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husbandohunter · 3 years

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Stardew Impact [Stardew Valley+Genshin Impact x Reader]

Part 2/3 Zhongli, Xiao

Synopsis: “A mysterious phenomenon brought you and your s/o to an unfamiliar world: Pelican Town! Without the power of Visions, the two of you begin to learn the life of what it takes to be...a farmer?”

(DOMESTIC FARM LIFE ROUND TWO)

Genre: Fluff

Others

Diluc and Kaeya

Albedo and Childe

(A/n): This was meant to be part 3 but I couldn't wait to write xiao. Plus Ive been writing Albedo for almost the whole month already Word count_2.6k

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Xiao

• Thrown in an unfamiliar environment puts Xiao on high alert. Instincts kick in and his hand subconciously grabs for his spear. Nothing. Not even his vision activated. Xiao's gaze darts all over before landing on your figure. He sighs in relief, you're safe, that much he can decipher as of now.

• Stripped of his power, left with only claws and teeth (if must) to protect you from any dangers, he was ansty with every little thing.

• The villagers are so nice??? For what reason must they have to act so friendly to strangers (Xiao wonders). The Mayor even granted you two a vast farmland free of charge.

• Shortly he realized he no longer had his karmaic debt. Xiao wasn't sure how to live his life in this state. He dedicated his entire existence to years of slaughter and suffering that it became the only thing he knew. He won't admit it of course, he'll just throw in scoffs and remarks about how mundane activities are a waste of time when in reality, he just has no clue on how to handle them.

• Thats why the first day was difficult as you both try to figure out how to plant parnsips. Deciding it was better to go with an experiment, you split the share of seeds in half and used what basic knowledge you had on farming to finish the job. Xiao on the other hand tried copying what you did….though the outcome wasn't so desirable it was a mess. (His trained hands have taught him to be on the rough side).

• He doesn't bother socializing with the townspeople even though he has no karmaic debt to worry about. Xiao thinks you're more than enough anyways so what's the point?

• Robin is the only person who can tolerate him for obvious reasons (cough Sebastian cough) she knows exactly how to deal with his personality type. His glares don't faze her, she simply thinks its just a teenage phase of some sort.

• Eventually they become mutuals, Xiao thinks Robin is similar to Verr Goldet in a way. Since he's the one who does the heavy labour of chopping down trees and mining stones for building upgrades, he gets a chance to visit her house quite often. He comes back with lots of recipes too.

• You find out that his adepti blood never left him. Xiao doesn't need sleep so you better believe it when he tells you the next morning that he spent the whole night watering all 300 of your crops (watering is the only process he's good at for farming).

• Sometimes you catch him staring out of the window, wondering what he may be thinking. Life was so much more different, almost hard to recognize. Was this real? Is it okay for it to be real, just this once? Ever since he committed his duty to Morax, Xiao didn't dream of a time when everything would be peaceful. Yet here he is, no longer a weapon but on a journey to find out what it's like to live as a normal person.

• Spring: Every morning you find him kneeling behind the cabin with the pet cat (yes, cats seem to suit Xiao very much). He just stares at them, hesitant if he wanted to pet their fur or rub their chin. So he continues to glare intensely, scaring your cat away :(

• Whenever you wanted to attend any of the town's festivities, Xiao wouldn't even hide his distastefulness but goes with you regardless. Why do mortals consider hiding eggs and finding them a fun activity? And what kind of a name is Flower Dance? Can't they just call it a dance?

• Though…he does like the sight of you wearing a flower crown. Xiao likes putting stuff in your hair.

Since setting foot upon this new world, time seemed to have slowed down to the point that almost everything felt like an eternity. And you didn't mind, with him by your side, you wouldn't mind if it did last forever.

The lull of the grass was the only sound Xiao could hear as he closed his eyes and rested his head on your lap. You maneuvered across his scalp in small, subtle motions, surprised with how warm he felt against the heat your palm. He stirs a little and lets out a soft breath before turning his face to lay on the side.

You were slightly intrigued by the yaksha's new demeanor. From far away, Xiao was an intimidating man, even during the first time you laid eyes him, his presence felt similar to a knife pointing at anyone who dares to come too close. But now, the face that usually held his signature annoyance melted into something you never thought you'd see as the sun rays brushed against the surface of his fair skin. You observed the way his dark eyebrows stayed in a relaxed arch. The red crescents lining right above his beautiful long lashes and the sound of soft snores through parted lips. It was hard to believe that this man was the same person who claimed to have ended a thousand lives through thousands of years.

Did he fall asleep already?

Gently moving away the strands away from his cheekbone, hovered your gaze above him and whispered, "I thought adepti don't need rest."

"Hmph," Xiao responds, though there was no harshness in his tone, "Quit trying to be difficult, I didn't tell you to stop."

The smug grin on your face only widens. You lean downward and said to his ear, "And what's the magic word~?"

Xiao sighs at your antics. You were truly pushing your luck today and he simply didn't have the patience to entertain you. Without a warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you down, foreheads pressing until you were but a breath away. The adepti conquers, he does not plead.

• Summer: As expected, your parnsnips weren't able to grow as much. Thus, this season was going to be the one to make up for the lost profit. Xiao is very good at hunting, perhaps the best in the entire town. Though the way he catches fish is rather peculiar, said by the folks. He prefers to carve a spear made of wood and repeatedly stabs the lake until results show. Xiao dislikes the old fashioned way, he says its unproductive and it unecissarily takes too much time.

• But as much as he scared the whole town, they were extremely grateful when he cleaned up the slime issues happening in the mines. You could say that he grew very popular since then and eventually mustered up the courage to greet him a hello whenever he passes by.

• You nudge him to reply back. Xiao usually shoots you a glare but slowly, he learns the courtesy of acknowledging someone's prescence.

• Fall: You woke up to a burnt smell coming from the kitchen. Xiao just thought he would return the favour since you always worked so hard. (He was actually trying to figure out what a 'whisk' was. It was no wonder why there were eggshells in the dish!)

• You realized that Xiao was taking more initation compared to before. At night, when you thought the animals were actively jumping in the barns, the noise was actually from Xiao trying to adjust himself to the ways of tending the field. After learning what TV was, he would always switch to the channel "Livin off the land" to gain some insight. Truly, Xiao was greatful even though he knew he eventually had to return to his duties, he wanted to utilize the current days the best way he could. And what better way was it to just make you happy in return?

• Winter: This was the season to test the accumulation of Xiao's abilities: you caught a cold and he had to manage everything in his own. Xiao scolded you for not wearing enough and being too careless but at the same he considered that you must've been working too hard.

• Goes to Robin for help. She basically became his mom now. Prepares the food and leaves them in the fridge, she teaches Xiao how to use the phone in case he needed any help and also lets him know where all the essentials are.

• Xiao stayed by your side the whole time even though you told him you'd be fine. But he refuses, he may no longer be a gaurdian but he was your gaurdian. That role never changed.

~~x~~

Zhongli

• You wake up on a soft bed with Zhongli sitting at a chair nearby. He hands you a cup of brewed water but you're still blatlantly confused. Seems like everything was taken care of by Zhongli, it ends up with him explaining everything to you.

• The folks instantly assumes you both as a married couple. Who could blame them? He did carry your unconcious body all the way to town while asking for a local doctor. You can bet that the ladies wish they were you at that moment. Zhongli took care of everything, including with the contract with the new farm.

• It didn't take long for you both to adjust to the new lifestyle. Zhongli's accumulated knowledge was enough to last all four seasons. Days past by peacefully as you shared the tasks. He'd place down the stone paths towards the gate and you busied yourself with decorating the house. After that was done, Zhongli would rest upon the rocking chair outside your door (like the grandpa he is) and sometimes you'd join him in one reading session. His voice was soothing, you eventually dipped into a slumber as the evening grew colder. Just like always, your beloved brings his arm to encapsulate you from the wind, brushing his thumb against your skin subconciously while you snore softly into his shoulder.

• In a way, the townsfolk were right. You both do act like a married couple. It's basically domestic life with Zhongli in a nutshell.

• He gets connected with Gunther and lands a role in the Museum. Since he's there so often, Zhongli also manages to be acquainted with Elliot as well. Two men who have a common interest with books while speaking in poetic prose. Their conversation would last for hours to the point Gunther had to kick them out of the library!

• Veeeery good with the children, not in an entertaining way but its just the aura he reeks. Penny usually had trouble dealing with Vincent since he never seems to be able to focus but the minute Zhongli speaks, he's all ears. Not only that he was also very good with the elderly. He even recommended some herbs George could take to soothe his back issues.

• Problem is that he still forgets to bring his wallet and Childe isn't here to save him. So once you stepped foot into the Stardrop Saloon and Gus calls you over, he tells you about the cost he owed to his tab….

• But this tranquil life full of genuinity and deprived of sovereignty, he was overjoyed to be able to spend it with you. Because he knew you were unlike him, that all humans were born with an expiry date. He knew so well that after every new greeting, he would have to face the goodbyes over and over until the world eventually came to an end. He knew you were also going to be part of those many goodbyes while he would still be here.

• But as Zhongli walks amongst the fallen leaves, he remembered the beauty that carries within every new beginning. They brought him to you and he would never hesitate to trade his gnosis for it.

Spring: You shot up your bed when Zhongli blast the TV at full volume. He apologizes, saying that he was simply trying to change the channel. You figured it was best for him to go outside before he somehow glitches the screen until it couldn't repair itself (Robin charges for repairs).

• Every thursday you both go to Pierre's store to complete your grocery shopping. He offers to push the cart as you fill the basket with all the necessities (plus it saves you the trouble of having him tossing whatever he sees without looking at the price tag).

• Every afternoon you order a take out from the Saloon, sharing the meal while sitting at the fountain's edge near the community center. Every evening Zhongli would take you to explore the rest of the vast farmland, discovering places you weren't even aware of. It was no wonder why everyone thought you were a married couple.

• Summer: Since the cabin was too small for a bathroom, you guys would have to travel up the mountains in order to get to the Spa house (cue sweatiness x10).

• The concept of hotsprings was derived from Inazuma so it was no surprise that Liyue eventually took it after him. Zhongli had collected some incense from foraging items over the past few months, he knows whats up. But overall he gives the best bath sessions (hands down) and you were the one who insisted in joining him. He was a gentle and sweet lover, always putting your needs before his. Ancient artifacts and old history books have always been precious to him, he treated you no differently.

The heartbeat of the oceans continues to rock back and forth until they brush up on the sandy shore, washing away the two pairs of footprints left behind by a man and a woman.

Gold against gold, his amber eyes reflected against the scenery. Millions of lights flashed among the sea when the sun began to climb down from the sky, it's rays hugged across the valley like an ethereal glow bestowed by the heavens as summer's wind brought even more warmth than what he had currently felt. You trance ahead of with the same light shaping around your form.

"Oh hey there's another rainbow shell," you waved at him before running off, "I'll be back!"

How is it that you still continue to shine like gold in his memories?

Zhongli suddenly ponders at the chapters laying ahead of him. He spent so many years turning each page without ever reaching a conclusion, forever searching the fabled happy endings written in fairytale books, but he knew his immortality wouldn't grant him that wish.

Thus, the formal archon raised his pen and reweaves his own story. He envisions his future with you by his side, engraving every detail until it was immortalized in his memories.

Perhaps I shouldn't keep her waiting.

With a renewed resolve, Zhongli clutches the gemstone tightly in his palm, he seals the page with the final contract between your future and his.

• Fall: After getting your first house upgrade, it was time for the next event: the ceremony. Yes, Zhongli would only have a wedding if Liyue traditions were involved. Everyone was invited of course, they were quite intrigued with the flashy setup such as lanterns and fireworks (you were a little worried with where he got the budget for such items) and Zhongli even educated Gus about some recipes he can use for the Saloon.

• You found out that Zhongli was saving all his money for this day (it was no wonder that he couldn't pay for his tab!). Old habits die hard, it was a shame that he didn't have his powers to craft the right items, but at least he got to sea you in a traditional eastern dress (it's the part he was looming forward to the most).

• Fall is the best season. One you wouldn't forget.

• Winter: Ah he finally learns how to use technology after three seasons. He only knows two channels from the TV which was 'Livin off the Land' and the weather channel. Zhongli oftens talks to himself as he tries to figure out more mechanics, he seems to be extremely absorbed in the most basic things.

• The miner of the house. But instead of using them to upgrade tools and donating them to the museum, Zhongli likes to keep some of them for collection. You could say your house also had a little museum in the other room.

• Romcom movies and soap operas. You can't change my mind that this is what you both spend your time watching as the snowstorm rages outside.

#genshin impact #stardew valley #genshin impact headcanons #xiao x reader #zhongli x reader #xiao headcanons #zhongli #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact xiao #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact imagines #genshin scenarios #genshin imagines #genshin impact zhongli #genshin xiao #genshin zhongli #nya-writes

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moonbaby26 · 3 years

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Title: The Man from the Sky

Pairing: Loki x Goddess!Reader

Summary: You were a Greek sea goddess, just enjoying a typical day of nothing when a strange new god dropped into your land.

Warnings: None yet. There is smut in future chapters already written. Will post more soon.

Notes: I’m aware that what we’d think of as ancient Greece well predates who we’d call the vikings and their like cruising around the seas. This doesn’t take place at the height of the Greek pantheon worship, but old enough in human history that some men still believed in both sets of deities.

Chapters: Next Chapter Here

My Masterlist

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You dipped your feet a little deeper into the warm water as it lapped the edges of the rock you sat upon. The sea was calm today, and the wind gentle as the nymphs chatted around you about the usual things. A bit of gossip one had heard from a local river nymph, a new shipwreck one had found, status of a fish migration from another.

You wouldn’t exactly call it boring though, you specifically chose these more remote areas when you came ashore for this very reason. It was so much more unlikely for you to run afoul of mortals here, or even others of your own kind that you may not feel like putting on airs with at this very moment.

It was so quiet in fact, that you were considering getting up to go lay in the sand on the beach in a few minutes and enjoy a nice nap in the sunlight.

That was before the boom which echoed through the air all around you. Somewhat like thunder, but not quite as all the nymphs fell silent.

When nothing came after, you felt all their eyes then turning to you. Their voices piped back up soon enough, though the tones in them changed to all nerves now.

“Do you wish to leave, milady?”

“Could it be Zeus?”

“But it didn’t sound like him.”

“Is there a volcano nearby?”

“What else could it be?”

“I don’t know what it was, I’ve never heard that sound.” You finally said, though now looking inward to the land. You were at least sure that the sound was not of the sea. But you refused to give in to the nymphs’ skittishness too quickly. And without real reason to leave, eventually you all did start to relax again.

Yet then came the cries. “Goddess, mistress please!” That cry absolutely was from the land as you looked in time to see the river nymph you’d met earlier in the day now running from the tree line and down onto the sands. She stumbled slightly, just before reaching you where the sea met the rocks.

She was panting, clearly having run some distance as she continued. “I’m so glad to still find you here,” She bowed slightly, only because she didn’t know you well enough to realize you didn’t require this.

“What is it?” You asked simply, honestly more curious now than anything else. What could she have seen that would strike her so alarming? Any nymph worth their ilk would know every creature, every natural occurrence, all that existed within their lands.

“There is a man in the forest, he came from the sky!” Yet she continued quickly, sure you would only think of Olympus. “But I do not recognize him as one of your own family. And his clothing, he is not of our territory. This I am sure, my goddess. I watched him only long enough to see that he was very angry. I am afraid of his intentions here.”

A man? But not truly a man. Mortals did not come from the sky.

“An angry god?” You said, now standing as you then stepped down from the rocks. The forest belonged to Artemis truthfully. But being this close to the sea, you thought that the older goddess would forgive you this if it came down to it. She would rather the nymphs be protected you were sure from any childish acts of a god’s wrath that may now come into play here.

You had brought no armor, the possibility of battle so far from your mind when you’d come ashore today. But that didn’t mean you travelled completely defenseless. “Bring me my spear please.” You requested of the sea nymphs.

Though they were still anxious, they responded dutifully, one sinking beneath the waves before reappearing with the glinting weapon in hand. It shone a brilliant silver, sea foam still running off its blue spear tip as she handed it to you out of the water.

“Show me the way, and I will investigate this stranger.” You spoke plainly, hopping down onto the sands as you strode barefoot towards the forest, spear in hand. “We will keep our distance as best we can, we don’t seek conflict, understood?”

“Yes, milady.” You heard, the sea nymphs staying behind you as the river nymph moved in front to lead you upward, the sand transitioning to rocky soil and the sparse vegetation and trees beginning to increase as you climbed the hillside.

For the sea nymphs, you could hear them losing their footing here and there in the loose soil, themselves of course far more adapted to swimming the ocean’s depths at your side rather than hiking up into the forests.

You did hope you were not putting any of them in danger. But if you felt they truly were in harm’s way, you would have no qualms in telling them to retreat back to the water at once.

“Up ahead,” The river nymph whispered to you, pointing towards a clearing you could now see leveling off in the distance. But the opening looked so strange with the density of the other trees now around you.

“Was that always there?” You asked her, knowing something unnatural when you saw it, even when this far from the water.

“No,” She confirmed. “When the sky opened up, it carved out the land as well. He appeared when that force receded.”

“Understood.” You replied, though in truth not really understanding at all as you motioned for all the others to proceed no further. You’d never seen something like this. “I will go alone. If he should attack me, please return to the sea to seek help.”

They fidgeted, looking unhappy but not arguing your choice. “Please be careful, goddess.”

You nodded, but kept on slowly. You tried to remember what you’d been taught as a little girl about stalking and hunting on land. So many moons ago, running through the forests with Artemis and at times Pan, being mentored before returning to the sea to your father, mother, and so many siblings.

But the closer you came, the more you realized that the stranger would likely not notice any sound of light footsteps approaching or ground shifting. As you neared, you saw his form pacing back and forth in the clearing, seemingly cursing to himself in a language that was not your own.

Yet it still sounded familiar. Abruptly you knew where you had heard a dialect like this before. It sounded so much like those voyagers from the northern seas. The ones with their longboats and course beards, sometimes with hair as red as fire as they fished and sang and fought.

And he did look as pale as them as well. But with hair like black of night, and a frame far more slender than the burly mortals you’d seen rowing those northern boats along. And just as the river nymph had warned, his clothing confused you as well. Rich green robe, but with black and gold as well. It was wholly foreign and exotic to you in its styling, as was he.

When she’d said a strange man had arrived, honestly you had also expected someone older in appearance. He looked quite youthful to be honest, even as his brow remained furrowed and his fists clenched at his sides.

And just when you thought his feet may actually cut a path in the earth from his agitated pacing, he finally slowed, then stopped all together.

This is when you froze as well, knowing you now had a decision to make. Should you keep to your hiding, just to hope he should eventually leave in whatever fashion he came? Or should you reveal yourself to question his identity and purpose here?

“Done spying yet, or do you intend to actually do something with that spear?” A cutting voice spoke abruptly to your side, so suddenly that you almost lost your footing, shocked as the same man emerged from behind other trees only feet from you.

But you still saw him in the clearing as well, at least you did momentarily before the image of him there dissolved, leaving only the form now nearest you.

“You speak my language?” Was all you questioned instead of answer him though, as he had said those last words only in your tongue. You also kept focusing on backing away as you chose to keep a safer distance. He was some sort of illusionist at least then, which could escalate the danger here very quickly if he made you lose your bearings.

And he was starting to circle you a bit you realized as he began to walk again. But you willed yourself to keep your spear at a neutral position, rather than aim at him, still not intending to provoke attack if it could be prevented. You had no idea what other strengths he might have, and your primary goal was still to keep the nymphs from getting caught in any crossfire.

“Not all of us are so uneducated,” He snapped back at you, still in your language, though you could detect that foreign accent underneath.

You were not wholly unused to rudeness though, yet it had been a very long time since you could recall being spoken to directly in such a manner. It was more the bickering between others in the palace that you were sometimes forced to be party to. Which was only another reason you often favored the relative isolation of the mortal world.

“You need not be so offended, stranger. I only came to see who had entered our land, and to protect my friends if need be.” You answered as reserved in tone as you could.

“Then you have done your duty, girl, and can now be gone. I came here to be alone. If I was actually intending to plunder this wasteland of nothingness, your little cohort never would have made it back to you to begin with.”

You stared, a little coldness entering your eyes then. So that was what had given you away. He’d already been aware of the river nymph to begin with, and had been waiting for someone to return the entire time while leaving that illusion of himself still in the clearing as distraction.

And he’d actually referred to you as ‘girl’. Did he really think you just one of the nymphs then? It was hard to say if he was intentionally trying to goad you, or if he really was so unfamiliar to not realize you for what you actually were.

You straightened a bit, replying, “Insults to our homeland aside, I will leave you to this quiet then, if you should at least tell me your name. You are clearly not of Olympus, and we still have right to know who it is who traverses into this particular land of mortals which we hold sovereignty over.”

He scoffed, clearly wishing to not speak to you even a moment longer. But in the way his chest puffed slightly, you thought it was only pride then that made him physically incapable of denying his identity.

He actually moved closer to you as well, that agitation still rising further in his voice. “Little fool, you stand before Loki! Son of Odin the Allfather. I am god of mischief, prince of Asgard. Your witless mortals should count their blessings that an Asgardian should ever see fit to even set foot here!”

You didn’t know if you’d been quick enough to mask the true surprise from your face. You had already assumed him a god. But never...never had you actually laid eyes on an Asgardian. They never came to this part of the world as far as you knew. And was he telling the truth? Was he really a son of Odin?

This stranger’s arrogance aside, if he were a child of Odin, you knew your own father would be furious with you if you were intentionally insulting now. Asgard and Olympus had never had the closest ties, but you were not enemies either. Asgard was honored by the mortals of the north, and Olympus still honored by those of the south, though perhaps not quite as much as the true olden days.

It took real will, but you bowed graciously to him in return. “It is an honor to meet you then, Loki, son of Odin.” As you straightened up, in his eyes you could see he was trying to judge you as sincere or not. But you just continued smoothly. “As promised, I shall leave you to your thoughts then. But I would be unmannered to not offer my assistance should you need a hostess in your time here as a guest in our land. My name is (Y/N), daughter of-”

You hesitated only the briefest moment, “of the sea,” is what you decided on though. Unlike Loki, you preferred a little anonymity with strangers. You didn’t wish to be targeted just for your lineage.

And with that, you turned, beginning to walk back towards the beach, even as you finished talking. “If you should need me, you need only find the sea’s edge and call for me. One of our creatures will hear you soon enough and seek me out.”

But some odd part of you regretted not being able to see his expression as you left. You wondered if you only would have seen more disdain and condescension at your offer.

Regardless, he said nothing else and soon enough you were back on the sand, the nymphs chittering in a mix of horror and awe around you.

“Who does he think he is, speaking to you that way!?”

“Do you really think he’s of Asgard? Shouldn’t we alert your father?”

“Why would he even come here? He seemed so bitter. Do you think they cast him out?”

“I’d cast him out, with a dirty attitude like that!”

You looked to the horizon, just taking a breath. “I don’t think we need to rush and tell my father just yet. But I do know where I want to go now.” You looked to the river nymph briefly though, “Please have those in the forest keep a distant eye on him. Should he leave or do anything else of note, please let us know.”

You glanced back to the sea nymphs then. “The rest of you return to the oceans. I’m going to Olympus, to the libraries there. I want to find out more about Asgard, to see if he is who he says he is. I’ll return to the water soon.”

They all nodded, “Yes, milady. Please let us know what you find!”

“I will,” you agreed, just watching them dissolve back into the waves.

Were you excited perhaps? Or just very curious? Nothing interesting in this way had happened in ages. You were determined to learn all you could on this new arrival.

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The Olympians had been a little surprised to see you gracing the halls there. So many of your cousins had dropped in time and again to say hello, curious themselves of why you were out of the water this long and seemingly such a bookworm all of the sudden.

And you did read for days. All you could find on Asgard, on Odin, the Norse mortals, and their language. You found record that Odin had born two sons, honestly an oddly low number you thought in comparison to the many children of your own kings.

But there in these tomes, were those two names, Thor and Loki. Thor, god of thunder, amusing of course in comparison to Zeus, king of all, including lightning. But also Loki, god of mischief, just as he’d said.

You were surprised, but enthralled as you actually found a drawing of Loki within the book. Though not completely accurate you thought, you still recognized that type of clothing. The green and gold, and the pale skin and black hair with his icy blue eyes. You tilted your head a little, looking at the gold helmet he wore in the artist’s depiction, with long horns curving from it like those of a great beast.

Was he really a beast? Or just a too arrogant manchild? And why did you increasingly wish to find out?

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(Continued in next chapter here)

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki imagine #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki #loki fluff #loki fandom #marvel fic #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki x oc #loki x original female character #loki layfeyson imagine #loki layfeyson x reader

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by-nina · 3 years

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Exchange

Artwork by @caesurables; do not repost.

AO3 | FFN Royai Week 2021 | Day 1 – King’s gambit/Queen’s gambit Rating: M (light drinking, sexual content) Genre: Lemon Word Count: 3,230

A/N: Happy Royai Week, everyone! Welcome to the spiciest thing I've written so far, which marks the first time I'm starting Royai Week with smut. I hope this feeds you well. Special shoutout to Mica for adding life to this with the gorgeous art! 😍

Something stirs in her; on one hand, it would be easy to call it yearning. But on the other, nothing that concerns Roy Mustang has ever been easy. Riza has always equated these things with methodical moves and calculated risks.

And so, for once, Riza pictures herself playing her game not for Roy’s sake, but for hers. She imagines that the stakes are different, the rules may be broken, and the only person she has ever wanted is both her gamble and her prize. She could have it all now—she need only play her piece.

———

Roy Mustang was made for a night like this. Handsome, stylish dress uniform, hair slicked back like a frame around his striking facial features, an air of dignity in his walk, his posture, even his gaze. He wears it all so well that he stands out from older, more distinguished company in the East City Hotel, where tonight, the Eastern Army is holding an extravagant ball in recognition of its recently promoted officers.

Riza is present as well, of course. For the occasion, she has traded her usual military attire for a blue satin gown with a flatteringly slender silhouette. A sash pinned with the insignia of her rank hangs from her shoulder to her hip. Having gone up the stage much earlier in the program for her own recognition, she has now retreated to the far end of the room, from where she’s got a full view of Roy as he waits to be called in front of the crowd.

Her promotion from Second to First Lieutenant is nowhere near as significant as his becoming Colonel, but it is no less her night than his. Selfish though the thought may be, it’s true that Roy owes this night to her, every title and every honor conferred to him. In every aspect of his life, she has made a crucial choice that allowed him to take a step in the right direction towards their goals—his goals that she has chosen to make her own.

“For the rank of Colonel, Roy Mustang…”

It was Riza’s choice to join him in the military, and it was this choice that has kept him on his path and his eyes on these goals. She has been devoted to his success just as much as to her act of atonement, but she was not subservient to either. Roy also carries with him the burden of their sins in Ishval. Her responsibility over his atonement means that she has more power than a subordinate would normally have under their superior. Anyone could be a dutiful subordinate or competent bodyguard, after all, but only she could be trusted with his life as well as his death.

“… the formidable Flame Alchemist…”

And it was her choice to reveal the secrets of flame alchemy, entrusted to her by her father, that first set him on the path towards his goals for the people and the country in the first place. Had she not trusted him, Roy would have searched further and longer for some other practice of alchemy. Had Riza chosen to die with her father’s secrets, Roy might not have come anywhere near who he is now.

“… and Hero of Ishval.”

Every choice she has made in their intertwined lives has determined the course of his, even when he should have been none of her concern. This was especially true in Ishval. She could have pulled the trigger at any time when she despised him most. She could have reversed the choice that brought him to Ishval. Riza chose instead to be an ally—a friend in a war where every other sense of humanity seemed to have been lost.

The Hero of Ishval was made through her actions; as was the Flame Alchemist; as was this shiny new Colonel Roy Mustang. As he is introduced by Lieutenant General Grumman, he takes his place at the center of the ballroom stage, and his titles and promotion seem all the more impressive due to the fact that he is the only new Colonel being recognized tonight. The crowd erupts in a reverent applause which Riza does not join in.

In different circumstances, if it weren’t for the very cards they have been dealt, tonight could have truly been happy, a cause for celebration. But their plans continue forming and unfolding; this game on which they have staked their lives does not pause. And so Riza watches him as she drinks her champagne, quietly imagining the steps they ought to take next, the moves they must plan, the sacrifices she must make in this gambit where she is both player and piece and he is the king set to take it all.

Her life is a game which she plays for Roy Mustang to win.

When his moment passes and the ceremony moves on, Roy descends from the stage, searching through the crowd for Riza. He finds her and meets her gaze across the room, and for a moment she wavers in her train of thought. She is familiar with this feeling. She has felt its pull before, but never this strongly, never with enough clarity so as to explicitly name him its object. How could she possibly feel it towards someone for whose sake she has forgotten her own needs and her own desires? How could she not be indifferent instead?

Riza leaves her champagne on a nearby table and turns in the opposite direction to walk off its effects. The party thankfully offers plenty enough distraction from the drink and from Roy. She meets a few colleagues here and there, makes small talk, and when she loses sight of Roy, she’s certain that he has been intercepted by people wishing to congratulate him or rub elbows with him for his prodigious rise through the ranks. She soon manages to extricate herself from the crowd and disappear from the ballroom.

———

“You should be celebrating tonight, Lieutenant.”

Riza knows that Roy has found her before he even speaks. She didn’t think that he would. She had wandered around the hotel until she found herself in distant, unfamiliar hallways decorated with beautiful artwork that she could admire until her intoxication had worn off enough to safely drive home. But there is no mistaking the sound of his footsteps or the scent of his perfume tinged with the liquor from the party. Part of her wants to disappear again, but his proximity in an otherwise deserted place seems to further slow down her currently unreliable reflexes.

Riza smiles dryly. “Does it matter if we received our actual promotions a week ago? We all know this is just an excuse to flatter ourselves and have a good time without spending our own money.” Roy smirks as she shakes her head. “Either way, I think I'll enjoy the party much better here, away from the crowd. But you're everyone's darling for the evening. They'll be wanting you back."

Roy sighs and rubs the side of his head, as if the very thought tires him. "I see enough of them at work. And there's going to be more of them around now, especially when we get transferred to Central. This night isn't about them."

The mention of Central causes Riza to bristle with alertness. She whips her head around to ascertain that the hallway is deserted. Behind her, she finds an intricately carved double door, and she quickly strides across the hallway to it. To her surprise, it is unlocked; the room beyond it appears to be dark and deserted. Riza shoots a glance at Roy as she enters. He swiftly follows.

Riza spots a nearby floor lamp just before she locks the door. For a moment, the room is pitch black, then Riza switches on the lamp. Its warm glow is just enough for her to make out Roy’s face and the silhouettes of the furniture in the room. They seem to have found themselves in a lavish parlour with a high-backed sofa and matching armchairs, a handsome tea table for two, a fireplace carved from white marble, and a vintage piano.

“I see you’re already making plans for proceeding to Central,” Riza begins. “We should be more careful about discussing them from now on, Colonel. Everyone has their eyes on you.”

Roy stares at her questioningly. Then, a small laugh breaks through his expression, and he shakes his head. “I’m not. I didn’t come looking for you to talk about our plans.”

She frowns. “What is it, then?”

“It’s just like I said. You should be celebrating tonight.” He draws what sounds like both a nervous breath and a laugh. “It wouldn’t have been right to enjoy the party without you. You’re the reason we’ve both come this far.” He pauses, and then his voice turns softer than before. There is no trace of a smile left in it or on his face. “I know you know that, Lieutenant.”

In the soft light, Roy’s face appears flushed, his features softer than they were when she watched him back at the ballroom. Riza doesn’t realize just how close he is until the scent of champagne on her is lost to his raspberry wine. Something stirs in her; on one hand, it would be easy to call it yearning. But on the other, nothing that concerns Roy Mustang has ever been easy. Riza has always equated these things with methodical moves and calculated risks.

But never in any of their plans or her own did she consider this a possible outcome, that Roy Mustang would be kissing her with one gentle hand on her face and another on her waist, or that the warmth of his body could be such a welcome comfort. He kisses her as if he has known for a long time just how closely he would need to lean in, how to tilt his head to the correct angle so that the curve of his lips would fit perfectly with hers. Riza senses this not because of unrestrained passion—on the contrary, Roy is perfectly still. The kiss is tender, but the rest of him is tense, as if it’s the only thing holding him together now. Or as if it’s the only thing he has held out for all this time.

Roy breaks away from her slowly, and it’s Riza whose heart is thundering in her chest. Perhaps, had the game been hers alone to play, it wouldn’t have led them so far so soon. Had it been she to approach him first, they might have only teetered over their fragile lines and not fully crossed to a point of no return. But Roy has taken her by surprise where the playing field has always seemed to be even between them. This, she cannot accept—she has never made a gamble that she did not see through. This will not change now.

She will play her game on her own terms.

Riza flings her arms over Roy’s shoulders as she kisses him, one hand running through his hair and undoing it back to the style she knows and likes best on him. It makes her want more—thank heavens that he realizes it right away. He responds so ardently that they stumble, so he steers her until she falls back against the piano and dissonant notes blare over their sighs. His hand runs down her side, over her hip and into the slit of her blue dress, where he reaches under her thigh and lifts it up against his leg.

But Riza refuses to give in so easily. She trails her hand down his front, all the way down to where he has started to turn hard. A gasp escapes him when she wraps her fingers around his erection and tugs at it. It gives her an opportunity to push back and reverse their positions so he is seated on the piano—it clangs unpleasantly again—and she is leaning over him as she makes short work of his jacket and his shirt to kiss his chest. The further down Riza drags her lips, the less familiar she is with the territory she is exploring, but she goes on until she brushes against that warm, rough outline. Riza tugs his trousers down, and when he springs free of his clothing, she takes Roy into her mouth.

He is exactly how she wants him right now, inelegant and vulnerable with his head hanging all the way back. Riza starts off slowly, but she is eager to figure out whether she can get him to unravel more quickly with her lips running back and forth along the length of him, or with her fingers massaging the base which her mouth cannot reach. His pleasure seems to build unhurriedly until she twists her tongue around, making him throb and moan quaveringly. She becomes hungry to hear more of him and picks up the pace, never mind that the effort is choking her. Roy grips her hair until it falls out of its pins, ultimately coming loose down her back. She goes, and goes, and she thinks he might be close, but then—

But then Roy pulls her up so he could kiss her, and Riza sighs in pleasure, and it isn’t enough for her just to watch him unravel anymore. She falls into him in a blissful, drunken haze, allowing him to kiss and caress her and unzip her dress. She could burst into flames at every part of her that he touches, even the scars that he had left on her back when their game was at its deadliest. He begins rubbing her between her legs, and there it hardly matters whether his touch flutters over her skin like candlelight or pushes as suddenly as lightning—the sensation just builds and builds, like a storm stirring up the sea.

How could he know so well what to do with her, how to give her just enough and yet leave her wanting more without ever having explored her this way before? The question is quickly lost in Riza’s mind as he finds other ways to arouse her. Now, he’s pulling the top of her dress down, switching positions with her again, alternating between kissing her lips and her breasts. It’s easy to follow him where he goes when he’s leading her through a dazzling trance, easier than it has ever been to follow him in any other way.

The storm slows only once as Roy’s lips brush against her ear with a stammering plea. “Do you want me to—can I keep going?”

Riza hardly recognizes the sound of her own voice when she gasps, “Please.”

Slowly, carefully, he enters her, with her dress hiked up above her hips. Despite the mild ache that comes with it at first, it feels better than anything she could have planned or imagined. Riza is shaking now. She buries her face in Roy’s neck and moans there, where only he can hear her, and she feels his excitement growing at the sound of it. He begins to thrust into her—clang, clang, clang, goes the piano—first at an even pace, which helps ease away her initial discomfort. When the tension disappears from her shoulders, she finds herself swaying against him hungrily. He varies from going exhilaratingly fast to tantalizingly slow—clang, clang, clang!—and at some point, she whimpers—

“Roy—"

It seems to awaken something feral in him. Everything he does with her is greedy now, from his kisses running clumsily from her neck to her lips and back, to his hands grabbing at every part of her that he can reach—and although she likes him like this, unhinged and at the same time in complete control, it makes her want to give him more than she is getting.

Riza pushes herself off the piano and into Roy, and he is more than willing to let her drive him down to the floor. There, she pulls at his hair as she kisses him, then shifts slightly so he can kiss her chest while she slowly sinks down and allows him back into her. Their rhythm is easier to find this time. She starts off at a pace that builds up the heat in her body just right, then later allows his hands and hips to guide her with more fervor and intent. Soon, the pleasure is just too close for her to wait any longer, and they are both overcome with an aching desperation—

“Roy”—she pleads, groans—“oh—"

“Riza—ahh—fuck—”

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—"

Roy climbs over her, snaking his arms around her to grab at her chest, and he enters her from behind without breaking their rhythm, thrusting vigorously until and throughout her release. The rush, the bliss, the high is simply unthinkable—Riza presses her forehead down and bites her own hand hard to keep herself from screaming. She sinks into an ungraceful sprawl on the floor, drenched in sweat and tremors and Roy’s weight all over her body, but also as feeling if she were made purely of her sensations, with no physical body at all.

A moment passes, or two, or an eternity before she turns to lie on her back. Roy has collapsed next to her and entangled with her, so he adjusts to make way for her. She then finds herself looking up at him; Roy is leaning over her, seeming like an entirely different person with his gentle gaze, his tousled hair, his clothes only barely clinging to his body. His clothes—a reminder of who he is, and therefore, the gravity of what they have just done.

The high subsides almost as quickly as it came over her.

The room is piercingly silent as they scramble back to their feet and several meters away from each other. They keep their backs turned as they smooth their clothes back onto themselves and comb their hair into some normal, unquestionable style. Riza’s senses settle back into rationality at last. This was not a different way to play their old game. This was a temporary escape, a rare exception to her life’s unwavering rules.

“Riza.”

It’s unsettling how he says her name as if it were what he normally calls her, so she does not respond. Surely, he understands that what has just transpired between them must remain in the past, in favor of the reality that they left outside the door. Surely, he knows as well as she does that that reality has already resumed before they have even left the room.

He calls her name again. Riza, again, refuses to acknowledge him.

“Lieutenant.”

Her resolve wavers for only a moment. Riza knows exactly what he is doing. She knows her own excuse for this lapse in judgment—she knows how to keep it from happening ever again. But she can tell by his current insistence and his earlier passion that he doesn’t consider this a mistake like she does. This is, after all, exactly how he plays the game—head on, without hesitation. Roy has broken the rules more thoroughly than she has. He would have done so without her instigation. He has made perfectly clear the gamble that he is willing to make for her.

Riza turns, brushing past Roy and out of the room without so much as looking at him—leaving him behind the door, leaving as much of her selfish desires as she can possibly let go of—because she knows she must keep him from gambling everything away.

180 notes · View notes

lazarettta · 3 years

Text

Misthios VII

Pairing (Mother Miranda x Spartan!Reader)

Rating (M)

Word Count (4.6k)

Warning (probably language right now)

You and Miranda are finally moving on to having that long chat that's separated you both for centuries.

The Queen's eyes fluttered open, finally waking with the morning rays of the sun peaking over the mountain. Her balcony doors were wide open to let the cool night breeze into her personal chambers while the two fireplaces burned well into the night. It was a combination of warm and cool that her majesty enjoyed greatly as it helped her with sleep.

Of course, sharing her bed with you also aided with her troubles with sleep for the past few months since your arrival to the region. Wonderful in all the ways she could never have imagined; a warrior and a lover, the two things that made her life easier—and the lives of her enemies that much worse.

It had been well past dinner time when you returned to the castle along with the squadron of soldiers you'd gone with including a Captain of the military who was leading the raid. Part of your armor had been slashed and torn, stained with blood and whatever else you encountered outside of the castle walls.

But when Miranda stood in the doorway of her private bath watching as you stripped of your amour—she witnessed no open wounds for her to tend to or fret over, but blood stained your skin anyway. Even though she knew that she should have the moment she noticed: Miranda never questioned why you'd always have a new scar every other day or why your shirts had the evidence of a stab wound taking place right above your hip, including a blood stain, but all you could do was smile when asked about it.

“ Is everything alright, your majesty?”

Miranda blinked, her mind coming back to reality now finding herself sitting up in her bed currently being blinded by the morning sun. The Queen sighed heavily, looking down at your sleeping form—as always you were on your back with one arm tucked beneath one of the pillows behind your head and the other was being used as Miranda's pillow for most of the night. As always.

Like herself, you were bare as the day you were born...your entire torso shamelessly revealed for her roaming insatiable eyes...and she smirked when a particularly cool breeze swept through the room. She watched the goosebumps rise under your exposed skin, including your nipples making Miranda hum softly.

“ Y-your majesty?”

Miranda, suddenly remembering just what, or rather who, had bothered her before and looked towards the girl, pleased when she saw that her eyes were on the floor.

“ Everything is more than alright, girl, however you may leave... I'll be out shortly.”

A hand curling around her waist brought Miranda's gaze from the closing double doors where the meek girl disappeared through and back to you. Your eyes were still closed but you were starting to wake up, stretching like a feline and again Miranda's eyes were drawn to your chest.

“ Carved by the Gods,” she mumbled, the tips of her nails tracing your firm abdomen with no particular pattern, simply enjoying the light marks she was leaving behind around your belly button, knowing how much you enjoyed when she did that as well.

You saw the thoughtful look on Miranda's face when you opened your eyes but you couldn't stop the giant yawn from escaping, “Morning,”

Miranda smiled down at you, enjoying the way the sun made your skin glow but you weren't fooled by that smile—you were used to Miranda's smiles and this was one of her worries. The sort of smile where she wanted to reassure you while scolding you at the same time. You pulled away slightly, and sat up a bit so you could give her your full attention. When the monarch remained silent, simply staring at you, all you could do was raise an eyebrow...waiting.

Miranda scoffed at the action, shaking her head, “It's ironic isn't it, how we the others tales...but we do not truly know each other, do we?”

You shrugged, smirking at her—refusing to hint at the nerves beginning to crawl up your spine, “Pretty sure we know each other inside and out, your highness.”

Miranda gave you a look, clearly unimpressed, “Yes, beneath that charm and nonchalance...is something quite fascinating, isn't there? And...it seems that your truth only comes to light during battle.”

“ Pardon?” you sat up a little more now, eyebrows furrowed—unsure where Miranda was going with this but you no doubt that it probably wasn't going to be good for you. Especially since you're naked and vulnerable but not defenseless.

“ Captain Ake came to me last night after I left you to your bath, he seemed quite concerned with something...and quite frankly, I'm curious myself.” Miranda's hand had stopped tracing patterns on your stomach, but her hand still lingered...and the moment her index finger traced over the raised skin right next to your belly button, the brand new one, you knew you fucked up.

“ About what?” You mumbled not daring to look down at her hand, and her eyes burned into yours—playing dumb would only get you so far—probably the dungeons if you were lucky. You knew exactly what Ake was concerned with though you weren't sure if he actually saw you take a sword through your gut as it was so dark and everything happened within a blink or two.

“ What I am going to say next may sound crazy, however, Captain Ake is one of my most loyal subject in this castle, and quite sane...he claims to have witnessed you being impaled,” Miranda exhaled slowly, “By the enemy...and somehow managed to walk away from it, unharmed. Would you mind telling me what happened, my dear?”

You stared at her for a second, “And...you believed him? Could I have really been stabbed by a sword and do what I did last night? Do you know how insane you sound?”

“ Watch your tongue! You're still addressing your Queen, warrior.”

“ I'm sorry, but you seriously don't believe that shit do you?”

“ I've been noticing a few things myself, (Y/n)...and I would really like some answers myself.”

“ Right. I'll take that as my signal to leave, your majesty. Thanks for letting me sleep here last night.”

Miranda's eyes narrowed slightly, reaching out to grab your wrist to prevent you from running from her, “(Y/n), do not run from me...I'm only trying to understand! You can trust me, this I promise you, I'm not going to hurt you.”

You wanted to believe her, but you had to learn the hard way that trust was nothing but a word—a word that can be broken over and over. You were too stupid to learn in the past but you weren't about to do the same thing now. Pushing the covers aside you threw some mundane excuse over your shoulder but before you could actually get to the edge of the bed, you were pulled back and pushed back into your previous position. It didn't actually hurt but it wasn't gentle either but you were pretty sure that it was Miranda that moved you, but you hadn't actually felt or seen her move a muscle.

“ W...how? Miranda?!”

Miranda smiled shyly at your bewildered expression—a very rare expression from the Queen but like yourself, she was feeling quite vulnerable, “You're not alone, (Y/n)...and neither am I.”

“ Neither....are you?” Miranda chuckled at your expression and your inability to put two and two together. When you tried to sit back up, Miranda's shy smile morphed into something more amused and predatory because you realized that you couldn't move—and Miranda still hadn't moved an inch.

“ Ah, now do I have your full attention?”

The closer you got to Miranda's home the more treacherous the path became and you'd lost sight of the woman flying low above the trees ten minutes ago—or what you thought to be ten minutes, you weren't sure. Your eyes were glued to the ground, keeping a firm but relaxed grip on the reign of your stallion, Bruce, whispering gently to him. Alcina called him a gentle giant and she wasn't exaggerating. The path was narrow and very unkempt but you wouldn't expect Miranda to make things easy, especially access to her private home.

There was a point that you weren't even sure you and Bruce were actually going to make it across but there was no way you could've turned the massive horse around either, forward was the only way and you weren't ashamed to admit that your heart was pounding hard enough to crack bones. The moment you cleared the trees, Miranda's home finally came into view—and you were not disappointed. It was a simple two story cabin practically etched into the mountain and you wanted to know how the hell she managed to get this place on the sliver of rock.

You'd brought Bruce to a stop just as Miranda appeared and landed gracefully on her porch even with her heels on (you caught a glimpse of them earlier when she started flying). From her porch alone, Miranda had a perfect view of everything . The village, the manor sitting on the waterfall, the factory and of course the castle. There was a light blanket of fog obscuring most of the view, but it was still breathtaking all the same.

You dismounted Bruce easily, gently guiding him to the post next to Miranda's porch. You fed him a few sugar cubes, gingerly untangling part of his dark mane and pulling free a few twigs and leaves.

“Further up the path I have there's a stable for him, we can take him later.”

You turned to look at Miranda, finding her standing in the door looking at you, her expression unreadable and you were too tired to try and decipher it. You double checked the post before steeling your nerves and joining her on her porch, it was roomier than it actually looked and you spotted a hammock on the other corner—not the usual netted sort, it looked like a quilt and quite comfortable too.

You followed Miranda inside, shutting out the cold—the interior of Miranda's home had you stock still at the front door with your hand still on the door knob. The space was open, having the living room and the eating area open with no barrier, and you could easily see the kitchen from where you stood. It was...cozy and warm.

“Surprised?” Miranda's voice brought your eyes to where she was, now half way up the stairs behind the kitchen wall, she wore a soft smile, the front of her robes already opened (you didn't even realize the fucking thing even had a zipper), revealing the slacks and blouse she wore underneath, “Did you expect me to live in a cave?”

“I expected you to at least have a TV.”

Miranda smirked but it didn't reach her eyes, “Are you going to stand there bitching about the lack of media corruption or do you want that shower?”

Your hand finally relaxed off of the door knob, the light throbbing resulting in just how hard you were holding the poor thing. You kicked off your boots at the door—they were covered in mud, snow and probably horse shit at some point, they were filthy. And the last thing you wanted to do was dirty up Miranda's wood floors.

She waited until you were on the stairs to continue up herself while slipping her robe from her shoulders and casually throwing it over her arm as if it were just a towel. “There are only three rooms on this floor. My own, the guest room and the bathroom.”

You raised an eyebrow, “One bathroom?”

“I don't exactly keep guests, dear.”

“So then why the extra bedroom?” you were being a shit, you knew it, but you couldn't help it—Miranda made it easy for you to tease her sometimes (all the time). You wanted to be more bothered over how easy it was for you to fall back into old habits with this woman.

“The longer you stand there being an idiot, the colder your water gets.”

You raised your hands slightly, moving past her towards the door she pointed to, flipping on the light—it was roomier than you expected it to be, dark and a bit modern but Miranda somehow still managed to keep it grand and medieval. The floor was made of stone, there was a grand shower with a curved glass door and next to it was a bear claw of a tub, melded into the floor like it was a hot spring. Across the floor was a single sink and a mirror, and next to it a door where you assumed you'd find the towels and toiletries. Just past the tub, was the toilet though there was a half wall there to offer some privacy and you spotted your backpack sitting on top of it neatly and that finally gave you pause.

“Figured you didn't want to walk around naked or wearing any of my clothes.”

You hadn't even noticed that you had actually walked into the bathroom, admiring it's simple yet beautiful décor or that Miranda followed you in until the shower sprung to life next to you.

She smiled at you apologetically, not having meant to startle you—but seeing you so easily bothered helped put her at ease. Miranda was good at hiding it, but she was quite nervous. Having you so near and so far from her at the same time in the comfort of her own home, her sanctuary—none of the other Lord's knew where she lived, they probably thought she lived in a cave or a nest or something. You were Miranda's first house guest since she arrived in this village.

She closed the shower door, watching you open your backpack—checking through it, and she couldn't stop the small smile from forming after you smirked, realizing that you were still without your weapons. But you didn't make a comment on it, instead beginning to pull out the things that you needed—until you realized that she was still in the room as well.

You raised an eyebrow at Miranda, and her smile only grew but the blonde simply shrugged her wings and tucked her wings tighter to her back as she exited the room, “I'll be downstairs when you're finished...”

“Miranda—”

She paused and you froze, fuck, why did you do that? You hadn't meant to call out to her, but your mouth was faster than your brain sometimes and now she was looking at you expectantly and all you could do was stare at her like a jackass. There was so much, too much, that you wanted to say but where could you even start? Why were you getting this courage in the fucking bathroom of all places?

“Downstairs.” She reminded you gently when the silence stretched too long—you had panicked and she saw that, and instead of jumping on you like the predator you knew that she was fully capable of being—she left you alone to your thoughts and the hot water steaming the room, calling your name. It was a welcome distraction even if it wouldn't be a forever one.

“Being immortal really is overrated.”

Miranda didn't go downstairs immediately, instead making a beeline for her bedroom and closed the door behind her but left it ajar enough for her to still hear you in the bathroom. Miranda carefully hung up her 'Mother Miranda' robe and began stripping out of the clothes she's been wearing for the past two days along with her rings; finally taking off the crown of Mother and just becoming Miranda with every stitch of clothing she removed from her flawless skin.

Standing naked in front of her full-length mirror, Miranda whispered a delicate but very familiar spell she's known since she was a small child and she winced quietly as her wings folded back into her body for the next six or seven hours. The spell wasn't forever but Miranda often used it when she was home to avoid breaking her things as she often did if she let her wings remain as they were, they often got restless if she stayed home and still too long so she just opted for putting them away to save herself the trouble. And money.

When the last two smaller ones on her lower back finally retreated into her skin, Miranda rolled her shoulders to pop out the kinks. She got dressed in a pair of washed out pants and a v-neck shirt, and at the last minute Miranda threw on her dark wool cardigan before heading back downstairs but not before pausing outside of the bathroom door. She heard you humming over the shower and though she didn't recognize the song, it still made her smile.

Suddenly feeling like a creeper, Miranda moved away from the door and went downstairs to start on the coffee she was craving earlier. She got her fireplace going but that all took less than ten minutes and now she found herself back in her kitchen, pulling ingredients from her refrigerator to give her something to do besides fret.

“ You shouldn't be so comfortable with your champion, in public.” Fritjof complained for the thousandth time in her ear—he was one of her primary advisors, having been employed by her late husband, the former King. He was always a bit of an annoyance, but he often proved himself useful and unwittingly saved his own life time to time from Miranda's ire.

“ I was only congratulating her on another victorious raid on a neighboring kingdom that thought it wise to steal from us, or have you forgotten that little fact, Fritjof?”

He frowned, not liking her tone but he quickly corrected his features knowing that they were still in the halls on their way to the Queen's study, but there were still eyes on them, “I...yes, but it sends the wrong message when you send a blood wolf to handle this kingdoms affairs instead of your loyal officers! You make us all look weak!”

Miranda stopped walking, and whirled around on Fritjof, her coat wrapping around her leather clad legs as she did so, and the frail man jumped back a step, knowing that he overstepped a line severely, “A-apologies—”

“ You will apologize with your tongue!” Miranda hissed, “Though I'm sure (Y/n) would rather have your head for all the times you've questioned her loyalty to this kingdom! We're coming up on eight years, Fritjof, and (Y/n) has helped this kingdom prosper more than you ever could've in your twenty years with my late husband.” Miranda sneered dangerously, edging closer to him and the terrified man could only back up into the table, knocking over a vase but Miranda paid it no mind, “One more word about this and I will have you removed. Permanently.”

Fritjof swallowed harshly, beads of sweat forming at his hairline and rolling down his face, and Miranda's sneer deepened in disgust, “Please, your highness, I'm only looking out for the future of the kingdom! It—it needs an heir and a King! The other kingdoms will never recognize your power without either—” his words were cut off when Miranda struck him down, a single line of blood staining a portrait on the wall behind him. Miranda struck faster than he could react and Fritjof cried out in pain, alerting the guards who came running but stopped when they saw their Sovereign standing over the slimy advisor holding part of his face, blood starting to seep through his fingers.

“ For every brilliant woman, there's always a stupid man thing to be found.” Miranda stepped over his pathetic body and continued on her way, rolling her shoulders back when her back began to twinge in response to her high and irritated emotions, and she needed release. “Get him out of my sight and find my champion; send her to me when you do.”

“ Yes, my Queen.” They both replied, one of them roughly hauling Fritjof to his feet and pushing him forward, but not before the man could cast one last glance at Miranda's retreating back until he was shoved forward. “Move!”

The cabin was filled with the aroma of sweet bread and coffee and your stomach was growling something vicious halfway down the stairs after you put your back in the guest room. Miranda had her back to you and you took the moment to stop at the bottom of the stairs to just observe her. The very first thing you noticed was that her wings were gone and she was more relaxed—it probably had a lot to do with her being in her own home, and it was starting to make more sense why she wanted to be in the comfort of her own home for this conversation. Though her argument for privacy was valid as well.

Your eyes flickered around the open space, spotting something tucked in the corner of the living room and scoffed without meaning to and alerting Miranda of your presence, if she wasn't already. She turned from her task of fixing you both something to eat to watch you walk across the room to where the object of your interest lay with a carefully crafted expression.

“Didn't take you for owning a rifle.”

“It's ten years old, I believe.” Miranda hummed quietly, dusting off her hands before taking down a couple of plates from the cabinet above the stove. You looked at her when she didn't elaborate, really curious now.

“It's in pretty good condition, really beautiful...where did you get it?” you checked the clip and saw that there were exactly ten rounds in there. When Miranda didn't answer you immediately, you found her watching you.

“It's not mine.” Miranda set the plates at the small eating table that could easily seat two other people, “I took it from a witch hunter as he was so kind to come all this way to visit. He tried to kill me in my sleep like a coward. He intrudes upon my home and couldn't be bothered to give me an honorable death. The audacity of men certainly hasn't changed over the years.”

Her tone was not lost on you and you knew that the witch hunter was long dead. You traced the steel design grip, impressed at the detail—and distracted.

“Oh, so now you hate men?” Ah... and once again your mouth was faster than your brain could process, and just like that her eyes were on your back—you felt it.

“I've always hated men, (Y/n). I...” she sighed harshly, her eyes turning into a glare, “Stop doing that, you don't have the entire story so if you're done being an ass and running from this conversation—I would really like to clear the air between us so we can move on from this.”

“You mean your truth that you want me to hear so badly?” You chuckled though it lacked any amusement. You set the rifle down, finally giving her your full attention then sighed heavily—a sudden exhaustion falling over you, “Would it really matter at this point, Miranda? It happened centuries ago...we both moved on, why do you want to drudge this back up?”

“Why don't you?” Miranda moved around the table, the coffee and snack forgotten in the moment, but she didn't try to approach you, “I'm not the only one who was in the wrong, (Y/n).”

“Do you think I cared about your status when I found out the woman I loved married a man behind my back and didn't even fucking tell me! I had to find out in the middle of that stupid ball you wanted to throw so bad after we invaded those rebellion villages. I gave you everything and you betrayed me . I crossed lines for you, Miranda. I thought that would warrant enough decency to be honest with me. I-”

You stopped, your face was hot and you exhaled heavily—doing your best not to sniffle, you hated that you were the type to fucking cry when your emotions bubbled to the surface too fast. Especially when the topic is something you've buried long deep in the dark corners of your mind with no hope for daylight again. You just never thought you'd bump into your past like this. And it's been years since you've had to deal with anything on a personal level after your last child passed away fifty years ago at the tender age of eighty-six.

Miranda saw the emotions playing across your face with a frown but otherwise her own emotions were carefully hidden, she was always better at that than you were, and inched closer, “(Y/n)...”

“We've both obviously lived with this hurt and came out fine,” you cut her off, not looking at her but instead at your bare toes with your hands back in your pockets, “What's closure gonna do besides bring up old hurt?”

“No, that's not it at all, I just...” Miranda coughed lightly and cleared her throat,—your question was valid as she's asked herself this many times before, asking herself why she didn't just let you go in the forest—she could've let you go and saved you both from this reopened wound. But she didn't because she couldn't and Miranda wouldn't apologize for it. Because she's always been a selfish woman, and one of her most selfish needs—even when she first laid eyes on you—she knew that you were hers. That never changed, time could never take that away from her.

“This life is long and lonely, (Y/n)...and I've made many mistakes, most I will never have a chance to atone for...and when I saw you,” Miranda looked into your eyes and bit her bottom lip, you weren't even looking at her anymore, “I've lost so much in this life, and I refused to lose you a second time. The first time I was...I was corrupted with greed and power, but I was stupid and it cost me everything too, (Y/n).”

You looked up, surprised by her words, “He took your kingdom from you, didn't he?”

“ You!” Miranda moved closer, though you hardly noticed because you were focused on her eyes that were duller than they were down in the village but just as clear, bright and brimming with tears, “He took you from me. He took us away from each other, (Y/n). I'm not innocent in it either, I...I could've done something about it, but I didn't and it was the biggest mistake I could've made in my entire existence. And I think about it more than I care to admit, I think about you...wondering what sort of life we could've shared together had I made better choices. I'm...I'm sorry, (Y/n).”

Miranda was close enough to touch you now, and this time she didn't hesitate nor did you pull away when both of her hands cupped your cheeks, making you shiver. “Miranda...”

Miranda's hands tightened on your face, obviously thinking you were about to argue again but you were tired of arguing with her, over this...before she could speak, you took Miranda by surprise and pulled her into a tight embrace, both of your arms around her waist and you caught her when her entire body sagged in your arms. You had no idea what was going to happen after this, but that little piece of you that longed for the closure you never got...began to grow.

“I'll stay.”

#resident evil miranda x reader #resident evil village #resident evil 8 #mother miranda x reader #mother miranda #assassins creed odyssey

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twiceasfrustrating · 3 years

Text

Absolutely Nothing

I said I wouldn't post my new fic until after SWBQ is done, but I want to begin posting it before S4 drops. It won't update consistently atm, but it's there... I will only be posting the first two chapters to Tumblr. Everything else is going on AO3 because Tumblr is not longfic friendly.

Rating: Teen and Up

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!

Characters: Main Character, Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon, Luke, Solomon, Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Original Angel Character(s)

Additional Tags: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, War, Trauma, Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Canon is like a vampire, it can't enter this house unless I let it, Emotional Baggage, Lies, Manipulation, Ships not intended but I'm not stopping you

Summary: War is not unknown to the three realms, but that does not make them any less a tragedy of strategy. Though relations between the three have never been favorable, they have never truly gone to battle with each other. At least, not until now. The heavens have been planning for a long time and have finally decided to execute their machinations. Now it is time to see how every piece will play out this bloody battle.

A/N: These tags are for the overarching fic, not the first two chapters. Only Lucifer, Simeon, Micheal, and Gabriel show up in the first two chapters.

Chapter 1: I Will Not Go With You

“We’re heading for a war,” Lucifer warned, “and I want you to come with me.”

Simeon solemnly blinked a few times before closing his eyes. The weight of the choices laid before him pricked at the edges of his mind. He’d known this was coming. He’d known for a long time that this question would eventually be asked of him and for just as long he’d known what his answer would be, “I must decline.”

“Why?” Lucifer spat out, “Simeon, you have to know what’s about to happen. If we don’t fight then Lilith-”

“I am not stopping you from this rebellion.” He opened his eyes and looked to the pages stacked neatly in the corner of his desk, carefully flipping through the avalanche of writings he’d collected over the years. Somewhere, buried deep in the pile, he vaguely recalled his moment; where his brother would ask him to do the impossible. He’d hidden it away from prying eyes, afraid that others would find it and interpret it as he had. Though, even if they had read it and understood what the contents were, it was nigh impossible to change the events that were foretold.

He pulled the page from the pile, taking care so the others above it would not collapse onto the delicately inlaid wood of his desk, and perused the contents held within. The paper was so old that it had begun to grow fragile to the touch and discolor at the edges. Simeon desperately wished that time had chosen not to show its touch on this particular relic he would rather have forgotten about. It was frightening how long he’d known about this day and he would rather pretend he was shocked when Lucifer had come to him. Sometimes, having a glimpse into what would eventually be was a cruel reality.

That brother, who would come in need of his fellow, will find no quarter. So shall he return with hands left empty, but convictions emboldened by the forge of his stature. He shall take with him those who share his resolve and lead them to where metal sings and cries. Blood shall be shed but on one side, though the cost of the blood spilled shall

It was an old, short paragraph he wished he could forget. Though he could never truly put it out of his mind, because he knew it was left unfinished and his mind and pen longed to see the end of the story. However, his heart and will would prefer not to know every detail of this particular future. For so long, he’d clung to that final shall and hoped that not knowing the entirety of the story would somehow keep it from unfolding. However, his pen only put the stories to page. He was not responsible for the events that inspired him to write.

“You will have to make do with those who are already on your side. No one else will turn their back on Father for your cause.” It was the only warning he could give. In those words he hid the message that Lucifer should tell no one else. If war was approaching, then it was better he have the element of surprise.

Lucifer could only stare at him in disbelief, “Is that your answer?”

“It always was.” He placed the paper face down atop the pile, “I cannot aid you in this, Lucifer.”

“Then you would fight against me? You would condemn Lilith in the same way as our Father?” His voice shook, the rage building inside of him clearly beginning to boil over even as he tried to contain it.

“I will not betray my family.” Simeon’s face remained unchanged as he pushed his chair away from the desk and rose to his feet. Despite the malicious aura that began to circle around his fellow Seraphim, he approached with an unguarded stance until they were only an arm’s reach away from one another. No matter how upset Lucifer may become, Simeon would not fear him. Though, he did fear *for* him, “You and she are still of my kind and that means I will not meet you on the battlefield.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened at the declaration. This time, it was his turn to fear for the other, “You can’t stay out of this. You know they won’t allow you.” If he did try to remain on the sidelines, Simeon would still be seen as a traitor. Not in the same vein as him and his siblings, but a traitor nonetheless, “I won’t ask you to fight if you really refuse to lift your blade, but you can’t stay here.”

“As much as you and Lilith are my family, so are Micheal, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel. I cannot leave them.”

“Simeon…”

Simeon’s lips pulled back into a smile and he let out the shortest of laughs, “You worry far too much, Lucy. You are aware that I am still a Seraphim, are you not? Even if I do not step onto the battlefield, I do not believe I am in nearly as much danger as you are putting yourself in.” He wanted to reach out and touch his brother one last time as the fear of the unknown overtook him, but he kept his hand within his own space. He did not know what would happen at the end of all of this, but he knew it would not be the same and reaching out to hold onto what they had would only pain them both.

Lucifer looked over the other angel’s shoulder, toward the pile of papers where Simeon had placed one face down. Countless writings that revealed the future to their author and Lucifer did not envy that gift. Others often wished to know what would be, but he had seen far too many times the burden placed on Simeon for having such a skill; the amount of times he had been made to see both grace and tragedy was carved on his face, just behind that smile. That is why, despite knowing that whatever was on that page was related to this very discussion and his ultimate goal, he would not pry. It was not as if knowing the future allowed it to be changed anyway.

“We’ll still be on opposing sides, you know?” No matter how much Simeon proclaimed not to betray his family, that was an unavoidable truth.

He nodded, “I am aware.”

“And you refuse to go against your family?”

This time his confirmation was wordless.

Lucifer took in a deep breath, “Then once the battle begins, I believe we can hardly be considered family anymore.”

Large blue eyes shot up to look at his pale face. It seemed that Lucifer had said something Simeon hadn’t expected, “What?”

“You will not betray your family, but you know they will not allow you to remain neutral in this. As soon as the drums of war beat, it is fine to stop thinking of me as your brother.”

There was a long moment of silence before Simeon could reply, “You cannot ask me that.”

“I am not asking. I am stating a truth,” one that would hopefully allow Simeon a way to follow his morals and gain some leniency if he continued to insist on this path, “I refuse to be your brother from that moment on.”

“Please... you cannot ask that of me.”

“I am not asking anything of you. I am simply stating where we will stand.” And now he needed to leave before the hurt welling in Simeon’s eyes tugged at his heart anymore and shattered his resolve.

He dipped his head in a polite bow, “Thank you for your time, Simeon. I do hope we may speak like this again.” He turned on his heels, refusing to truly look at the other angel again. His only goal was the door, where he opened it wide and stepped through the threshold.

“Lucifer! Wait!”

It took far more will than Lucifer would ever care to admit as he shut the door behind him without saying another word, and even more to walk away.

-----------------------

Chapter 2: Traitor

“How long have you known?” Micheal nearly growled as he stared down Simeon where he kneeled. His pale blue eyes ran wild with rage and it was clear he was just barely holding himself together. That was to be expected after everything he had just been through. Lucifer was unapologetically his favorite brother so it was unimaginable the distress he was in right now as he came to terms with having lost a member of his family. They had been like two halves of a whole, and now they were fractured.

“How long have I known what?” Simeon asked, feigning ignorance.

“That Lucifer would lead a rebellion against Father!” Micheal’s voice raised so loud that the room literally shook around him.

“Calm yourself, Micheal,” a melodious voice shushed him and lithe hands rested on his shoulders to hold him steady, “We’ve lost enough of our siblings today. There is no reason to lose yourself and risk losing another.”

“You would call him our brother after that disgraceful scene, Gabriel?” The disgust in his voice was clear and overwhelming, “He knew this would happen and refused to warn us or lift a finger. Everything we lost today is because of him.” Simeon had to know about today. He was blessed with the gift of prophecy and spent his time writing what was to come. If he had simply shared whatever he knew about today, Micheal knows they could have prevented the rebellion. He knows that he could have convinced Lucifer to stay somehow. Instead, he was left to face his own brother on the battlefield. He could still recall the cold eyes Lucifer had looked at him with as if they barely knew one another. That sight would never leave the darkest parts of his mind.

“You are blinded by your pain, Micheal.” She removed her hand from his shoulders and moved to stand over Simeon, “He is clearly as much our brother as ever. If he were against us he would have joined Lucifer, but Father has deemed that he is still worthy of his halo. Is that not enough for you?”

Micheal chuckled darkly before answering, “Uriel nearly lost an arm and he’s one of the lucky ones.” Even with so few numbers on their side, the rebellion had a gifted Dominion that made the most of their small force.

“And everyone harmed will heal, but we gain nothing in dividing ourselves further, and our brother has already been punished for his transgressions.” She took a knee before Simeon, reaching out her hand and running her fingers through his silken hair, “Will you not put our brother’s worries at ease, Simeon?”

Simeon knew the threat in those words. As kind as Gabriel pretended to be, she was someone he feared far more than Micheal. Not because she was stronger, but because she knew exactly how to most hurt those who upset her. As such, he had no interest in declining her wish, even if what she was asking for was for him to show his shame.

He took a deep breath before unfurling his wings behind him. They shimmered golden in the neverending light of the Celestial Realm, a blessing bestowed upon him by their Father that reflected his very essence. Every angel had such a blessing; different colors, shapes, a range of sizes, and lays of their feathers all differed from angel to angel all dependent on their Father’s grace. That included how high in their Father’s favor they were, and it was obvious at a glance just how out of favor Simeon had fallen. His six beautiful wings, the blessing afforded to all Seraphim, had been reduced to a simple two.

Gabriel’s eyes filled with pity for him but Micheal’s face twisted in glee and disdain, “Is that all? You betray us and all Father does is reduce your rank.” The laugh that left his throat was so dry that it sounded like it hurt, “You must really be beloved to get off with such a light sentence.” If it was up to Micheal himself, Simeon would face the same punishment as Lilith.

“Still your anger, Micheal. As you can see, Father has spoken.” She raised to her feet once more, her nails pulling painfully at Simeon’s hair as she stepped away from him, “Simeon is still of our kind and as one of our subordinates it is our duty to shepherd him.”

A wicked smile crossed Micheal’s face as he continued to look down on Simeon and his now unsightly form that marked his betrayal, “You may be correct, Gabriel. It is only right that we guide lost sheep, especially those of our own flock.”

#obey me #Absolutely Nothing #mine #obey me simeon #obey me lucifer #hosted on AO3 #obey me michael #obey me raphael #original character

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hiddendreamer67 · 4 years

Text

Chasing the Captain

Here’s a piece set in the mer au au (or reverse mer au) made by the talented @voidsides. Roman is a merman prince who has fallen desperately in love with pirate captain Virgil, who he follows around constantly trying to woo his grumpy human crush.

Read more of my work at @hiddendreamerwriting!

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Captain Virgil stood aboard his ship, gazing out at the waves as the vessel continued to cross the sea. Such a vast, unforgiving landscape, the ocean- Virgil could stare into its depths for ages, knowing that a single storm could bring him plummeting into its unforgiving murky secrets. It gave him a strange sort of chill, bringing his life up to the edge and spitting in destiny’s face instead, riding along the waves like a tamed wild steed. Sometimes it felt as though he could speak to the sea itself, whispering for him to jump in and the horrible consequences that would befall him below…

And sometimes, the sea did more than whisper.

“Cap’n, it’s back.” A crew member jutted his thumb towards the hull of the ship. Virgil groaned, already hearing that melodious voice as he approached.

“Oh Captain my captain, your ship may be steady in her course but I am more so!”

Virgil huffed, rolling his eyes as he stepped up to peer over the rail. There, following the ship diligently was that same dreaded mer folk. Ruby red scales sparkling in the setting sun, the creature looked almost out of breath but was attempting to hide this with a dazzling smile.

“I thought we lost you in the storm.” Virgil drawled, sounding almost disappointed. It had been a blessed few days of silence.

“Captain, a pleasure it is to see you as well!” The mer lit up at the sight of Virgil, completely ignoring the captain’s statement. “Don’t you look ravishing this fine evening, care for a dip?”

Virgil flipped him off.

“Ah, I see your manners are as lovely as ever.” The creature appeared a bit peeved, but a simple hand gesture wouldn’t deter him. If it would, Virgil would have seen the beast off a hundred times over. “Perhaps a song will lighten your spirits~”

“Fuck off, siren.” Virgil called out to him. Once upon a time, Virgil believed this creature to truly be a siren, a being of the sea that enchanted sailors to sink to their doom. Now Virgil wasn’t so sure, as to be around a siren for this long should’ve meant the death of his entire crew; either this was a very incompetent siren, or a very stubborn and foolish mer folk.

And given Virgil has had the pleasure of hearing the creature sing, he knew it was the latter.

Just as promised, the mer began to hum, easily picking a tune out of the air. Virgil grimaced, turning away from the rail and heading towards his quarters before the song could lure him into a false sense of security.

“Oh, ‘tis the pearl one.” One deckhand commented. “That’s me favorite, tha’ is.”

“Bet he’d love if you told it so.” The other teased.

Virgil groaned, turning to the pair with a scowl. “Don’t encourage it. I forbid you.”

“Oh Cap’n, wouldn’t matter if we said nothin’.” The first assured him. “Tha’ creature has eyes only for yourself.”

Virgil flushed, steadfastly ignoring how the man’s implications made him feel a strange hum in his chest. “Ridiculous.” He scoffed, slamming his door shut before he could be hackled further.

Unfortunately, there was some truth to his men’s words. For whatever reason, this beast had chosen Virgil and would accept no other. Virgil had tried every trick in the book to avoid the mer, short of retiring to land. He boarded a new ship. He sailed new waters. He holed up in his quarters. No matter what maneuvers Virgil tried, within a matter of time the mer would always, always return, and not leave until Virgil had interacted with it.

In the beginning, the very idea of such a curse terrified Virgil. What could the siren possibly want? How long until Virgil was inevitably drowned like all the countless tales? Why was Virgil singled out above all others? But as time passed… for whatever reason, Virgil’s fears morphed into a more quiet curiosity. For whatever reason, the creature seemed to mean him no harm.

So what did it want with him?

Virgil sighed, once again looking out his porthole window at the dark frothy waves. The sun had set some time ago, giving the waters an even more ominous ambience. The singing, now that Virgil was focusing on it, had ended some time ago. Virgil paused, surprised to see the mer was not pressed up against the glass as he was wont to do. Perhaps the last time Virgil had scolded him about “freaking PRIVACY-” had finally gotten through his thick skull.

(It had been rather alarming to find eyes peering in from the murky depths when he was changing. At least the creature had the decency to be sheepish as well.)

Virgil hummed for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk. Begrudgingly realizing he wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing if the mer was truly gone, Virgil grabbed a tankard and headed up to the deck.

The captain headed back to the hull of the ship, peering into the path they carved in the ocean. No eyes peered back at him. He took a swig of his rum, slowly circling the length of the ship and examining the waves. No sign of his mer anywhere.

Why was he disappointed?

Virgil sighed, nursing his drink as he attempted to sort out his thoughts. What did he care if the sea serpent wanted to leave? He didn’t care.

Virgil winced, knowing his words were both harsh and pathetic. It wasn’t right to call him a serpent, not when he had done nothing but try to earn Virgil’s trust. Not when he had a name.

Virgil sighed again, placing his head in his hand. “Oh, Roman…”

“You remembered!”

The captain jolted, so lost in his thoughts (and his drink) that he had failed to notice the mer slinking up in the waves. And now Roman was properly grinning, his teeth on full display as he was clearly delighted both at Virgil’s statement and catching the captain unawares.

Virgil huffed, immediately sinking back into his grouchy demeanor and pushing the warm feeling from Roman’s arrival deep down. Deeper than all the oceans combined. “How could I forget? You won’t stop singing your own praises.”

“Well, I would sing yours.” Roman assured him, leaning his arms on the rail a few paces away. He had learned at sword point to give Virgil personal space. “But you’ve refused to give me your name.”

“Hmm.” Virgil just shrugged, taking another sip of his drink.

Roman rolled his eyes, pushing his dripping locks out of his face. “So mysterious. Dark and brooding only keeps a man’s interest for so long, you know. However I am becoming increasingly interested in why you chose to call out to me- does the heart grow fonder, I sense?”

“In your dreams, princey.” Virgil chuckled. Despite his thoughts dwindling on the mer beside him, his gaze was fixed solely on the sea in an almost unfocused trance.

“A sand dollar for your thoughts?” Roman tilted his head.

Virgil paused, debating whether he should tell Roman what was truly on his mind. It was a dangerous game, one that would admit to Roman’s slow siren games working.

“What would…” Virgil paused, refusing to meet Roman’s gaze. He almost didn’t want to know the answer if the darker truths were correct. What would happen if I joined you? Virgil shuddered, watching the waters churn a bit more dangerously. The sea, dangerous mistress she was, would not be so kind to a landlubber like himself.

“What do you want with me?” Virgil murmured. “You’re always going on about how you’re so enamored with me, and you keep trying to get me to jump overboard but- but why?! What could you hope to gain? Stringing me along for the ride, playing your twisted games-”

“What?!” Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil saw Roman’s eyes go wide as saucers. “My captain, my tempter, my beautiful anxious two-legged fool… do you really think so lowly of me? Are my affections all some ploy to you?”

Virgil winced, turning to face Roman fully. He expected the mer to look outraged, insulted even. What he didn’t expect was the pained pleading expression he got in return.

“It’s not so difficult a notion.” Virgil shrugged, hiding his shame behind the lip of his mug. “You have been hunting me for ages.”

Roman let out an offended gasp. “Hunting- how barbaric a notion! Courting, I’ve been courting you, my insufferable flame.”

Virgil all but choked on his drink.

“Or trying, at the very least.” Despite his bold words, Roman had gone rather red in the face as well. “A-and you should count yourself lucky that I continue to try! You haven’t exactly made yourself easy to woo.”

Virgil coughed down some more liquor, needing the liquid courage to get through this conversation. He coughed again, trying to regain his composure. “So- I ask again, why? Why keep ‘courting’ me-” Virgil found a sour taste on his tongue at such an outdated phrase- “if all I do is push you away? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Roman’s tail agitated the water, a sign Virgil had learned meant the mer was feeling uncertain. It was a more common sight than the mer would ever admit. “I… surely you don’t mean that, do you?”

Virgil just raised an eyebrow, challenging him.

“I think of this as a game, I suppose, it’s true.” Roman admitted, his fingers trailing down into the water with an outstretched hand. “But I thought you were playing along. I guess a part of me always suspected that was just my wild fantasies, though.”

“Oh?” Virgil frowned.

“Why, you must think me terribly annoying.” Roman’s ear flaps flattened to his head as the mer sunk further down. “Perhaps I was the only one who… I wanted to be wanted. Is that so terrible? To imagine a smirk upon your features every time I surfaced? I know you slow the boat down when I’ve been missing, giving me the chance to catch up.”

“I do no such thing.” Virgil lied through his teeth.

Roman sunk further, clearly too stuck in his own gloomy thoughts to catch wind of Virgil’s terrible lie. He met the captain’s gaze, looking pitifully pathetic.

“If you truly want me to go, I’ll go.” Roman spoke softly. Virgil sucked in a breath. “I won’t chase you down any longer. You’ll be free of me. Is that what you wish?”

Virgil stared at him for a very long time, gazing deep into those beautiful brown eyes. He only found sincerity in their depths. Now was his chance to get rid of this mer once and for all; if he told Roman to go, he would never see the mer again.

“...no.” Virgil sighed. “That’s not what I want.”

It was quiet for a moment, only the rippling of the waves to be heard. And then, Roman leaned over and punched Virgil in the arm.

“Ow!” Virgil looked at him aghast, surprised by Roman’s strength. “What’s that about?”

“You jerk!” Roman hissed. “You rotten fiend-”

“What happened to oh captain, my captain-?”

“How dare you play with my heart like that!” Roman’s lip went out in the most adorable pout. “You made me actually doubt for a moment, thinking I had been nothing more than a burden to you all this time, wasting my best years on someone who didn’t care.”

Virgil had been teasing at first, wanting to rile up the fish to see what happened; he never meant to make Roman truly upset. “You’re right, that was cruel of me.”

“Hmph.” Roman turned away from him.

Virgil smirked, feeling more than a little emboldened by his booze. “Can I make it up to you with a gift?”

Roman’s ear flaps twitched, the mer sending him a glance. He gave Virgil a coy smile, poorly hiding his genuine excitement. “For moi?”

“Yup.” Virgil leaned closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “Virgil.” He leaned back, letting out a loud laugh at Roman’s befuddled expression. He took another swig of his drink, turning to head in for the night. “Wha- what does ‘Virgil’ mean?” Roman desperately asked.

“It’s my name, dumbass!” Virgil laughed over his shoulder. He turned back just long enough to drink in the look on Roman’s face, giving the shocked mer a hearty salute before closing his door.

The next morning, Virgil awoke with a pounding headache. He groaned, trying to stave off his hangover with some water as he headed to the deck. It didn’t help that every crew member he passed kept giving him a knowing smirk.

“Have a pleasant eve, Cap’n?” The deckhand asked, Virgil’s head tilted to take in the melody rising from the ocean. He groaned when he heard the words.

~ Arise my sweet Virgil,the pearl of the sea~

~Oh Virgil, my Virgil, forever we’ll be~

All variations of his usual songs, inserting Virgil’s name in as many places as possible. Clearly Roman had enjoyed his gift, no matter how much Virgil was beginning to regret it.

“And this is why you don’t talk to sirens, lads.” Virgil shook his head, muttering under his breath and refusing to head to that side of the ship as his cheeks turned scarlet. “Feed scraps to a hound and it will follow you to the end of your days.”

“Aye, and what a pup you’ve fed.” The lookout chuckled, gazing through an eyeglass back at the mer.

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certifiedskywalker · 5 years

Text

Your Gentle Touch - Dyn Jarren (The Mandalorian)

books-with-tea-with-a-record-on said:

Sorry if request aren't open but if they are may I have one with The Mandalorian with a s/o whos not a fighter but a healer/nurse and she's very sweet and motherly and one day he sees her with baby yoda and is like "crap I love her". And one day they get ambushed and he tells her to go hide but she sees baby yoda in danger and risk her life for him and gets injured and after the fight, he runs over to her and helps her up and confess how he loves her and never been so scared before.

Dyn is forgetting his old ways but, with clear eyes, he finds something he didn’t know that he was missing out on.

Dyn Jarren was not a true-born Mandalorian despite living the earliest days of his young life within the Mandalore system. He had lived on the outskirts, on a planet tuck behind an atmosphere of Imperial pollution and asteroids. Once the Trade Federation brought the war to his home, Dyn fell into the Mandalorian’s arms. They took him in without hesitation. They raised him; they trained him; they even tried to teach him their native tongue, Mando’a. While most of the intricate sounds and words of the language were lost to him, Dyn was pleased to have been taught.

Above all, the Mandalorians gave Dyn a semblance of belonging to something greater when he had virtually nothing.

As grateful as he was to the Mandalorians for giving him shelter, Dyn had found something better. He had found a family. Family was something he thought he had lost, something that he could never truly build for himself. The last time he had a family, they died. His mother and father had been cannon fodder towards the war. His parents, his innocence, had been an easy price to pay for cruelty; but, now, looking at the sight before him, Dyn Jarren was pleased he wasn’t a full-blooded Mandalorian.

If he had been born into their warrior culture, Dyn imagined that he would have never found this his new family. That thought alone was enough to make the bounty hunter shudder.

“Not all at once! Take little bites!”

Dyn cocked his head to the side as you instructed the Child. His small green hands were wrapped tightly around the hunk of ration bread you had given him. Part of the portion was already in his small mouth. Happily, the Child gurgled and bits of bread flew from its lips. Dyn heard your laugh, in all of its pure lightness, and smiled from beneath his helmet.

“You might choke,” you managed to get out through giggles.

The Child, seemingly unaware at the possibility, proceeded to swallow the rest of the ration bread. The creature swallowed, a horribly loud sound, and let out a little belch.

“Feel better?” Dyn felt his chest ache at the teasing in your voice and he wasn’t the one you were talking to. The Child gurgled and you, with more grace than Dyn had ever seen in his entire lifetime, scooped the creature up in your arms. “I bet you do!”

Dyn watched as you made your way towards him. There was a tender smile on your lips that made that ache in his chest return. The dull pain grew worse when you looked up from the Child and met Dyn’s gaze. In your eyes, the bounty hunter saw everything he ever wanted.

“I don’t think we need a trash compactor with this one around,” you joked. Your path had landed you standing right in front of Dyn. Even through the beskar, he could feel your warmth.

“Good to know,” Dyn said softly, almost as if the words were a passing thought. In reality, that was exactly what they were. He was so completely enraptured by you in that moment that everything, including his own body, ceased to exist.

“We could save on some credits with him,” you continued, “but they might go into feeding costs.” The Child chirped and you smiled, turning your gaze back to the green being cradled in your arms. “He likes the sound of that.”

A stint of silence passed with Dyn watching you watch the Child. The tender slope of your cheeks pulled him in. He had to force his hand to be still; he kept his arm at his side despite wanting to reach out to you. It was then when you looked up at him. It was then when you both realized how close you were to each other.

You cleared your throat and took a step back. “He seems healthy; no wounds or bruises. You did a good job getting him out of there.”

Dyn nodded silently, still too caught up in your presence to speak up. He watched you place the Child in the seat he had made while you were checking on the creature’s vitals. It was an ugly thing; the cradle was made of a few boxes and sheets of metal he had bent into shape. The structure would do for now and, for the most part, the Child was safe.

“There we go,” you pet the Child’s head soothingly. “Get some rest. You’ve had a long day.”

The Child, trying to speak in its own language of chitters and chirps, made a series of sounds. Dyn watched as you smiled down at the creature before turning away. The Child’s big, dark eyes followed you as you walked back over towards Dyn.

“You too,” you said as you stood before the bounty hunter. Dyn shifted trying to not lean in close as he had before.

“What?”

“You’ve had a long day too.” Your hands lifted to Dyn’s shoulders and you pressed down on the plates of beskar fastened there. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m fine,” Dyn began to protest. It was a feeble, half-hearted attempt to stop you; and when you continued to push Dyn into the nearby chair, he didn’t fight back. You were right, after all. It had been a long day and there wasn’t enough strength left in him to combat his longing.

Once he was seated, you wandered back to the cot where you had checked on the Child’s life signatures. Dyn watched as you gathered your medical supplies. When you had all the bacta patches you could carry, you started to make your way back to him. Quietly, you set to work sorting your tools and preparing gauze. After you spread out a large section of heavy fabric, you turned back to Dyn.

A silent question, a question Dyn had heard you ask before, was balanced on your lips. Knowing well what it was, Dyn began to unfasten pieces of his armor. Even within the context of a medical check-up, removing the beskar was an intimate process. Carefully, you would take each portion of armor and set it on top of the heavy fabric you had laid out. The process continued as Dyn removed more and more hunks of metal from his body.

Dyn felt truly exposed. He was left in only his clothing and his helmet, the latter of which he never took off. At least, he never took his helmet off in front of you. No, that would be too much. That would be crossing a line carved in stone; a step that Dyn could not come back from.

To distract himself from the temptation, Dyn watched you as you pulled a seat up for yourself. You were now sitting at his side, careful hands already reaching for his arm. When you hands gripped loosely at his wrist and elbow, Dyn fought the urge to melt under your fingers.

“You fell on this side, right?”

“Y-Yeah.” Dyn had hoped his reply would come out steady. Instead, much like his heart, his voice faltered with you so close in proximity.

“Your arm feels fine,” you gave Dyn’s arm a slight squeeze. “That hurt?”

“No.”

Dyn watched you carefully as you set his arm down to his lap. Each touch was tender, laced with a softness that he had never felt outside of your presence. Nothing had ever felt so comforting to him before. When he met you, when he offered you a spot on the Razor Crest, it was like a new world had been opened to him. A world outside of the Mandalorians training and cold shoulders of the bounty hunting realm.

“May I?”

Your question broke Dyn from his thoughts. His eyes focused on your face than your hand which hovered above his abdomen. Heat emanated from your open palm, warming the flesh of his side even under the shirt. It was as if some unseen force was melding you both to each other; though that wasn’t rational and Dyn blamed his lack of sleep.

He nodded wordlessly and your fingers hooked under the hem of his shirt. Your gentle touch, the barely-there brushing of your fingertips stirred something up in Dyn’s chest. It wasn’t ache from before; no, this was something entirely different.

“It looks like,” you lifted Dyn’s shirt a little higher, “that when you fell...the beskar bruised your side.”

“So much for protection,” Dyn muttered. As he spoke, your hand splayed across his stomach and Dyn had to keep his breath from hitching. Your palm was warm against his skin, soothing in a way his brain failed to comprehend.

“You’re not dead,” you said as you pulled away. “I would rather have you bruised than not have you at all.”

Dyn cocked his head as you lifted yours to meet his gaze. That feeling returned in his chest; that feeling he could not describe. There was not a word in the common language that could label the tickling in his chest and the twisting in his gut. Almost like an echo, a word in Mando’a resounded in his mind: chaab.

Chaab, fear.

“Here’s a cooling bacta for that.” You raised Dyn’s shirt once more and pressed the cold patch against his skin. He watched you work, watched every little movement of your fingers as they hovered above his skin.

Yes, it was chaab. He was feeling fear and it’s tightening grip on his body. Dyn let out a shaking breath as the cold bacta soaked into his skin; at least that was what he blamed it on. He knew it was fear...but what was he afraid of?

“Just rest now,” you sighed. You stood up and wiped your hands on your pants. Dyn’s eyes never left your face. He was still trying to figure it out. Dyn wasn’t scared of you.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the helmet altering his voice in such a way that hid his confusion. You smiled at him and reached to squeeze his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t want you to disappear, would we?”

The feeling returned with a new vengeance. That was what he was afraid of and that was a world without you.

“Well, look who’s callin’ the shots now, Mando!” Toro’s threat fell on deaf ears. All Dyn was focused on was the Child caught in Toro’s arms and you, kneeling on the ground before him. Your cheek was red and swollen, the beginning of a bruise blooming on the side of your face. On pure instinct, Dyn curled his gloved hands into fists.

“Let them go.” Dyn’s voice was steady, much to his own surprise.

“Do you know how much is on your head? I could fund my membership into the Guild and then some!” Toro pointed the blaster in his hand to the Child’s head. Dyn’s heart lurched in his chest and, as he found himself stepping towards them, he saw you. At first, it was a blur. Dyn saw your face then your hair, then a blast.

“Y/N!”

You crumpled to the ground, unmoving and all Dyn felt was that twisting in his gut, how it mingled with a dizzying lightness in his chest. Fear had planted itself firmly in Dyn’s heart when he watched you hit the ground. Everything after that was pure anger.

Dyn didn’t feel himself throw the phaser. The blinding, blinking light did little to hinder his movement. He strode through the light, guided by his instinct and his yearning to find you, to save you; to protect you. But he saw Toro as the younger man regained his vision. Without hesitation, Dyn raised his blaster, aimed at his chest, and fired.

Then, Dyn found you. Smoke, in a small plume, rose up from your chest. Dyn fell to his knees, seemingly not seeing Peli, the engineer working on the Razor Crest, holding the Child in her arms. His sole focus was you; it had been since he met you.

“Y/N.” Carefully, Dyn reached out for your shoulder and turned you on your back. Your body was mostly limp but still warm as your arm fell into his lap. Toro’s blaster bolt had shot through your right shoulder, dangerously close to your neck. “Y/N?”

Your eyes were pressed closed and the rest of your face horribly relaxed, too peaceful for his liking. Fear told Dyn that it was too late for you but some primal part of him, a hopeless ache in his heart, drove him to try. He reached for a pouch attached to his belt and pulled out what medical supplies he had on him. It wasn’t a lot and he was not trained in the art of healing as you were but Dyn tried. He lifted you up, cradled you in his lap and pressed a bacta patch to your wound.

“Y/N...”

Peli had never met a Mandalorian before. She had only heard that they were fearsome warriors, Hell-bent on killing whatever stands in their way. Peli would have never guessed that Mandalorians were capable of such softness as the one before her now. The way he said your name made Peli hurt; the Child seemed to sense that too and let out a whimper.

“Y/N, I need you.”

His voice was trembling as he spoke. Chaab, fear, it gripped Dyn so tightly it was squeezing the air from his lungs. His family was slipping through his fingertips. Dyn did not want to be alone again, he couldn’t. Not after he had a taste of what family could be.

Dyn lifted a hand, trying to be as gentle as you were with him, and traced the side of your face. He began to shift, preparing himself to a new harsh reality that entailed leaving you behind. As he moved, your arm lifted. Weakly, your fingers wrapped around Dyn’s wrist and held his hand to your cheek.

“You need me? Never thought you would admit that.” Despite your teasing, your words came out hoarse. When you fell, the wind had been knocked out of you and your following breaths were incredibly shallow. Dyn tenderly brushed his thumb along your cheek, the on side of your face that wasn’t bruised and battered. Although the sight of your wounds renewed the sense of rage buried in his chest.

“Yeah,” his voice broke but he was too overwhelmed to care.

“Where is he?”

“Dead.” At Dyn’s reply, your eyes widened. “Toro, the Child is fine.”

“Thank the Maker,” you sighed. Wordlessly, Dyn tucked one of his arms under your legs and the other beneath your neck. He scooped you up in his embrace and turned to face Peli. The moment you saw the Child, it was like you had found a second wind. “There you are.”

The Child cooed at the sight of you, reaching out from Peli’s arms and toward your face. The fizzy haired engineer smiled and gingerly set the green creature on your lap. Dyn, whose blood was still pumping wildly, did not flinch at the added weight. If anything, he felt stronger with his new, little family in his arms.

“You take them inside,” Peli began, “pay me later.”

“Thank you,” Dyn said quietly before walking up the ramp and into the Razor Crest.

With each step, the anger left him and he was suddenly tired. Shock and adrenaline were wearing off, leaving Dyn with you in his arms. He would have held you longer if it weren’t for the discomfort spread along your features. Carefully, he set you on top of a storage box. The Child gurgled excitedly with the motion and wiggled in your lap.

When you were sat and steady, Dyn kneeled down in front of you. Still giddy, the Child reached out and slapped his small hands against his helmet. Dyn watched as you pulled the Child back in a restraining manner. Yet, you never scolded the creature.

“We should give Peli more than we owe,” you said seriously, looking into the eyes of Dyn’s helmet. He nodded in agreement, bringing up on of his hands to rest on your knee.

“I will, but you need to tell me what to do.”

“What to do?” Your brows furrowed in confusion and you shook your head. “I’ll be alright, Dyn. It just needs time to heal.”

“I….”

Dyn trailed off, lost in his tangled thoughts. There was too much he wanted to say, too much he needed to tell you. He wanted to speak but the feeling of wetness, tears falling from his eyes, drove him into silence. It was only when you set your hand on top of his that he found a grip in reality for himself.

“What is it?”

Dyn let out a shaking breath, “I was scared….I thought I lost you.”

The words were as unfamiliar to him as the feeling of dread. In his time with the Mandalorians, Dyn had grown around a code that barred the intimacy his words implied. He had taken the title of bounty hunter, as gunslinger, and worn both with pride. Now, he was a mess. His composure, his mask, was failing him and it was all because of you.

“You didn’t,” you whispered, your hand moving to the side of his helmet. “I’m still here. I’m still with you. Bruised, but not dead.”

“Bruised, but not dead,” Dyn echoed. You gave him a half-smile and he felt his chaab melt-away. He would not be scared anymore.

Slowly, he lifted his hands from below his helmet. Your eyes widened and you lips parted, ready to protest. But there was no stopping Dyn when he set his mind to something. Even when that something was blasphemous to others. Before your words could find purchase on your tongue, Dyn’s helmet was on the ground.

There was no hiding, not anymore. He wanted you to see him. He didn’t want fear to control him any longer; Mandalorian customs be damned. You were his family and he needed you to know that he was there for you.

Dyn didn’t care that showing you meant you seeing his red-rimmed eyes or his tear-stained cheeks. You didn’t care either. Instead, you reached and let your trembling hand rest against his cheek. You took in the sight of his messy, dark hair; you met his sharp gaze and deep brown eyes. There was something in his eyes that you had known for years.

“I love you.”

Those were the first words you heard that were said in Dyn’s true voice. Each syllable rang in your ears like a small chime. Dyn did not feel chaab, all he felt was love looking into your eyes for the first time, unhindered by his helmet.

“I love you too,” you replied. Dyn felt his lips pull up in the smallest of smiles and, as if he could sense the joy in the air, the Child chittered. “So does he.”

Dyn looked into the Child’s wide, dark eyes and sighed. “Little womp rat.”

The hand you had rested on his cheek moved and brushed through his dark hair. At your gentle touch, Dyn lifted his gaze to yours once more. In that moment, there was just the three of you, safe and together. Dyn found, in that same moment, that this family was all he would ever need.

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snarkythewoecrow · 3 years

Text

sharing the pain (makes it easier to handle)

By: @snarky-drabbles for @dragonbano as part of the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Rating: T

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, May Parker, Ben Parker, Pepper Potts

Word Count: 6,600

Summary:

Peter grew up with a soulmate, knowing them from the start. Tony did not. They each live their lives, never crossing paths until the day they do. Soulmates share pain and sensation and sometimes dreams, so when Tony had a hole carved in his chest to make room for a magnet, a little boy in Queens cried out. This is their story, and the story of them finding each other and becoming family.

AN: This was something I’d been wanting to write for a while, and the prompt of platonic soulmates gave me the chance to explore the idea. I really hope you like it @dragonbano

Read on AO3

In a world where soulmates share sensations and sometimes dreams, the first things you notice from your soulmate tend to be things like phantom pain from a skinned knee or stinging palms from a fall you didn’t take. Sometimes there would be dreams, too, flashes of blurry faces in places you’ve never been, with people you didn’t know. A life truly not your own.

Peter didn’t have an everyday experience. Instead of skinned knees, he’d wake on the weekends with pounding headaches, his stomach trying to turn itself inside out. Being sick was his earliest memory. He spent his childhood nursing phantom headaches and nausea every weekend.

May and Ben had taken Peter to the doctor, begging for their help, but there was nothing they could do. It was his soulmate that was the problem. The doctor had taken Ben and May to the side, a conversation too low for Peter’s ears. Whatever was said had made them cast worried glances, frowns etching their faces.

No, Peter didn’t get skinned knees and dreams about recess. He got aches and pains beyond his years. He got sick and had dizzy spells. The other kids in school all had fun talking about their soulmates, but Peter didn’t like talking about his. He wasn’t all that sure he liked soulmates at all. To his young mind, his soulmate wasn’t all that nice.

But the older he got, the more aware he became of his soulmate and what they might be doing. He even started liking them more, except on weekends when he’d spend the morning feeling awful. He’d heard Ben mention to May something about it being a hangover, but he wasn’t sure what that meant, so he’d asked Ned. Neither of them could come up with an answer that made sense.

Peter imagined his soulmate worked with their hands, as he was always feeling little stings of pain on his fingers. He thought they felt like burns. Once, he’d felt something crush his pinky and cried. May had kissed his hand and said that sometimes soulmates were clumsy.

At nine, Peter’s world changed. He had been eating breakfast with Ben, May was already at work, and as he brought a spoonful of cereal to his mouth, pain exploded across his chest. It was so intense that he’d spilled his cereal, knocked over his juice, and fallen from his chair.

His screams had cut the air like a knife.

And they didn’t stop.

He’d screamed until his voice was hoarse, until the ambulance came, and until the doctor drugged him into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke days later, still in pain. His chest felt like someone had ripped it open and left it to fester. He couldn’t breathe through the feeling, and the drugs did nothing to take the edge off because it wasn’t his pain. If it weren’t for feeling the pain and knowing they were still alive, Peter wouldn’t believe you could survive something so terrible. It just hurt so much.

Ben had even sat with him and told him that his soulmate might not survive, trying to prepare him for what was to come, but Peter hadn’t wanted his soulmate to die, not even if it meant an end to the pain. He was okay with suffering if it meant they lived.

And they did live.

The pain stayed constant, and Peter’s prayers to keep his soulmate alive seemed to be heard.

The doctor’s discharged him the next day, as there was nothing they could do for soulmate pain. May bought him his favorite foods, and he got to miss school, but none of it made the pain better, and Peter’s constant worry for his soulmate remained. He wondered where they were and what had happened to them, and when he went to bed at night, he’d pray for them to make it another day.

The pain continued, and then the dreams of drowning started. He dreamed of a trough of water and his face being forced into it until his lungs burned. He dreamed of being hit and of cave walls. Those nights, he’d wake up crying, though he never called out for Ben or May. He didn’t want to worry them. He already heard their whispered conversations, wondering just what kind of person Peter had been bound to.

It was an odd sensation to be in the position to feel someone’s suffering so acutely but be unable to make it stop. He wished he could reach through their bond and fend off whoever it was that was hurting them, help them somehow, but he couldn’t. All he could do was feel.

Rubbing his chest one morning, a month after it had all happened, Peter had overheard May asking Ben, “Why him? Why our boy?”

Ben had sighed and whispered back, “I don’t know.”

Their conversation had made Peter frown, sadness settling over him.

Three months had gone by since his world had been turned on end. His chest continued to ache with every breath, deep into the meat beneath his bones, but as much as it hurt, he didn’t wish it to end. Feeling the pain flare through their bond meant their connection still existed, and his soulmate was still alive. Whoever they were, they knew how to fight.

One afternoon, Peter had been reading on the couch when he felt sparks of pain through his body, things that felt like burns and cuts, a hit to the head, maybe a sprained wrist. He felt a distant sort of exhaustion and dizziness, too, almost like he was too hot. He absently thought his soulmate felt thirsty. Later that night, when he started feeling better, he felt two quick pinches to the back of his hand, startling him a little.

They had been too evenly spaced, too deliberate, not to mean something. Peter had hesitated for a second, then took a breath and pinched his hand back—two pinches like he had felt. This was the first time his soulmate had ever tried to communicate with him, and Peter wasn’t sure why, but he kind of thought those pinches meant that things were going to be okay.

XXX

Tony grew up without a soulmate, never sharing the connection other children had. His parents weren’t soulmates, and they never talked about theirs. Howard had made it clear when Tony had made the mistake of asking that soulmates weren’t worth wasting your time on. Though his answer had been cold, it fueled Tony to want to know more. He wanted to know why he couldn’t feel anyone. Jarvis had said to him once, trying to reassure him, that there was a person for everyone. Even if they had died, every soul still had a counterpart.

When he got to college, he made friends with his roommate, Rhodey. The boy was two years older than him but still young himself. Rhodey seemed to have a good connection with his soulmate that at times was comical.

Whoever Rhodey’s soulmate was, they were always stubbing their toe at the worst times, making Rhodey jump and howl in pain. In return, Rhodey would bite his thumb, laughing when he’d feel something equally as painful happen in return.

Watching Rhodey interact with his soulmate made Tony’s chest ache for what he didn’t have. At night when no one was watching, he’d dig his nail into the back of his hand, hoping for a response but nothing ever came. He was destined to be alone.

Rhodey asked him about his soulmate once, maybe noticing that Tony had never reacted to phantom sensations, and after a few drinks and too much junk food, Tony confessed he’d never felt anything. And maybe because it had only been the two of them there, two kids too young to drink that were drunk nonetheless, Tony had opened up about his deepest fears, his fear that maybe he didn’t have a soulmate because there was something wrong with his soul.

Rhodey, ever the pragmatic one, had reasoned that maybe Tony’s soulmate just hadn’t been born yet. It did happen, especially with platonic pairings. Sometimes, rarely, your bond would be with your own child.

What neither of them said, though, was the other possibility, that his soulmate could be dead.

Tony hadn’t known which was worse, having a broken soul or having his soulmate die before they met.

Maybe he needed to be more like his father and just forget about soulmates. It would hurt a lot less.

After that talk, he’d stopped thinking so much about the soulmate he didn’t have. Instead, he started living life. He didn’t worry about who might be feeling his hangovers or the burns from the soldering iron. He just lived.

Then one cold December night, his parents had died, pushing him into filling his father’s shoes. Somewhere lost in the designs of new weapons, he’d forgotten about soulmates altogether. He was no longer a curious child. He’d turned into his father.

It wasn’t until the Humvee exploded in the desert and a bomb with his name had put shrapnel in his chest that he thought of soulmates again—or at least, realized that maybe being without one was a blessing. Being alone meant no one was out there to feel the hole carved into his chest. No one felt a magnet being jammed into him and a car battery keeping him alive. Having no one meant someone else’s dreams weren’t being filled with torture.

At least that’s what he thought until he didn’t.

Because one night in the cave, after toiling all day over metal, he fell asleep on the cold ground, only to dream about faces he didn’t know, about an apartment he’d never been to. He dreamed about happiness and family and a child laughing.

When he’d awoken hours later, crying, Yinsen had asked if he’d been dreaming of his soulmate. Tony had scoffed and said, “I’d need a soul first.” His tone had uncertainty to it, though.

The last thing he wanted was for someone to be connected to him, not now, not after everything he’d been through. He needed to believe he was alone because the alternative that someone was suffering with him was too cruel a reality to face.

For the first time in years, alone in a cave, far away from home, he prayed, begging whatever god was listening that no one was forced to suffer with him. He might be a selfish man, but he’d never wish his pain on anyone.

The dreams didn’t stop, and Tony knew he had to survive, just so that he could find them and ask forgiveness.

After Yinsen died and he’d flown just to fall—after walking the desert and nearly collapsing—he boarded the helicopter with Rhodey and said three words he’d never thought he’d say, to the one friend who had a chance at understanding, “They felt this.”

Rhodey’s eyes had raked over Tony’s form, taking in the blood and burns, gaze falling on the reactor. “That’s—we should get you home.”

Tony hadn’t said anything else because what was there to say. Some unlucky person had been saddled with Tony and forced to suffer for all his sins. It wasn’t something to celebrate. No, being Tony’s soulmate seemed more like something you should mourn.

Before the helicopter landed, he’d wanted to tell his soulmate that it was over before he had to face the world. He thought back to college and to how Rhodey would communicate with his soulmate. His skin on his hands was charred, and Tony didn’t want to think what his soulmate felt but touched a healthy patch. He debated for a second before giving two quick pinches. He didn’t expect anything in return, but two weak pinches came a moment later, much to his surprise.

Maybe he’d dropped the ball as a soulmate so far, but he’d do better from here on out. He’d be better. He swore to himself. He wouldn’t hurt his soulmate like this again. He just hoped he could keep his word.

XXX

Months away from Peter’s ninth birthday, a man made the news on the other side of the country. Peter had heard his aunt and uncle talking about him. He’d thought maybe he heard them say his name was Tony Stark.

When Peter had asked Ben about him. His uncle had told him that he was a very powerful man who had chosen peace over war. He’d explained that the man had made weapons, but he’d stopped that now, wanting a brighter future. Peter hadn’t known Tony Stark, no more than his uncle had told him, but he found himself proud of him for changing. Because even though Peter was young, he’d known change wasn’t easy, and rarely was it free.

A few weeks after that conversation with Ben, the sharp pains in Peter’s chest finally started to fade, becoming more of a dull ache, and for the first time in months, he could breathe again.

The next time he’d felt something jarring from his soulmate was a few months after his ninth birthday. He’d been walking to the bodega down the street with May, needing milk and eggs for the pancakes they wanted to make for dinner. Breakfast for dinner was something fun they did often.

He’d been almost to the corner when he’d felt it, a fist tightening around his heart. The intensity of it had made him stumble. May had had to reach out and steady him.

“What’s wrong?” she’d asked, touching his shoulders, brushing fingers over his cheek. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not me,” Peter had said between pants. He just couldn’t breathe. “Something is wrong with them.”

He’d imagined this was what it felt like to have your heart ripped out.

May had frowned and guided him towards the neighbor’s stoop. “Sit for a second and catch your breath.”

That was the thing, though. At that moment, Peter hadn’t thought he could breathe at all.

But then, just as quick as it had started, the sensation stopped. He could breathe again, only the familiar ache in his chest remaining.

“I don’t know what that was, but I think it’s better,” Peter had said, pushing himself back to his feet. “Do you think they're okay—my soulmate, I mean?”

May had sighed, her expression pinched. “We can hope. Do you still want pancakes?”

Later that night, after they’d eaten their fill of pancakes for dinner, but before he could fall asleep, he felt two light pinches to his hand. He’d smiled and quickly pinched himself back.

That night, Peter dreamed of robots battling high above twinkling city lights.

The next morning, the man Ben had told him about before stood at a podium and announced to the world that he was Iron Man, and the suit of armor they showed on the news later—it looked a lot like the robot from Peter’s dreams.

Peter dreamed about Iron Man nearly every night after, but he’d never thought anything of it because Iron Man was a superhero, and what kid wasn’t dreaming about him?

Things got better until suddenly they weren’t.

Peter could feel something was wrong. He felt sick, bones aching and tired no matter how much he slept. At first, he’d tried resting more, May had made him soup, but as the days went by and he hadn’t gotten better, they’d realized it was his soulmate that was sick—maybe even dying.

Peter might have only been nine, but he’d become familiar through his soulmate with the effects of drinking. And one cold November day, Peter had felt his soulmate giving up. As the evening had progressed, he’d felt the tell-tale effects of alcohol more and more. It had gotten so bad that Peter had had to climb into bed and spend the rest of the night and the following day there.

Peter had waited for the pinches to tell him that it would be okay, but as the days had passed, nothing came. Then, suddenly, he’d woken up feeling better. The constant headache was gone.

Two pinches.

They’d startled him while he’d been talking to May, making him touch his hand.

He’d looked at May, a grin spreading over his face. “They're okay.”

That had made her cast him a doubtful look.

“No, really.” Then he’d pinched himself in return. “They're gonna be okay. Just like I knew they would be.”

XXX

The Expo had been in chaos, and Tony had been doing everything he could to protect lives.

He thought he’d been doing well, but then JARVIS had warned him that a child was being targeted by one of the drones.

The sight of the little boy, standing with his toy repulsor pointed at the drone, had nearly stopped Tony’s already damaged heart.

Thinking fast, he’d dropped behind the boy and blasted the drone.

The little boy turned to look at him, and Tony thanked whatever gods there were that he’d made it in time.

“Nice work, kid,” he’d said, swallowing down his relief before returning to the fight.

Later that night, when the adrenaline had left his system, and he’d finally been able to fall asleep, he dreamed about that little boy from the Expo, and a smile spread over his face in his sleep.

XXX

Peter wasn’t sure, but he’d thought his soulmate had been trying harder not to get hurt. A year passed without much pain, and he hadn’t felt the familiar sensations of them getting drunk either. It had been a relief for Peter. For once, he’d gotten the chance to just live and laugh and play, even though the ache in his chest remained.

Then one afternoon in May, that all changed again. The sky above Manhattan had opened, and aliens had poured through a portal.

He’d been at school when it had happened. Close enough to the fighting that every once in a while, sirens or explosions could be heard. His teacher had made them huddle under their desks. As he’d sat on the floor, listening and watching out the windows, his thoughts hadn’t been for his own safety but of Ben and May’s. They’d been working that day.

Through the window, Peter could see shadows in the sky out over the buildings. His gaze had been torn away from them, though, when he’d felt a sharp pain in his head.

Panic had washed over him at the sensation, at the realization that his soulmate might be out there in the fray. His stomach had twisted into knots at the thought.

What if his soulmate lived in the city? What if they were close to the fighting?

As the other children cried, wanting to go home, Peter had been concentrating, focusing on what his soulmate was feeling, hoping that he’d be able to tell where they were, if they were safe. So far, he hadn’t felt anything too bad happen to them, though the aches and pains were growing. He had faith, though, that they’d be okay. His soulmate had survived worse things. He was sure of it.

The pain in Peter’s head was constant, and almost every spot on his body ached. He could feel tendrils of exhaustion not his own, reaching out and wrapping around him, trying to suffocate him. It had taken all of Peter’s will not to cry.

Then, like a switch had been flipped, everything Peter had been feeling stopped, leaving him more untethered and alone than he’d ever felt before.

The connection he shared with his soulmate had never gone blank before, though he knew what it could mean. Ben had once told him that when a soulmate died, the connection would break. Suddenly, you would be alone and feel nothing but your own body. It had been a reality Peter had expected to happen many times in the past, and now that the connection was gone, his heart felt like it was missing, too. The tears he’d been holding back fell, leaving tracks on his cheeks.

Angrily, he’d wiped his face. His soulmate couldn’t leave him, not now, not after everything they’d been through.

They had to make it.

His grip on the legs of his desk had tightened to the point his knuckles were white, and he’d looked out the window again to see the sun was shining.

His soulmate couldn’t die today.

But then, when his hope had nearly faded, as abruptly as it had disappeared, the connection returned, flooding him with aching joints and distant pains, and it made him smile.

Peter welcomed it all, every last pain, no matter how deep.

His soulmate was alive.

XXX

Tony had gotten into the car after giving his address to terrorists and headed straight home. How dare they hurt someone important to him? He might have promised himself to be better for his soulmate, but he couldn’t let this slide.

A little while later, after his house had fallen into the ocean, and he’d crashed into the hills of Tennessee, he found himself trudging through the cold, dragging his armor behind him.

It was nearly Christmas, and his thoughts weren’t only on the terrorists—they were with his soulmate. He’d wondered if they were excited to see Santa, or maybe they didn’t celebrate Christmas at all. They were young, though. Tony had known that much. It had been a sick twist of fate that someone as innocent as a child would be saddled with him.

The unfairness of it all weighed on him, and he’d stopped on the side of the road, taken a breath, and pinched his hand, feeling a little like a liar. Because those pinches had come to mean it was okay, and Tony wasn’t sure that right then things would be—at least not yet. He had a sinking suspicion more battles lay in the days ahead.

His soulmate proved themselves to be more understanding than Tony deserved. Instead of being bitter because they’d been hurt again, they simply pinched him back a moment later, conveying with it acceptance and forgiveness, something he wasn’t certain he deserved.

The guilt for hurting his soulmate had tasted bitter when he’d swallowed it down, but he’d pushed himself forward, one foot in front of the other. He didn’t have time to dwell. There were terrorists to deal with and lives on the line.

Then his journey took him to a garage, where he met a boy named Harley, had a sandwich, and started on the path to save the day—again.

And after the battles were fought, and his suits had exploded in the sky—after he’d kissed Pepper, and relief finally flooded him, Tony had taken a moment to himself. Alone in the back of a police car, Tony had pinched himself twice—this time meaning it. Things were going to be okay.

It was over. They could rest now.

And something that had come from spending time with Harley over that week had been a realization of sorts, one he probably should have had sooner. With his potato gun and too much courage, Harley had shown him just how vulnerable and in need of protection a child was. Meeting Harley had made Tony think about his own soulmate and how unfair it was that someone so innocent was made to suffer for Tony’s sins.

Something had to change.

Just as he’d started to think his soulmate wasn’t going to respond. Tony had felt the two pinches in return and smiled.

His soulmate deserved some peace in their life, a childhood without as much hurt. He would find a way to lessen the pain.

And because nothing ever got between Tony and what he wanted, he’d found a way.

Three days after Christmas, the arc reactor was removed from his chest, a late gift to his soulmate. They deserved to breathe freely. He’d owed them that much.

XXX

The next few years passed uneventfully, except for the usual aches and pains that came with an older soulmate. As a pleasant surprise, the hangovers had stopped entirely. It was like Peter’s soulmate had started taking better care of themself, something he was grateful for. It gave him a chance to make friends and have sleepovers without worrying about what his soulmate might do.

That was until things took an unexpected turn.

It started with a field trip and ended with a spider bite—not just any bite, either—one from a radioactive, genetically modified spider.

The bite had laid Peter up in bed for a day, under the guise that he’d had the flu, but it was really the bite. His temperature had soared, and he’d writhed in pain, eventually passing out, twisted in his sweat-soaked sheets.

And when he’d finally woken the next day, the sun streaming through his gauzy curtains, he’d felt amazing. The distant aches of his soulmate were still there, though, but his body felt brand-new.

But when he'd reached for the shirt that he’d discarded in his fevered haze, he discovered that he couldn’t let go of the sheet. He’d tried shaking himself free, but it had clung to him. Eventually, his frustration turned to laughter, and he was finally able to let go.

The whole thing had been so ridiculous and crazy, he’d almost forgotten about his soulmate. The sudden realization that they’d felt his fever and pain made his stomach drop.

What must they have thought with him as sick as he was?

Quickly, Peter had pinched his hand twice, waiting with bated breath for a response. When it had finally came a moment later, Peter sagged with relief.

XXX

December rolled around again, another year gone by. Tony had tried very hard to live better for his soulmate. He’d eaten better, drank less, slept more. He’d done all the things a person should.

The thought that Tony may never know who his soulmate was saddened him. In the world they lived in, many people never found theirs. Tony wished he could find his, though. He’d like to apologize, say more than the meager pinches could offer.

His soulmate never gave him much to go on, though, not that pain or sensations could be tracked, but Tony’s soulmate was careful, rarely getting hurt. The most Tony ever seemed to feel from them was a hangnail or stubbed toe.

That was until a cool December day changed things.

Tony had been sorting through some boxes they’d had in storage when the feeling hit him. It had started as a dull ache in his muscles, then spread into sharp pain over the day and night. It had felt like his muscles were being peeled from the bone. Dizziness had overtaken him, and if not for knowing his soulmate was too young to drink, Tony might have thought they’d gotten drunk, too.

Something was very wrong, though.

Tony had made it to bed and collapsed, Pepper coming to find him hours later. She’d sat with him, asking what was wrong, but Tony didn’t know.

It was one of the longest nights of Tony’s life, not just because of the pain but because of his worry for his soulmate.

When the sun finally broke the horizon the next day, Tony had pulled himself out of bed, testing his joints.

The pain was gone.

And for an agonizing second, Tony had thought their connection had broken, but then he felt two pinches to his hand, and he’d all but fallen over in a hurry to respond.

He might not ever know what happened to his soulmate, but he did know that they were okay now. Tony just wished he could have been there for them when they needed him. He would have donned the armor and fought an army to keep them safe.

Even though they’d never met, Tony would fight the world for them.

When spring rolled around and the world demanded accountability, Tony had done the only right thing he could. He’d signed the Accords. He just hadn’t realized at the time what the one small action might bring. He hadn’t known how it would bring him closer to his soulmate.

July was creeping up fast, and Tony had needed as many hands to help as he could get. A battle was brewing, one that would tear the Avengers apart.

He’d gone to Queens to recruit a kid with powers. Peter Parker was his name. He was only fourteen. The kid could stick to things and stop a bus with his bare hands, something that in a fight could swing things to Tony’s favor, not that Tony wanted a fight, but he didn’t think Steve would give him another option. This kid, who dressed up after school in red and blue, he might be just what Tony needed to buy some time so he could get Steve to listen.

The funny thing about soulmates was that you never really knew how close you were to meeting them unless you were lucky enough to get hurt in front of them.

Tony had no idea when he knocked on May Parker’s door how close he was to his.

When she answered the door, Tony had had to pause because there was something about her that seemed familiar, but he’d been busy with long days and wrote it off as just another oddity.

Then he’d gone inside, sat on her couch, and sipped a coffee, and the sense of deja vu continued.

When Peter had come in, and Tony had introduced himself, he hadn’t needed to ask which room was Peter’s because he already knew. Odd, he’d thought.

Maybe if he hadn’t been so sleep-deprived, maybe if he’d had less on his mind, it might have clicked for him, and he might have realized he’d been dreaming about this apartment for years. But he was tired, and his mind was preoccupied, so in the end, Tony had brushed off the strange feeling and invited the kid with too much heart and kindness in his eyes to join him in Germany. He could think about what it all meant later.

XXX

The fight at the airport had been so much bigger than Peter, bigger than the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man he had set out to be, but he’d held his own.

As he laid on the ground, trying to catch his breath, Tony had landed nearby, telling him when he’d tried to get up that he needed to stay down, and with as many aches as Peter felt, he found himself agreeable to that idea.

After Mr. Rhodes was taken to the hospital, Peter finally got his bearings back enough to be awkward around his hero again. He had his mask off, clutched in his hand.

Tony was standing by the car, talking to Happy. Peter could have probably heard them if he tried, but he was happy to just ignore whatever they were saying.

Every part of his body ached, and for once, he couldn’t tell where his soulmate’s pain ended, and Peter’s began. It was all just a big blur.

Tony and Happy seemed to be in some kind of debate. Every once in a while, they'd look over at Peter with a wave of a hand. He wondered if he could go home now. Maybe they’d stick him on a plane right here, but then he looked around at the mess from the fight and frowned. Maybe the plane would need to wait until there was a clear runway, or they’d need to find another airport first.

Thinking of his soulmate, Peter knew he should check in with them. Clearly, from some of the pains he felt, his soulmate had had a rough day, too.

It didn’t register to him that Tony was watching when he pinched his hand, twice, one right after another. He waited, knowing it never took long for his soulmate to answer, but as the seconds passed, nothing happened.

He frowned, but he didn’t have time to ponder why his soulmate wasn't answering because suddenly Tony was there in front of him, Happy getting into the car behind him.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, shifting awkwardly. “So, this was really fun, and I know you’re busy and all, but can I go home soon? I really do have homework.”

Tony just stared at him, his lips pursed. Peter felt like he was in trouble, and he opened his mouth to say something, maybe apologize—for what he wasn’t sure—but then Tony stopped him by saying flatly, “Why’d you do that?”

Peter’s face twisted in confusion. “Um, what?”

Tony dropped his gaze to Peter’s hand, pointing at it. “You pinched yourself. Why?”

“It’s, um, personal,” Peter said with a frown, not really wanting to tell him about his silly soulmate things. He didn’t think someone else would understand the complicated bond he had with his. “It’s just something I do. Doesn’t mean anything—really.”

Tony shook his head slowly, chewing his lip. Then, hesitantly, he brought his hand up between them.

Peter’s gaze flicked between his hand and his face. “Mr. Stark?”

“It’s okay, kid,” Tony said. “This might mean nothing—could just be me overthinking things—but maybe …” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Then he pinched the back of his hand, and Peter’s breath caught in his throat because he felt it.

“Oh my god,” Peter stuttered in shock, touching the back of his own hand. “You—I felt it!”

Tony looked ready to break, like a brittle branch in the wind. His eyes looked wild with emotion, almost feral. Peter didn’t think he was handling it much better than he was.

“It’s really you,” Tony breathed a moment later, looking ready to shake apart.

His whole life, Peter had dreamed of flying and metal suits, but he’d never thought—he shook his head, sucking in a breath. Everything felt magnified. It was all too much.

“You’re—you’re my soulmate? All this time,” Peter asked, even though he’d already felt the proof. For some reason, he needed to hear it. It was too crazy to be real. He’d spent his whole life dreaming of the day he’d meet his soulmate, and now it was finally happening. Maybe now he could finally get answers to what had happened to them all these years.

Tony’s eyes were glassy, and his mouth twisted with emotion. He looked ready to cry. “Kid,” Tony breathed, then reached out and grabbed Peter by the shoulders, yanking him to his chest.

Peter stood stiffly for a moment, not having expected the embrace, but then started to relax as the feelings of home and warmth settled into him. He felt safe in Tony’s arms. The memories of the pain they’d shared faded, and he was overwhelmed by the protective love Tony exuded.

Tony cupped the back of his head, pressing his cheek to the top of Peter’s head, and they both just breathed. For the first time, they both knew the other was alright. They had tangible proof they would be okay.

After a minute of holding him, Tony choked out the words, “I’m so sorry, Peter. I’m so fucking sorry I hurt you.” And Peter thought Tony was crying—which was fine because so was he.

Peter clutched at Tony’s shirt. His emotions were overwhelming. “It’s okay, Mr. Stark. Well, I mean, it hurt, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Growing up like that—it taught me a lot, taught me you never know what someone else is going through. I think, I think it made me who I am, you know?”

Tony breathed against his hair. “Jesus, kid. Anyone else, anyone else on the planet, and I think they'd be bitter, but you…” He shook his head. “I hope someday you can forgive me.”

Peter drew back, wiping his tears with his bunched-up mask because just like Tony, his emotions were getting in the way—or maybe they were right where they needed to be.

Peter gave him a watery smile. “There’s nothing to forgive. Maybe it wasn’t the easiest”-he shrugged—“but it wasn’t your fault. Knowing you were out there—got me through some rough times. Nah, there’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony, please,” he said, thumbing away the moisture from his eyes. Then he laughed. “I usually don’t cry like this, but I guess meeting your soulmate is an exception.”

Peter gave a nervous smile. “I never cry much either, really. I think—well, nevermind.”

Tony sighed, looking a little sad. “You learn not to cry when you’re always in pain, sets the bar a little differently than most people.”

Peter nodded, dropping his gaze to his hands, where he fisted his mask. “Yeah, that.” His throat felt clogged with mucus and emotion in equal parts, but he still tried clearing it, then said, “Is it weird I feel like I know you—like really know you—even though we just, you know, met?”

Tony squeezed Peter’s shoulder and shook his head. “I kinda think it’s normal. I mean, we do know each other. After everything I’ve put you through.” He stopped to take a breath. “I really am sorry, Peter.”

Peter shrugged, scuffing his toe against the ground. “It’s fine—I mean, I get it. You’re Iron Man. I mean, it’s crazy, but you’re my soulmate, and I—I understand. I know you never meant to put me through that. It’s not like you’re evil or anything.”

Tony huffed a laugh. “No, I’m not evil or anything—at least not when it comes to you. I tend to go a little dark side if I miss my morning coffee, though.” Then he brushed his hand over Peter’s temple, where a wound sluggishly bled. “I’d ask how the head was, but I can feel it and I know it hurts.”

Peter scrunched his nose. “That’s gonna get annoying.”

Tony’s smile widened. “Oh, for you? Definitely. I’ll know every time you do something stupid, like get batted out of the sky by some overgrown insect.”

“That was pretty cool.”

“Our definitions of cool are very different,” Tony said, then nodded to the car behind him. “Happy’s waiting. I think we’re having a change of plans, though. I was going to send you back to the states with him, but I’m not ready to let you out of my sight yet.”

Peter felt a wave of relief at that because he wasn’t ready to leave his soulmate yet either.

“Do you have anything for pain in the car?” Peter asked.

“Head hurt?”

Peter shook his head, fighting back a smirk. “Not for me, for your backache. It must be hard being so old.”

Tony threw his head back and laughed, then slapped Peter on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Get in the car, you little shit, before I change my mind about keeping you.”

Peter smiled, big and genuine. “I’m glad I finally met you.”

Tony paused, his expression softening. “I’m glad too, kiddo.”

Peter got in the car, and Tony did take some medication for his back ache. Then he pulled out a first aid kit and stuck an ice pack to Peter’s face, telling him it was as much for Tony’s relief as it was for his.

Finding his soulmate wasn’t the end of the journey. It was the beginning of a new one. With one story behind them, they prepared themselves for whatever adventures lay ahead. At least now, when the pain got too much, they could reach out to the other.

The pinches never stopped, old habits die hard, but they added hugs and family dinners.

Because that’s what they were now. They were family.

57 notes · View notes

val-aquenta · 3 years

Text

I’m on fire posting these fics. They have mostly been languishing in my drafts, so I really just have to spruce them up a tad to post them ahahah.

Here on ao3

Qui-Gon is the first to call him Ben. Obi-Wan is a name that is too long for him to yell, so he is nicknamed Ben. At least, that’s what he said. Obi-Wan thinks otherwise, obviously.

“Why Ben? What’s wrong with Obi-Wan?” He wonders, not noticing he’s said it out loud until he hears Qui-Gon chuckle. “What?” He flushes, affronted by the cheeky grin on his Master’s face. It is a look that screams trouble.

“A little long, Obi-Wan, huh?” Qui-Gon pauses for a moment from where he is preparing for flight. “Not exactly perfect for yelling when I need your attention.”

Obi-Wan puffs up a bit, not dissimilar to a loth cat Qui-Gon notes with amusement. “Obi-Wan is a good name.” The boy defiantly tries not to pout while saying this. “It’s not like I call you… John.” He mutters softly, voice sounding put off.

“John?” The older man’s wrinkles crease around his eyes as he smiles. He shrugs. “Ben is a good name regardless.” He defends.

“Obi-Wan’s better.” He opposes tetchily, eyebrows furrowing. “What’s so special about Ben anyways?” He asks with curiosity, always eager for new information.

“Well, Ben technically means son of my right hand, a phrase from my homeworld’s main religion.” Qui-Gon murmurs, willing to try and satisfy Obi-Wan’s need for answers. “The religion is… complex. I don’t even understand it completely, but I do understand the meaning of the phrase.” He pauses.

“Well… what’s the meaning of the phrase?” Obi-Wan fiddles with his hands, eyes alight with interest. He flushes self-consciously when Qui-Gon lifts his eyebrows as though proving a point. He ducks his head, a hint of red on his cheeks.

“Well, in the religion, there is an entity called God. And the phrase to be at the right hand refers to being in a space of special honour, the right hand, of God.” He explains, enjoying the way Obi-Wan seems to brighten with the new information. “Being the son of the right hand should mean that you will grow into this space of importance. Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

“Oh…” Obi-Wan flushes, freckles disappearing into the deep red colour. Qui-Gon swears the tips of the boy’s ears are red. “That is kind of you to say, Master.”

“It is the truth, my Padawan.” Qui-Gon smiles, clapping a large hand on his shoulder and tugging the boy in for a hug. Obi-Wan startles, tensing for a couple of seconds until he relaxes, shorter arms just barely managing to reach around Qui-Gon.

::::

Satine was the next to call him Ben. You see, Bant never truly latched onto the name that Qui-Gon christened him with, preferring to stick to her shortened form, Obi. Therefore, Satine is the next. She hears it once when they’re getting shot at and Qui-Gon has a plan that has an 80% chance of ending up with all three of them dead, but it’s better than their current odds. Qui-Gon yells it at him to get the boy to pay attention.

At first, Satine is startled, thinking a new ally has joined them but is surprised that it’s just a nickname for Obi-Wan. Granted, she doesn’t call him Ben for that long because she, like Bant, prefers to call him Obi.

She does call him Ben when they’re parting ways, and Obi-Wan’s chest aches something fierce. Qui-Gon watches, eyes somewhat sympathetic as they follow Obi-Wan. He pretends not to notice as they share one small, sweet, innocent kiss. It’s everything Obi-Wan wants, but he hesitates and glances back at his Master, and then pulls away from the embrace, head bowed. It is almost everything he wants, and that makes all the difference. If he stayed, he would abandon his Master and his family in the Temple. More than that, he would abandon his path as a Jedi. Even Satine, for all he cares about her, is not enough to sway him from his path. The Force whispers in his mind, sorrow and apologetic, thankful for his sacrifice. The choice cements and he lets go of Satine.

“Ben…” Satine whispers, the word almost lost in the wind. “I… good luck.” Her blonde hair, carefully arranged on her head, moves as she bows. “Thank you, Master Jedi, for your protection.” Obi-Wan bows back, though his head remains tilted down, not willing to look at the woman.

“It was our pleasure,” Qui-Gon responds, sending a little pang of comfort down the growing bond with his Padawan.

“Do be careful.” She says, deviating from her formal script. “Farewell, Master Jinn, Padawan Kenobi.” The names fall easily onto her tongue as though she hadn’t spent almost a year calling them something else with much more familiarity.

“May the force be with you, Duchess Kryze,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and he walks away from Satine, from the comfort of that life, and into the Jedi transport, his Master, a steady and strong pillar in the Force, ahead of him.

“… Ben?”

“Yes, Master.” Qui-Gon looks as though he wants to say something, wants to spill some secret, but he thinks better of it, instead closing his mouth and opening his arms, catching Obi-Wan as he falls into them.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs into the pale ear, his hand stroking circles into Obi-Wan’s shoulders. The boy, because that’s what he is, does not respond, only tightening his grip and inhaling the comforting scent of his Master.

::::

Mace is the third Jedi off the transport ship. He is also the third to call Obi-Wan Ben, though that happened a while back on a joint undercover mission with Qui-Gon. He reverted to calling him Obi-Wan, but then he reverts once more. He’s older and wiser, and, has been a friend ever since Obi-Wan was a small young child of the creche.

“Obi-Wa… Ben.” Obi-Wan’s heart cracks just a bit more. Never again will he hear that familiar voice whispering that name to him. The deep baritone voice rumbling it. It hurts worse than leaving Satine, Cerasi, or Siri, or losing Reeft had. “Sit down with me and let’s talk.”

“Yes, Master Windu.” The response is immediate, drilled into him with years of training.

“Tell me how you feel, Ben.” Mace rumbles, voice not as deep as Qui-Gon’s, but very close. Obi-Wan is certain that if he were to press his ear to the bald Jedi’s chest, he would feel the voice vibrating.

“Fine…” That response is nailed into him out of fear. Fear of not being good enough.

“Really?” Mace murmurs disbelievingly, leaning forwards and taking in the red-tinged eyes. A hand reaches out and takes one of Obi-Wan’s hands, feeling the slight chill that seems to emanate from him. “You don’t look fine to me.” He says in a frank manner that only he can pull off without sounding overly rude.

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Obi-Wan responds, more exasperated than he thought it was going to sound.

“Ben… you’re not wrong to be sad. It isn’t wrong to feel loss or to grieve.” Mace says, voice closer to whispering than to speaking. The man scoots closer to Obi-Wan who, in the eyes of the Republic is also a man but, in reality, still feels like the thirteen-year-old being sent to Bandomeer, or the sixteen-year-old who left Satine, or the- “You’ve just lost a man who has been by your side for twelve years. It will hurt.” Obi-Wan laughs, but it is more cracked and painful than any laugh Mace has heard. He desperately scrubbing at his eyes as though he wishes to scour them away.

“I know it hurts, Master. Force, my chest feels as though I was the one who was run through with a lightsaber, not Qu-” His voice breaks around the name, and he devolves into small sobs. Mace observes the boy being thrust into Knighthood with something close to helplessness. He had lost Cyslin in a less brutal manner and yet it had hurt all the same. All Mace can do is offer some comfort to the man. “There’s a hole where he was and I can’t-” Obi-Wan's voice cuts off as he cradles his head in his hands.

“Ben,” Mace says it curtly, as though fully taking advantage of how short it is. Qui-Gon dragged it out a bit, seemingly relishing the way the name made his mouth shape. Satine’s lips always made the name sound sweet. Short and filled with emotions. “Observe and release your emotions.”

“I can’t,” Obi-Wan admits. He tries to look at his emotions. He can understand, but he can’t release and make them go away. There’s just too much. He says as much to Mace.

“Let me help, Ben.” And it is as though Obi-Wan is a youngling once more, trailing behind Padawan Windu in cream coloured corridors. As though they’ve been transported to a time when Mace’s forehead did not have the stressed wrinkles it does now. As though Obi-Wan hasn’t just had a piece of his heart carved out with a sith lightsaber. Together they sink into meditation, aware of each other, and acknowledging one another. With a little flick from Mace, Obi-Wan begins to reveal his mind warped by guilt and self-loathing and anger and pain and… it’s too much, Mace admits to himself. So, he starts small. A small statement, I was too slow, is given to him, and they watch it together, understand it together, and accept it together. Then, he moves to another, unwanted. And to the dozens that remain. Mace does not judge, and his heart aches at the knowledge of the burdens Obi-Wan is thrusting upon himself, but he says nothing about it, only reaching for the boy… man after their meditation and bringing him into a hug that lasts a full minute.

::::

Cody is a really good researcher. Sure, he’s great with a blaster, and hand to hand combat, and anything to do with the military really. He was trained under Jango Fett and the Kaminoans. But, one of his greatest strengths is his efficient diving into the Holonet. He can splice information from different databases, even the Jedi Temple’s database. Technically, he could just go to the Archives and find the information, but he could be seen there, so he doesn’t. Instead, he sits at the main console of his barracks and begins to get information regarding his new General. The Jedi, Kenobi, seems nice enough, but looks can be deceiving. In this case, however, it seems that they’re not. The little ginger seems to have a kind streak about the size of Ryloth.

“What in the world…” He mutters as browsers pop up. Multiple mission reports that he skims through to reveal another thing. Apparently, the General has a penchant for injuries. A really bad one if the reports are not a joke. He digs through one that was co-written by one Qui-Gon Jinn, and he spots some errors. At least, he’s sure they are errors because he’s pretty sure the General’s called Obi-Wan… not Ben. However, he doubts that the General would let that slide.

“Ben.” He forms the name under breath, making some multi-syllable word from it. “Ben.” He says it curtly. It is more efficient than to say General Kenobi or, Force forbid, Obi-Wan. The Jedi have the oddest names.

“Commander…” He jumps, turning to look at the man in question as he walks into the barracks completely unannounced. “I was, ah, wondering if you would like-” He squints at the console’s screen. Cody flushes deeper than before, the crimson stain spreading around his neck and up to his ears. Caught researching his General by the General in question. Rex will never let it go.

“General Kenobi, sir.” He plants his feet and straightens his back. Obi-Wan looks at the report and then at Cody and then back to the report.

“Did you… hack into the Temple?” He questions curiously.

“Well… I do have the access codes…” He trails off.

“Is this… the mission to Joonta?” The General strokes his beard, leaning forwards to read his report. “Force, my diction was horrible back then. So was Qui-Gon’s.” He scrolls down.

“Sir…”

“Yes, Cody.” He seems oddly enthralled by the report, scrolling rather quickly through the pages.

“Is your name Ben?”

“Sometimes.” Obi-Wan… Ben? Hums. Reading through the report absently. Noticing the silent prompting from Cody, the General shakes himself a bit. “Oh. It’s a nickname given by my Master. Almost no one uses it.”

“Ah.”

“Cody… you can call me Ben if you’d like. I don’t mind.” He stops the frantic scrolling to look at Cody.

“The vod will better understand if I call you General Kenobi, sir,” Cody says while ticking the name onto the General’s name. General Obi-Wan ‘Ben’ Kenobi. Jedi and their names.

“If that is your wish.” Obi-Wan smiles. “Now, I came here to offer you tea in my quarters. Would you like to come?”

::::

Ahsoka’s always heard of the famous Master Kenobi or Padawan Kenobi or Knight Kenobi in pairs. Padawan Kenobi was always paired with Master Jinn, Knight Kenobi was paired with Padawan Skywalker, and Master Kenobi is paired with Knight Skywalker. Knight Skywalker is now obviously paired with Padawan Tano, so they're all connected. Contrary to what Anakin would think, Padawan Kenobi is the term she’s much more familiar with, and therefore is more familiar with the pairing of Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi. Even though she knows so much about Anakin and Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are within all the stories that the Crechemasters say. She knows of the most interesting missions that the duo took and is somewhat embarrassed to admit the amount of hero-worship she has for the two.

“Master Obi-Wan, is it true that you had to drink pirates under the table to rescue Master Jinn?” She asks out of the blue one day, noticing the way Anakin’s hand tightens ever-so-slightly, blue eyes dashing to Obi-Wan’s pinched expression. She’s new to her apprenticeship and she still feels overwhelmed if she thinks too hard about the fact that she’s the Padawan of The Anakin Skywalker, and is part of the famous lineage.

“… Yes. Where did you hear that, Ahsoka?” He frowns while stroking his beard, a habit he can’t seem to break. He doesn’t look too annoyed by the question. Instead, he looks amused and rather curious.

“Ages ago, Master, in the creche.” Obi-Wan shrugs and continues, waving off Anakin’s worried words. The smile on his face is nice to see. Ahsoka thinks it looks bad when the Frown is in place, and that is all that has been in place since the invasion of Ryloth began. She’s happy that she could coax a smile out of the typically austere looking man.

A few months later while they’re travelling through hyperspace on Obi-Wan’s ship, Ahsoka blurts another question. Obi-Wan had offered to teach Ahsoka some jar’kai during the hyperspace travel, and Anakin had assented, remaining on his ship while Ahsoka trained with her other Master. “Master Obi-Wan, is it true that you once were eaten by a large squid and then spat out?” She asks at the mess hall. Cody, who was rather peacefully eating his meal thank you very much, chokes on the ration’s he was chowing on. Stitches, the medic, appears to have swallowed water down the wrong pipe and is sending a concerned look at Obi-Wan. The man in question deflates, shrugs, and answers quietly.

“Yes, Ahsoka. On Fuleya. Master Jinn thought I was dead for two minutes. Nearly screamed his throat raw trying to cut me from the beast's stomach.” He shrugs and then proceeds to tap on his datapad as though the clones in the immediate vicinity aren’t looking as though they’re having heart attacks. They’re very… protective of their General sometimes. Ahsoka shrugs as well, turning back to her meal. “Was this also heard in the creche?” He asks with the very amused glint in his eyes. The smile also seems to brighten his face.

Ahsoka feels a warmth in her stomach at having brought another smile to the man’s face, especially considering the stress he seems to be under with the war. “Yes. I heard lots about you.” He shakes his head fondly. She thinks that the smile on his face is worth the possibility that the clones might wrap him in blankets and lock him on the ship. Not that that would be a bad idea thinking about it…

“Master Obi-Wan,” She starts, her head tilted in wonder. This time, they’re alone. They are at the Temple, in Obi-Wan’s living room, sharing some tea. Anakin, ever the disliker of tea, had opted out, likely going off to see Padmè. “Is it true that your second name is Ben?” At this, Obi-Wan chokes on his tea, spraying the liquid around the room as he coughs.

Ahsoka startles, putting her own cup down and scooting closer to offer some assistance. “What?” He asks weakly, bringing a hand to his chest. This has been the most intense reaction so far. She rubs her hand softly on his back. Humans are ever so slightly warmer than togruta, and she delights in feeling the warmth through his Jedi robes.

“Barriss told me that Master Unduli told her that Master Windu told her that your second name is Ben.” Ahsoka chatters, looking curiously at the man who lies on the couch.

“Technically, Ben is not my second name. I don’t have one.” Obi-Wan runs a weary hand down his face. “Ben is a nickname given to me by my Master.”

Ahsoka perks up. “Oh, really? Like I’m ‘Snips’ to Anakin?” She questions, excited to learn more of the rather mysterious Master.

“Well, I suppose? Ben probably has more thought put into it than Snips.” He smirks playfully.

“How so?” At this Obi-Wan flinches. Ahsoka casts him another worried look but he waves it off.

“It’s a name meaning that I‘ll be special, essentially. It’s native to Qui-Gon’s homeworld.” He smiles softly at Ahsoka. “Much better than ‘Don’t get snippy with me.’” She laughs, happy to once more bring another smile to his face.

“Maybe.” She concedes. “I like Snips though.” Obi-Wan lifts an amused brow.

“I like Ben too.” They smile at each other.

::::

Luke never knows Obi-Wan as Obi-Wan. The thing is, Obi-Wan is dead before Luke is even born. In his place, Ben Kenobi is there. He knows the rough and weathered hand of Ben, not the smooth hand of Obi-Wan. He listens to the voice of Ben, not Obi-Wan. Because of that, there is no need for Luke to call Ben anything but Ben.

“Ben… why are you called Ben?” He asks one day. Owen is feeling in a more forgiving mood and Beru probably took pity on the sad old man, and they have allowed Ben to visit for a bit.

“The same reason you’re called Luke. I was named Ben.” He responds with a slight smile.

“Your Mom named you Ben?” Luke asks head tilted in curiosity much like another youngling tilted her head while asking about the name Ben. He wonders where the young togruta is, or even whether she’s still alive.

“No. My… father named me Ben." He swears that there is the gentle hum of laughter in the deep rumbling voice of his Master floating through the air. He looks around, but just the typical homestead surrounds him.

“Oh. That’s cool.” And that’s that. The boy runs away to the deeper parts of the house, a smile on his face. In his hands, a soft blue blanket flies in the wind.

::::

Vader knows who Obi-Wan Kenobi is. He is the man who took everything from him. He took his unborn child, his wife, his limbs, and his potential. Vader is sure that most of his problems stem from this Obi-Wan. Vader, however, does not know who Ben Kenobi is. You see, Anakin never knew Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan together long enough to know of the nickname. He wasn’t there as Qui-Gon whispered the name softly before his death. He never listened to Master Windu sigh his name as the two were chatting as they walked the halls. He never listened to the now-dead Duchess whispering nicknames into the ear of his former Master. He never listened to Cody jokingly calling the ginger, Ben. He never noticed how Ahsoka would whisper to Master Ben sometimes. Because of this, he misses the Jedi Master in his hiding spot.

“Darth Vader. Have you found your former Master as I asked?” Sidious sits on his throne of lies and steeples his fingers, wretched features obscured by his long, dark robe.

“No, my Lord.” The man bows stiffly at the waist, metal limbs not allowing anything truly graceful. “Kenobi is elusive, but he is old. Soon, he will be dead.”

Unknown to the two, Ben Kenobi, not Obi-Wan because that man died alongside the thousands of Jedi in the Purge, watches as a boy, the son of his fallen brother, plays in the sand, a toy spaceship in hand. Ben sits on the tip of a dune, smiling at the happiness the boy unknowingly projects as he wooshes the ship around above him. Ben’s hands are busy, carving a new ship for the child. He plans to make a Nubian for the boy.

“Ben!” The boy shouts across the desert, waving his hand. “Hello!” Ben smiles, and waves his hand in a silent greeting before he stands, joints creaking as he does, and turns back to his hut. Another day and the boy is safe. Cocooned in the silence of Tatooine, Ben takes comfort in the setting suns.

“Ben.” He hears the wind whisper, joining the deep baritone of Qui-Gon, the dulcet tones of Satine, the curt voice of Mace, the kind voice of Cody, and the young voice of Ahsoka. Luke’s toddler voice adds itself to the litany of voices, and Ben grins, watching the ever-changing dunes. Today was a good day. Seeing Luke usually makes his day, and this is one of those instances. A visit from his Master would do him good, he thinks. Soon, he will be too old for the lessons that the man has planned, but he plans to enjoy them while they last. Ben walks into the dunes, towards his hut. He might only have the ghost of one of the people who called him Ben, but he carries the other four close to his heart, carefully adding one more to that collection. The newest addition has a clear voice that is destined to deepen as he ages.

“How was your day, Padawan?” Qui-Gon is standing in front of the hut, serene as he was in life. Perhaps even more so.

Obi-Wan smiles wryly, feeling at peace for one of the first times in a while, “Quite nice, Master.”

Qui-Gon smiles indulgently, pleased that Obi-Wan still finds some joy in his life, “That is comforting to hear, Ben.”

#fanfic #star wars fanfic #duna writes #obi wan kenobi #mace windu #qui gon jinn #satine kryze #The slightest hint of obitine #obitine #Ahsoka Tano #commander cody #anakin skywalker

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razieltwelve · 3 years

Text

Warning (Final Rose)

Fang was not someone who took offence easily. Perhaps that was why some members of her clan had decided to voice their objections to her choice of spouse. True, she was the bearer of Ragnarok, a legendary Semblance that was considered something close to divine by her clansmen. Many had believed she would marry within the clan, thereby ensuring that any future bearers were pure-blooded Yun.

Before proposing to Lightning, she had spoken to her chieftain about it. If he had objected, she would have simply proposed anyway, but he was a good man and a fine leader. She wanted to at least let him know that there might well be trouble on the horizon for him. After all, anyone who was dissatisfied by her choice would undoubtedly go to him.

“Marry who you wish,” the chieftain had said to her with a shrug. “You are Yun, so your children will be Yun.” His lips twitched. “After all, was the Mother of the Yun a Yun by birth? No. She became Yun when she married our great ancestor, the Father of the Yun. Besides, do you mean to abandon your heritage and your people? Will you raise your children without ever teaching them the ways of your ancestors? Will they never climb our mountains or run through our forests?”

Of course, she had told him that she had intention of doing that. Her children would be raised to know who their ancestors were, and they would learn the ways of the Yun as Fang had. And though they might not live in Oerba, they would visit. They would see for themselves the soaring peaks of the mountains. They would know the feel of the forest’s grass beneath their feet and the icy rush of the wind atop the mountains. They would see the towering walls of Oerba and walk its bustling markets. They would speak the language of the Yun and take the Trials when it was time. They would be Yun.

“Then I have no complaints.” The chieftain smiled briefly before his expression turned serious. “But there are others who may not be so accepting. Do what you must, Fang. You know our ways. There are some who will not learn until they are taught.”

And so it was that Fang found herself invoking one of the oldest laws of the Yun after one insult too many. The Circle of Honour, a fight to the death to settle matters of honour. It could not be called upon lightly, for the Yun did not slay their own without reason. But although most insults could be forgiven, to intrude on a marriage celebration and insult one of the celebrants to their face was not one of them. Worse, the insults had been amongst the worst a Yun could offer although from her expression Lightning did not quite understand the nuance. She wasn’t happy about what had been said, but she didn’t grasp exactly why the Yun and Dia in the room had gone still and quiet. And given how rowdy most wedding celebrations were, that was no small thing.

So Fang had gotten to her feet and issued the challenge. Her opponent could now either crawl out of the marriage hall on her belly, offering the most humble and sincere of apologies, or she could meet Fang in combat. Fang was coldly pleased that she decided to give combat instead.

X X X

Fang glanced briefly at the circle of Yun that had formed around her and her opponent. They were standing silent sentry, shields locked, spears at the ready. By ancient law, whoever tried to flee the challenge was to be cut down, for cowardice would not be tolerated in matters such as these. A few of the Dia stood nearby taking notes. The Circle of Honour was rarely invoked nowadays, and there were few living who could remember the last time it had been used. As hotheaded as some Yun could be, it was rare for matters to get so far out of hand.

Usually, the chieftain or the veterans would step in to settle disputes, but her opponent had ignored their wise counsel. The chieftain took a moment to explain the rules and the reason for the Circle before giving the signal to begin.

The first thing Fang did was toss aside her shield and spear.

“What are you doing?” her opponent hissed. Amadan was a tall woman, taller even than Fang, though only by half a head or so. She was a fine warrior in her own right, and Fang was glad that she had no children. It would be a shame to make orphans of them. At least, she had a younger brother, one as gifted as she was in the arts of war, so her bloodline’s talent would not be lost to the Yun. That brother was part of the crowd watching, and his face could have been carved of granite, his expression was so stony.

“I need no spear or shield to kill you.”

“You mean to use your Semblance?” Amadan skipped forward, swift and deadly. Her spear flashed out twice, each thrust aimed at a critical point. Fang swayed away from the blows and then ducked, circling around Amadan as the other woman swiped at her with her shield.

“My Semblance?” Fang laughed, and the sound was cold and ugly. “Rangarok is a treasure of our people, the greatest weapon we possess. You are not worthy of death at its hands.”

“Then how will you kill me?” Amadan growled. She lunged forward, her form perfect as she struck three more times. Yet three more times, Fang dodged, reading the path of each blow as clearly as though they were constellations in the clear night sky.

“With these hands of mine,” Fang replied. “And these hands alone.” She circled around Amadan again. “Because you are not worthy of anything more.”

“You will try,” Amadan retorted. “But you have yet to throw a strike.”

“I will need only one.”

Fang made a show of tossing aside the daggers and knives she hid on her person. Like any good Yun, she had one in her boot and another at her waist. She also had one hidden in her bracers, and she cast that away too.

“When you die,” Fang began, the words coming in the singsong rhythm of a death promise. “The winds will not whisper of your deeds. The trees will not bear your name. The walls will not remember you. You will die a fool, and all the Yun and Dia will remember you only as the fool who thought to insult my woman as we celebrated our marriage.” Fang beckoned Amadan forward. “Come then, fool, or are you coward also?”

“I am no coward!” Amadan sprang, her strong legs closing the gap in an instant.

Fang stepped to the side, and Amadan’s spear shot past her. In the split-second it took the other woman to realise she’d missed, Fang’s right hand came up, claw-like, and seized her throat. There was a flash, a spark of light, and then Amadan’s Aura shattered and Fang’s fingers closed around her throat. A moment later there was only red, and Amadan staggered, dropping her shield and spear as she tried in vain to staunch the bleeding.

Fang tossed aside the scrap of flesh she’d torn loose and spat.

“Do you hear that?” Fang asked. “There is no wind to mark your passing. The trees do not sighing grief. And even the walls are silent. Die in the dirt where you belong.”

X X X

Author’s Notes

As easy-going as they often are, it is easy to forget that the Yun have basically spent their entire existence locked in battle. Every single member of the Yun is trained in combat, and this is reflected in many of their customs. Even so, matters of honour rarely escalate this far. The veterans and the chieftain do their best to ensure that such matters are handled in private without anyone ending up dead. Of course, there are people who can’t take a hint. Amadan was one of them.

As for what Fang said to her, those three references are insults of the highest order. According to Yun custom, when a person dies, their ashes are to be scattered from the peaks. This is so that the wind might take those ashes and whisper of their deeds to all the world. Someone that the winds do not whisper of is said to have done nothing in their life that is worthy of praise. Likewise, it is also customary for dead Yun to have their names carved into the titanic trees of the forest around Oerba as a living and permanent reminder of who they were and what they had accomplished. To not have someone’s name carved into the trees is to deny their existence, to say that they were so inconsequential that there is no need to remember them at all. And finally, it is said that the great walls of Oerba themselves have a memory, that their foundations are built upon the blood and sacrifice of the worthy. To be remembered by the walls of Oerba is to be immortal, to be honoured by everyone who looks upon them. To be forgotten by the walls is to be shamed, especially for a warrior. Those three insults combined are truly stinging for someone of Yun ancestry, and they would never be used even in jest outside of a situation like this.

Fun fact: When Diana married outside the clan, nobody was dumb enough to say anything during the celebration. Admittedly, part of that is because Fujin does have clan ancestry (not Yun, however), but still... anyone who even thought of saying something remembered what Fang did and thought that maybe it wasn’t worth it.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here.

#final rose #fanfiction #oerba yun fang #lightning farron

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moonbeamsung · 4 years

Text

CRΣΣKS

Love, a second glance, it is not something that we need.

member: jeno

au: guardian angel in disguise!jeno x gn!reader, guardian angel au

word count: 3.4k

genre: angst

warnings: character death/loss, profanity, no happy ending, mentions of religion, questioning/loss of faith

recommended song: 715 - CRΣΣKS by the nor’easters

author’s note: Please be very careful with volume when listening to the song (above) that inspired this story! But even without reading the lyrics/listening, the fic will still make sense, and happy reading :)

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @starryktown

The wind is whistling, weaving in and out of the tall river reeds like an invisible needle and thread, stitching itself into each and every crevice of the world’s gift called nature.

Another one of its many gifts is the young boy that’s resting beside a rushing brook, toes dipped into the cool water and face illuminated by the sun as it beats down onto the earth with celestial strength.

Well, a gift from the heavens, that is.

Sent from the endless skies above, Jeno is your guardian angel, assigned with posing as a humble peasant boy in the village, all to keep a watchful eye on you from afar. In his human form, he spends his days wandering the cobblestone roads and narrow alleyways between the quaint buildings, with no family to return home to at dusk. A sunny meadow on the outskirts of town becomes his home, and he takes refuge in the shelter that the overgrown grass provides.

Everything is going smoothly, and he’s doing his job just as he should be. It’s routine now, waking up and rising from his earthen mattress, curtains of copious plant leaves letting in the sun’s rays. He finds you, observes at a comfortable distance, and that’s that. At its core, being a guardian is really an easy job. A predictable one.

A monotonous one.

Until one day you approach him, youthful eagerness in your eyes piercing and nearly painful, even to his invulnerable body. He’s never seen you up close before, only on the near horizon as you’ve gone about your daily chores, tending to the housework just like any obedient child should.

“...Who are you?”

Now, Jeno is faced with a decision more challenging than any that us mortal beings have to make in our entire lives. Engaging with one’s assignment is an extremely dangerous path to take. Unimaginable punishments await, should the guardian make a wrong choice. But Jeno was careless, and he had allowed himself to be discovered by the only human on Earth that the divine forces permit him to be seen by.

He makes the fatal error of answering you, ultimately shattering a future he’ll never get to live out, one that he doesn’t even know he would’ve had. Like a sharp rock being thrown at a church’s stained glass window, the meticulously carved pieces of his worldly existence fall to the ground with a deafening crash, broken beyond repair.

“I’m Jeno,” the strikingly majestic cadence of his words is like that of angel trumpets, the sound ringing in your head and making you dizzy with both fascination and infatuation.

And just like that, in three short syllables, you’re both fated to fall before you can even spread your wings.

From the moment you hear his name tumble from those beautiful lips, you’re hooked, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you look at him, in the way you act, the way you talk. A child experiencing a first and a forbidden love all at once.

It breaks his heart, because he knows it can’t, and shouldn’t last. The churning rapids of the creek nearby weep for him, for they know that in a matter of just a few short years, their waters are destined to mix with the salty tears that will steadily cascade from your trembling chin.

Jeno remembers, although vaguely, the brief amount of time he spent living amongst the clouds, being prepared by the heavenly elders for this expedition of a lifetime, quite literally. He remembers the scriptures, the strictures, and all the times he’s been warned of the severe consequences that come with immorality.

But even the purest of young angels aren’t infallible, still susceptible to compulsions that lead them to sin and defy their creator.

Relishing in the fading daylight, you join him by the water’s edge, listening to his soothing tone as he answers your ceaseless inquiries with harmless little lies as white as heavenly robes and cherub wings.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. The first sin.

It’s interesting, he thinks, that despite looking after you in the endeavors of your youth for quite a while now, he knows next to nothing about who you truly are. Actions may speak louder than words, but how can he know that if he’s never heard your voice to begin with?

As the quiet, languid conversation shifts from his purpose there to yours, Jeno learns that you’re very content with your life, taking pride in helping your family with daily tasks as well as assisting your neighbors in the close-knit village with theirs.

Just then, all the smears of dirt and scattered scratches adorning your face catch his attention, gained after hours of hard work. No amount of water is ever enough to scrub them off of your skin at the end of the day, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, you feel tears prick your eyes as you try to fall asleep at night, frustrated with your lowly appearance and how it never seems to match your relatively optimistic outlook on life.

But Jeno doesn’t care. You’re breathtaking even in his eyes, the eyes that belong to an actual angel. If that fact alone isn’t enough to boost your confidence, he doesn’t know what else possibly could.

Like a fool, he lets himself drown in your sublimity for a moment, marveling at the ethereal glow of the sun on your smooth, ageless face. The faint noise of wisps of air blowing gently through the meadow and rustling the flora makes him drowsy, but the sight of a pure white heron landing gracefully on the opposite side of the riverbank brings him back to full consciousness in an instant.

The bird, an omen of sorts, had been sent down from Heaven, conjured up from a fleeting idea and into a physical reality, by the holy beings looking down upon the earth, indicating that they’re well aware of the threat he poses and just how close he is to making an irreversible mistake in regards to you, his assignment and assignment only.

The heron abruptly unfurls its delicately feathered wings, as if frightened, before taking off and floating away on the breeze, both of your gazes inexplicably drawn to it as it flies until it’s out of sight altogether.

It warns him of just what he’s messing with, exactly.

This is not a part of the creator’s plan for you, for him. Falling in love with the one an angel is supposed to guard is an appalling crime to commit in the eyes of the elders that inhabit the sky, in the eyes of God. Though it doesn’t explicitly go against a commandment or biblical law, it’s just an understood rule. It’s wrong.

Jeno tells himself this, and continues to do so over the many years that he looks after you, never acting on his emotions, only acknowledging them before sending the less-than-acceptable thoughts into the depths of his conscious mind. He only wishes he had a key to lock them up and forget he even felt them in the first place.

Even as an angel, he ages just like anyone else, the both of you going from kids to teenagers and then nearing the young-adult stage of life, with you remaining blissfully unaware of Jeno’s true identity all the while. It’s a miracle he’s managed to keep his secret for this long, honestly, but like grains of sand in an hourglass, your time together is running out, whether you like it or not.

Not even a year before your entire world, your entire reality comes undone before your very eyes, Jeno feels as if his has already done just that. Because you’ve found someone. And that someone isn’t him.

He hates the feeling of jealousy, despises it with every fiber of his heavenly being. But he can’t shake it, can’t bear the way it clings to him like an unwelcome visitor. An unrecognizable emotion, one so foreign that he can’t even put a name to it, is stirred up at the sight of you in their arms, so pure and so unworthy of this person. Boy, if he didn’t know any better, Jeno would swear that you were the angel.

With each day that passes, he begins to feel the final shreds of both his dignity and his self-control slipping away, lost to the familiar breeze that whips through the village, stronger than ever these days. He can no longer contain it within himself. He wants you.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. The second sin.

How ironic that a Sunday, of all days, is when everything falls apart.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, just barely grazing the horizon with its bright beams of warmth as it steadily rises, bathing the world in a soft yellow glow. You can also see the moon leftover from the night that ended not so long ago, fading fast but visible nonetheless. Two complete opposites, so close but prevented by the laws of nature for coexisting in the same space, at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, if you knew just how much you had in common with the celestial objects above, you would have clutched the hand of Jeno a bit tighter yesterday, intertwined your fingers a little more closely with those of someone who had become the closest thing to a best friend that you had ever known. You admit that you wish he could be something more, but you know better than to push your limits.

You got tired of waiting to see if he felt the same way, choosing to fill the void with someone else that you liked, yes, but who just wasn’t the same as the boy who had always been there, waiting in the meadow every morning without fail. Still, your emotions are ever-alert and always searching for any sign of reciprocation within Jeno.

He’s nowhere to be found when you reach the water’s edge, the edge of the creek where you wasted away endless summer days and frosty winter nights, colorful spring afternoons and brisk autumn evenings.

This morning would seem no different than the rest if not for his absence. The knot in your heart loosens, but not by much, when you spot him at the forest’s edge, looking weary.

Jeno notices you and calls out your name with a smile, but something about it isn’t genuine. It’s pained, desperate, like he wants to hold onto this moment forever, unwilling to carry out the plan he’s already regretting. It’s too late now, he thinks to himself, but he’s wrong.

It’s been too late for years.

“Jeno?”

“This way!” He chokes out. It’s somewhere between a sob and a plea, but there’s no time to figure out which is the more appropriate term. He disappears between the trees and amidst their mossy branches, blending in with the shadows cast by the thick canopy of leaves, and you break into a sprint, afraid of losing him to the merciless wilderness and what lies within.

Thankfully, he’s not too far gone. A small clearing greets you less than a dozen strides in, and in the very center of it stands a glass gazebo, run-down and covered in so many twisting vines to the point where the small structure is almost fully consumed by the nature surrounding it.

The scene is beautiful, so much so that it makes you uneasy. What’s going on? Why did he bring you here? Why does he seem so sad? Jeno is never sad, maybe he could be described as brooding or solemn on the rarest of occasions, but never this melancholy, never so utterly hopeless in his expressions and his aura.

None of these questions are answered, even as he takes your hands in his own and leads you inside of the gazebo, its see-through panels catching the light with elegance and ease.

“I need to tell you something.” Just like it did the first time you heard it, his voice still shocks you like a bolt of electricity, your blood pressure and heart rate skyrocketing. All of this is heightened, though, by grim tone he’s speaking to you with.

“What is it, Jen?” There it is. The nickname you made up for him that, although simple, makes him feel like he’s on top of the world. Actually, scratch that: it makes him feel like he’s floating in the sky, up past the clouds and even further away from this cruel planet than the heavens are from Hell.

You’re only making this harder for him. He might as well just spit it out, because all this waiting is agonizing for the both of you.

“We... we can’t be together.”

The sentence that leaves his lips is two declarations wrapped up in one singular statement, the first being that he wants to be with you in the same way you want to be with him. It’s much too hopeful, misleading your emotions down a path of elation instead of dread. The second is unpleasant, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue once he says the words.

“...Yes, yes we can, Jen, because I don’t really love them and all this time it’s been you—”

“You don’t understand,” he tries to stop the confession spilling out from your heart before it overflows, drowns you. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Stunned to silence, he gives you a moment to drink in the implications of his words. “...I’ve known you for over half of my entire life, and you’re trying to tell me I have no idea who you really are? Not a chance,” you laugh softly, shaking your head and glancing down at the wooden gazebo floor, old white paint peeling under your feet.

“But haven’t you ever wondered why I’m always there by the creek every morning? How I turn up throughout your day at the perfect time? How I’m suddenly right by your side when you need me the most?”

You have wondered. Many times, in fact. But the possibility of him being anything other than human was not at the top of your very rational list.

“...Don’t you see? I’m your guardian angel.”

He sees you blink, realization dawning on your face like the sun and stretching your features. “There are laws—” He begins, but your reaction is not the one he anticipated you would have to that information.

Too overwhelmed, you can’t respond with anything other than physical actions, no matter how unreasonable, and you press your dry lips to his soft ones, sealing your fate. Standing there, with beams of golden light infiltrating the space and illuminating your unsteady figures, Jeno is petrified not by your kiss, but by the fact that he doesn’t push you away, and his hands hold onto yours even tighter than before. Nothing has ever felt so right in his entire life. Not when he was in Heaven, and not in all the years he’s spent on Earth, either.

You’re his Heaven, this moment is his eternity. Jeno has endured enough temptation, the undeniable thrill that a deliberate sin promises has become too much for him. If he pulls away now, everything would still be okay, you could both go back to normal and pretend this never happened. But alas, he was doomed to kiss you back from the beginning, and so he does, and you have no idea what the universe has in store when you feel his lips finally respond to yours in the most unholy way possible. For the first and last time, you indulge in each other’s touch and taste, and it does not please the ones watching from above.

The third and final sin, one sin too many for him to remain in this world without consequence.

Several things happen all at once. A clap of thunder sounds overhead, though there are no clouds in sight. Jeno is painfully ripped from your grasp and thrown out of the gazebo by some invisible force of nature, into the grass and dirt on the forest floor.

And inside of you, a piece of your soul is torn from your being, bile rising up in your throat as you comprehend the excruciating sensation that racks your body with pained whimpers.

Stumbling to his feet, Jeno heaves, hunched over and close to tears. Suppressing the agony you still feel, you hurry over to him only for the boy to charge away, heading back towards the open meadow. With a broken shout of his name, you follow.

You didn’t notice before, but now the blinding light reveals the condition he’s in. He looks almost normal, but the edges of his form are becoming fainter by the minute, blurring with the rest of the world around him. He’s fading away before your eyes, and it’s all your fault.

It’s a torturous experience, watching him slowly meld with the emptiness of the air. Making him disappear into thin air in an instant would have been an act of mercy, a mercy that’s apparently beyond the capabilities of the spectators in the sky.

Struggling to maintain your composure, you force a question out. “What’s happening?” You ask, though you know he doesn’t have an answer himself.

He’s obviously panicked, though he tries not to show it. “I... I don’t know, I knew that it was forbidden for us to fall in love but I didn’t think I’d be robbed of my existence like this...”

“What?! No, Jeno, please don’t go...” You beg the gods and angels above, if any exist. You don’t know anymore.

If there is a God, how can he be good if he’s taking Jeno away from you like this, depriving you of the one constant source of joy and comfort in your life?

It’s far too cruel to bestow such a kind and generous heart upon someone who isn’t allowed to love in the first place.

Even Jeno’s touch is faint, making you feel like he’s not there at all. You just barely detect the pads of his fingers smoothing over your cheeks, trying to stop the water spilling from your eyes. He smiles sadly, “Don’t cry for me. I’m not worth the tears.”

“You’re everything to me, Jeno. You’re worth every drop.”

“Remember me like this, okay? By the creek,” he gestures to the turbulent waters a short distance away. Walking slowly, he begins to take steps in its direction, but as he speeds up you’re no longer able to match his pace. “Jeno, turn around...”

Glancing back at you for the final time, he whispers a goodbye that the breeze carries away with it, the sound something only the two of you would hear, one that could never be replicated.

“Goddamnit, Jeno, don’t you dare leave me!” But you know you can’t hold on, you’re not strong enough. A greater force wants you two apart, unable to be overpowered by one human, a relatively insignificant being in the grand scheme of the universe. He vanishes completely.

You fall to your knees, the pain from the pebbles digging into your legs and feet underneath the surface of the creek numbed by your sorrow. The water drenches your clothes, splashing up onto your skin and becoming one with your relentless tears. You’re left all alone, with only the cattails to keep you company. You wish the waves would just swallow you whole so you don’t have to feel this suffocating isolation.

In an unnecessarily harsh trick of the light combined with the dancing shadows generated by the water, you swear that you see Jeno again for a second, sitting on the riverbank like always. You sob louder.

It takes forever for you to find the strength to stand up again, water running over your soaked shoes and threatening to topple you over. You wouldn’t mind if it succeeds.

Inconsolable even to your closest friends and family, you reluctantly return to the village, unwilling to leave behind what you’ve just been through and unable to explain just why you’re crying so hard. Maybe if you stay there forever, spending each day and night waiting among the reeds and the flowers and the grass, he’ll come back someday, but no. He’ll never return, but you simply can’t bring yourself to accept this fact.

You’re never quite the same after that. Part of the curse that haunts you for the rest of your life is this: no matter how hard you try to retain your memories, you’re destined to forget Jeno eventually, leaving vast gaps in your brain when it comes to the years of your youth.

You’re left with only a feeling of inexplicable nostalgia at the sight of the meadow and the creek running through it, the waters still as violent as they were on the day you lost him.

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i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what · 4 years

Text

there was a moment from yesterday’s episode that set off so many alarm bells in my head and i haven’t seen anyone talking about it yet so i’m going to get my thoughts out there. i’m putting the majority of this post under a readmore bc it got very long thanks to all the transcript quotes i pulled but i really want to know what everyone else thinks about the Implications™

BASIRA

Okay. So… what do we know about Hill Top Road?

ARCHIVIST

Not much.

BASIRA

Another blind spot?

ARCHIVIST

No, it’s – I could look at it, but it… it was… it was like a… a hole. You know that feeling you get when you look down from a, a great height, like you’re being pulled into the abyss?

BASIRA

Kind of?

ARCHIVIST

[Getting lost in thought] Well it was… was like that. Normally I can see it, see the… webs, and feel the power of The Spider emanating from it, but… as I would look… it’s like my mind…. follows the paths of The Web,

[STATIC RISES]

the strands going down and… out… [Catching self] It’s quite disorientating.

[STATIC FADES]

my first thought after hearing this exchange was “huh, that sounds eerily similar to the description of the table the not-them was trapped in.” here it is from mag 3 - across the street:

I’d become enraptured by the table on which he’d placed my tea. It was an ornate wooden thing, with a snaking pattern of lines weaving their way around towards the centre. The pattern was hypnotic and shifted as I watched it, like an optical illusion. I found my eyes following the lines towards the middle of the table, where there was nothing but a small square hole.

my first instinct was that this was some foreshadowing for jon meeting some kind of horrible fate, because well... remember what happened the last time someone got mesmerized by the table?

SASHA

Oh, hey. I’ve found… I’ve found that table you were talking about. Don’t really see what all the fuss is about. Just a… basic… optical illusion. Nothing special… just… just a… wait…

[Hushed and panicked] Jon! Jon, I think there’s someone here. Hello? I see you. Show yourself!

but then i started thinking more about why the table specifically would be referenced, and i remembered the earliest we see it used as artifact of the web, and where: with raymond fielding in hill top road in mag 59 - recluse:

On Sunday evenings, however, we’d all gather for the evening meal, and before we sat down to eat, he would remove the bright white tablecloth that covered it, and we’d gather around the dark wood. I remember it was carved in all sorts of strange swirling designs and patterns. It felt like if you picked a line, any line, you could follow it through to the center, to some deep truth, if only your eye could keep track of the strands that had caught it.

it was while i was checking the transcripts to find the above quote that i also remembered the hole in center of the table that the web pattern leads towards wasn’t always empty - it used to contain a box, and that box contained an apple.

again from again from mag 59:

The center of the table looked, at first, like it was simply part of the wooden top, but if you looked closely, as I did so often, you could see an outline marking the very middle as a small, square box, carved with patterns just like the ones that laced their way over the rest of the table. I don’t remember how long we sat around the table those evenings, nor do I have any memory of what we might have eaten.

...

I reached over and pulled the wooden square from the center of the table. On its own, it appeared to be a small wooden box, and the lid opened smoothly, as my hands moved in a practiced motion. Inside was an apple, green and fresh and still wet with morning dew.

I knew I was going to eat it. I could feel tears desperately trying to push themselves out of my eyes, but I instead decided not to cry. I placed the box down on the table, reached over, and picked up the apple.

the box from the center of the table makes its first appearance in the very first hill top road statement, mag 8 - burned out, where we learn that apparently the apple was full of spiders.

considering the web’s predilection for filling it’s victim’s bodies with spiders (carlos vittery, annabell cane, the spider husks trevor encountered, the victim of the chelicerae website, the old woman in annabell’s statement, francis, etc.) i think this goes a ways to explain what happened to raymond’s other victims, and what would have happened to mag 59′s statement giver if he’d bitten into the apple:

They lay still now, wrapped in their sticky cocoons. Their bodies seemed warped and bloated in a way I didn’t recognize. But that’s only because at that point in my life, I had never before seen a spider egg sac.

more importantly though, we also learn that the box was buried under the burnt up tree in hill top road’s garden, the one whose uprooting was implied to be linked to agnes’s death:

STATEMENT

At that moment I made my decision. It was easy, like destroying this tree was the only thing to do, the only path to follow ... When the tree lay on its side, uprooted and powerless, I gazed into the hole where it had sat and noticed something lying there in the dirt.

Climbing down, I retrieved what turned out to be a small wooden box, about six inches square, with an intricate pattern carved along the outside. Engraved lines covered it, warping and weaving together, making it hard to look away.

...

ARCHIVIST

Except… We cannot prove any connection, but Martin unearthed a report on an Agnes Montague, who was found dead in her Sheffield flat on the evening of November 23rd 2006, the same day Mr. Lensik claims to have uprooted the tree.

and keep in mind that the only reason the statement giver in mag 59 didn’t eat the apple, didn’t succumb to the web... was agnes’s kiss:

As the man in the suit told me to follow him in a clipped BBC accent, Agnes walked over, and gestured for me to lean down and listen to her. I did so, but instead of a conspiratorial whisper, she just gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then ran off down the hall.

...

All at once, my cheek erupted in pain. It was like someone had pressed a hot branding iron into my face, and I could swear that I heard the flesh sizzle as I let out a scream and fell to my knees. I raised my hands to my face and realized in that moment two very important things. The first is that my face seemed to be untouched; I could feel no injury or burn. The second was that raising my hand had been a truly voluntary act. I had willed it myself, and whatever power had been gripping me, tugging me into its web, I was free of it.

at this point you’re probably wondering why i think all this is relevant in terms of what might happen with hill top road, and i have two potential ideas:

my first idea has to do with the theory that agnes is lingering on as a ghost. this theory isn’t mine, i first encountered it shortly after mag 167 - curiosity aired through this post’s attempt to fix what bits of the timeline were thrown out of wack by the new info. if anyone has any other posts or general thoughts about this theory feel free to share them, i’d love to read them!

this theory is relevant to my speculation that agnes might finally make an appearance because she might have been the ghost seen by one of the statement givers in mag 100 - i guess you had to be there:

MARTIN

Right. Right.

[THROAT CLEARING]

Statement of Lynne Hammond, er, recorded 2nd of May 2017, regarding…

Uh, what, what’s this one about?

LYNNE

I saw a ghost.

MARTIN

O-kay.. Regarding a… a ghost. Statement begins.

who appeared as one of the cultists in mag 190 - scavengers:

MARTIN

[Puzzled] Celia?

CELIA

Probably. The, um… place I was trapped in, they took my name. I never got it back. But I like Celia, so… yeah! Celia it is.

MARTIN

Uh… H-Hello… Celia.

and was recognized and directly confirmed to be the same person by martin in mag 191 - what we lose:

MARTIN

…

Hey, I meant to ask. Do you recognise that woman, Celia?

ARCHIVIST

Um… no, I, I don’t think so. Why?

MARTIN

I’d swear she gave a statement once.

having her only pop up in mag 190 would have just been a fun easter egg, but having martin directly call out her presence the next episode sounds to me like jonny telling the audience to pay attention, to remember that her statement had to do with the ghost of a young woman on fire who might have been agnes.

my second idea involves web lighter.

over various statements throughout the previous four seasons we’ve been shown that the web and the desolation have been at war, and hill top road has been their battlefield. the best examples of this come from mag 139 - chosen and mag 149 - infectious doubts respectively.

on the one hand we have agnes being planted in hill top road by the cult of the lightless flame in an effort to both control her powers and derail the web’s plans, which seems to begin the conflict:

The compromise we came to was Hill Top Road. We knew it was a stronghold of the Web, full of other children Agnes’ age. We would supervise from a distance, but were confident she would be in no danger. The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand; all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.

and on the other we have the web binding gertrude to agnes, thus thwarting the desolation’s ritual, which also involved hill top road:

ARTHUR

Alright. Agnes. How’d you do it? Never did understand it, not really.

GERTRUDE

Ah. That’s a fair enough question. It was the Web. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, and I would call it an accident, but it never is, with them. It’s only after the fact that you can see all the subtle manipulations

...

So, I began researching what I thought was a counter-ritual of sorts. Like I said, I was young, naive. I somehow found just the right books, made just the right connections, and even got what I thought was a piece of blind good luck when I found a tin box in the ashes of Hill Top Road, containing some perfectly preserved cuttings of her hair.

wouldn’t it seem symbolic, fitting with the dream logic we’ve been working with all season (and that the fears have always tended to work with), if what ended the metaphysical war was an artifact touched by both the web and the desolation?

say perhaps... a device that creates fire while being marked by a symbol of the spider? one that just so happened to be delivered to the institute at the same time as a certain table?

TIM

Er, what is it?

ARCHIVIST

A lighter. An old Zippo.

TIM

You smoke?

ARCHIVIST

No. And I don’t allow ignition sources in my archive!

TIM

Okay. Is there anything unusual about it?

ARCHIVIST

Not really. Just a sort of spider web design on the front. Doesn’t mean anything to me. You?

TIM

Ah no. No.

ARCHIVIST

Well… show it to the others, see what they think. You said there was something else as well?

TIM

Oh, ah yes, yeah, it was sent straight to the Artefact Storage, a table of some sort. Ah, looks old. Quite pretty, though. Fascinating design on it.

all signs point to the best hope of escaping whatever plans the web has for jon lying with the desolation, or at least with fire, and who should be waiting in hill top road than someone who’s been known to burn statements in the past... and someone who, as of mag 162 - a cozy cabin, was the last person to mention the lighter:

MARTIN

So, should we destroy it? Before we go?

[THE CABIN CREAKS VERY LOUDLY.]

ARCHIVIST

I honestly don’t know if we can.

[HE SIGHS.]

MARTIN

Mm.

ARCHIVIST

Besides, there’s – far worse out there. Better to try and avoid it, I think.

MARTIN

We’re not even gonna try? Look, we’ve got your lighter; maybe if we just –

i haven’t even begun to touch on the multiple instances of spiral marked individuals interacting with hill top road, or the potential role of the rift leading from the world without the institute to the reality with the institute from mag 114 - cracked foundations, or the foreshadowing we’ve gotten throughout this season that the archive might be destroyed by fire and how it’s looking more and more like that means jon might die, or the significance of the tapes and what power might be behind them...

but it’s nearing five in the morning where i am and i’ve been working on this frankly gargantuan post since about midnight, so i’m going to let more meta-inclined minds take it from here. tell me what you think! where do you agree with me, where do you think i’ve gone astray? hell, tell me if you think i’m just spinning my wheels, this is the first real theory post i’ve ever made so i might be completely off base, at least i tried lol.

tl;dr:

the call back to the imagery surrounding the web table and its long history with hill top road and the desolation is leading me to believe that whatever plans the web has in hill top road for jon, fire is going to have a significant role in whether or not the web gets what it wants; either agnes herself might finally make an appearance or the web lighter might finally come into play.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #mag 195 spoilers #sorry if this is incoherent i had it all typed up and formatted nicely and then this hellsite just deleted the whole thing #i'm not usually one to theory craft (tho i have utmost respect for those who are) so i have no idea if i'm just reading too deeply #this is the most pepe silvia ass post i've ever written

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 4 years

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Hello! So, I mean, this might be out of the blue, ambiguous and crazy to answer (but it's something I think about a lot, and you touched upon it in a previous ask and would love your further perspective on!) but let's say, at the end of The Return of The King, Grima lived! What do you personally think his journey and path would look like from there?

Grima asks are never out of the blue - I always want them <3 Thank you so much for asking!!

man ok - well Grima at the end of ROTK is in a really dark place. Frodo, Gandalf et al first run into Grima and Saruman on the road near the misty mountains as the make their slow return journey from Gondor.

As they (Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf) came out again into the open country at sundown they overtook an old man leaning on a staff, and he was clothed in rags of grey or dirty white, and at his heels went another beggar, slouching and whining.

[...]

‘Get up you idiot!’ he (Saruman) shouted to the other beggar, who had sat down on the ground; and he struck him with his staff. ‘Turn about! If these fine folk are going our way, then we will take another. Get on, or I’ll give you no crust for your supper!’

The beggar turned and slouched past whimpering: ‘Poor old Grima! Poor old Grima! Always beaten and cursed. How I hate him! I wish I could leave him!’

‘Then leave him!’ said Gandalf.

a man who has never been in an abusive situation in his life, clearly.

‘One thief deserves another,’ said Saruman (to Merry), and turned his back on Merry, and kicked Wormtongue, and went away towards the wood.

Great guy, Saruman.

And the famous scouring of the Shire bit that everyone on here misremembers when it comes to Grima’s whole situation:

But Frodo said: (...) But I will not have him (Saruman) slain. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing. Go Saruman, by the speediest way!’

‘Worm! Worm!’ Saruman called; and out of a nearby hut came Wormtongue, crawling, almost like a dog. ‘To the road again, Worm!’ Said Saruman. ‘These fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!’

[Saruman tries to stab Frodo as he leaves and Sam gets ready to shank a bitch. Frodo stops him saying: ‘...He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.’ ...]

He (Saruman) walked away, and the hobbits made a lane for him to pass; but their knuckles whitened as they gripped on their weapons. Wormtongue hesitated, and then followed his master.

‘Wormtongue!’ called Frodo. ‘You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can rest and food here a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.’

Wormtongue halted and looked back at him, half prepared to stay. Saruman turned. ‘No evil?’ he cackled. ‘Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don’t you Worm? Will you tell them?’

Wormtongue cowered down and whimpered: ‘No, no!’

‘Then I will,’ said Saruman. ‘Worm killed your chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn’t you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.’

A look of wild hate came into Wormtongue’s red eyes. ‘You told me to; you made me do it,’ he hissed.

Saruman laughed. ‘You do what Sharkey says, always, don’t you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!’ He kicked Wormtongue in the face as he grovelled, and turned and made off. But at that something snapped: suddenly Wormtongue rose up, drawing a hidden knife, and then with a snarl like a dog he sprang on Saruman’s back, jerked his head back, cut his throat, and with a yell ran off down the lane. Before Frodo could recover or speak a word, three hobbit-bows twanged and Wormtongue fell dead.

A sad end to a very sad life.

So that’s the canon ending, obviously. A very neat, pat ending where all the baddies are dead, everyone who is broken will disappear into an asylum and/or die take a boat to the grey havens and life will move on.

How nice.

Alright, now for the speculation! My favourite thing.

Assuming Grima lived, god knows what his journey afterwards would look like. He’s mentally (and physically) in a bad way after having been physically (and emotionally) abused and starved by Saruman for the last year/two years. Saruman may have lost his powers, but he’s still terrifying force to be reckoned with. I don’t know how much Grima would be capable of on his own in terms of survival.

That said, Grima’s made it this far. He’s clearly got something in him that’s keeping him alive. Something in him wants to live. It might not know how to go about doing that, but it’s there, and that’s important.

So he’s stabbed Saruman, A+ work. The hobbits don’t shoot him. The question is then: does he take up Frodo’s offer or does his fuck off into the wilderness.

I can see him going either direction, honestly. But I suspect, given that he’s starving and in a bad way physically, I suspect he’d stay for a time. Now, considering what’s happened to him in the general vicinity of Bagend, I’m not sure how long Grima will stay, but I do think he’d rest there for a short while. Get a proper meal or two in him. Take a bath. That sort of thing.

From there he could go to somewhere like Bree or Dale, take up a new name/new life and try and move on, as much as a person can in a world that has absolutely no support networks for people who have gone through bad shit.

If he stayed for a longer period with Frodo? I could see Sam putting him to work.

‘I need someone to help me garden.’

‘...I know about horses?’

‘Plants are easier, trust me.’

‘....Are they though?’

Considering the fact that Grima has been dehumanized (Worm; like a dog; cur) and treated as worthless/unworthy by one of the more powerful beings in Middle Earth - and one who was once Great! Who was once wise and wonderful! I suspect he’s going to have a difficult time accepting kindness?

Frodo, of course, would be generous and understanding, because it’s Frodo and that’s the measure of man he is. Truly one of the nicest and most forgiving and tender people in the series.

Aragorn said of Grima that if he walked out of Orthanc alive it would be too good for him.

(Everyone is a lot meaner in the books. Funnier, yes, but also meaner. Then there’s the weird Faramir moment where he’s all up on that “Numenorian Blood Quantum Is Important” nonsense (tell that to your brother who has no blood of the Westernese in him...) There’s a lot of Oooof moments).

Frodo, though, Frodo is one of the genuinely kind and loving people who would never think such cruel things about anyone.

But back to Grima, I think the line Gillian Flynn wrote about how when you’re weaned on poison, it makes kindness seem like a cruelty is very relevant here. The first step to healing is allowing yourself to admit that you deserve to be healed, that you deserve love. That’s a very hard thing to allow, to acknowledge is something you are worthy of having.

And so it would be difficult, for him, to accept kindness and gentleness from Frodo, or anyone else. But if he was doing something to “earn” it, that might make it more palatable.

Which is a shame, since if there is anyone who understands the power and allure of the dark lord/Saruman etc. and how that can mess you up and contort you into someone you don’t recognize anymore, it’s Frodo.

Would Grima go back to Rohan? I don’t think so. Unless there were some wild, unexpected circumstances that brought him there, I truly don’t see him returning home. He’s torched that bridge pretty successfully - at least, I’m sure that’s how he sees it.

Now if he did. If something Bat Shit happened - and he went back. It would be wild and very emotional.

A Rider of Rohan, lost in the shire: I’m looking for a Mr Baggins? I understand he might know where Gandalf is? We sort of need some magic help in Rohan.

Hobbit: Turn left at the end of the lane, go past Grubby Harold’s llama farm, stop at the intersection with the red sign, take the third exit of the roundabout, turn right, turn left, turn left again, take the second switch back up the hill, at the crest of the hill, take the path that turns left at the big tree that someone carved Fuck Lobelia into and that should get you close.

Rider:

Rider: Right.

Rider eventually shows up, Grima’s out front updating Sam on some shit that Pansy Fielding said to Fardulf Braceblower, an ongoing war that has existed since the Dawn of Time. Sam is like “Please never stop telling me all the gossip, I live for this shit.”

Frodo: How did you hear about this?

Grima: I might have set up an informant’s network but it’s solely to trawl for entertaining gossip.

Rider approaches: Oh dear gods.

Grima:

Grima: Go get fucked, Gundahar.

Sam: Friend?

Grima & Gundahar: No.

Anyway. The rider tells Frodo that he’s after Gandalf because XYZ is happening in Rohan and Eomer-king is annoyed and “wants it dealt with, preferably yesterday”. Grima knows what’s up because you know, resident Spook Master also he was spending a lot of time around a lore-filled Wizard. Might as well get something for the years of mistreatment.

Gundahar: He’s not coming back to Rohan.

Frodo: We’re going on a road trip, Sam. Let’s get packed.

Sam: I’m so ready for this.

Grima: But I’m not going back to Rohan.

Gundahar: He’s not coming back to Rohan.

Frodo: Too late, he’s coming with us. Neither of us can be left alone for too long or we go weird in the head.

Merry: Oh we’re going to Rohan? Well, as a member of the royal court I’m coming.

Gundahar: .... How is this happening?

Grima: Hobbits, they move in herds.

Pippin: WAIT FOR ME!

Gandalf is UPSET that he has to travel with Grima. Grima says it’s mutual. He doesn’t like wizards. Especially wizards in white. He gets weird about hoarding food when Gandalf is around.

Grima then has to visit Theoden’s grave and have a lot of emotions about everything and it’s a Lot.

I don’t think he’d stay, though. Either he’d go back with Frodo or he might go on to Gondor or out east or something. Travel for a while.

I’ve gone off on some tangents here. Ahem.

But in general, I see his journey going in one of two directions: one where he fucks off after murdering Saruman and takes up a life somewhere else like Bree, or wherever, probably drinks too much and is miserable until he dies.

The other is where he accepts Frodo’s offer and either just chills in the Shire being the resident gossip-monger and mischief maker (Frodo: NO MISCHIEF. Grima: we can make a little mischief .., as a treat?) or he accepts the offer, stays for a while to get back on his feet and shake off some of the darkness, then goes off to travel around. Maybe he settles somewhere, maybe he doesn’t. Regardless if he stays or goes, it is a better ending to his life than he probably hoped for or expected.

And it shows the power and importance of kindness and love. Healing only happens if there is love and gentleness. And it’s terrifying - of course it is - but it’s so necessary.

Ok I am so sorry for my dissertation on Grima. I love talking about him so much.

Thank you!! <3 <3

#lotr #lord of the rings #grima wormtongue #frodo #samwise gamgee #rohan #ask #reply #return of the kings #rotk

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anika-ann · 4 years

Text

Homecoming (S.R)

Type: One-shot (long drabble?)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader Word Count: 1680

Summary: There is no feeling like this; coming home and having this waiting for you...what else could a girl want?

Prompt: coming home to an eager puppy

Warnings: practically zero plot, maybe some bitching about work and then just fluff and more fluff

A/N: For softbiker’s 25 Things Challenge. Thanks for letting me participate in such a positive challenge! May your blog grow and gain more kind followers in the future :))

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You whimpered, muttering profanities as you finally reached the top of the stairs, dropping the suitcase on the floor with a thud, grateful that the wheels would be of use at last. You had climbed three floors up with that thing, because the elevator was out of service; because that was just your luck.

Your feet were aching just like your calves from wearing nothing but high heels for almost two days straight, your Converse doing nothing for you now as it was too late to make up for the time spent in the pumps. The conference few towns over was almost nice, but too luxurious as always; your boss had claim to need you there (he didn’t) and had required you to look presentable and a head taller than him just so rich people could admire his choice of assistant (they didn’t care and those who did made you nauseous).

You really needed to change jobs once an opportunity would rise, before you lost your sanity and missed out on too many things in your life.

You sighed and dragged your feet towards your apartment, a brief smile flashing on your lips as you passed 3A, the home of your acquaintance/friend Clint. A muffled bark greeted you from behind the closed door and you hummed a sleepy “Hi, Lucky” in that direction before continuing your path.

You were worn to a bone; your body felt like made of lead, sticky after travelling, your hair was probably a mess and your breathing was heavy after the almost-midnight workout consisting of walking the stairs while lifting weights.

Yet, contentment slowly lifted your spirits as you reached your door and slid the key to the lock. Furious scratching of nails and quick rhythmic tapping on a bamboo flooring welcomed you along with an enthusiastic bark and you were done for, the widest smile spreading on your lips when you were reminded just what was waiting for you in your home.

You barely managed to open the door for a slit when a pair of paws – one tawny and one white, pushed through, raking with vigour to get to you. You chuckled as you carefully opened some more and slid in, your leg already being bounced on, barks echoing through the apartment as your 10-month-old furball couldn’t but express his excitement.

“Shh, shh-“ you whispered, though the giant grin stayed on your face as you manoeuvred your suitcase into the hall and closed the door and finally, finally crouched to give your favourite boy the greeting he deserved.

The moment you got your hands on him, your heart sang, fluttering in your chest. He was such a sweet baby and not for the first time, you wondered how his previous owners could give him up.

It probably had something to do with the fact that they wanted a damn guard dog – straight away, no less – and didn’t appreciate the love the puppy, a tawny-coloured Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, had been showering them with.

They had called him Fury, for God’s sake. Who does that? He was the cutest thing you had ever seen, a puppy so full of energy and affection that you had been helpless against his charm, falling in love instantly, secretly renaming him despite not changing a thing in his papers. No Fury. Furball. Your adorable loveable ball of fur, tawny, but with a line of white fur on his head and a patch on his chest and looking like he had lost a tiny white sock from his left back and right front leg.

“Hi, sweety, hi!” you cooed at him, giggling as he climbed up, stretching his neck so he could lick your face, nearly chasing tears into your eyes. God, this. This made the two godawful days worth it.

Your fingers ran through the fur, scratching and stroking his back, behind his ears and it was a testimony of how much he needed to show you he loved you that rather than rolling on his back to earn himself some belly rubs, he kept licking at your face, his tail swinging wildly.

“What a good boy you are!” you continued in low voice, marvelling at how obedient he was, truly tuning down the barking and welcoming you in other ways instead. “What a sweet greeting you’re giving your momma!”

“Well, we did miss you a lot,” a male voice, raspy from sleep, explained, causing your smile to widen enough to nearly tear your mouth, familiar warmth spreading in your ribcage.

“We?” you echoed, your head snapping up to the figure leaning onto the wall, your breath catching in your throat.

You felt heat rising to your cheeks, your heart skipping an excited beat.

There he was, a real-life Adonis, blond, broad-shouldered and tall, with face carved by the Gods himself. And he had apparently taken a nap on your couch while dog-sitting your buddy, because he had his left cheek red and a bit wrinkled – and still, you felt ashamed as he looked like the most beautiful human being in the stark contrast to your pathetic messy self.

It all had been Clint’s fault, really. First, your neighbour – a half-retired Avenger! – had had you fall in love with his dog Lucky, encouraging you to get a pup on your own. While it could be difficult to arrange everything with your job that occasionally required short travels, he had said, there were always people to dog-sit. You were sold and brought a new four-legged friend home two days later.

Except Clint had forgotten to mention that he was off the table as a potential help, because Lucky was a special snowflake – adorable and loveable one, yes, but incredibly selfish, unable to stand another dog in his territory.

And then the goofball of a man assured that it was still not a problem, because he happened to have a friend who would be delighted to help with your Furball and even would be ecstatic to wear him out by running in the park; all of that, for free, maybe for a bit of food, because he couldn’t quite get a dog of his own. You, the dumbass you were, accepted Clint’s offer, because it sounded amazing.

Once again, he failed to mention an important detail. His dog-sitting volunteer was Captain America himself. You had nearly fainted when he had rung your bell at 6 am in the morning, claiming that Clint had suggested a test run (quite literally).

And yet somehow… somehow it still worked out. Furball loved Steve in an instant – because you obviously weren’t the only one ready to fall to this god-like golden-haired and golden-hearted man’s feet – and Steve Rogers became your regular dog-sitter.

Now, he was standing in the tiny hall in your apartment, smiling tiredly at the reunion of two desperate co-dependents, probably aware just how ready you were to faint again as he had claimed that both of them had missed you.

He didn’t even have the decency to be bashful about it, the charming bastard he was.

He bounced off of the wall, slowly walking to you, extending a hand to help you up. You patted Furball’s head once more and accepted, letting Steve to pull you to your feet and wrap his arm around your waist, his gaze roaming over you lovingly despite your dishevelled state.

“Well, we missed you a lot,” he had said that one time about four months ago, shocking you into silence as you had simply stared at him, watching the blush creep up his neck and face at your soundless “We?” as he realized what had slipped past his lips.

He had been a lot more bashful then, stumbling over his words, frantically trying to explain— and ending up asking you (and Furball, obviously) out anyway.

Four months later, here you were, midnight approaching as Steve greeted you home, a kiss to your hair before ducking his head to kiss your lips.

“Yeah,” he whispered to your mouth, his nose tenderly bumping yours, half-lidded eyes and goofy smiles. His lips caught yours again, only then breathing out the magical word. “We.”

It became a ritual of yours, that little exchange. A brief heartfelt tribute to the moment of your relationship taking an unexpected turn.

Soft ‘hi’s were whispered, few more pecks alternating with ardent kisses lasting long enough to steal your breath, your already tired feet feeling like made of jello, your brain turned into mush with each stroke of Steve’s fingers in your hair.

A whine and impatient pats on your calf signalled that your furry friend was losing patience and demanding some of the attention too. Both you and Steve chuckled to the kiss, parting and he bent lower, giving your good boy a calming scratch behind his ears, while trying to maintain eye-contact with you.

“You could have called, I’d help with the suitcase. The elevator-”

“Yeah, I noticed. Didn’t want to wake you…”

Steve shook his head tenderly, touched and mentally rolling his eyes at the same time. Sometimes you treated him as if he was not a supersoldier… but you both knew he in fact enjoyed it on occasion, simply because while he loved pampering you, he appreciated to be just Steve around you.

“How was the conference, honey? How was the journey?

You huffed in annoyance, not keen on tainting the wholesome reunion with grumbling about your unappealing job.

“I’ll tell you in the morning. Now I just want a shower and some snuggles if that’s okay,” you mumbled, your energy once again leaving your body at the memory of your draining weekend.

Steve’s brows furrowed in concern, but when you attempted a lame smile, he returned it fully and planted another kiss on your forehead, caressing your arm.

“Yeah. I think we can do that,” he assured you with a light squeeze to your bicep, turning to your companion as he patted his thigh and gestured for the puppy to follow. “Come on, Furball. Let’s leave your momma to clean up and warm the bed for her in the meantime. Then we can give her all the snuggles she wants.”

Steve glanced at you over his shoulder once more, a twinkle in his soft blue-green eyes and you felt your heart grew in size.

It felt good to be home. And coming home to a puppy and a man who could as well be a golden retriever in a human form? There was simply no other feeling like it.

You couldn’t wait to snuggle them both.

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S.R. masterlist

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Thank you for reading! I’m pretty sure that’s the shortest fic I’ve ever written, so I hoped you enjoyed the change ;)

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