of what he was about to do tightening around his throat.

If the Emperors discovered him before he secured the gladiator, all would be lost- his wife, his future, his life. And worse, so would his daughter. Everything he did was for her. Every betrayal, every secret, every risk. And she didn’t even realize it.

It was when the General turned the last corner, followed closely by his men, that his life went up in flames. A sudden sharp whistle sliced the air, followed by the familiar thud of an arrow hitting its target. He had no time to react as his loyal soldiers crumbled to the ground, his heart rose to his throat. The weight of his failure almost made him sink to the floor himself.

He recognised the man that stepped out of the shadows, Praetorians surrounding him as they demanded his surrender. The commander pointed the tip of his sword at Acacius, daring him to act now, but the General couldn’t. He then felt how the cold metal swiftly graced his forehead, before his face was revealed, and his hood had fallen from his head.

Acacius knew, all was lost.

Night had long since fallen over the estate, the halls silent and dead. Still, no invitation had come. The flickering torches in the corridors had burned low, their golden glow reduced to embers. Even Lucilla had surrendered to the late hour, retreating to her chambers with a soft goodnight. Alone, you sat by the window, eyes fixed on the stars in the black sky, waiting. Hoping.

But hope had stretched thin. It was time to give up. With a quiet sigh, you rose and slouched towards your bed. But sleep did not come easily. You tossed, turned, thoughts circling like a vicious cycle in the dark. Had you misread the signs? Had they simply forgotten you? Or worse- had they already grown bored of you? At last, exhaustion weighed down your limbs, and you drifted into uneasy slumber.

The pounding at your chamber door shattered the stillness.

You jolted upright, heart thumping against your ribs as the sound echoed through the room. Disoriented, you turned toward the window. The moon was still high, shining over the estate grounds. How long had you slept? Minutes? Hours?

Then came a voice- sharp, authoritative, and unmistakably male.

"My lady, open the door! By order of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla!"

The words sent a shiver down your spine. Your pulse quickened as you climbed out of bed, bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. Confusion and dread tangled in your chest as you reached for the door, fingers hesitating on the handle. What could they possibly want at this hour?

With a slow breath, you pulled it open.

A wave of torchlight flooded in, momentarily blinding you. When your vision adjusted, you were met with the gleaming helmets and rough faces of at least twenty Praetorian guards, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The man at the front stood rigid, eyes cold and unforgiving. But it wasn’t the soldiers that made your blood run cold.

It was Lucilla. She stood among them, shackled, her wrists bound in iron, her usually neat hair disheveled. Her eyes tired, red-rimmed, locked onto yours, pleading.

Then the soldier before you spoke.

"My lady, you are under arrest for conspiracy as well as treachery against the Empire and the Emperor's themselves. Go with us willingly, and we won’t have to hurt you."

The words struck like a blow. Lucilla stirred among the almost statue like Praetorians, her voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “My daughter is no part of this, I beg of you, leave her here. She did not know about this, she is innocent.” Lucillas words widened your tired eyes.

But the soldier made it abundantly clear that he did not believe her. He grabbed your arms and pulled you with him, another man joined your wrists together by binding them with shackles, pulling a gasp from you. It was a grim scene, as both you and Lucilla left the estate as prisoners.

They had seized you from the estate like a common criminal.

There had been no time to fetch shoes, no chance to wrap yourself in proper attire. The Praetorians had no mercy for a lady once cherished, now condemned. Your protests had fallen on deaf ears, your dignitas reduced to nothing beneath their grip. Even Lucilla, had been torn from your side, the two of you put into separate carriages as if mere slaves.

Tears traced down your cheeks, vanishing into the thin fabric of your night toga. What had you done to deserve this? The journey was long, the carriage rattling over the uneven roads as you stared into the endless void of the night, lost in the uncertainty of what awaited you.

When at last the carriage reached Palatine Hill, another arrived as well- though from a different direction. You barely had a moment to register its presence before rough hands yanked you forward.

Gone was the courtesy once reserved for a lady of noble blood. Gone was the deference meant for a woman who had once held the favor of emperors. You hit the ground with a wince, your bare feet meeting the coarse, cold sand outside the palace steps. The night air blew over your exposed skin, you shivered, but not from the cold.

A flicker of movement caught your eye- your father. His gaze met yours across the courtyard, his lips parting as if to speak, to offer some explanation, some reassurance. But no words came. None were allowed.

Before you could reach for him, he was dragged up the steps, his towering form no match for the forceful hands of the Praetorians. Neither you nor Lucilla escaped justice, your shackles rattling as you were urged forward.

Your head throbbed from the night’s torment, your eyes raw from endless tears. You longed for answers, for assurance, for someone to tell you this was all a mistake. But the palace offered no such comfort.

Only the muffled shuffle of footsteps and the soft sniffles escaping your trembling lips disturbed the silence of the grand halls. The familiar path you walked sent a fresh wave of dread washing over you.

The throne room.

You had walked this path before, though never like this. Never with chains biting into your wrists, never with your very existence reduced to something so... insignificant. With every step, the weight of betrayal pressed deeper into your chest. A betrayal you did not commit. A crime you did not even understand.

And yet, here you were. Helpless. Small. Forgotten by those who once claimed to care. The golden doors loomed ahead, the flickering torchlight painting shadows against their towering frame. Beyond them lay judgment, mercy, or death. You could only hope the Emperors would believe you, but believe what exactly?

The towering golden doors groaned open, their weight echoing through the throne room. Cold hands shoved you forward, forcing you to step further onto the icy marble floor. Lucilla moved beside you, her chains rattling softly with each step as you both shuffled inside.

The room was eerily silent.

The Emperors had not yet arrived, and that only made the dread coil tighter in your stomach. Your own heartbeat pounded in your ears as your eyes flickered over the grand chamber- the towering columns, the burning braziers. The high ceiling that made you feel even smaller.

Then your gaze landed on him.

Macrinus.

A sickening wave of nausea clawed its way up your throat as you found him lounging on one of the lectus’, draped in smug satisfaction. His gaze met yours briefly before shifting away, as if you were beneath his notice. But it wasn’t just him. Next to him sat the man from that night.

You tore your eyes away, fixing them to the ground, swallowing hard against the bile rising in your throat. And then- footsteps. Distant at first, but growing louder. Your breath hitched as dark forms moved between the marble pillars, shifting in and out of the flickering torchlight. You knew who it was before you could fully see them. Their presence was unmistakable.

The emperors.

When they finally stepped into view, a sharp gasp escaped Geta’s lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet their eyes. You stared at the cold floor beneath your bare feet, your heart hammering as silence stretched between you all.

Geta opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his breath uneven. The silence was unbearable, you forced yourself to look up. Geta stood before you in a deep crimson robe embroidered with gold, his curls wild, his expression heartbroken. His eyes- red-rimmed, glassy- searched your face as though he could pull the truth from your form.

And then there was Caracalla.

His white toga mirrored your own, the contrast stark against the heavy shadows in his face. His chest rose and fell with uneven, heavy breaths, his eyes brimming with fury and betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Thraex and Macrinus, your insurrection,” Geta’s voice cracked, “has been revealed. The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you, all of it you have forfeited by your treachery-”

“Your Majesty, please,” a voice interrupted.

Acacius.

Your father’s voice was strained, raw with desperation. “My daughter has nothing to do with this. She is innocent. She had no knowledge of tonight’s events- I am uncertain if she even knows now what has taken place.”

Your red-rimmed eyes locked with Geta’s teary ones, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You wanted to scream, to demand answers, to plead for your innocence. But before you could find the words, Geta spoke again.

“Macrinus told me something entirely different.” Geta’s voice hardened, his sorrow giving way to suspicion. He turned his gaze to Acacius, his fingers curling into fists. “He told me that you saw an opportunity to throw your daughter at us- to- to what? Distract us? So we wouldn’t find out about your little plot?” His voice twisted with disdain, the weight of betrayal thick in his tone.

The air in the room grew suffocating, the weight of their fury pressing down on you. This was not how you wanted to see them again.

“Caesar, I swear I had no knowledge of this plan,” you cried, your voice breaking with each word. “Nor do I even know the full extent of it now. Truly- I don’t even know why we are here.” Your voice was desperate, trembling with the fear that if they did not believe you now, there would be no hope left.

Caracalla stepped forward, his face burning with rage, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Why should we believe you?” he shouted, his voice shaking. “You are the daughter of a traitor!” His words burned through you, the hurt in his eyes far more painful than his accusations.

“No- no, please!” You stumbled forward, your chains clinking together as you dropped to your knees. “I will do anything! I’ll do anything to prove to you that I am loyal! I would never betray you- or the Empire!” Your sobs shook your frame, your voice barely above a whisper by the end.

Geta stared at you, something in his expression shifting. Doubt flickered in his eyes. He wanted to believe you. He needed to believe you. But justice conflicted with love. His gaze snapped to Macrinus, his jaw tightening.

“You were the one to bring this news to me,” Geta said, his voice unsteady. “What do you say, Macrinus?”

Macrinus barely glanced at you before stepping forward, leaning into Geta’s ear. His lips moved in a slow murmur, his voice just soft enough to remain unheard. Even Caracalla strained to listen, his fists clenching at his sides.

When Macrinus stepped back, Geta hesitated for only a heartbeat before straightening. His expression was unreadable.

Then-

“Take the General and Lady Lucilla to the cells.”

The words fell like a blade. Lucilla tensed behind you. Acacius’ ragged breathing filled the room, his entire body coiled in resistance as the Praetorians closed in. The guards hesitated. For a brief moment, there was uncertainty in their movements.

But Geta’s command was law. Hands seized Acacius and Lucilla, dragging them away as their protests died against the cold walls. Still on your knees, you were at their mercy as tears escaped you once again. “Get out.” Caracalla snapped, his eyes focusing on Macrinus. The man simply bowed and was followed by Threax as he left the dark room.

Your knees ache against the hard marble, the cold seeping into your skin. Your body trembled- not just from the chill that clung to your half bare skin, but from the uncertainty that clawed at your chest.

Then came warmth. A touch, too sudden, too intimate. You flinched as Geta’s fingers brushed against your arm, his hand reaching for you with something that felt like desperation. You jerked away instinctively, your breath catching in your throat.

“Stand.”

His voice was quiet, almost gentle. But there was no room for defiance.

Your legs felt stiff as you pushed yourself up, your bare feet settling against the polished marble once more. You tried to ground yourself on the ground beneath you, but it did nothing to still the quiver in your limbs.

A shift in the room- Caracalla’s gaze.

You could feel his eyes roaming over you, the tension in his stance tightening as he took in your disheveled state. His expression darkened when he noticed your lack of sandals, your vulnerable, exposed form before them.

“Swear to me,” Geta’s voice came suddenly. His hand found the back of your neck, his fingers curling there- not forceful, but firm enough to make you feel the weight of what he was asking. He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your temple.

“Swear to me that you didn’t betray us. Swear it.” Geta commanded. Tears clung to your lashes as you looked up at him, the fear in his eyes mirroring your own. Your lips trembled as you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “I swear it, Caesar, I do.”

For a moment, nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Then Caracalla exhaled sharply, stepping away from the heavy silence that wrapped around you all. His movements were restless, his frustration bleeding into the way he paced the chamber. His fingers flexed at his sides, his teeth clenched as if trying to hold back the fury simmering beneath his skin.

“You know we cannot let you go,” Caracalla murmured, his voice low, “And we can’t let your father go.” Geta straightened, his grip on you loosening, but the weight of his presence did not. “His fate will be decided in the Colosseum.” Geta then added. Was that what Macrinus had whispered to him?

Your breath caught. You had known—somewhere, deep down, you had known. But hearing it spoken aloud made you feel like you were suffocating. “And you…” Geta continued, his voice tired. “You will remain in a chamber close to ours so we can- keep an eye on you.”

There was something unspoken in those words, something that lingered between them like an unfinished sentence. Your throat felt tight, but you nodded, your body surrendering to exhaustion. You would have to prove your loyalty.

And you had no idea how.

Taglist: @boywivlove

#gladiator 2 fanfic #gladiator ll #gladiator fanfic #gladiator ii #domina mea #domina mea fic #geta and caracalla #emperor caracalla x reader smut #emperor geta x reader smut #emperor geta x reader #emperor caracalla x reader #caracalla smut #caracalla x reader #caracalla x reader smut #geta x reader #geta x reader smut

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blitzs-largest-horsiest-dildo · 7 months ago

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MASTERMIND SPOILER WARNING.

Edit: Also, sorry for the terrible quality screen grabs, lol

I've seen a lot of amazing discourse on Mastermind, and wanted to add my own. The scene that really wrenches my heart is Blitzø fighting to get to Stolas. Trying to keep him from doing the exact same self sacrificing shit he's about to do

Here, he's literally pulling against golden chains, a metaphor we've seen before. The chains usually lead to Stolas, but now they're keeping him away from the birb. I feel like the chains are a sort of metaphor for the societal pressures surrounding their relationship. Instead of feeling like Stolas has all the power (holding the chains), Blitzø's perspective has changed, and he can see past the class difference. He can see that these pressures cause Stolas just as much harm by keeping him isolated from the love and help that found family provides.

Then the absolute instant he can, our lizard man is rushing to his birb. We can see the desperation, but most importantly, he's still unable to actually touch Stolas. Clinging to his cape (another symbol of his class/status), Blitzø literally begs Stolas not to do this, essentially to let class and systemic oppression win just this once. He loves Stolas so much that he is willing to let go of his most basic principles (stick it to the upper class/change things for the lower class) just to save him.

And when that doesn't work, he just goes feral, screaming for Stolas and fighting with every fiber of his being just to get back to the love of his life. Blitzø's desire to get back to Stolas is so powerful that hyper strong cop/security demons can barely drag him out of the courtroom. It's a completely unmasked, painfully genuine reaction.

I'm not sure what my point is other than the two idiots love eachother so damn much, and holy shit that scene wrecked me emotionally. Good Job, Spindle Horse.💖

#helluva boss #blitzø #blitzo x stolas #stolas #societal commentary #mastermind #spoilers

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bitterflykiss · 2 months ago

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I've been busy doing homework. The homework in question: "Where did the golden maidens come from? When did the collection start?"

So introducing my oc, "Saffron Shepherd" The Bride after Walpurga rejected Oz.

I'm making a prequel project of 'Little Goody Two Shoes' called 'Spindle of Golden Thread'. (I thought I posted the pic...) (I think the picture is there now)

#little goody two shoes #spindle of golden thread #murim #aziel #saffron

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zeroseuniverse · 1 month ago

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A Deal To Be Made

Word Count: 927 Summary: The silence swallowed your breath. “Are you…?” “The Gold Weaver,” he supplied with a mock bow. You stared. “You’re real.” His smile sharpened. “I’m always real when there’s a deal to be made.” Pairing: Rumble inspired Jeonghan X reader

Taglist: @haaruki @agaha127 @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120 @ltfirecracker

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The cell was cold.

Not the kind of cold that bit the skin, but the kind that settled into your bones like despair. The straw on the floor rustled beneath your fingers, brittle and dry, scattered in useless piles no matter how much you tried to rearrange it. A spindle sat in the corner like a silent judge, waiting for your miracle.

You had no miracle.

But your father had a tongue soaked in wine and desperation, and he’d spun tales far grander than any straw-turned-gold. Now the king expected proof. Three nights. Three rooms. Three chances. Spin the straw into gold or face execution at dawn.

You would have cried, but even tears seemed wasteful now.

Then— The air shifted.

The candle flickered, and shadows on the wall twisted. You turned slowly. The spindle had not moved. The straw remained. And yet… he was there.

He leaned against the far wall, legs crossed as if this were a parlor and not your prison. His white-blond hair fell into his eyes, and a smirk danced across his lips like mischief waiting to bloom. He looked delicate in the way of knives—slender, beautiful, and sharp.

“Bit dramatic, isn’t it?” he said, surveying the straw.

You scrambled backward, heart slamming.

“Who—?”

He tilted his head. “You don’t know my name. That’s good. That means I can still make you beg for it.”

The silence swallowed your breath. “Are you…?”

“The Gold Weaver,” he supplied with a mock bow.

You stared. “You’re real.”

His smile sharpened. “I’m always real when there’s a deal to be made.”

The first night, he asked for your necklace.

A gift from your mother—dead now, long before this game began. You hesitated, fingers brushing the worn pendant, but you gave it. What choice did you have?

He spun the gold like music. His fingers danced, his magic hummed. By dawn, the room glittered. You lived.

The second night, he asked for your ring.

Another heirloom. Another memory. Another piece of yourself.

He didn’t just spin the straw this time—he sat beside you, watching you watch him. He asked strange questions.

“Do you think they’ll still love you when they know it’s all a lie?”

“Who?” you whispered.

“Everyone.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know.

The third night, he asked for your firstborn.

You flinched. “That’s not yours to take.”

Jeonghan’s smile faded into something quieter. “Then don’t give it.”

“But if I don’t…”

“You’ll die,” he finished, soft. “And death is honest. Not like this place. Not like me.”

He didn’t rush you. Just waited, as if he already knew your choice.

And he was right.

You gave him the promise. He gave you a kingdom.

You should have forgotten him. You tried.

You married the prince—soon king—and wore your crown like a lie. The people called you the Golden Queen. They praised your miracle. But miracles, you’d learned, came with strings.

And his were still wrapped around your throat.

Because Jeonghan didn’t vanish.

He lingered in the shadows of your halls, your chambers, your dreams. He never came through doors. He never knocked. He didn’t need to.

“I’m just keeping watch,” he’d say when you woke to find him lounging in a chair, lips stained with stolen wine.

“You’re keeping control,” you’d shoot back.

He smiled every time. “Only of what’s mine.”

You hated him. Truly. Fiercely. For reminding you of everything you gave up. For seeing the cracks beneath your smile. For making you like the way he saw you.

Sometimes he helped—finding spies, poisoning enemies, guiding you through politics with a cruel sort of clarity. And sometimes, he burned everything just to watch what you'd rebuild.

He was your curse.

He was your ally.

He was… your only honest thing.

It changed one winter night.

You’d fought with the king—your husband—who barely looked at you now except to parade you before his court. You returned to your chambers, seething, and there he was.

Jeonghan. Firelight in his hair. Reading a book you hadn’t touched in months.

“I should have you thrown out,” you snapped.

He didn’t even flinch. “Then do it.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

And you broke. “Why me?” you demanded. “Why not anyone else?”

His voice was quiet. “Because you knew it was a lie, and still you played the game. You’re not some sweet, innocent girl. You’re just like me.”

You hated how that made you feel.

You hated the truth of it.

“You said I could win,” you whispered. “If I guessed your name.”

His gaze sharpened. “Do you want to?”

“I want to choose. For once.”

He stood, walked to you. Close enough to see the strain in your shoulders. The tired in your bones.

“Then guess,” he said, so softly it was almost reverent. “Say it.”

And you did.

“Jeonghan.”

The room held its breath.

He smiled. Slowly. Painfully. “You were supposed to be free.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to be.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t a victory—it was a surrender. From both of you.

The world never knew the deal you broke.

The king died mysteriously, quickly, and the court whispered of poison, though none could trace it. The Golden Queen ruled alone. Beautiful. Cunning. Untouchable.

And at her side, sometimes seen and sometimes not, was a man no one dared name. Pale-haired, laughing, dangerous. The only one she ever smiled at without pretense.

The thread between them was no longer spun from gold.

It was spun from choice.

And that was more powerful than any magic.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #svt scenarios #svt fanfic #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt fluff #seventeen #yoon jeonghan x reader #yoon jeonghan fluff #yoon jeonghan fanfic #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan fluff #jeonghan seventeen #jeonghan imagines #svt

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connoisseursdecomfort · 2 months ago

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The Stories and Symbolisms behind the Garden Codenames (1) The Sleeping Beauty, its origins and its symbolisms

[Manga spoiler alert: Spoilers after the keep-reading line]

Since Endo has given us new details about the Garden and its members (*cough* to be honest that one member), maybe it's time for us to attempt to connect the dots.

A. Dornröschen KHM50 and the Thorn Princess

Let's start with the obvious.

Yor's codename comes from the title of the Grimm/German version of Sleeping Beauty, Dornröschen (Dorn ["thorn"] +‎ Rose [“rose”] +‎ -chen [diminutive suffix used to make people, animals and things cute and small]). Dornröschen is translated to be 茨姫/いばらひめ (ibara ["thorn"] + hime ["princess"]) in JP, and Little Briar Rose in English. The princess is named Rosamund. The image of Yor, or to be exact, as the Thorn Princess, has always been associated with roses, too.

(Source)

B. The Eddas and the warrior goddess

While I was trying to reverse-engineer things and google いばら姫 (Yor's JP codename), I found this essay about the origins of Brothers Grimm's on the first page. Something on P.2 caught my attention: "戦死者の霊をヴァルハラ天堂に導く戦いの乙女" (the warrior maiden who guides the souls of the fallen soldiers to Valhalla, "the Hall of the Slain".) Guess who's also interested in 戦うヒロイン (heroines who can fight)? Endo.

(Source: Eyes Only, P.199)

The Sleeping Beauty has its origins in Nordic mythology and Germanic heroic legend. There is a similar scene in the Eddas where the hero, Sigurd, wakes up Brynhild from a magical sleep and marries her. Except the more interesting fact is that Brynhild is a valkyrie, a warrior goddess/maiden. Brynhild's story does remind me of Yor: "Odin stuck her with a sleep thorn and declared that she must marry." (Source)

The other thing about valkyries that are quite Yor-like is that with the connection with Odin, valkyries "existed in an earlier role as "demons of death'", but as they "became popular figures in heroic poetry," they "were stripped of their 'demonic characteristics and became more human, and therefore become capable of falling in love with mortals […].'" (Source) In the most recent Jump+ exhibition, Endo has said that Yor is the character that has the most character development since the start and he uses the exact same phrase - "she has become more human". (Source)

Ch.108 Yor being the "demon of death"

The Edda has continued to be inspirations for modern culture, such as Tolkien's The Hobbit, and Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen. And I mean, Wagner. Germany. War. *cough cough*

C. The Sleeping Beauty, the Eddas, and Greek mythology

Of course everything is related to the Greek mythology and the epics. Some claim that the good and bad fairies in Sleeping Beauty are based on the Moirai and the Norns. Not only because of the spindle, but also because they are there to "tell" the fate of the princess. Brynhild also has the ability to prophesy.

Ch.108

Other than Melinda, the Shopkeeper actually has all three symbols of the Moirai on him: the spinner (the needle), the apportioner (his role as the Shopkeeper), and the one who cut the thread (the scissors on his button).

Ch.115

It is also suggested that the bad fairy is based on Eris, the goddess and personification of strife and discord. She has initiated the Judgement of Paris by dropping the golden apple. Eris is "the rouser of armies", but she "does not participate in active combat, nor take sides in the war." (source) There's a theory suggesting that the soccer game between Westalis and Ostania is a metaphor for the conflicts and competitions between the SSS and WISE. By refusing to join the soccer match, it could be a way to show that the Garden doesn't want to take sides.

We do have tonnes of sxf characters which seemingly have been linked to some sort of Greek culture. We have Anya's chimera, the Desmonds' griffin, Sugmund Authen's "Eureka!", Barbara's and Demetrius's name, etc.

Yor's name has its Greek origins too. Endo originally wanted to name her Yolanda and it's later shortened to Yor. The Greek form of Yolanda is Iolanthe. There is an opera titled Iolanthe, and if you go to Wikipedia, literally the first sentence describing the first act says, "The beloved fairy Iolanthe [...] committed the capital crime (under fairy law) of marrying a mortal man." Interesting.

D. The Garden and the Beauty Sleeping in the Woods

Let's circle back to the story of Sleeping Beauty. The other Japanese name of the story of The Sleeping Beauty is 眠れる森の美女 (The Beauty Sleeping in the Woods). Where is the Garden located? In the woods. In Lin's tweet about M115, he calls the meeting "a secret meeting deep in the woods" (森奥の密会).

Ch.115

For Yor's character, we could interpret the transition of "being more human" to be "being awaken". However, it seems like there's another "thing" that is "sleeping" in the woods.

Ch.115

According to the story, when the princess falls asleep, the whole kingdom falls asleep with her, too. The good fairies try to reverse the effect of the curse - as a result, the princess won't die. She will only be asleep for 100 years.

Remember the theory about how once upon a time Westalis and Ostania used to be of the same country/nation/empire, but there's a split? If that is really the case, is the unification sort of an "awakening"? And frankly, that's probably how the Forgers can stay together without further complications? Anyway.

E. Others

Endo is from a prefecture called Ibaraki-ken 茨城県. Yep, the same ibara as Ibara-hime. His hometown, Koga-shi 古河市, is known for garden roses バラ/ばら "bara". Some think that "ibara" (thorns) is a transliteration for "bara" (roses). It's common to use the Chinese words 薔薇 to name/call the roses, too.

Now we've finally come full circle. Do you remember what the JP title of Dornröschen is? 茨姫/いばらひめ Ibara-hime. Some scholars think that Ibara-hime is a confusing translation - the ibara here doesn't mean only the thorns, but the rose bushes with thorns. (source) And therefore Yor's codename is not about the thorns, but the roses.

#spy x family #sxf #spyxfamily #yor forger #thorn princess #yor briar #the garden #the shopkeeper #melinda desmond #manga spoilers #spy x family manga #ch.115

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theproverbialpen · 4 months ago

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Lesson 8: The Queen is Always Right

Summary: Poseidon returns home after his trip to Ithaca and finds his beloved Amphitrite waiting for him. Set directly after the events of -Hook, Line, & Sinker-

Pairings: Poseidon x Amphitrite, mentioned Poseidon x reader

Word Count: 811

Notes: Look who’s trying to learn how to make things look cool on this site lol. Quick little one-shot (drabble? I actually don’t know what the word count threshold is) for y’all because dammit I love how I wrote Amphy and want to put her in everything now. ((Edit: forgot to mention, but I’ll be posting the next installment later this evening :) click the link above to catch up now!))

Line divider by @vibeswithrenai found here

When Poseidon set foot back in Aegae, there was a notable bounce to each of his steps. His shoulders hung at ease below his ears, his back tall yet relaxed. He hummed quietly to himself as he made his way down the halls, a subdued yet jovial tune. When he arrived at the double doors of his quarters, he did so with a content smile that seemed to cast a soft glow over his whole face. A content smile which, upon seeing his wife beaming at him from their bed, fell into a thin, impartial line.

Amphitrite was dressed in her nightgown, the mint-tinted silk swaying back and forth like water as she languidly kicked her legs behind her. She lay on her stomach, head tilted and propped up by her bent elbows. Her long hair cascaded down around her, as blue and brilliant as the Aegean Sea, framing the smirk upon her plump lips and the glint in her aquamarine eyes. “Soooooooo,” she sang, smirk widening into a grin, “how did it go?”

Poseidon maintained his icy stare, his neutral expression morphing into a glower. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, stomping over to the corner of their room to shed his chiton for a simple silk loincloth. Amphitrite followed him with her eyes, shifting to rest her head on her arm as he rounded the bed.

“Don’t avoid my question,” she returned. Poseidon turned to glare at her over his shoulder and Amphitrite raised a playful brow in reply. He held her stare for sometime, but she narrowed her eyes at him in challenge and Poseidon finally broke.

“I have endured enough prodding for one day, woman,” he huffed, turning to walk toward her. “Let me rest.”

“I’m sorry-” Amphitrite scoffed, pushing herself off the bed to sit upright. “‘Woman’? You want to try that again, my love?”

Poseidon rolled his eyes with a heavy exhale and plopped down onto their mattress, swiveling at the waist to cup his wife’s cheeks. “Woman of the Golden Spindle, Queen of All Waters, My Wonderful, Eternal Partner-”

He peppered Amphitrite’s face with kisses in between each title, adding a few more in for good measure until her scowl was replaced with giggles. “Okay, okay,” she finally laughed, “you are forgiven. Save it for the girl, smooth talker.” Poseidon pulled away from his wife just in time to catch her smug expression, one which she accentuated with a wink. “Seeing as you’re still in the mood to joke around, I take it things went well?”

Poseidon let out a wistful, relieved sigh despite himself. “That would be a fair summary,” he confirmed. Amphitrite regarded him with affection, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and encouraging him to rest his head in her lap. He did as such, relaxing into the cool silk of her gown as she raked her fingers along his scalp.

“And you feel better now?” she further coaxed. “No more regrets?”

Poseidon hummed thoughtfully, reflecting on his evening. Memories of tender smiles and seductive songs flowed through his mind and he couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto his face. “No, not one.”

Amphitrite snorted and gently maneuvered his head until he was looking straight up at her with his dark locks splayed over her thighs. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead and he shot her a puzzled look. “Goodness, that weaver really did a number on you,” she eventually mused. “Who is this cheery man resting in my lap? Where is the coldness? The brooding? Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Poseidon drawled, eyebrows raised over his unamused stare. Amphitrite chuckled at him before bending over to press a kiss into his forehead.

“I’m happy for you, my stallion,” she beamed. “You deserve this.”

Poseidon caught her behind the neck as she retreated, pulling her back down to capture her lips in a loving kiss. “Thank you, my muse,” he cooed when they parted. “I have you to thank for giving me the push I needed.”

“You’re damn right you do,” she affirmed with a pinch to his cheek. Poseidon chuckled and rose from her lap, beckoning her over to lay with him at the head of their canopied bed. Amphitrite followed suit and rested her ear against his bare chest, letting him wrap his arms around her in a secure embrace.

“You know,” he began after a few shared moments of comfortable silence. “I think you’d like her.”

Amphitrite tilted her chin up to catch the corner of his gaze. “Oh yeah? Am I finally going to get the chance to meet a mortal paramour of yours?” she inquired.

Poseidon kissed the top of her head, hiding his smitten grin in the waves of her hair. “You just might, my love. You just might.”

#I was so focused on formatting that I forgot to tag this shit LMAO #epic the musical #epic the musical fanfic #fluff #poseidon x amphitrite #epic Poseidon #poseidon epic the musical #epic!poseidon #Poseidon x reader #Poseidon #Amphitrite #polyamory #proverbs writing #epic: the siren saga

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jellymind · 3 months ago

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Sound of Music Tarn x Reader

Who knew one somewhat underhanded comment towards your manager would get you killed?

You sure didn’t when you made the comment! Now stalking down the low lit hallways in a purple, khaki t-shirt. A staple of the work uniform in this marine center, specifically those working with the dangerous fish hosted here for recovery.

Yeah, death was knocking on the door and you weren’t ready to go.

Huffing, you reach up to fiddle with the headphones around your neck, the pressure from it the only thing grounding you in this place at the moment. And the urge to put them on becomes stronger yet as you pass a group of co-workers all dressed in red t-shirts instead. They cast you a glance, eyes widening before darting their gazes away again. No words spoken, but the air suddenly feels heavy with pity.

Further in you go, practically sprinting to get out of sight. Taking corners faster than necessary, until finally you reach the split path that leads to the mers held deeper in this place. Yeah, normal fish weren’t the only ones being kept, but straight up creatures of myths. And half of them would take off a hand just for sport.

Each side looks the same in appearance, but the tiles are where they differ. One, the right path, goes from the deep blue of the normal marine center’s path to a soothing red. The sign of the kinder mers, the ones that can actually be interacted without fear of sudden ill intent. The other path, the one you have now been reassigned to, goes to a foreboding purple, darkening the hallway beyond.

You take the purple path, sucking in a breath as the space constricts around you. This space was not built for comfort, instead to warn or scare away any that weren’t forced to work down this wing.

Doors start to line the walls, each with name plates and the mers nicknames on display in neat golden script. Megatron, Soundwave, Shockwave, Starscream, you continue past each door without pause. None of them the ones you were assigned too.

It takes a while, having to go down another length of a hall that spindles off the main shoot of purple-code mers. These doors are also marked with red, the color vibrant and closer to that of blood than the red from before. The engravings have scratched off paint where nails have dug in, both human and non-human intermingling.

The names pass by, Overlord, Galvatron, and even more that you begin to ignore. Thoughts flying to when co-workers would whisper about the newest injury from these fearsome beasts.

“They’re killers! I swear it!”

“Did you know they leave the dead in there with them? Management thinks it keeps them sated for when the professionals enter.”

“I heard the last person assigned there lost an arm.”

You shake your head as you stop before a door. This one no different from the others but important to you. The new mer assigned to you just beyond. Tarn, the nameplate reads. And he has the worst track record among the ones stationed here.

Blood thirsty, constantly breaking out of the room and tank, always looking for the latest victim. And now your job to clean his tank, feed him, and make sure he’s properly enriched.

“Let’s get this over with.” You mutter under your breath. Bringing up your headphones, you click open your phone and begin to play the instrumental melody that will lead to your death.

Violins sing away as you swing the door open, a trumpet almost making you jump as you sweep a glance over the still water inside. The tank is oddly empty of an eager predator ready to kill, not even a ripple.

Maybe the mer doesn’t know you’re here. All the better to work fast and get out even faster.

Biting at your lip, you step in, looking along the wall for any of the cleaning supplies that your manager swore would be there, ready for use. A mop, a bucket, and an unlabeled bottle of cleaner is all you catch sight of, and it’s thrown to the ground in a rush.

You sigh, but head deeper in, the rise of tubas following you as the heavily padded door slams shut. Grabbing the mop after filling the bucket to the point suds are sloshing out the side, you get to work.

There’s a surprising lack of stains around the tank, nothing that outwardly hints at what has gone down in this room in the past. Only dried stains that are more brown than red and could have been anything at the point of spill.

You turn the music up, blasting the return of the violins into your ears. It’s at the same time you see movement at the corner of your eye.

Turning fast, you face the tank where you thought the movement came from, nothing. Sweat starts to pucker your forehead, and the hairs on the back of your neck start to stand up. A warning, or maybe a feeling, of being watched invade.

You turn away, dunking the mop in the bucket.

A splash cuts through the music.

You whirl around and freeze.

This time, a fin has broken through the water. It bobs on the surface, taunting and horrifying as you realize Tarn knows you’re here. You can’t leave though, even if the prey brain in you is beginning to awaken and wants to run as far as they can from the room and whatever is lurking below the waves.

Work fast, get out faster.

Stiff limbed, you switch to a crab sort of walk. A way to keep your face to the water and mopping the place without getting caught. It doesn’t matter though as the fin begins to move, closing in on the lip of the tank.

You suddenly hate the crescendo in your ears from the music.

Just as it reaches the peak, all hell breaks loose. An explosion of water, a huge figure beaching itself inches from your face. A scream at the tip of your tongue, but it never leaves as red eyes meet your own.

Tarn.

There’s a crooning, deep and full-body that comes from the creature. It backs off, and as it does you catch sight of it more than just the eyes. Bulky shoulders, scars criss-crossing the body all the way down to the tail, purple and black scales, and the claws at the tips of its webbed fingers.

Another croon has you looking back to the red eyes, which you notice are behind a strange, watery mask of some sort. They blink, you follow, heart pounding away in your chest.

Then a hand lifts, one claw stretching out.

This is it, death on one finger.

Instead there is another call, this one a coo of sorts followed by a click. It touches your headphones.

“Huh?” Is all you can think, and apparently squeak out.

Another coo. Another poke to the head.

Reaching up, you pop off the headphones, mop dropping to the ground. “My headphones?” Music is still blasting away, a lull of soft instruments. “Or, uh, the music?”

Tarn nods, red eyes squinting in what you think is joy.

An idea hits, and you rush to turn off your headphones. The drop of music does seem to startle the mer, who starts to growl at you and as you rush for the phone in your pocket you call out, “Give me a minute!”

Swiping up, you hit play in a rush, turning the noise all the way up. Instruments hit the air in a rush, their pattern swirling and calming if not for the fact a dangerous mer is standing before you.

But that still seems to be enough, as he begins to sway, lowering himself to lay out on the deck with a coo. And suddenly you think there may be a way through this assignment. As long as he continues to enjoy the music that is.

#transformers tarn #transformers #mtmte tarn #idw tarn #x reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #x y/n #y/n #tarn x reader #transformers x reader

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