#i stare at starless skies that call to me / and i still wish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

achillieus · 4 years ago

Text

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

quick note: i wrote this back in 2018 after meeting sebastian in greece but i redited it now, so if you see any mistakes or typos please tell me :)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, sebastian desperately needs to hug the reader, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning

part: 2/6

(other parts) (masterlist)

It’s Monday when they come back from their small trip to the south. You’re watering the jasmine in your balcony when you hear the engine of Argyris’ car slowly shut down and see two figures getting out of the back seats.

It’s him and a blonde woman. You remember meeting her that night in the terrace. You’ve learnt that she’s a great actress and will play the other main character in the film.

When she notices you looking at them, she waves.

“Hey, Sebastian it’s your friend there.” She gives his shoulder a soft nudge.

We’re not friends. That’s what you almost yell back at her.

His head shots up, smiling.

He’s always smiling. It’s getting annoying.

You can see him going through his bag as he calls your name.

“Look, I brought you some traditional sweets.” He’s holding a small wrapped up package. He starts wiggling it in the air.

He looks so jolly and proud of himself. It makes your throat dry.

And before you can control it, you laugh. You can’t see it from where you’re standing but he bites his bottom lip at the sound.

Two hours later he’s sitting in your kitchen devouring half of the pastries he got you.

“These are actually so good, how can you not like them?” He says and it comes out all garbled. His mouth is full of sugary dough.

You do like them. But he does too. And you can find them anytime you want here. You doubt it’s the same in New York.

“They’re just not my favorite,” he nods “but thank you anyway.”

“Well let’s say you owe me,” you furrow your brows in confusion “and will repay me by sending me some of those once I’m gone.”

He laughs before taking another bite.

And as you stare at him, you notice that he’s different. His gaze is tranquil, his voice is soft and he has some cream at the corner of his lips.

Like that, he looks more like a guy you met at college than a well known actor.

Like that, we could be friends, you think.

You talk a lot. He tells you about his time in Romania and his first audition. It makes you realize you are far more interested in acting than what you thought. You tell him how you think team Iron Man is the superior team. He gasps, as if he is hurt.

He doesn’t mention his girlfriend. You don’t ask about her. It’s easier for both of you this way.

A stifling heat rises to your body as you walk under the burning sun. You don’t realize how Argyris gets you to give Sebastian a tour around the city, but you can remember a pair of light eyes pleading you.

You can easily hear him humming to himself. You turn to look at him. He’s wearing a hat and his forehead is sweating. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re in a very good mood today.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Well I’m stuck with you for the day so what choice do I have?” You shrug.

He makes a face at you. You crack and a huge smile forms in your face.

He leans closer, mouth to ear and then he speaks.

“You know, I can’t tell if you hate me or just like me too much.”

His breath hits your cheek.

You try not to blink at the sudden foreign touch.

His words find your skin and they’re so clear and powerful. Suddenly you’re an open page to him.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits for an answer, a nod, a glance.

You are still standing close, the city sounds doing nothing to ease the heated silence between you two.

He realizes you’re not going to give him any response so he lowers his eyes.

And then, when he looks up again, it almost feels like he gives you mercy and agrees to let you get away with it this time.

He smiles.

“So where is Acropolis?”

When he’s lying on your couch after six hours of being a tourist and under the summer sun he looks exhausted. Still he’s his typical talkative self.

“You are always so pumped.”

“And you rarely are.”

“Doesn’t it get tiring?” you ask each other at the same time. It seems like you are two different sides of the exact same coin. One body. One heart.

“Today was nice.” He stretches his arms. “Thank you.”

You open the window. There is barely any wind out there. The air smells of hot cement and flowers.

The man on your couch has closed his eyes, breathing softly.

You try to ignore him over and over for the last days. Until you cannot ignore him anymore; your world has come to an end.

So many people know who Sebastian Stan is.

Only few will ever know him like this; falling asleep on a cheap brown couch with his hair messy, his chest rising and falling and his mind empty of thoughts.

These are photographs of your memories now.

An involuntary smile spreads across your face at the thought.

You see him swift and his hand clenches tightly around a throw pillow.

“Stop looking at me like that you creep,” he says.

“Come closer,” he means.

The sun is long gone and he’s still asleep when there’s a knock on your door. It’s Argyris.

“Please tell me he’s here.”

You nod and motion towards Sebastian’s drifted away body.

“When I left you this morning, I didn’t actually think you’d last this long together.” He tells you the moment he sees him.

The words fall out of his mouth too easily for your liking. “But I should have known better.”

You don’t understand much. You take a step out of your door. You don’t want to wake him up.

“Do you know how many times he mentioned you while we were away?’

Everything stops and falls quiet in the hall.

The words choke you. You shake your head.

“I need you to be smarter than him.” He says and touches your shoulder. “His world moves too fast for people like us.”

It’s effortless not to look at the man in front of you. It’s hard not to shallow his saying.

He wakes up an hour later. He looks at you and it feels sacred. His eyes are still red and the pillow has left a mark on his left cheek.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep here.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it was rude, you should have yelled at me to wake up or something.”

“But you looked tired.”

You carry on with doing the dishes and you hear the couch squeak as he stands up and steps towards you.

The water is refreshingly cold on your skin and the soap smells like lemon.

His hands find your waist and his touch is burning. You wish he disappears. You wish he stays for the night. You don’t even know what you’re wishing for anymore. He comes closer and rests his head on top of yours.

And then he wraps his arms around you and you get flashes of days and nights where there was not enough air for you to breath and your ribs ached.

His action is not so noble. It feels like his body steals all the rationality you have. But it gives you this feeling that there will be no more starless skies at night. And that’s enough for now, so you don’t complain.

His skin feels soft and he smells of sweat and vanilla. Somehow you find that alluring.

He looks at you for a second, like he’s trying to memorize your face. And then he pulls away completely silent.

You try to understand what he’s thinking but he gives nothing away. You were never good at reading people.

You blink and he’s almost out of your apartment.

“Goodnight” he shouts.

“Goodnight” you whisper.

You close the window. You wonder how he will spend the night. He probably won’t sleep soon. He just woke up.

But you can’t sleep either. You just move around in your bed. You sink into the sheets and try to close your eyes.

Your phone buzzes.

He follows you on Instagram.

I need you to be smarter than him.

You go through his profile. You want to think he’s doing the same. You want him to do the same.

His world moves too fast for people like us.

You sigh. Perhaps there could have been a time when you would have stayed away from him, but you can’t pretend to ignore it for much longer. And you’re scared of it. And you’re scared of him.

But you’re more scared of how hard it’s for loneliness to fade. And you wish this doesn’t end like a greek tragedy.

One day of the following week you go out for coffee. The curly haired woman comes with you. You don’t understand why. And while you’re adding more sugar to your espresso, she tells him she loves his acting. She uses all kinds of adjectives to describe it; hopeful and poignant, celestial.

You like the way she talks. She sounds beautiful. You almost envy her abundance of words.

But Sebastian stops listening.

He watches the way your fingers wrap around the sugar box. He can see your nerves and your synapses move underneath your skin and he thinks he’s watching a dance show.

He will never tell you, but it’s then; under the morning sun and with sugar in your hands, that he feels his heart beat with the power of cymbals for the first time.

He thinks you don’t have to know.

He’s wrong.

You learn the girl is an actress herself. They’ll be in the movie together. They look stellar together.

Looking at them, gives you a violent feeling that wrenches your stomach around.

You can’t hate her for that. You feel like it’s more your fault than hers. That feeling however, grabs you by the shoulders and doesn’t let go. You try not to let it show.

But for some reason when Sebastian almost touches your palm, you look at her and you’re certain this is entirely mutual.

You make a silent agreement to not include him in any of this.

“You were extremely quiet earlier.” He says as you reach the building you call home.

He wants to spend time together until his scheduled shooting. You don’t complain.

“You always say that.” You try to joke. He looks right at you.

And then you notice that his eyes aren’t the color of the sea. They’re more grayish blue. They’re like a frozen lake in December.

“I know,” he starts messing with his hair “But you can’t deny you barely talked back there.”

When you enter your apartment, he immediately throws himself on your couch. These last few days it feels like he owns that right spot there in front of your big window.

“I’ve told you, I talk when I have something to say.”

He smiles at your words.

“Then I must be lucky you talk to me.” He whispers softly.

You sit next to him. If you move a little closer you could touch him, feel his warmth. You don’t.

You never thought of how easy it has become to talk to him. You don’t keep your thoughts locked and your teeth clenched around him. And that’s a novice feeling for you.

You let your eyelids fall close and lay back.

There’s a language between you two. It starts with secret glances and whispers and now it contains words that build and ruin bodies and souls.

Sometimes you want to say them all together. Sometimes you just want to open your mouth and let everything flow out but then you’re scared you’ll make him mad. Or you’ll make him love you.

You can’t decide which is worse and that’s enough to stop you.

“What is this thing between us?” He sounds all tender-like, but his blood feels heavy at the moment. He’s not sure if he can keep breathing. He regrets the words that leave his lips, when it’s already too late.

You have the answer figured out long time before he asks. But you’re not ready to give it to him.

“I don’t know” you open your eyes “I don’t know.” You repeat.

He doesn’t tell anyone but sometimes he feels nauseous before a shooting. You can clearly see that now. His pacing up and down the room and his roaming eyes give him away.

You are surprised. You never thought he could be nervous. He looks so confident and radiant all the time; you sometimes forget he is still a regular human being.

“You have no reason to worry.” His lips twitch.

“I know.”

“But you still worry.” You grin and catch his arm to stop him from moving.

The look he gives you is acute.

“You have no reason to be sad,” he starts, without breaking eye contact “but you still are.”

You feel naked and hug yourself close.

It’s very strange to have someone scratch everything from you and see your raw truth. You’re not certain it’s something you enjoy. You wish it didn’t make you quiver.

Sebastian wishes he could scratch deeper under your dermis and your fingernails and slither there between your muscles and your heart where blood runs thick and melancholy hasn’t conquered yet.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head.

“You didn’t say anything hurtful.”

You worry your words may come out bitter. You don’t want that.

“It won’t last forever.” he says and then your name appears in his tongue. You like the way he says it. It almost sounds like poetry. “You won’t be sad forever.”

You smile and, in that moment, you aren’t a worldwide known celebrity and a girl in her early twenties. You are just two people seeking comfort.

The same night there’s a party for the first day of shooting. You don’t feel like going, but he doesn’t let you stay home.

What did you do last night?

Went to a party with Sebastian Stan, typical Thursday night.

You can picture the look on everyone’s face. It makes your lips turn upward just a little.

“I told you to be careful.” The voice sounds almost far away but your neighbor is standing right next to you as he mutters.

“I am.” You say with a laugh. He crosses his arms.

“No, you are here, watching him starry-eyed.”

Your fingers start playing with the rough fabric of your dress.

“I don’t know how to stop it.” You whisper.

He tells you to not entail yourself in something you don’t know the way out of. But what does he know about solitude and rushed breaths?

What does he know about a pair of eyes that look like a frozen lake?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

He’s watching you from afar while you talk with Argyris. He notices how your chest moves along with your breathing in a way it looks like it’s made of pure glass.

For a while he thinks of staying there and keep observing you but then Argyris leaves and you’re all alone. And he starts walking closer to you.

All eyes are on him as he goes through the main dance floor. The curly haired actress stops moving to the beat and follows him with her gaze.

They both reach you.

And you know he’s moving towards you before you can see him. It’s like your body is aware of his presence madly fast.

His eyes seem darker under the hazy light.

He grabs your hand.

You almost heave.

“Let’s get out of here.” He breaths.

You walk for some time. It’s late and Athens is quiet around that time. There is only a soft broken sound of cars and you think about that time you saw a car crash happen in front of your eyes.

You sit close in an old dirty staircase in a forgotten back alley. The city has a lot of those, but people don’t notice. They just walk past them, always in a hurry.

Sebastian sighs heavily. He looks at you in a way it makes you think he’s trying to memorize everything. The way midnight air caresses your body, the way red lighting falls in your hair from that street lamp. He looks at you for an indefinite and long period of time and it feels exquisite.

You place your fingers on his palm and the world flickers. He’s still wearing the rings they gave him for the movie and they feel cold against your skin.

“Do you ever miss Romania?”

The question startles him.

“Every day.”

You nod. Maybe he knows more about sorrow than you give him credit for.

“I remember the dog fence and our neighbors’ daughter and the orange sky through my window, minutes before sun set.”

Your hand locks around his and you stay silent for a while.

“This is the Lyra constellation.” His eyes light up as he looks up.

You remember reading about how much he’s into space. It’s intriguing.

“Where?”

He doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead he picks it up and guides it with his own. His body moves closer. There’s no cold in the air.

As your eyes search for the stars that your hands point at, he watches you and he’s certain that one day he’d love to lay on his back, with you on his side and show you all the little dead planets in the sky. Show you the secrets of the universe.

And he feels like this is the type of beauty that musicians try to write songs about.

“Ah!” Your grip becomes tighter and you smile. “I can see it!”

He laughs at your childish enthusiasm.

You laugh too.

And then you let your head fall on his shoulder, your hair touching his bare skin. You don’t blame them for making him wear sleeveless shirts for the film.

You can him feel shudder at your sudden motion, but then he exhales and his muscles relax.

He observes the features of your face from this angle. He almost traces them with his fingers.

“They’re probably going to kill me for stealing you away from the party.” You whisper.

“I think I was the one who grabbed your hand and left.” He laughs again and you can feel his chest pounding.

His phone buzzes. He doesn’t look at it. He closes his eyes.

“Δείξε μου όλα τα αστέρια. ”

He doesn’t understand a word but your voice sounds too close. You feel too close. And that’s almost tearing him apart.

“What does that mean?”

You turn to look at him. The neon sign on the old building behind him keeps trembling.

“It means, show me the stars.”

And he does. And he feels like he could burn alive.

And you will never tell him; but you still think of him when you catch a glimpse of burning stars.

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :)

tagging: @lharrietg @awkward117 @dannaloureen @broccoligf @cutestfangirlvevo @caitdaniels @arymb @buckybarnesishot310 @roguesthetic @itsaliceheree

#sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan imagine #monday the movie #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #letyoudown

364 notes · View notes

pastelbeau · 3 years ago

Text

The Signs as Starset Lyrics (HORIZONS)

Aries: “I walk these streets of loneliness, a tranquil sea on all horizons. This empty scene of might-have-beens. I stare at starless skies that call to me and I still wish” - EARTHRISE

Taurus: “It's Armageddon in your mind, you took the first shot every time. There were no prisoners or friends now it's the end, strangers again ” - ANNIHILATED LOVE

Gemini: “I let the beast in you get the best of me, tossed aside like old debris you don't need. I finally remove the mask you made so you can't hide the masquerade underneath.” - ALCHEMY

Cancer: “Beautiful new frontier, high above the rain in the atmosphere. What wonders I have discovered. My soul is ever clear, never felt this way I do with you here. I hope there's never another” - LEAVING THIS WORLD BEHIND

Virgo: “Left blind in the darkness but that's fine cause you like it. Sheep becoming wolves and you eat from the paw, so open up and say "Ah" ” - DEVOLUTION

Leo: “Through this looking glass I turn and I look back, it's hide and seek - I don't know which one's me” - DREAMCATCHER

Scorpio: “Lonely wade out to the depths of an ocean. A castaway, I suffer the death from emotion between the waves of woe.” - THIS ENDLESS ENDEAVOR

Sagittarius: “We are wonder-made but we wander the wilderness in violence. I just want to be home with the light again - take me home ” - THE BREACH

Libra: “How can I tell if the sky is falling? How can I fix what there is no mending? How can I tell if I am not well? I've lost myself. I have come undone ” - SOMETHING WICKED

Capricorn: “Fell out of the air and you broke your wings like you're doing every other time. Made a new pair out of broken things to give it all another try” - ICARUS

Aquarius: “I did the math but it just don't add up, there's a whole world that used to be us. Now there's an echo calling me just a shred of memory. Emptiness but there's still a shadow, I catch a glimpse of someone I should know, hard to tell if you were ever here - I disappear” - DISAPPEAR

Pisces: “You took me for a fly and fancied yourself a spider in a web of little lies. What a nice surprise when the curtain's pulled back you can see the whole trap inside, and now the emperor has got no clothes what a lovely show” - TUNNELVISION

#starset #zodiac signs #taurus #aries #cancer #gemini #virgo #leo #scorpio #capricorn #libra #aquarius #pisces #its that time again #time when i make shit based off of starset cause i love em too damn much

17 notes · View notes

aetherealwish · 7 months ago

Text

Damn, he really is down bad for his sister, isn't he? Marriage was a subject that was tricky for Aether to completely accept — for as much of a romantic as he can be, commitment to that degree was harder for someone like the twins.

"Of course!" Regardless, a soft smile graces his lips ever so sweetly. "Only the best for Lumine after all."

Childe snapped his fingers and nodded in agreement, "You're completely right," He's never been to Sumeru, but he heard stories, seen pictures... It'd be a good to excuse to finally go, the best excuse. He reached for Aether's hands in a over excited handshake type gesture. "You'll have to help me plan everything, Brother. It's got to be perfect for her."

#— i stare at starless skies that call to me / and i still wish ☆ 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑.#// this time a blond joins the family of gingers!#tosxah

8 notes · View notes

binkus-bonkus · 3 years ago

Text

Earthrise

Ship: Zelink

Word count: 550

Written in the perspective of Link. Lyrics from Earthrise by STARSET.

I awoke with a start, a voice in my head saying what I assumed was my name. Ethereal, surreal. The very tone is enough to wake me from my slumber, enough to pull me to my feet just to find her. The sun is bright, but still I push my feet to the edge, I look and I face my world. This lonely scene, I take it in. It's hard to say where all of it begins and I end. This land is barren and void of human thought, emotion. Long since atrophied from my supposed century long coma.

My journey is long, hard, like something out of a novel a child would read. This fantasy that turned into something far from glory. I relearn about you, my beloved, and I waited for the sky to change but it never did. I almost dropped my head and lost my faith. Then I saw you from a distance, you were worlds away, but you had me from the vision. I never looked away again. I set my sights on you, the driving force in the endless misery I call my life. To see you smile again, to hold your face in my hands. That is my true goal.

I walk these streets of loneliness, a tranquil sea on all horizons. This empty scene of might-have-beens. It shakes something deep within my core, and I know I need to save you. None of this is about the land, the people still living here. It’s always been about you. I stare at starless skies that call to me and I still wish. I wish to see you smile again, to hold your face in my hands. Like I used to all those years ago. I think I remember now.

They said that we both were too different, that all of the shine would fade away. My silence scared you, your powers worried me. We both knew we could never be, but what if… What if. I wish that I never listened because you pulled me through the grey. The silence I fell to, the weight of the world on my shoulders, shared between us. You’ve saved me, more times than I can count. From myself, from the crippling burden of saving this irreparable land. A land that is no doubt destined to burn once again. You sit within those walls, alone, cold, dark, fighting a beast that holds power over my, your, fate. Your life. Still you call me. You wait for me. You have faith in me. And now I realize…

I still fall for you like suns do for skies, it’s inevitable, predictable, guaranteed. The cerulean pouring in from my own eyes, eyes that only see you. Eyes that are fixed upon you. My gaze has and always will forever be fixed upon you. It is my destiny. I was nothing but a hollow moon that you colorized, a silence that once befell upon me lifted by the color in you. So powerful. I feel so small, but I have never been more alive in your presence. I have never felt more powerful, more courageous, more energized than when I am basking in you. It truly is an oddity. Ethereal, surreal.

Like watching the earth rise.

7 notes · View notes

aetherealwish · 7 months ago

Text

@tosxah replied to your post: "You say that like you could handle the both of us..."

I fought a space unicorn-whale for 4 years in a rip in the universe, I think i can handle you two

"Oh, we are much, much worse than that space unicorn-whale. Trust me."

#tosxah #— i stare at starless skies that call to me / and i still wish ☆ 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑.#// i love your childe sm

8 notes · View notes

bruciewayne · 5 years ago

Text

stars hide your fires

stevetony, steve-centric, light angst, mostly fluff, 2k

Steve’s ten, and he’s known Bucky for a week.

They’re on his balcony at night, his first sleepover.

“The stars mean you can make a wish,” Bucky says, pointing up.

“What do you wish for?”

Bucky grins. “Can’t tell you, or it won’t come true.”

It sounds logical to Steve, so he looks up and wishes that he and Bucky are friends forever, he wishes that all the things wring with him go away so he can play with the rest of the kids at recess and for the first time in his life, he really appreciates the stars. He makes his wishes and tells Bucky that the stars are pretty, and he, in turn, tells him about all the constellations he read about in his Pa’s book.

They carry on talking until they fall asleep, leaning on each other, warm in the summer eve.

Steve’s sixteen, halfway to handing Charon his silver coin, and staring out the window next to his bed. He hates the hospital with a passion, he’s spent far too much of his life stuck in here while his mother works just to keep him alive, and, not for the first time, he considers just giving up entirely, what’s the point, afterall, in a guy who has to fight all his life just to stay alive. According to the doctors, he’ll probably be dead by 25 anyway, 30, if he’s lucky, and he doesn’t want the next decade of his, and his Ma’s life to be spent just barely living.

He wishes to the stars dotted across the clear, dark skies that he has a quick and painless death, and for it to come fast, he wishes for his Ma and Bucky’s happiness - Lord knows he can’t give it himself.

He wishes and wishes and wishes and when he wakes up he knows for certain that God doesn’t exist. If He did, would He make Steve suffer so? Would He make his Ma suffer because of him? If he asked his Ma, she would tell him the story of Job once more, and tell him to have faith, and that’s how he knows that his Ma is so, so much better than him - she doesn’t give up, even when he’s been on his death bed so many times Hell is probably sick of it too (there’s no denying, no matter what Ma and Bucky say, he caused the people he loved to suffer, he’s going to Hell.).

He wakes up to the sun in his face and his Ma smiling down at him, relieved.

He’s eighteen and drunk, lying on top of his apartment building. He wants to see the stars, but the skies are cloudy, he wants to drink more, but the bottle’s empty and Bucky refuses to get more (it’s not like the stores are going to be open this late anyway).

He wants his Ma back.

The God he was taught about wouldn’t let a person like Sarah Rogers predecease someone like him, if He really existed, and everything still went the way it did, Steve thinks he would deck him again and again until all his bones were broken, and God would probably just laugh.

He imagines it, staring blankly up at starless, cloud-covered skies, speaking aloud, wishing for things that won’t come true.

He does the same the next day, and the next, until the week blurs together into one hazy mess of drinking and grey skies and tears

It’s a week after and he’s on the roof again, halfway through the bottle, when the sky starts crying with him. It’s devastating, loud, crashing against Steve and the cars below and the metal of the hang-overs of the stores, and Steve knows that he should go inside, lest he catches his death, but he can’t bring himself to, and just stays there, for hours probably, until the storm clears, and he’s probably sick, but finally, finally, he can see the stars, bright and glittering against the midnight blue sky.

He doesn’t wish for the impossible again.

I wish Ma rests well, God, if that’s the only thing you’ll ever do for me, let her rest well, please.

He’s twenty-one and they’ve declared war, and Steve can’t do anything about it, because he’s too damn weak, useless to even fight for his country. Those nights he wishes to the stars that he could do something, anything.

He’s twenty-five when a wish finally comes true, in the worst way possible.

They tell him that he’s doing something for his country, but he’s not. They’re using him as a performer, not a soldier.

He spends the nights wishing he could do more, be more, be enough.

And it’s not wishing that gets him away from it, it’s him actually doing something, it’s him who changes it, says ‘fuck you’ to General Phillips in the nicest way possible that doesn’t get him a dishonourable discharge.

He creates a team, a group. He gets to be so much more than he ever wished for.

They sit together in the firelight, making lewd images out of the stars, laughing and joking despite the horrors of the day, telling stories. They sleep next to the dying embers, under the stars, and for the first time, Steve Rogers isn’t unbearably lonely, nor is he a detriment to his peers, for the first time he thanks the stars (he’s given up on God entirely., but the stars are a nice replacement.)

He’s twenty-seven when he wishes again.

He’s in a blown-apart pub in Europe, wishing he could get drunk, wishing he was better, faster, smarter. Wishing and wishing and wishing until he’s so damn angry and sad he may as well be drunk.

He’s twenty-seven when he crashes the Valkyrie and dies, in the Arctic’s ‘summer’, when it’s months and months until the pole will see the stars.

He’s still twenty-seven, but it’s seventy years later, and aliens fall from the sky.

He’s twenty-seven (and also ninety-seven) when he thinks he sees his first falling star. Not a star, really, but a man in a metal suit. As he falls, he wishes that he lives.

It’s the first wish of this century that comes true.

Once again, he’s incredibly lonely. The team he’s been told to lead are fine, they’re ok, good people, strong people, but they’re not friends, Steve isn’t one of them, the way he was with the Howlies, Steve’s their CO, and they’re not in the trenches anymore, so there’s no real reason to make friends.

He spends a lot of time training, and at SHIELD, probably not enough sleeping, but he can’t-- he can’t wake up again and lose what little he has all over again. So he spends his nights stargazing.

The stars don’t change even though he can’t see many of them, the constellations he learned about so long ago, are still in the same place, though the man in the metal suit, Tony Stark, son of Howard, only in genes, really, and not much in anything else, tells him that they’re in a slightly different place, because of something called ‘red-shift’, but not enough to make it really significant.

“Unless you’re an astrophysicist,” Tony finishes, with a swig of his scotch, leaning over the railing parallel to Steve.

He’d pretty much ambushed Steve, he’d been on the roof, smoking, stargazing, when Tony had come up. He doesn’t hate it.

“Just a soldier,” Steve replies, smiling slightly, and Tony finishes the glass and goes back in after patting Steve on the shoulder, and Steve smokes two more cigarettes before he too tries to sleep.

The next morning, Steve finds a book on constellations, their origins and meanings, on his nightstand.

He’s twenty-eight, but sometimes he’ll joke about being ninety-eight.

Somehow, one of his favourite pastimes becomes stargazing with Tony. They’re equals now, not just him and Tony, but him and all the Avengers, and the new century isn’t as lonely as he once thought.

“Don’t you ever get bored?” Tony asks one night, looking up from his tablet.

“Of the stars?”

“They never change.”

Steve runs that over in his mind. He doesn’t go on the roof every day (turns out, sleeping is far more enjoyable when ice doesn’t flood one’s bones), and not for that long, but whenever he does, there’s half a chance that Tony might join him too, five minutes later with paperwork and two steaming mugs of coffee. A couple months ago, Tony put an actual table up here, and some chairs, he’d claimed that it was for himself, because his bones no longer enjoyed standing around in the cold, but Natasha had made a whip noise when Tony had mentioned it.

“They never change,” he parrots, as his answer. Tony harrumphs and glares at his tablet and Steve laughs, then laughs harder when Tony looks up to glare at him.

“What?” Steve says, still laughing, “You get tired of wishing?”

“You’re a five-year-old, Rogers,” Tony grumbles.

“Better than being fifty-five,” Steve quips, raising his eyebrows at Tony pointedly.

“Ohhhh FUCK you, Rogers, I’m younger than you!”

“You’re fifteen years older than me!”

Tony’s quiet for a second, processing that for the first time.

Finally, he says, “Nah.”

Steve looks at him in disbelief, “Nah?”

“Nah.”

Looking up at the sky, Steve wishes aloud, “I wish Tony believed he’s middle-aged.”

Tony grins at him, brighter than all the stars in the sky put together, “Won’t come true,” he says gleefully, “y’said it out loud.”

Steve, unable to think of anything better, grumbles back, “I’ll say you out loud,” which doesn’t have its intended effect at all.

“Oh yeah? You’ll be screaming my name huh?” Tony says, in that tone that makes Steve think, maybe he’s not just joking.

“You’d want that, wouldn’t you?” Steve says, matching his tone, teasing with an undercurrent of... something.

Tony just mutters something under his breath, which sounds suspiciously like “What am I gonna do with you, Rogers,” but Steve pretends that he has normal hearing and carries on with his drawing. The quiet isn’t lonely this time.

He’s thirty. Or a hundred.

He’s lucky.

He’s out of the city far enough that pollution doesn’t matter and he can see all the stars, properly and clearly and he makes a wish - something rare for him these days - and does something foolish.

And his best friend kisses him back.

Steve Rogers is thirty-one and, once again, halfway to handing Charon his silver coin, and there’s many things Tony’s willing to do for Steve, give him as many things as he wants, but this isn’t something he wants to fund, not if he can help it.

The doctors told him that he’s probably going to wake up, but not for at least a day, and he just has to go outside, the sight of Steve connected to so many tubes and machines, barely able to breathe on his own is too much for him. He stumbles out of the medbay to the elevator that’ll take him up to the roof.

He’s not a religious man, Howard had believed in science and science only, and his mom had told him that she’s been raised Catholic, and sometimes, in times of trouble, she’ll pray. He remembers seeing her clutching a cross pendant sometimes.

So he wishes on the stars instead, like Steve, regardless of how illogical wishing and praying are, fundamentally, but Steve had taught him that it meant hope, and by God, Tony could use all the hope and faith he could get.

He doesn’t dare say his wishes aloud, lest they become untrue, but stares, unblinkingly, at the night sky until his eyes are burning and he’s run out of promises and wishes he can make

They’re on the roof again, under the stars, again, and Steve makes another wish. He doubts it’s his last one, but it’s the only one he knows with a minimum of a hundred percent certainty is entirely futile, because he knows the outcome, because he knows what will happen, he knows that he doesn’t need to ask the ineffable forces above for help, but he wants to, just in case.

Tony says yes before he even gets down on one knee.

They don’t get married under the stars, because that’s utterly absurd, and Tony refuses to be mugged on his wedding day, but they do dance, long after everyone’s left, in the starlight. The sky is clear and beautiful, but neither groom looks up, nor cares, nor dares to look away from his husband, they have all they could ever wish for, after all.

happy steve bingo masterpost

#steve rogers x tony stark #stevetony #stony #stony fic #stevetony fic #steve rogers #tony stark #my fic #my writing #happy steve bingo #happystevebingo #happystevebingo2019 #maybe the title is a macbeth reference.#maybe its maybelline

261 notes · View notes

aetherealwish · 6 months ago

Text

"Less vocal. . . oh, sorry Mr. Zhongli, I didn't realize you were that shy."

Just breathe. Smile. Say nothing more.

"You're doing very well. Just be a little less vocal."

...He doesn't have the heart to correct him.

#ofmora #— i stare at starless skies that call to me / and i still wish ☆ 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑.#// i'm deceased

8 notes · View notes

darksiders-scenarios · 5 years ago

Note

Intimate/ fluff moment with War please??

This has been sitting in my drafts for far too long. Begone! Forgive, as always, the inaccuracies, grammar and everything mistakes.

Scenario goes something like this (?): War and Y/N step into Eden. Y/N collapses from angstsy lil shit syndrome emotional overload or something. Misses fight with War’s shadow. Story starts now.

“On your feet.” The voice was resonant, its rumble like distant thunder, the tone stern but never cruel. It drifted through the murky sludge of your melancholic thoughts like the fresh breeze of daybreak. You obeyed, for it was impossible not to. You reached up with trembling fingers.

The first time War had clung to you was after crashing down from his Chaosform, disoriented and shivering in pained exhaustion on his knees. Though the gesture might have been instinctual than voluntary, you had nonetheless cradled his head in silent support, feeling the slackness in his muscles and cold sweat soaking through your clothes. You had absently noted the passage of time through his laboured breathing, the cool evaporation of your mingled sweat as the desert sun had past its peak, down to the cramped stiffness of your leg muscles. Until finally - as though reaching a nonvocal agreement - you swore you had sensed an invisible pulse of satisfaction from the horseman. His satisfaction to slowly begin lowering the drawbridge to you from that moment forth - not granting you full entry into the fortress of his mind but still presenting to you a sliver of its opening.

The moment was now mirrored when War’s warm-chapped palm, riddled with calluses, grasped yours gently. He had removed his gauntlet. He pulled you up from the sacred dust and guided you to his cold breastplate, welcomed in his embrace.

It could have been a moment, or a day or a year when you felt his body curl slightly inwards as War leaned down. His trembles were subdued but they transferred through your skin and into your muscles like a fever. He still hasn’t recovered from his fight with the shadow. “Do you require privacy?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. A single downward motion that got swamped in the bulk of his armour. But he saw. For War always saw, always heard, always knew what you needed without the necessity for words. Your throat was parched and sere as the sands of the Ashlands and your body ached. You were so very, very tired.

War lifted you with the care due to the holiest of relics, and you were enveloped in a cloak of warmth. Your eyelids slid half-open and you almost scrunched it shut again when radiant golden sunlight awashed your vision.

“Lord…” the strength it took to simply formulate those words.

“Child of Eden,” the archangel Azrael whispered, leaning down to cradle your face, wiping away the grime and dried tear tracks from your cheeks with soft fingertips. You almost recoiled in shame. “I am not your lord. I wish nothing but infinite peace and blessings upon you, dearest Y/N. Oh… Oh how my heart bleeds to sense the guilt and shame that scorch your soul that which should never be existent. To know that I assisted in… in this. To have the temerity to presume that I can ask for an atom of your forgiveness all the while my accursed presence sullies the sanctitude of this realm,” his eyes were impossibly sorrowful as he held your gaze. Eden, already tranquil with the hums of ethereal unreality seemed to have quieted further as though in solemnity with the archangel’s hushed confession. “Perhaps… preserving the remains of Eden was a mere self-deception under the guise of atonement,” his pale eyes glistened like the purest crystals, “Only by the grace of the Creator can your pain and grief be alleviated, dearest Y/N.”

Azrael’s smile was a brittle, broken thing but it lit his face like the damned sun. His magnificence lending to the beatific of Eden as though he was the missing conduit to the realm’s veiled radiance. It was impossible to not feel safe in the archangel’s presence, to not bask in his warmth and light and love. Such naked love. It was little wonder humanity had been revering these entities since the dawn of their creation, erecting statues and creating wondrous art to emulate their perceived soulful nature- until that delusion, that ancient lie of earthen myth was horribly shattered when the murderous, hubristic angels made themselves known at last.

Great Azrael. The truest angel. So utterly beautiful. So utterly broken. As much a pawn as every living soul in this detestable chess game.

“The Creator,” you spat but the venom was lost in the whispery tone. You drew in a shaky breath. “Abandoned us. Used us…” you clenched your teeth, muscles bunched,“ Played us all as… as pawns-”

“Enough,” War said- ordered. You lapsed into silence, sagging against him.

“Wait here,” he directed to the archangel. Azrael bowed deeply and moved away, joining the Watcher, but not before you caught the tears that flowed down his cheeks in slow, silver trails. You pressed your face into the hood on War’s shoulder and let him carry you into Eden. Deeper into Paradise.

An image bred within your mind, of majestic landscaped gardens veined by fragranced basins and tributaries, the perfume of heaven flowing into your olfactory senses, sweet without being dizzying, breath-taking beyond mortal description. The notes in the breeze sang in your bloodstream and its taste was golden honey on your tongue. All the greatest manuscripts and paintings by the most gifted artists would never approach the purity of a speck of Eden’s sacred earth. The paragon of protected serenity.

You startled when War carefully set you down on a soft bedding of flora of indescribable shades, hues and colour- nameless and undiscovered by mankind. You briefly imagined him clearing the ground for you while you- Had you dozed off?

Your eyes burned when War’s hand fell upon your shoulder in a fraternal gesture, sure and solid. Real. “Do you want me to leave?”

You swallowed, unable to speak for several moments. War waited patiently, not rushing you. Then you nodded. “I am sorry…”

“Do not be,” he paused and you imagined him watching you, staring down at you with those gentle eyes reserved only for you. “When you are ready, join me. I shan’t be far.“

Join me. Not we shall leave. Join me. He was telling you to stay. To linger a while… You felt a pull, a tug, a melody from your soul to whatever gestalt consciousness that inhabited this realm, Eden’s mournful cry of longing in the wind chimes soothing your frazzled mind and caressing your broken psyche, calling to you as though welcoming a lost kindred. Every touch, sight, sound, taste and smell was an invitation to release, to let go. To lie down and simply

be.

You closed your eyes and listened to your friend’s fading boot steps, honouring your wish.

He wasn’t far. You found him sitting amongst the flora with his back to you, hand folded atop the stump of his other arm in his lap. A beautiful turquoise tributary flowed gently in front of him, unspoiled and clean, shimmering like a thousand gems beneath the golden skies. You spared it only fleeting moments of attention.

War was bare-backed safe for his leg plates, his armour and weapons laid in a neat pile beside him. His shoulders rose and fell with quiet breaths, his snow-white hair gently swaying with its rhythms.

Your eyes wandered over the geography of scars on his skin, cobwebbing around his arms and ribs, winding over his shoulders and disappearing down the front. Your gaze lingered on the fresh ones, wishing nothing more than to soothe and undo them. For a while, all you did was stare at him, allowing his calming presence to ground you. He was inhumanly beautiful, gleaming gold as though kissed by Eden’s aura, like a god of summer. His presence was far more suited here than yours.

You couldn’t resist a smile, the trickle of reverent adoration filling your heart, momentarily hushing your melancholy without fully fading.

“Our missions necessitated a fair amount of travel, moving from conquered world to the next and the next and the next without pause, without delay,” he didn’t turn to you, and you suspected he was talking more to himself than you. “Upon every world we set foot on, be they of starless skies, of harsh deserts or oceanic worlds, my gaze would always travel heavenwards. The action seemed hardwired yet the reason had always eluded me. It eventually became something of a strange dance, one that I began to entertain without conscious thought, fast becoming a thirst that couldn’t be sated in the centuries to come.” His tone was distant yet weighed by emotion, “And every sky was as beautiful as the first.”

“War?”

His words melted into a chuckle and War shook his head. “Forgive me, I ramble. Come. Sit with me.”

You lowered yourself cross-legged on the cool flora bedding, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. It offered more comfort to you than the actual ambiance of this land. Eden. Paradise… Heaven. Jannah. It was real. You closed your eyes, tight enough to pain, and dropped your head into your palms.

“Too much?” came the gentle rumble above you.

You let your silence answer for him.

“I am sorry that it had turned out this way, young one,” the sympathy in War’s tone made your throat tight. “We can always leave if you wish, but that would mean leaving the only site untouched by violence.”

“I don’t know what to think,” you admitted quietly.

“I understand.”

Your fingers dug into your scalp. “May I lean on you… please?”

A creature of action, War answered you by pulling you close, carefully tucking you to him. His skin was warm as sunlight. You let go against him, boneless and pliant. You heard him murmur something soothing but your mind was unable to shape the words, to process their meaning, but you drifted to the sound of his voice – deep and calming and grounding. His hair was soft on your forehead.

“Eden. The emergence of mankind and womankind,” you mused, echoing War’s little soliloquy. “And here I am, perhaps marking its epilogue. Quite the honour, eh?” you snickered, stopping short when thick fingers brushed your shoulder. “Perhaps I am indeed the last human alive…” you pulled away and managed a weak smile for your friend. “But in the end, I am glad that I have met you, War.”

“And I you,” War stared at you in silence. “Your story shall not decay, this I give you my word, Y/N. Azrael will chronicle everything of your people, its wealth of lore, cultures and histories. There are many things I can fault the angel but his honesty is incontrovertible.“ His words were ladened with silent conviction.

You winced. “Lord Azrael… I should not have said those things to him.”

“He bears no ill-judgment of you.”

That did not ease the heaviness in your chest. Perhaps War sensed your unease because his lips quirked at the corners. His was always the barest of smiles, softening his statuesque features, making him unarguably youthful. His smile put you at ease.

"You’re beautiful,” you confessed without thinking, the words easy on your tongue.

He didn’t stir. “We were created to be above such mortal sentiments.”

“I… I know,” you tensed, cheeks burning. “But the sentiment is sincere.”

"That is why I honour you.”

You swallowed, toying with the hem of your top. You remembered to breathe again. “I’m sorry I missed your fight with your… that shadow.”

“There was nothing to miss. You’ve seen me battle many times,” he stroked a silken petal, its hue a gentle contrast against his skin, “I sit here now because I triumphed.”

“You sounded dubious when you said you triumphed”, you remarked, cursing yourself in the same moment for your crassness.

“That’s because I am,” War confessed without hesitation, never one to reel from the truth.

You held your tongue, your gaze following his lazy patterns with the petal.

When War spoke again, sorrow inched into his murmured words. “In that instant, I feared I was witnessing my authentic, batin self. Those eyes… I had no idea I was capable of such hate Y/N. My soul blackened with such inveterate rage and hate and malice,” his voice softened almost to a whisper and you knew that he was reliving the fight, reliving those unpleasant moments. “Every iota of repressed fear, desires, every base savagery beyond mortal comprehension, I bore witness to it all, embodied it. There is purity in aggression, if tempered by self-restraint. But this, this was poison polluting my veins, crippling my cognition and judgement. Like a specimen sliced open to see its inner workings, so too were my heart and soul laid bare and vulnerable before me.”

“Was that the most disturbing thing for you?”

“He was I and I was he. We were in perfect harmony in cognition, temperament and soul. It is not a memory- a truth I recall with any comfort.”

You rested a hand on his forearm. Warm. “Thank you for your candour, War. That shadow. Your darkest, most abhorrent mirror, if you may. You know that it is simply your unrestrained self let loose. We all carry it, War. It’s one thing to repress our basest urges, but to bear witness to its ugly truths is another level entirely. But they are just that. Truths. Simple, raw unrefined concepts that care nothing for what we desire. Just as you taught me when faced with any truth, it is what you do with it what matters. And as far as urges go, I would imagine such sentiments of the Nephilims to be magnified tenfold to that of a human,” you looked up, meeting his eyes and almost robbed of breath by the warrior’s beauteous features under the ethereal glow of Eden’s skies. His presence was indeed far more suited here than yours.

“Every soul is a prisoner to fate, Y/N,” War said gently.

“I know,” you agreed, bitterness burning through you. You suppressed a growl. “But you made a choice. You chose another path, contrary to your innate drive to annihilate without question. All those urges, all those traits that you loathe about yourself- you didn’t just experience them all, no. You fought and struggled and triumphed. Yes, triumphed. You chose this outcome. That can only mean one thing, War. You are you, and, by definition,” you smiled, amending yourself, “your definition, not he.”

War snorted. “A matter of perspective.”

“As you say.”

He held your gaze, soft mirth glazing his blue eyes. “I jest.”

You nodded. “Thank you for confirming my hypothesis.”

His laughter was an exhalation of quiet breaths. Even after all these years, his soft laughter remained the most beautiful sound you’ve heard. It was impossible to not join him. “Oh War, if it’s one thing that I shall miss the most when we part would be me tormenting you.”

“It pleases me to know that we can be comfortably candid with one another.”

His statement was accentuated when you both lapsed into comfortable silence, each to their own thoughts, at ease with the other’s company. One bitter thought hammered at the forefront of your cognition, pulsating more strongly with every passing moment.

“Speak your mind,” War encouraged quietly, as though sensing your disquiet. This may be the last time, you translated. You confessed to him as much.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I am not a being who gives into the falsehood of luck as you know, but if it may allay your mind, there is an iota of a chance that I may prevail.”

You snorted. “Idealistic. Not bad. Your optimism is getting better.”

He shrugged a bare shoulder. “It gladdens my heart to hear you approve.”

“As is your wit.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I am not my brother.”

“I didn’t imply that.”

“Your tone suggested otherwise. As well as the notion that perchance, your statement was intended as a compliment?”

You smiled in reply. “A matter of perspective.”

War didn’t respond; the pensive look that shrouded his features dimmed your fragile jovial streak. "I meant no disrespect, War.”

“No,” he sounded almost distrait. “Forgive me a moment’s distraction, my friend. Talk of my siblings often evokes ruminative musings in me.”

You listened to the susurration of petals grazing the sacred earth beneath his fingers, his mind clearly elsewhere. You waited patiently, not rushing him.

War leaned forward, almost hunching. “The love of my kindred runs deep, of that there is no doubt, accompanied by the inveterate fear for their fates. But they, like me, are creatures of intelligence and predation. They can fend for themselves and weather any trials and tribulations. I dread nonetheless for they are my brothers and sister. You agree it is an innate drive.”

You said nothing.

War brushed a hand over his face, didn’t lower it. “For all our kinship, I never fully comprehended the dynamics of the Nephilim collective psyche. Yes, we are psychically bonded by a singular agenda, no, we are never identically minded in that concept.”

You remained silent. Rare were such moments of reminiscence for the horseman.

He continued. “We were noble in some morbid way, I suppose. When one shamed, we all bore that brother or sister’s shame. When a brother or sister fell, we always carried out the mercy stroke, never allowing them the indignity to suffer in helpless humiliation, all the while disregarding the butchering of the realm’s natives for this… act of honour,” he faintly sneered the word, uncharacteristic for the horseman.

War’s fingers lowered, shivering with the faintest tremors. His eyes were clouded, and you knew that in his mind’s eye he was journeying through the ashen lands of nameless, now forgotten worlds, inhaling their choked funereal air all over again.

War chuckled darkly, as though at a private jest. “Yet for all my talk of our ‘nobility’, the Nephilim was a cancer to reality. It was right to annihilate them.”

“War.”

“We were a brotherhood, yes. A close-knitted brotherhood of mindless, bloodthirsty savages void of free-will, credos, honour…”

“War.”

“Perfect living engines of warfare, excelling at nothing but bestial bloodshed-”

“That’s the shadow talking!”

That rendered him silent. You were close enough to see his chest rising and falling rapidly, his breathing shallow. His fingers still twitched.

“That’s the shadow talking,” you repeated softer. “You are Nephilim yes, but you are also War. My protector and companion. My dearest friend and brother,” you willed him to see the absolute unconcealed sincerity in your eyes. “That is the truth.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The truth is not always absolute, young one.”

You looked away. “It’s exhausting when you keep denying my points.”

“Forgive me. It is not my intention to discomfit you.”

“No, forgive me.”

The slow release of a deep breath rumbling from a mighty chest. “Y/N, I would like to think that my points are also as valid as yours,” though his voice betrayed no irritation or anger, his gently spoken words bore the same sharpness of a blade. The shame scraped your conscious raw.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ha-” you began.

"I do not deny you, dear Y/N,” War cut in gently. “I am merely reluctant to accept your outlook of me with what…” he closed his eyes. “It is difficult to put into words.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say, War,” you quietly assured him.

He opened his eyes, studying you for several heartbeats. The haunted look diminishing slightly, softening. “Your words are heartfelt and for that, I am grateful. There are moments, I feel, that you read me better than I do myself,” he sighed, almost soundless, and the urge to press your shoulder against his was overwhelming. “My mind is… aflamed, dulled by pained dwellings of an ignoble past. You, my companion and friend, see beyond who I am supposed to be, rather as who I am, in your eyes anyway,” his eyes were bright enough to ache. “That is why I honour you.”

“I love you too, War.”

He inclined his head away from you, but his shoulders were shaking. He was laughing.

He was laughing. Your heart warmed. It took you several seconds to stop grinning like a fool.

Once more, there was a long silence, safe for the gentle gushing of Eden’s water. The breeze caressed your cheeks like a lover’s touch. You reined in your emotions and focused on the large fingers still stroking the flower on the ground. There was a certain reverence in the touch, as soft as the petals he was tracing, but there was also a concealed yearning, the passive hunger of a patient predator, searching and sifting, searching and sifting, through layers and layers of-

“The sky,” you echoed War’s earlier word. The revelation came unbidden to your mind.

War blinked slowly as though hesitantly tearing his attention from the petal between his thumb and forefinger.

“The sky,” you repeated softly. “Does it remind you of home?” Of a home you can only envision in your dreams- that you did not voice aloud.

War turned his gaze from his ministration to you. His smile was flecked with buried grief that you’ve only now begun to see.

You winced from the shame that seared your heart.

His people. His kindred. His family. You were so deeply entrenched in your grief that you forgot that this was a place of sorrow for him too. A nationless race forever trapped in the clutches of fate ever since their miserable creation. The creature in front of you always carried himself with the perfect stoicism of a fortress yet his soul has always been a fresco of guilt, burden and shame, buried so deeply within the protection of his walls and defences. Eden was his tombstone.

You lost count of the times you had ruminated and berated yourself over ill-made decisions. Over hasty and ill decisions that almost always landed in disappointment and frustration, in risks and misery - hasty and ill-advised decisions that you knew would make again and again and again.

But the moment your friend reciprocated your affection by resting his heavy head on your shoulder, you knew that you were right to be impulsive in your decision. This may be the last time.

“I’m sorry,” you said into his hair, running a hand through the fine strands as you held him. “I’m sorry War.”

“Is that pity I hear in your tone?”

Your smile was pained. “Or perhaps I am simply not without empathy.”

His chuckle rumbled against your shoulder. The sound enriched by melancholy. For an irrational moment, you couldn’t help but imagine that you were embracing a child, willing the ache in his heart to soothe and ebb away, to be the balm to his soul. War, you thought, did you even have a childhood?

War would be welcomed in your home; you had told him this, day in, day out, time and time again. War had always responded in that taciturn way of his; a small smile followed by gentle laughter robbed of any ridicule, laced by amusement and hints of budding affection.

“You know you would be welcomed in my home,” you reminded him, stroking down his nape and back, feeling the powerful shifts of muscles.

War relaxed in the embrace, threads of his hair cascading off his closed eyes, his breathing deepening. Calm. Trustful. Where the purity of rage was intoxicating in his veins, the gift of serenity was almost anathema to his mind’s touch. You loved him most for trusting you, for allowing his ironclad mask to lower in your presence.

As you held him, you marvelled at how times have changed, oh how they have changed indeed. You wished you could stay with him here, forever.

“…harmonises with mine.”

Your fingers stilled. “What did you say?”

“I said that your thinking harmonises with mine.” His voice was so soft the breeze almost stole it from you. Had you mused this aloud?

War stirred, wrapping one strong arm around you, tightening the hug without hurting you. His voice softened further, “I also said that you already have.”

A beat of silence. You opened your mouth then closed it at once, mind racing as your thundering heart. You drew back slightly, maintaining contact with a hand on his back while you lifted the other to encompass your surroundings. “Sorry for the mess!” You exclaimed brightly, wincing at the hitch in your voice and laughing at the fusion of amusement and dignified shock in your friend’s bright eyes.

“But of course, it should not come to me as a surprise,” War teased, playing along, delighting you. “To treat your gift as such.”

You huffed. “As my gift, surely I can do with it as I will?”

His brows furrowed, then he smiled. “You make a compelling argument, young one.”

You snorted, and then laughed. When you finished laughing, you drew in a shaky breath and laughed some more, a little hysterical, a little desperate. You laughed and laughed until your eyes watered and stomach ached. At some point, War had hugged you to him again. Like you, he was also catching his breath, but he was recovering far swifter than you.

“Xoron,” he began, startling you, his tone as soft as your touch. His face was tucked in your shoulder and you lightly scratched his scalp.

“Astragr. Ghyssa,” he continued in that same reminiscent tone. “Bhal. Alli. Istis.” You kept your silence as War continued his litany of names. While he spoke on, you had buried your face in his hair again, breathing in the familiar waft of mountain dew and cinder, the cocktail of unknown compounds in his sweat and skin. You smiled with him during moments of fond reminiscence and lent your silent sympathy during moments of sad recollections.

“Thank you,” you whispered to him when he finished. “for trusting me.”

Instead of replying, War pressed you tighter to him. Your eyes burned and the lump in your throat swelled more painfully. You knew that you were stalling, and you knew that he knew that you were stalling. Nothing this precious, this sacred should ever last. Destiny was too cruel in its sense of humour. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t make the moment worthwhile.

You slowly pulled out of War’s arms, smiling when you felt his reluctance in letting you go. You asked him to wait. You knelt by his armour and rummaged through till your fingers brushed his pouch. You pulled out an empty flask. Then you stood up and strode to the stream, rinsing the glass thoroughly before filling it up.

You turned back to War.

His back was straight, his muscles locked and eyes wide, a cornered beast in anticipation of an attack. He began to speak, to protest, but shortly trailed off when you did not utter a word in defense. Your eyes were closed. When War said nothing else, you opened them again.

War bowed his head. “Forgive me. It is your gift. You do with it as you will.”

“To share with you,” you amended gently. “War, this is not coercion. It is an offer from me, from a host unto their guest.” He was so stooped that it seemed like he was trying to curl into himself. You gave him pause, waiting patiently. Then you stood before him within three steps.

War slowly raised his head and you saw the silent plea in his eyes. He was making no effort to conceal it. Your heart broke. War never pleads. You ached to reach out to smooth those tight frown lines with your fingertips, to wrap him in your arms and never let go.

You closed the distance, leaning forwards and pressing your lips to his forehead, whispering, “Let me share this gift with you, War. Please. You have given much and sacrificed even more. I love you. I love everything about you, your light and your shadow.” His breaths came out as near-imperceptible stutters. You brought your palms to his temples, as though seeking to ground him.

“From this moment forth-”

“Y/N.”

“-regardless of happens when we leave-”

“Y/N.”

“-I need you to know that-”

“Please.”

You kissed his forehead. “Eden is your home too.”

He was silent and still, rigid as marble stone. When the silence stretched on, you pulled away, careful not to make eye contact. You turned around, taking in the lands of your foremost mother and father for the last time, committing as much to memory before leaving.

“I place myself in your hands.”

Tears spilled down your face and neck. Without a word, you turned back to your friend. The plea had shifted to something softer, deeper, but not fully disappeared. Slowly, very slowly, you raised the flask, willing War to see your intent. But War had already bowed his head, true to his words. Honourable War.

Carefully, reverently, you poured the flask over his head, washing away the dirt and crusted blood from his hair. “This is your home now,” you murmured as the water trickled down his neck, shoulders and back, crystal droplets caressing and cleansing his golden skin easily.

You understood his reluctance to stepping into the stream itself. So you refilled the vial and returned to him again and again. “You will always be welcomed here.” You poured the shimmering water over his arms and feet. The water was so clean and pure that you didn’t need to physically scrub off any stubborn dirt, scabs and blood.

You knelt before the horseman as you bathed his hand, between his fingers and the plates of his nails. Finally, you laved the naked stump of his other arm, most thoroughly and gentlest of all.

You didn’t move away once finished, unwilling to break the intimacy of the closeness, unwilling to do anything but

be.

Your hand hovered over the stump. You looked up. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead. His ancient eyes, blue as the winter skies sparkled for a moment, almost as though with-

“War.”

“You may touch,” he murmured.

You kissed the golden stump instead, reverently, and pressed your forehead against his cooled skin. His vulnerability. His beautiful, beautiful, vulnerability.

“I’m sorry War,” you said again.

He breathed, slow and deep.

“It is not I who sits homeless on the broken husk of a sacred land.”

“I am sorry that you were wrongly accused of a crime that you did not commit.”

“It is not I who wandered the scorched, barren wasteland of their annihilated home realm, whose bare feet remained drenched with the ashes of their people in the years to come.”

“I am sorry that you no longer have your brothers and sisters with you.”

“It is not I whose kin begged and wept and bled away in senseless eradication.”

You reached up and touched your fingertips to his closed eyes. “For being blind to your loss and sorrow.”

He grasped your wrist in a gentle grip. “For being deaf to your needs.”

You cupped his cheek with your free hand. “For clinging to you.”

His lips were warm against your knuckles. “For being stubborn.”

“I am sorry,” you said as one.

War stared at you, the depths of his eyes capturing you, absorbing you as they always did. “There may be no coming back, little one,” he offered his last piece of argument.

You stared at him, the depths of your eyes capturing him, absorbing him as they always did. “You are my Eden, War.”

Silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. The barest tremor shivered along the Horseman’s arm and you hugged the stump in a tight grip, feeling the shifts of muscles beneath his golden skin. You heard the gentle clink of clenched teeth. Your eyes slid shut. A teardrop fell onto the back of your hand, mixing with the purest water in existence.

It was not yours.

Later that day, the archangel Azrael would observe the Rider’s eyes to be tinged a raw pink. He would keep this observation to himself.

#darksiders #darksiders war #war #azrael #fluff #stuff #intimate

122 notes · View notes

imagine-loki · 5 years ago

Text

Till We Meet Again

TITLE: Till We Meet Again

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 18/?

AUTHOR: marvelgirlonamarvelworld (side blog)

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki being mesmerized by a girl whose eyes remind him of the Bifrost

Imagine that Loki would visit you when you were a child, persuading you into mischief and cheering you up with his magic tricks, you assumed he was imaginary.

RATING: M

NOTES/WARNINGS: angst, whump, language, not much really. Just a transition chapter

A/N 2: Alas! a new chapter! So I decided to merge a one-shot I’ve been working on with this new chapter. Thank you all for reading!!! I deeply, truly appreciate it :’) as always, feedback’s appreciated!!

Clouds.

Alabaster gaseous matter formed with every trembling exhale. A ghastly thing that soon withered to a dark null. One which became part of the cold nothingness the fallen Icarus prince found himself surrounded by.

Cold damp stone met his aching palms. If once such low temperatures had no stir to his being, now it sent pangs and jolts through his blood. The bitter cold seeped through his pores and into his decaying soul.

The fallen prince, with his innocent eyes now bloodshot, endeavored to push himself from the damp floor yet his strengths betrayed his crippling will. Right away his torn gold-plated chest hit the cold ground as all air inside his lungs was no more.

“Allfather…” he sobbed, failing to swallow the lump, as a loose tear allied with his weakness, “Father…why have you abandoned me?” The single pearl of salt danced down his cheek while his stare remained on the black stone ground; while his hands continued to struggle to at least be on his knees. “Why…” his ghastly face contorted. Another lament betrayed his lost facade of vain and might. “Why have you left me, father? Why have you abandoned me, mother?”

His words still echoed. The resounding ‘No’ before letting go. Yes. Before letting go.

Loki had fallen. Fallen so suddenly, so haltingly, so briskly, so gracefully.

Unmade in the process, his broken body and exhausted mind traveled through space, journeyed through time.

Fell and landed on a field of cold and clouds and shadows. Of watching eyes whose bodies remained embraced by the darkness. Of distant screams and wails enticed by mistress torture.

What a misfortune.

Another moan ripped away from his throat. One which became a breath of strength to his soul.

Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, his palms pushed his body off of the ground. Yet his arms did not move at all. Nothing happened, his body remained prostrated. Loki could not feel his limbs, could not feel the rest of his body at all. His body was numb. Dormant from the fall.

And his blue lips quivered. Trembled as a ragged wail burned his throat followed by hiccups and suffocating sucks of air. His forehead pressed against the cold stone ground. “I could have done it…I could have done it. I could have done it.”

His head remained bowed down, tears blurring and blinding his sight; facing the grim ominous dirt embodying his downfall and misery; letting loose trembling strands of coal hang and stick to his forehead while his decaying body broke in ripples of sweat that frostbit his bones.

The young prince cried, sobbed and trembled before the black starless sky; before curious eyes guarding and waiting. Fisted the dirt, tasted his own blood, heeded the distant cries and screams caressing his spine, recalled it all yet ignored it all.

“I could have done it…” his jaw clenched and ached. The pounding inside his head bloomed and magnified it all through his body.

Once again he was nothing.

Loki had no wings. No form to soar high into the night. Poor thing, they’d been clipped, plucked mercilessly. Left his bare back bleeding raw. And it would only get worse from there onward, yet he knew not of that at all.

But it mattered naught either.

For his claws remained sharp. As sharp as his silver tongue was. As swift as diamonds cutting through glass. Blood forged. Disappointment sharpened. Ready to be drawn. Anxious to slash. Hungry to bury themselves in the ferrous fine crimson wine.

For many names he’d been called. And relentless was one.

With every movement and flection, his bones trembled. With every weary heartbeat, his strength almost gave in. But now he was sat against a pillar whose tallness appeared infinite. His reddened eyes could see it all now, crystal clear and realized…death was lurking about.

His eyes drifted to the void space, deep down hoping to notice a sign. A raven flying through the gray clouds, a flash of light contrasting with the black, a shooting star…even a spark of colors resembling those of an opal though he didn’t know why.

“He…Hei…Heimdall…” Loki called upon the watcher and protector of the realm he’d known as his homeland. “Heimdall.” Hope tainted his hoarse voice. “Open the Bifrost…” another tear allied with fright and rolled down his pale sunken cheek. “If you can hear me. If you can…see me. I beg you bring forth the Bifrost.”

All noise withered down to a hum. And like a child anxiously awaiting to wish upon a rain of shooting stars, Loki continued to gaze up to the night with his heart thumping and his mind buzzing, already imaging the familiar blinding flash.

“Please…”

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

Three heartbeats.

Space remained black.

“Heimdall?” His hand raised to grasp the distant night and swallowed his pride and continued to call. “Mother? Please forgive me.”

It was a matter of patience, had to wait, Loki told himself still clinging to the thinning thread. After all, he was far from home, lightyears away from all known, a million heartbeats away where he belonged.

Yet the waiting was never-ending.

Minutes lost their shape, elongated and transitioned to countless bitter cold nights.

Loki was alone, forgotten, weakened and helpless. Easy prey, the crawling thing. And he couldn’t help but squirm and weep silently from the fear.

His head remained against the pillar and wept his strength away as the shadows danced and took form. “Please…somebody…”

Oh, how he wished his seidr reserves did not empty, did not waste away in healing all that which could not be remedied. To have enough magic to create a little white bird, a beautiful rarity, to send smeared in his blood with a message within its bones. A sign, a feathered warning…to not be forgotten.

“Please,” Loki closed his eyes, already sensing foreign stares peer upon as distant bickering reached his ears. “Please. I pray to thee. Allfathers rejoicing in paradise Valhalla, have mercy on me. I beg please, hear my plea.”

Loki wished to open his eyes, desired to acknowledge his future captors stalk towards him with snarling creatures prowling beside. Yet the overbuilt exhaustion, the suffocating stillness of the disappointing nights forbade him to; the resurfacing screams and uproars of disembodied suffering voices triggered his self-preserve mode. And thus he sought refuge in his mind. Retrieved to the safe heaven where he would remain intact, safe from it all till his strengths came back.

Loki allowed himself to be carried by them, to his downfall, to his unmaking and reshape. Allowed his body to be kidnapped against his racing heart and screaming conscience. For even he obeyed his instincts, his fighting would be futile.

Yet his racing mind was quieted upon the shrieking BOOM! of thunder striking the land…

“Argh!”

Loki sat upright, mad thumping heart against the back of his wide eyes, his throat drowned in hushed sobs and hiccups. He was nothing but a trembling creature; heaving frightened to death, clinging to nothing but his deceiving head.

“Thor?” He called for his brother.

Alabaster clouds still danced about before vanishing into furniture in the blink of watery eyes. And Loki couldn’t help but shakily exhale upon realizing his conscience’s own deceivings. It had been a dream. A nightmare.

His eyes wandered on further, not trusting his own convictions, afraid this too was a dream within a dream. Though he realized he was in the same place he had been yesterday; sitting on the couch, with Luna’s sketchbook on his lap, downstairs..waiting.

Yes. Loki was truly there! The living room was where he headed after the shocking discovery; where he impatiently waited for Luna’s return yet she never did.

Oh, dear gods! He was safe, away from the gates of hell.

Dusk crept through the windows. Clouds covered the skies.

Had he really slept his day away? His floating ponder made him blink multiple times before standing and stretching. He winced at the cracks of his bones and stings on his back; the position he’d drifted to slumber wasn’t the most comfortable, and neither was Midgardian clothing.

Like muscle memory Loki flicked his hand, expecting for the light to flicker to life; completely forgetting the nothingness he’d been left with until darkness prolonged. Disdained, he pursed his lips and made his way to flick the switch on himself.

Much to his disdain, he had not much to do but continue on with the wait. It was exasperating, the silence was too loud yet too quiet at the same time. He could not leave and roam around for his only shield was this home. Step out that door and most likely he’d be detected by the world; by the Allfather if not by Heimdall. And he could not allow that. His whole plans revolved around his apparent death.

The big reveal was not due yet.

Shivers rippled through his spine, traveled through every nerve, swam away in his veins as he walked up the stairs, as the flash of his nightmare played before his glare. It was sickening to remember. A nightmare.

Now that irrational side on him lost appealing.

His limbs went limp and froze in front of Luna’s bedroom door, cursing himself between hisses and ragged breaths. Oh the grand epiphany that’d fallen upon himself. He’d been an idiot. A fool.

Snapping from his dawning, Loki pushed the door and meandered through the dark and into the bathroom.

Ah, glutton. Bit more than he could chew.

He wondered how she was. He hoped that Luna would soon return. Having her away from him made him uneasy, rendered his conscience to grow loud with reproaches and worries for failing to protect her as he’d vowed to do so if something happened.

Loki knew the apology was imminent although he’d pledged against it. Never say never, however. Should’ve known better. If Loki wished her to not leave, that was the remedy; one which was not enough. He knew Luna like the back of his hand, thus acknowledging he’d have to do much than simply ask for her pardoning.

Clothes lay neatly folded by the sink, and soon the tiled space was fogged by crystal mist from the warm artificial stream.

His built figure stood there under the warm embrace of the water, silent, glistening thus enunciating his paleness and markings; at peace yet in an anguishing haze. Loki’s mind kept dwelling between past, present, and future bearings with the scepter being a common denominator.

Yet he’d managed to bury it all, to forget in order for his nightmares to cease hunting again. It’d been nights, days, weeks since he’d dreamt a bad dream. Yet…There was no room for coincidence, no loose strings, nothing; that after discovering his scepter lay at arm’s length all ghosts from the past fluttered to life.

The soft scent of blooming flowers danced through his nostrils just as the foam on his body washed away by the clear stream. Somehow, also carrying away part of his ailing.

The artificial rain ceased. Refracting beads of water rolled through his naked chest and fell from his raven hair as a white towel covered his lower half. The cool tiles against his feet sparked goosebumps to race along his spine.

Again he walked from the light into the dark. And a sudden flash of a memory surfaced before his eyes, perhaps a second epiphany, of him as a child once frightened by the lack of light. Always seeking the comforting warmth of his mother’s arms.

Oh, how Loki missed Frigga, and wondered…was she aware of his apparent death? Had she mourned as little as the Allfather or as much as his brother had presumably done?

Funny how his fear became his comforting mantle from the scorching lights, from the true enemies disguised as lambs.

Shadows took form and elongated as Loki reached the closet and opened it. A pair of jeans and a black tee were his outfit.

He wondered now when Luna had purchased them, or to whom this changes of clothing belonged to in the past. Yet he made no fuss of it as the soft fabric slipped against his scarred flesh; unbeknownst to him, inner jealousy had already been irked by it regardless.

Trailing back to turn off the light of the bathroom, his foot stumbled against a soft surface that soon slid across the floor and laid by the doorframe. Right away his emerald glare discerned it was a book.

Surprise incarcerated his breath in the confinements of his chest as he picked up the familiar worn out hardcover and peered at it in detail. Musky green. Torn out edges. The familiarity of the runic scripture on the spine of it made his heart stop beating right before speeding mad.

Who knew of all places Loki had searched for his favourite book of spells, which he had lost years ago, he would come to find it in this home? Of all places! What were the odds?

The odds, however, were the little girl he had once befriended.

“Little thief,” Loki muttered and smiled warmly.

Meanwhile,

Somewhere in the outskirts of New York City.

“Nothing?” The sound of silence vanished by Matt’s ponder from across the table. His voice was no more than sound waves sheathed by pure boredom, and borderline exasperation intensified by the many rounds of caffeine ingested through the over twenty-four-hour fruitless searches.

“Nada,” Luna responded while rubbing her eyes and drowning out a yawn. The computer screen displayed in a hideous yellow font at the center of the screen a ‘No Match’ sign which made her mentally roll her eyes. Of course she would find nothing. Political high ends would have interest but not the guts to steal the suitcase from the tower.

“Are you sure?” He asked from across the table with his face hiding behind the laptop screen.

“Yes.” Luna groaned as the blinding white lights from the ceiling glared and reflected on the thick glass covering the wood beneath it.

Stalling while incriminating the world was easy. Annoying but easy. Mantled her with the illusion of past normalcy, a mirage of how things used to be.

No doubt Matt believed her words; although, the discrepancy he’d found her at home and not at the Tower was quite startling. All in all, on the other hand, Luna had some Loki in her, no doubt some of his trickery was bound to stick; make a fool think the sky is green when in reality…it is neither blue nor green.

“I’ve gone through every file, nothing stands out, no solid match,” Luna made eye-contact with Matt. “But I don’t doubt the possibility it might have been one of these people. I mean, if what you say is true that whatever’s inside that suitcase is worth so much…” she snorted and hand gestured to his once upon a time friend, “it could’ve been any of the people we’ve played. Any who realized they were double-crossed by us.”

“But nobody knew this intel,” Matt replied and brushed his hair back exasperatedly. “Our circle is tight, Luna. We’re a small group. And we’re running out of time.”

Her eyebrows creased and fell silent momentarily. Luna was meticulously working her angle, but Matt was no idiot. And that made the game all the more difficult.

Apparently, the so-called client/engineer had handed him a deadline. Yet Luna was more than aware it was them, the ones at the higher ranks of the chains. They were breathing down his neck.

“Hey, we’re not the only ones who play underground,” said Luna while sipping from her cold-brewed coffee before freezing her actions and quickly lowering the cup from her lips; the memory of just where she was and with whom placed her cautious side on high alert. “We’re not the only ones who break the rules to get what we want, Matt. Regardless whether it is for the good or bad.”

Luna watched as Matt scratched his chin, deep in thought while she studied his sun-kissed features.

To her, there were no indications the order to have her killed came from him. The car accident was not his doing. As belittling as it sounded in her head, the brown-eyed was no more than a pawn, a disguise. And she couldn’t help but pity the idiot.

Unbeknownst to her unconscious, she was excusing his doings against her by telling herself the retrieval of those traffic cams were just orders from above. Call it fear to loose yet another somebody or denial to acknowledge his betrayal.

A chuckle disrupted the momentary silence in the small conference room the two had been in since yesterday; catching up on things, though Luna knew it was all half-truths. His focus was now on her face whose exhaustion was reflected in the unusual paleness and clouds on her eyes.

“What is it?” He said.

“I think we’re making a big deal out of this,” Luna fiddled with the pulsing opal hanging from the delicate silver chain around her neck. As much as the thumping took her aback, for the stone had never done such thing before, she pushed the nagging thought aside. “What if it was SHIELD all along, which for some reason, moved the suitcase and we’re here like idiots searching for nonexistent ends?”

“It wasn’t them.”

Luna’s smile faded away upon the echo of an accentuated third voice in the room. And her stomach sunk as she turned to face the entrance, at the far right, where two familiar figures stood.

This wasn’t good.

This was so not good.

Luna was a gaping fish. Wide-eyed and barely mustering a stuttered ‘long time no see’ as a greeting towards the two that’d tried to take her out. The twins.

The two were a mirror with a slightly altered reflection of one another. Wanda’s expressive round eyes contrasted very much with Pietro’s downturned glare. It was one of the few differences between the twins, aside from the obvious ones such as height and dye of hair.

The hushed unintelligible whispers were soon to make themselves present as the ginger tried to glimpse inside her mind.

“Luna,” Wanda greeted her and smiled a smile which did not reach her eyes where her annoyance waltzed. “Good to see you’re back! And I still cannot read your mind…”

Pietro, on the other hand, was a stark contrast to the stiffness of his twin. Somehow he seemed laid back, more so than before; acted like one of those foolish casanovas who would oftentimes get the girl with every twirl of his boasts and jokes. Eccentric quicksilver who had once caught her eye once upon a time.

He was good at disguising his emotions.

“Luna,” Pietro grinned and winked.

Idiot, Luna thought as her eyes drifted to Matt.

“I called them in to help after the accident,” Matt explained, blatantly noticing her surprise before turning to the twins. “Please tell me something good you two.”

Matt drifted his attention to the twins who shared a serious glance between them, no words were spoken but that of their telling eyes. Such action which Luna could only define as a quirk of theirs for their silence was quite nerve-wreaking.

As if they hid something, knew something Luna was oblivious of. And in her overbearingly hyperactive and paranoid mind, their silence foretold nothing yet everything. And if it was the latter, to flee from the chaos that would ensue would be difficult.

One to three was not a good ratio.

“All we can tell you is SHIELD did not move the suitcase,” Wanda deadpanned, thus shutting any possibility to lead the search in another direction.

“How are you so sure?” Luna dumbly asked. She already knew the answer.

Wanda glanced at her with that same twinkle of annoyance towards her person. “Because I read their minds, saw them. Every single one. Even your so-called friends’.”

Luna did not know how to react. Her face could only be described as a poem whose allegory was too difficult to understand. For although she knew that’d be the ginger’s answer it still surprised her the staggering hatred dripping within her statement.

Then the shocking question Luna had failed to ask herself about the twins struck her with might: Why? Why agree to carry out the dirty work for them? Why? How grand was the reward for carrying out such a thing? Why?

Luna blinked once, twice, thrice hoping the sudden surface of anger and perplexity withered from burning her chest. “Excuse me, what?”

The jester twin standing beside the ginger huffed and chuckled, crossed his arms as those silver eyes twinkled with amusement. Pietro was reliving a memory.

“Okay,” Luna tilted her head and rested her right palm on the cold surface of the table. A nervous smile formed on her face as she tried to maintain that annoying facade of obliviousness. “Is this what you mentioned to me on our way here? That something went down over there but things got a little out of hand?”

“Yeah,” Matt nodded and gestured with his hand. “That’s what I was talking about.”

“Well, what exactly happened?” Luna questioned.

“In short…uh,” Pietro stepped in, “Matt sent us to the tower, told us the suitcase was in the lower levels, we searched…and searched and searched,“ the silver-haired pointed out, keeping count with his fingers, “and found nothing. Then Wanda decided to change tactics buuuut…”

“Please tell me you didn’t bring out the Hulk,” Luna’s eyes squinted and pursed her lips. Deep down squirming at the memory of the green giant and his eyes with a ring of scarlet. The amount of suffering, desperation, anger, and fear reflected in them haunted the corners of her memory to this day.

Luna pitied the giant as much as she feared his fury. She wondered how Bruce was doing…

“Okay. I did not think through my idea,” Wanda nodded and pursed her lips. “But I was not planning on leaving that tower without information. Now would you like to know what I saw in your friend’s head as I was searching for a lead?”

The wicked grin plastered on the witch’s face made all Luna’s hairs stand on end.

“Thor?” She mumbled. The blond’s name pierced her chest. Her truer friend. The one she betrayed far before it all had gone to hell.

And thinking about it…Luna concluded she deserved all the shit raining down on her for stabbing an individual with pure intentions.

“I…I don’t think…,” chills and sparks caressed and clawed her spine as it planted the seed of discord; the bloom of curiosity.

“Or I can show them to you,” Wanda offered with a twinkle in her eyes as the familiar murmurs in Luna’s head took force. “See for yourself his fears.”

To lose you, his friend. Oh, and how much jealousy! To see you have no eyes for him!

Luna closed her eyes and sighed, holding back, hiding it all in the depths of herself. Yet the pangs and clenches of her heart made swallowing the lump of guilt painstakingly difficult. And it was no help the ire of fire, towards Wanda and her own self, scorching her bones to brittle stone.

Her lips curved and opened her eyes, forcefully showing a smile through her annoyance while shutting her mind. “I think I’ll pass. There are far more important tasks at hand right now, right Matt?”

“True,” the brunet shook his head absentmindedly, thumb holding his child and curled pointer finger against his lips. Deep in thought. “But now that we’re mentioning him, when was the last time you two spoke?”

“We haven’t talked since I went home, why?” Luna spoke right away. Perhaps too quick for her sake. Lying still remained somewhat of a weakness for her.

Unlike Loki…but that was another matter on hold. Luna didn’t let his memory cave in for the remainder of the time being. Not yet.

Matt remained silent, and so too the twins who sat three chairs away from him. His eyes were half-lidded as if to discern between an image blurring by the distance, thinking, planning.

“I thought he’d be mother-hening you these two days,” Matt acknowledged. “Has he tried to get in touch with you?”

“No?” Luna answered. “Before I left he said they were shortly leaving for a mission but didn’t tell me when they’d come back. I just figured he was still on that mission to this day, but I guess not.” Luna crossed her arms and puckered her lips while reclining against the desk chair. “Now with the whole mind-reading thing and whatever else went down…I doubt he’ll have the time.”

And it’s not like Luna would be able to anyway. After all, Thor and the others had suspicions she’d gone missing. That she was taken by those that’d upraised hell on the tower.

Matt locked eyes with Luna as his hand rested on the table, “I think you should call him. Keep in touch. Don’t go awol on him for too long.

“You think my silence would raise suspicion?” Luna cocked her brow curiously. Although she already knew Thor wouldn’t bring her name to question.

“Not necessarily,” Matt said, “but I want to rid of the possibility anyway. You’re our front still. Their distraction and our insider.”

Luna tilted her head ever so slightly, mentally refusing what Matt was proposing. “Right.”

“What the hell, you know what?” Matt jerked his head and hand gestured, “Why don’t you call him now? The sooner the better.”

Luna bit the inside of her cheek as the desire to laugh in his face grew. If he only knew she could not…

Trying to get in touch with him was a resonant ‘NO’. Not only because Mr. Nosy Laufeyson had declared they now relied on the element of surprise, but also and most importantly because Luna had no face to ever look Thor in the eye anymore. Guilt now forbade her from doing so.

“Well. I don’t have a phone. It got destroyed. You know…in the accident.” Luna stammered.

She watched as Matt reached for his back pocket and placed a phone on the table and slid it across. Its screen already unlocked by his fingerprint, already waiting for the number to be dialed. “You can use mine.”

Luna stared at the device. “Matt��” she reproached.

What the hell was Matt and the twins playing at? Luna wondered.

Was this some kind of test? She asked herself.

“Tony won’t be able to trace it back.” He asserted and smiled. “Call him.”

“Don’t you think they’d be a little busy right now,” Luna questioned yet it was no more than an excuse of refusal in disguise.

Matt huffed and silently chuckled, “Luna, it’s you who’s calling. He’ll definitely make time.”

Luna parted her lips, hesitating, feeling all stares on her and making her a helpless child again. Small, frail little girl.

The defeat was inevitable. To do as he said was the only way and Luna was more than aware. To continue building up to excuses would bring no good end but that of being discovered.

Thus, with cold sweaty palms, and feeling the opal pulsating faster, she reached for the mobile and dialed the number she’d memorized before raising it to her ear.

The beeps were soon replaced by an all too familiar robotic voice, JARVIS, who solicited her name and whom she desired to communicate with.

“Thor Odinson,” Luna responded as her eyes focused on the darkness of the table while she waited for the three familiar beeps. Usually, when she called, that was how long it took the Norse god to reach the phone an answer.

This time, however, there was nothing but one single beep. Right away his gruff voice showered her ears which made her heart rattle inside her rib cage.

“Luna?! Is that you?!” His voice tainted with hope and weariness. “Luna?”

And all Luna could do was bite her tongue. Swallow the lump. Stop herself from ending the call and throwing the phone before breaking down.

The desperation in his voice was too much. A stab, a strike to her soul. Tainted it black.

“Hey… it’s me.” Luna built up enough courage to speak and hid her heartbreak behind a weary smile for the prying eyes. Hid all her ailings behind a voice of normalcy, a pitch higher.

A broken sigh echoed through the line. And Luna could already imagine the glassy baby eyes and broken smile on him.

Luna wished to say ‘I’m sorry’. To confide in him just as he’d done before with her. To tell him he was the only one who had been true, honest, pure. Yet cowardice and her alliance made her repeat the same thing:

“It’s me.”

A/N2: this story is flopping but I am determined to finish it regardless!

#Loki #Lover #Angst #God of Mischief #Others #Submitted fic #submission #till we meet again #chapter 18 #marvelgirlonamarvelworld

23 notes · View notes