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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig #könig cod #konig x reader #könig smut #könig fluff #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig x female reader

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beomcoups · 3 months ago

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The 13 Gods of Olympus: A Seventeen collab

We’ve all heard the timeless legends of the ancient Greek gods—tales passed down through the ages. But what if those gods were still alive, walking among us today? In this modern retelling collab, 13 talented authors breathe new life into these immortal beings, reimagining them as members of Seventeen. Once a Greek god, always a Greek god, but now their divine powers and personalities unfold in a whole new world.

Hosted by @beomcoups and @wooahaeproductions

➵Title: Wisdom Doesn’t Falter to Thunder @drunk-on-dk ➵Pairings: Greek God/Heir!Seungcheol x Reincarnated (Metis) Fem!Reader ➵Greek God: Zeus ➵Genre: angst, smut, fluff, coworker au, reincarnation au, fantasy ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: Naturally, as one of heirs of his father’s tech company, Seungcheol had everything he could ask for in life - well, except for his father’s company. Seungcheol, like a thunderbolt, decides it’s time to take action regarding his stake in the company against his brothers, ultimately looping you, his wise advisor, into the mix. Will you be the one to help Seungcheol as he earns true leadership of the company? Or could the tale of you two be as disastrous as the story of Metis and Zeus?

Teaser Read Here

➵Title: as wild and untamable as the sea by @the-boy-meets-evil ➵Pairings: greek god!chan x reincarnated sea nymph!reader ➵Greek God: poseidon ➵Genre: angst, smut, fantasy, minor reincarnation ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: Chan remembers everything. Every little thing that's happened to him since his days as one of the twelve olympians. Poseidon to be exact. Even though he tries not to think about it now that he's living in modern times running a sad little aquarium, some memories are more vivid than others. Then, you stumble into his life and he can't explain the draw. You can't seem to figure out how this man is keeping an aquarium like this running when it seems like it's not that busy. Something about him really seems to put you off, despite the fact that he seems drawn to you. None of it makes any sense…until you start to remember.

Teaser Read Here

➵Title: the soulkeeper’s betrayal by @hannieween ➵Pairings: greek god jun x reader ➵Greek God: hades ➵Genre: angst, smut, fluff, fantasy, mystery ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: when Hades realizes that something has gone awry in the underworld, he has no choice but to ask for help from his estranged wife. Though not without paying a price.

Teaser Read Here

➵Title: Fated Strut by @beomcoups ➵Pairings: greek god!Jeonghan x model!reader ➵Greek God: Hermes ➵Genre: fluff, angst, smut, fantasy, doppleganger au ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: In a whirlwind fashion show, a part-time model's life takes a mystical turn when she becomes the muse for the captivating Greek God Jeonghan. Unbeknownst to her, she shares a deep connection tied to his past. As their chemistry ignites amidst secrets and rivalries, will love conquer their complicated fates?

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➵Title: All Is Fair In Love And War @okiedokrie ➵Pairings: Aphrodite Reincarnation! Joshua x Fem!Detective!Reader ➵Greek God: Aphrodite ➵Genre: Crack, Smut, Fluff, some angst ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: Joshua is the king of Los Amsterdam, not by blood, but by having the biggest network in the state. He gets caught up in an investigation regarding the assassination of one of his former clients, where he meets a detective who is strangely immune to his godly charms. Oh, right, he's the reincarnation of Aphrodite. Together they solve the case and find more than the mastermind in the process, maybe, they'll just find love.

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➵Title: Kadō @daemour ➵Pairings: Demeter! Dokyeom x Florist! Reader ➵Greek God: Demeter ➵Genre: Fluff, Angst ➵Rating: T for Teen ➵Summary: When the most notorious divorce lawyer in the city becomes a regular at your little flower shop, you're pretty sure it's a bad omen, for both your love life and your store. But with each passing moment, it looks like your flowers are doing better than ever…and perhaps your heart beats just a bit faster seeing Lee Seokmin.

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➵Title: Orion’s Constellation @staytinyville ➵Pairings: God!Vernon x Hunter!Reader , Vernon x Reader ➵Greek God: Artemis ➵Genre: Fluff ➵Rating: T for Teen ➵Summary: The story goes that Artemis fell in love with Orion but Apollo was jealous of that love. So he tricked Artemis into killing her love. This is a different retelling. One where rather then the huntress killing the hunter—the hunter followed the orders of the gods. And was repaid graciously.

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➵Title: The Prophet and His Muse by @idyllic-ghost ➵Pairings: greek god!woozi x reincarnated lover!fem!reader ➵Greek God: Apollo ➵Genre: romance, angst, fluff, smut, romance, fantasy, soulmate au, reincarnation au, deity au ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: In a world where ancient myths whisper through the fabric of modern life, a poignant tale of love and redemption unfolds. A god reunited with his eternal love. As this ancient bond stirs to life, he must navigate the delicate interplay between myth and reality—striving to rekindle a romance that defies time and embraces destiny’s call.

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➵Title: Forging the Threads of Time by @wooahaeproductions ➵Pairings: Professor/Greek God!Wonwoo x Reincarnated Female Reader ➵Greek God: Hephaestus ➵Genre: angst, fluff, smut, college au, reincarnation au ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: Wonwoo never expected to meet the mortal love of his life ever again and you never thought you’d feel so drawn to your welding professor.

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➵Title: king of kings by @aaagustd ➵Pairings: kingpin/crime lord!mingyu x journalist!(f)reader ➵Greek God: hestia ➵Genre: angst, organized crime au, arranged marriage, childhood enemies to lovers, mystery, supernatural, smut, loosely inspired by the story of King Thrushbeard ➵Rating: 18+ ➵Summary: If you’d known all those years ago that you would have to compete for his heart, you would have never torn it to pieces.

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Thank you @hobeemin for creating the graphics for this collab <3

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comfortless · 10 months ago

Text

Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other #tw: dubcon

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googleitlol · 15 days ago

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False Hero AU

@rovobeam everything you've been drawing for this hurts my soul and I love it.

SO! 👏 The False Hero AU is all about what would have happened if Macaque won the fight with Wukong on the journey. After sealing Sun Wukong under Flower Fruit Mountain, Macaque continued to impersonate him for a while, travelling with the pilgrims until… well, until the journey ended prematurely. Once he no longer had to deal with that, Macaque was free to do just… whatever he wanted. However, with the Monkey King gone, the world was still in need of a hero.

It wasn't like Macaque planned this all from the start. He saved some villages because, well, he was just in the area. As he did tho, he started to be seen as more and more of a hero. People didn't have to worry about the old Monkey King coming to save them anymore, not when this new one was doing so well!

The attention and praise eventually got to his head, and Macaque began to embrace the role he'd been given. He liked being a hero, having all these people admire him. Wukong abandoned him to join those stupid monks, but now? He had the love of the people Wukong used to protect. Of course, he didn't want all this attention and praise to waiver if anyone thought to look back on what really happened during the journey. Nobody even knew what happened to Sun Wukong after the other pilgrims died, which left Macaque to shape the story and tell the tale of what happened himself.

By the time the modern age hits, everyone that heard of the Journey to the West knows about how the hero Six-Eared Macaque bravely defeated the rampaging Sun Wukong, the Corrupt Sage who thought he was equal to heaven. In this world, it's Macaque who becomes MK's mentor. Unlike Wukong tho, he is a much more active presence in the city, acting as its guardian and local hero instead of going into retirement.

Everything was going well for him! He's beloved by the city he protects, he's surrounded by friends that love and care about him, and he loved them just as much. Sure, he sometimes had to make sure people didn't catch on to the real story, there was still the rare individual that would question the facts– but there was nothing to prove his version of events were false. He even keeps his scar visible so the world can remember what Wukong did to him in their fight. There was nothing to make the majority of people question him, anyway.

…That is, until MK finds the seal keeping Sun Wukong under Flower Fruit Mountain.

It's not like Macaque told the kid about the monster under the mountain, how could he have known not to touch it? Macaque may have been angry, but he wouldn't hold it against his student. However, this newly freed Wukong posed a very big threat. No matter who got in his way, whatever attempts Wukong makes to tell the world otherwise, Macaque would have to make sure his status as the real hero remained intact. This would result in many battles between the two mystic monkeys, and with MK by his side, he often came out on top. Macaque just had to keep painting Wukong as the villain, a demon returning to lay waste to their home. He'd do anything to ensure his version of history was the right one.

And Macaque refuses to let anyone stand in his way.

#i'll get into the ocs in my next post #wukong needs a hug #and a shower #false hero au #lego monkie kid #lmk sun wukong #lmk macaque #lmk mk #lmk au

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edenesth · 1 year ago

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The Way to His Heart [2]

Pairing: general!Seonghwa x wife!reader

AU: arranged marriage au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Life has been hell ever since your mother's passing many years ago. Despite being from a prominent family, you've never received the privileges associated with it. It only got worse with the arrival of your stepmother and her daughters. When the intimidating General Park was in search of a wife, your father seized the opportunity to dispose of you, simultaneously securing a connection with the powerful general—killing two birds with one stone.

Part 1 | Fic Masterlist | Part 3

"S-sir, are you truly certain this is acceptable? This is worse than all the previous quarters we've arranged for your past fiancées."

Seonghwa grinned in satisfaction, "What do you mean, Jongho? This is perfect. She will take what she gets. If she's so unhappy, she can go ahead and run back to her dear father for all I care."

Like all his prior marriage candidates, the general had instructed his servants to ready accommodations in the least appealing quarters available in his estate. It was all part of his strategy to intimidate and drive them away. Nothing brought him greater joy than hearing their whiny shrieks of displeasure as they fled his home, rushing back to plead with their fathers to annul the engagement.

Given he had no say in this particular wedding, his only option was to make it as unpleasant as possible, hoping to scare you away. Surely, the words of the minister's precious daughter would carry more weight with her father and, consequently, the King.

Seonghwa counted on you to bring about the downfall of this marriage, "This should be enough to get the job done. Worry not, Jongho. She'll be gone in less than a day, mark my words."

As he observed his master striding off to his study, the assistant shook his head in defeat, glancing unsurely at the preparations made for the daughter of the Minister of Military Affairs. This particular room had remained vacant since the general first assumed control of the estate from its previous owner.

The room had earned the nickname "The Cold Palace," drawing parallels to the infamous residences of China's Forbidden City, where concubines who had made mistakes or fallen out of favour with the emperor were confined until their last days.

According to tales from the previous residents, the room might have even been haunted, with rumours circulating about the previous mistress of the estate taking her own life within those walls.

Leave it to the general to be fixated on the darkest forms of torment, truly living up to his reputation. Oh, he just couldn't wait to see the look on his new wife's face when she would eventually be ushered into her very own cold palace.

"Are the preparations to the master's liking?" Eunsook, the head maid, inquired of Jongho as she emerged from the quarters after ensuring that all dusty areas had been thoroughly cleaned.

The assistant nodded, his lips pressed in a firm line, "He's more than satisfied, but..."

The elderly woman raised a brow with a knowing smile, "But?"

Jongho sighed, "Is this really right? After all, she is about to become the mistress of this estate, and having her reside here, of all places, seems a little too much."

The two could only shake their heads as they cast a final glance at the pitiful excuse for a room. Having been left untouched for decades, the furniture within was mostly rusty or broken in certain places. While it was cleaned on the surface, who knew what sort of parasites or little crawlies had already made their home there.

Despite the possibility of the new Lady Park being a spoiled brat, as the general claimed, the assistant and head maid weren't sure if she deserved this kind of treatment.

"There's nothing we can do for her, Jongho. Now, we best get back to work before anyone hears us or master will have our heads."

The younger man nodded in defeat before they went about their day, uncertain if they should even be looking forward to the arrival of their master's bride on the next day.

"Lord have mercy on her poor soul."

They couldn't fathom any more humiliation that she had to endure beyond what she already had. According to typical traditions, the bridegroom was expected to visit the bride's home with gifts and a dowry, paying respects to the bride's ancestors before escorting her back to his home.

In an attempt to appease the general and ensure the wedding proceeded, the King had agreed to forgo all customary procedures, allowing the bride to travel to his estate on her own. For some mind-boggling reason, the minister had also agreed to these conditions.

"Your Majesty, if you want me to proceed with the wedding peacefully, I will, on one condition." Seonghwa boldly asserted in the assembly where details of his wedding were being finalised.

"What is it, my boy? Anything for you." The King cooed.

The minister straightened in his seat, clenching his fists in fear of the general making any unreasonable requests.

"Please do not expect me to follow through with any of the silly traditions. I will do no such thing. On our wedding day, I will be waiting in my own estate. Minister Jang can prepare his daughter's transportation. If that is viable, I will finally be married as you so pleased, your Majesty."

The King grimaced, throwing the minister a worried glance, "Seonghwa, isn't that a little much? Think about the poor girl—"

To everyone's surprise, your father breathed a sigh of relief, "Is that all, General Park? If so, I do not see much of a problem with it. My daughter is also not a fan of flamboyant celebrations. She favours simplicity, much like yourself. I'm sure she'll be more than happy with the new arrangements."

Sure, you tell yourself that.

The general grinned into his fist, satisfied. That would make her the laughingstock of the century. The King blinked at the unexpected response but beamed regardless, "Does she now? Oh, Seonghwa, I knew she was perfect for you!"

Everyone was happy with the outcome that day, save for you, the unlucky one caught in the middle of all the crossfire, as always.

Jongho remembered how all members of the general's estate servants had been utterly flabbergasted upon learning about the final decision for the wedding plans. They had initially geared up to work tirelessly for their master's first actual wedding, prepared to pour in endless efforts for the grand celebration.

However, they were left appalled by the news. Who would have expected the minister to be alright with such conditions?

Perhaps the importance of solidifying his connection with the great General Park outweighed his concerns for his daughter's momentary embarrassment.

On the day of the wedding, Eunsook stood steadfastly behind her employer, awaiting any orders he might have for her, "Master, is there really nothing else for us to prepare?"

More than the general, nearly every servant felt uneasy due to the lack of decoration as they awaited your arrival. To an outsider, it would seem like just another regular day. Despite the wide-open doors, the estate didn't appear to have much going on at all.

Seonghwa waved her off, sipping on his tea nonchalantly, "Don't make me repeat myself again, Eunsook. This woman isn't worth any of your efforts. Remember, I pay your salary, not her."

"R-right, master." She lowered her head, knowing better than to get on his nerves.

He sighed upon noticing the unusual group of servants lining up by the main hall as if waiting to welcome some distinguished guest, "Don't you all have better things to do? You're all dismissed; get back to your daily tasks if you wish to keep your job."

Shaking like leaves, they all turned to see the head maid nodding at them, signalling for them to do as they were told. Before they angered him any further, all servants dispersed after bowing in unison at their master's direction, "Yes, master."

"Perfect. The minister did mention his daughter favoured simplicity; I'm sure she'll love this." He grinned in amusement, looking forward to the new Lady Park's reaction.

Bowing one final time to your family, you turned and never looked back. Escorted by the kind elderly servant from before, you were led to the palanquin waiting at the entrance of the Jang estate, "This is your ride to the general's estate, young miss."

Surrounded by a throng of people eager to catch a glimpse of the minister's mysterious eldest daughter, you stumbled backwards a bit, feeling overwhelmed. The onlookers were excitedly exchanging the latest gossip about the unusual wedding, where the bride was expected to travel to her new husband's home alone, without a chaperone.

Stepping out of the estate for the first time in more than a decade, you didn't know what to expect. However, this was certainly not it.

As you navigated through the crowd, you reminded yourself of the role you needed to play. Outside the familiar walls of your family estate, you were recognised as the noble eldest daughter of Minister Jang, about to marry the formidable General Park.

You were quite literally the talk of the town.

"Smile, young miss." And you did.

You put on the fakest smile you'd ever worn as you passed by the prying eyes of the onlookers on your way to the waiting vehicle.

As you settled into the palanquin, you looked up to find the servant sighing, ensuring you were comfortably seated for the journey ahead, "Goodbye, young miss. None of us have been allowed to accompany you. You're on your own from now on. Hopefully, the people there will treat you better, the way you truly deserve."

The way you deserved?

You honestly didn't know what that meant.

All your life, you have only ever been treated like a waste of space. So much so that you have begun to believe that was just how things were meant to be. The prospect of being treated with any sort of decency was, at this point, foreign to you.

Nodding, you acknowledged the harsh reality imposed by your father, "Of course, I expected just as much. Thank you, by the way, for the kindness you've shown me. You best hurry back. Don't let them catch you near me, or you'll be punished."

She gave your hand a warm squeeze, "All the best, young miss."

You returned the gesture before the bearers lifted the transport and began walking.

"Goodbye." You whispered, not only to the servant but also to this life you were about to leave behind for good.

With only a thin layer of cloth serving as a curtain on the tiny window of the palanquin, you could hear every word of gossip uttered as you made your way out of this town and to your bridegroom's.

"Oh dear, what a poor thing. Imagine being wedded to that heartless general. He isn't even courteous enough to come take her home. How long do you reckon she'd survive under his care?"

"Can you believe the minister actually agreed to this? Letting his eldest daughter marry in such an undignified way? He seems desperate to get rid of her. Do you think there could be anything wrong with her?"

"She's quite the beauty, isn't she? What a shame no amount of beauty could save her from this ill fate. You guys wanna bet how long before she gets beaten to death by that husband of hers?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your ears. You had heard more than enough back home; not only did your stepmother and stepsisters insult you for fun, but most servants were also audacious enough to speak ill of you right in front of your face. You were sick and tired of people talking about you like you weren't there.

The continuous mockery and cruelty had worn you down, and you longed for a reprieve from this life of constant torment.

Why me?

Why is it always me?

Is there really something wrong with me?

There must be a reason why the whole world was constantly out to get you. Why did your mother even give birth to you, only to leave you behind in such a cruel world? What was the point of it all?

Thousands of thoughts raced through your mind, and you wondered if the general truly was as cold-hearted as they say. You pondered what he could possibly look like. They say he was as good as the devil incarnate, but could he really be worse than your family?

You were already convinced that every member of your family was the devil's spawn; you simply couldn't imagine anyone being worse than those people.

With all these thoughts swirling around in your mind, you slowly drifted off to sleep amid your journey from one hell to another.

Your eyes snapped open as you were abruptly awakened by a knock on the palanquin, "Lady Park! We've arrived; it's time to get off. Your father did not compensate us for escorting you inside, so this is as far as our services extend."

Lady Park? Who?

Oh.

It's you.

That's your identity from now on.

Rubbing your eyes, you moved to exit the palanquin. You were perplexed to find yourself at a considerable distance from the entrance of the general's estate.

"Forgive us, ma'am. We hope you can manage the short distance to the estate on your own. We're trying to avoid meeting the general, you know how it is."

You blinked, sensing the immense terror in these men. Park Seonghwa really was something else, wasn't he? Feeling sympathy for them, you nodded, "I... I understand, thank you."

They sighed in relief, scurrying to leave as fast as they could. The reality of your situation began to sink in, and you hesitated before taking your first step towards the looming entrance of your new home. The world you once knew had changed, and you were about to step into the unknown.

As you halted by the front doors, an employee of the estate quickly recognised your outfit, presenting a wild sight – a bride wandering about like a lost sheep.

Approaching you cautiously, one of the men inquired, "Miss Jang?"

You nodded in acknowledgement, "Yes, that's me."

Bewilderment painted his face as he scanned the area, "Are you here alone? Where are your servants and palanquin bearers?"

A gulp betrayed your nervousness, and you lowered your head in shame, "I have no servants with me, and the bearers have left."

His eyes widened, "What?" Quickly regaining composure, he apologised, "M-my apologies, ma'am! My name is Jongho, and I'm General Park's trusted aide. We have been waiting for your arrival. Please, let me take you to the main hall."

At first glance, the assistant sensed you were different from all the other noblewomen he had encountered. It astonished him even more to see you standing there all alone. What in the world was happening? Was the minister aware of any of this? There was no way it could be part of his arrangement. After all, this was his daughter, wasn't it?

As you walked through the estate, you realised the deep bows from the servants were unfamiliar to you. In response, you bowed back, only to receive baffled stares. Your shoulders were hunched, and your lack of confidence was evident.

The unusual exchange did not escape Jongho's notice, and he struggled to understand your odd behaviour.

Nothing seemed to make sense to him.

What was the minister planning? Were you really the eldest daughter? Surely, they wouldn't send an imposter, and even if they did, they wouldn't be foolish enough to make it this obvious. Besides, what reason would they even have to do so? It would mean deceiving His Majesty, the King, too, as the minister had indeed promised his daughter to the general.

As you reached the main hall, the assistant had no time to dwell on such thoughts as he presented you to his master, "Sir, the minister's daughter, your bride, has arrived."

Facing the back of a rather youthful-looking man was not the sight you expected. You truly believed the rumours about him being rough and middle-aged, but now you questioned their accuracy.

"You've made it, wife. At last, you're here." He muttered emotionlessly, moving to set down the cup of tea he cradled in his hands before. The sound of his deep voice sent chills down your spine.

With that, he finally turned around, and you wondered if this was the terrifying general that all of the nation feared. You had envisioned him in various ways, but this was not what you expected.

He was... beautiful.

His features were a perfect blend of masculinity and femininity. His body, too, was ideal, slender yet muscular in all the right places. His ethereal appearance took you by surprise. He was perhaps the most enchanting person you had ever laid eyes on. Granted, you hadn't met many people, given your confined life. Still, you didn't need a broad social experience to recognise that he was a sight to behold.

"Cat got your tongue?" He questioned, a raised brow giving his stoic expression an intimidating edge. You immediately grasped why people found him so fearsome.

Feeling as though you'd committed a grave error, you lowered your head and bowed deeply, your heart beating loudly in your chest, "I-I'm sorry, my lord. I shouldn't have stared; th-that was very rude of me. I thank you for accepting me into your household. I will do my best to make myself... u-useful."

Throughout your life, your family has consistently taunted you for being useless. Now, you wished to change that narrative. If you could somehow prove your value here, perhaps you wouldn't face the same mistreatment that haunted you in your old home. After all, you had only just arrived, you didn't want to be beaten to death so soon.

What in the world?

Seonghwa was rendered momentarily speechless. Undoubtedly, you possessed a striking beauty, the kind that justified your father's decision to keep you hidden for so long. But what puzzled him was the unmistakable insecurity reflected in your posture and the uncertainty in your words.

You were nothing like any of his past fiancées, and he struggled to comprehend the reason behind it. You didn't exhibit the expected haughtiness of a noblewoman from a powerful house. Your apparent indifference to his lack of wedding preparations irked him; he wanted a reaction from you but didn't get one.

What the hell was the minister playing at? Were you intentionally trying to be different? What kind of tactic was this? If the plan was to catch him off guard, it was working very well. This won't do; he couldn't be deterred so easily.

Finally breaking his silence with a scoff, he demanded, "Really now? Useful? In what way?"

You gulped, completely unprepared to provide any sort of elaboration, "I-I..."

He smirked, "Let me guess, your script ended there?"

The accusation threw you into a panic, and you gasped, denying any insincerity, "N-no, that's not—"

Waving you off dismissively, he said, "Save it. I won't buy anything else coming from you. Eunsook, take Miss Jang to her quarters."

Oh no, he hates me already.

« Preview of Part 3 »

"Is all this for me? Are you sure?" You asked in disbelief, gazing in awe at the quarters assigned to you. It was spacious, a far cry from the cramped space that used to be your prison cell.

Eunsook bowed apologetically, "Yes, mistress. I know it might not be ideal, but the master insisted on preparing this specific room for you—"

Shaking your head, you stepped inside, "What do you mean, not ideal? No, this is more than enough. Thank you so much." The room had actual furniture and was even larger than any of your stepsisters' quarters back home. Sure, it wasn't necessarily prettier, but at least it was practical.

The head maid struggled for words as she observed you admiring the interior of The Cold Palace. Were you being sarcastic? It didn't seem like it; you appeared genuinely content. She couldn't fathom why the scene before her eyes almost felt... heartbreaking.

"R-right then, let me help you settle in. Do you have a lot of luggage waiting by the entrance?" She asked politely.

You shook your head, "I-I don't... I'm sorry, this is all I have with me." You showed her the nearly empty duffel bag in your hands, leaving her unsure how to react.

"Gosh, mistress! You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Please, uhh... make yourself at home. Just call out to any of the servants around the area if you need any assistance. I'll be here to alert you when dinner is ready."

"D-dinner..?" You croaked, realising you hadn't had a proper meal in who knows how long. You couldn't believe dinner was being prepared... for you. Blinking back your tears, you bowed, "Th-thank you."

"Please, mistress! You don't have to thank me; it's only my job." Panicking, Eunsook bowed even lower before hastily leaving your quarters. She needed to talk to Jongho about your peculiar behaviour. Surely, she wasn't the only one taken aback by it.

Oh my gosh, thank you for 600+ followers! I hope you enjoyed the second part! As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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#edenesth #the way to his heart #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #park seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #arranged marriage au #joseon era #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #ateez fic #historical au

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 5 months ago

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On Crystal Waters

AKA On Silk Sheets Part Two. (The pirate!au.) Or you don't feel like you belong in your husband's new life, but good luck convincing him of that. No smut in this one, but there is suggestive dialogue. ~2.5k words

It's not that you regret sleeping with your husband, it's more of the fact you didn't quite think it all the way through. Yes, you missed him. Yes, you might even still love him. But, he's built an entire life for himself without you.

You've seen it the past two weeks, the way he seamlessly works with his crew, how maneuvering about his ship is second nature. It makes you feel out of place. Even if you've slowly come to learn the names of the other pirates, it doesn't change the feeling that you're a piece of his past.

You can't help but wonder if you're even more than someone to warm his bed. The restless anxieties draw you to the deck just before dawn, unable to sleep even with him next to you. You're surprised he doesn't wake, but it makes it easier, allowing you a moment to your thoughts. It's nice, to watch the sun start to peak over the horizon, to see land slowly drawing closer. The quiet doesn't last long.

"We'll be docking soon."

You turn, eyes fixating on one of the pirates, Roy, you think, "Which port is this?"

He settles next to you at the railing, "Star Port, unless Jason changes his mind. He's been cautious since the navy ship tried to chase us down."

You sigh softly, the memory of cannons and shouting and swords being drawn flashing in your mind, "What's it like?"

"Star Port?" Roy replies cheerily, "you'll like it. Lively markets, great taverns, and nice views for a port city. Easy to get lost in, though, lots of winding alleys. Best stick close to someone."

"I'll keep that in mind," You murmur, eyes trailing back to the distant port.

"Something botherin' you, Sweetheart?"

"Are you looking to hear my secrets, Harper?" You drawl, idly tapping the wooden railing.

He huffs a laugh, "Have you got someone better to spill them to? I'm the closest thing you have to a friend at the moment, so spill away."

You tut, side eyeing him, "There's no need to rub it in. I'm well aware I'm alone on a pirate ship with complete strangers, an estranged husband, and not one person loyal to me."

He chuckles and shrugs at you, an easy going smile painting his face, "I'm going to take that as a no, and will take my place as the closest person you've got to call your friend. Congratulations, sweetheart, we both should be honored."

You raise a hand to your head and fake a swoon. It's nice, to joke around with someone like this after weeks of uncertainty and walking on eggshells, "my closest friend, here to console me over my husband moving on."

"Is that what's got you so down?" Roy asks curiously, and you curse yourself for letting it out, "The Captain's a right mess when it comes to ya. Lovesick, obsessed, head over feet, whatever you wanna call it."

You sigh and focus back on the city growing larger and larger, "He has other things now."

Roy leans closer and bumps his arm with yours, "Cheer up, sweetheart, you're with us now. You're family too. And you got Jason chasing after you like a dog. That bastard won't let anything happen to ya. He'll move the sun stars for you. So don't worry yourself over anything, the only thing you have to be concerned about is your captain's love sickness. We'll take care of the rest."

You falter over his words, throat tightening, "Why?"

"Why what?" He asks, raising a brow and giving you an incredulous look, "Why are we lookin' out for you? Why do we have your back already? Because that's what we do. Family has each other's backs. That includes you. You're one of us now. Whether you like it or not."

His words are a stark reminder, Jason's crew is nothing like you expected from a pirate lords ship. But Jason hasn't exactly matched up to the tales of 'Red Hood ' either. "A family," you breathe out.

Roy nods, "Don't get me wrong, sweetheart. Jason's as ruthless as he's cold, knows how to take his pound of flesh. I've seen him beat his enemies senseless with just his fists, but he's saved each and every one of us. We're loyal to him, and he's loyal to us."

You take in the information slowly, "It's... good. That he's loved."

"Loved ones way to put," Roy agrees, "crew practically worships the ground he walks on." He eyes you for a moment, "Does it bother you? Knowing that everyone here cares about him?"

You shake your head, "No. I know he made a life for himself without me. It's– I'm glad he wasn't alone."

Roy looks baffled. "That's not what I was expecting, lass."

"I do want what's best for him," You mumble, "even if best doesn't include me. I don't want him to be alone. And he's easy to love. I'm not surprised he built a new life."

"You care for him more than I thought you did," he admits, a bittersweet smile on his face, "I'd hope my wife still loved me too, even if we weren't next to each other anymore."

You wince, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You don't need to bottle it up. You're allowed to feel, allowed to let it out and talk about what you're going through. I'm glad to listen," Roy tells you steadily, patting your shoulder.

You offer him a small smile, "It's nice to have someone listen."

"You know the captain would listen, too. I know it's hard to talk to him about him, but he'd give you anything you asked. Hell, you could ask him to go swim in shark and jellyfish infested waters butt naked and he'd do it. No questions."

You laugh, "What a silly thing to ask for. I think I'll just stick to asking to visit the market."

"I'm serious, sweetheart, you could say you wanted him to jump off the side of the ship and he'd ask what side. You have no idea how much he adores you. Just wait and see. The only answer you'll get from him is, 'Yes, love.' Probably clear out the whole treasury on whatever you set your sights on," Roy drawls, grin widening with each word.

You hum thoughtfully, "I suppose that sounds like him."

He laughs, "Don't get me wrong, Captain's a tough guy. Smart, clever, strong as an ox and meaner than a crocodile with a toothache, but it all goes away 'round you. Turns right into a pup with no brains at all when you're near."

You can't help but laugh with him, "Sounds like a bit of an exaggeration."

He grins brightly at you, "Hardly, sweetheart. Why, he'll probably cause a whole scene when he wakes you and you're not there. You know, storm around the ship, calling your name, shoutin' at the top of his lungs and scaring half the crew into thinking there's a monster on board. It'll be quite the show."

You shoot a look towards the captains quarters, "He wouldn't, right? There's nowhere for me to go but his ship."

"Ah, he's the dramatic type. Wouldn't put it past him to go into a frenzy over not finding you in his bed," Roy teases, crossing his arms lazily over his chest.

"Maybe I should go back," You murmur, worry crossing your face.

Roy pats your shoulder, "No need. Captains not an idiot, after all. He'll come out here lookin' for you soon enough."

You sigh, slumping against the railing as the ship draws closer to port, "If you say so."

He laughs, "Speak of the devil. Look who's coming to join us."

You don't bother to turn and look as Roy offers a cheeky 'morning' to your husband on his way off to prepare for docking. You hear a sleepy grunt in response before two strong arms wrap around your waist, tugging you back from the railing into a broad chest.

You make a noise of protest, but Jason only holds you tighter, nuzzling his face to your shoulder, "Coulda woke me up, darlin', if you wanted to go on deck."

"You were sleeping. And I was making friends with your crew," You answer, shifting his grip, "You should be happy about that, you know"

"I am happy you're making friends. But Harper? Out of my whole crew, you pick Harper? You just had to choose the one crew member who's most likely to encourage you to do something stupid," Jason grumbles into your neck.

You tilt your head slightly, letting his lips ghost over your skin, "He didn't offer any particularly encouraging ideas, Jason."

"Really?" He asks, disbelieving, "No cunning escape plans?"

"He's too loyal to you to help me with that, I think," you answer mindlessly. Escape plans. It's not like you have anything concrete. You only threatened to jump off the ship a few times. And you don't even know if you want to leave. But the thought persists that it might be better. Better for him. That both of you have changed too much to work. That you don't fit as a pirate's spouse.

Jason hums in approval, "Good."

"Oh, Jason?" You start, turning in his arms to face him, "I'd like to go to the market today. I don't– I didn't get to grab anything when we– uh– left."

"Of course, darlin'," Jason agrees easily, pressing a kiss to your hair, "whatever you need."

"I don't have any money," You continue, hesitant, "But I could–"

"You don't need it," Jason cuts you off firmly, "Anything I have is yours. The finest silk, the purest gold, the most sparkling jewels, all of it. We're married, pretty. You're my partner. I want to take care of you. Okay?"

"Okay," You echo, too stunned to argue. But that's exactly like him, the man who risked the sea again and again to bring home finer and better things to you.

He grins, bright eyes leaving you to focus on the growing number of crew members on deck, “Looks like my crew’s finally waking up. About time to dock, it looks like. Get excited, love. You’re in for a treat. This port’s a party. We’ll have no problem finding some fun and whatever you want to buy here." He lets go of your waist to grab your hand, pulling it up for a kiss, "Perhaps you'll let me buy you a new ring while we're on land."

"A new ring?" You question, somewhat distracted but the shouts and noises from the crew as they prepare to dock, "Shouldn't you be helping them?"

Jason's shrugs, amused, "The crew can run themselves. They've docked enough times that it's like clockwork to them. And yes, love, a new ring. One fitting of a pirate lord's partner."

You study him, "They do call you that, don't they?"

He practically beams, voice going light and teasing, "You've heard? The crew of The Outlaw are somewhat of a legend. They tell tales of my skill with a sword. My prowess in battle. My strength and power. My sheer terror. They shiver at the mention of my name."

You laugh, tone skeptical, despite knowing the truth. He has his reputation for a reason, "Is that so?"

"Do you doubt me, my love?" Jason drawls, shifting closer to you, "Do you doubt your husband's skill? His prowess? Do I not impress you enough, darling?"

You tut, "Forgive me if I'm more interested in a new port than I am my husband's tall tales."

He flashes a faux hurt look, his hand pressed dramatically to his chest as he replies with a mock-offended tone, "Oh, I see how it is. You prefer the port to my tales. You'd prefer to explore a new port than hear about my latest adventure. I know how it is. My own spouse prefers a new port to my tales of triumph."

You can't help but grin at him, he looks so much like the person you married in this moment, "I'm sure you can regale me with stories once we're back out at sea."

"Oh, I plan to, treasure," he reaches up to trace your face, "I plan to share everything with you."

You open your mouth to answer, though you're not sure with what, when you're cut off by Roy, "Captain, should we drop the gang plank?"

Jason grins, and takes your hand, pulling you towards the plank, "Aye, Harper. We're going to buy out the entire market for my love today. Make sure our favorite tavern is prepared with enough ale for tonight. We're going to celebrate."

"Those are orders I'll be happy to follow, captain," Roy chirps back, motioning to the crew to drop the plank.

"What would you like to get first, love," Jason questions, tilting his head towards you.

"Books. Clothes that are easier to move in. A cloak. Hair pins," You list off, eager to get off the ship after so many days at sea.

"Practical," Jason mumbles, nodding to his crew as he guides you to shore, "I offer to buy you the world and you desire leathers."

"I can't wear silks, lace and ribbons around your ship," You protest, eyes darting excitedly around the docks.

"Perhaps not, love, but you can wear them in our bed," Jason answers, his hand leaving yours so he can grab your waist, pulling you to his side as he walks.

You go to swat lightly at him, to tease him for being vulgar, but you falter when you look up at him. His face is set, eyes trailing over the crowd of rugged sailors on the dock. He looks hard. Threatening. Like the pirate lord he is. "I- yes. Maybe I will," You stumble out instead, unable to get the thought out of your head that you don't quite match him now. That you look wrong by his side.

"Are you alright, love?" Jason asks, and when you look up at him, his eyes are on you, softer. Something you recognize.

"Yes, just overwhelmed, I suppose," it's only half of a lie.

"We'll stop at one of the tailors I know first. She's dressed my crew more times than I can count," he says, reassuring, "if it gets too much, we'll go rest at the tavern."

"We're not staying on the ship?" You question, curious.

"Mm. Not tonight, love. I'd like to have you in a bed that isn't rocking," Jason drawls, shooting you a sly grin.

"You're insatiable," You breathe out, eyes darting to see if anyone's heard.

"Only for you, darling," he replies cheekily, arm steady around your waist as he guides you towards the shop.

You follow him, there's nothing else you could dream of doing in the moment. But the whispers of the crowd plague your every step. And the question that's haunted you every day since he stole you from that ball resurfaces, 'should you be at his side?'

Part Three | More Headcannons

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #pirate!au #red hood x reader

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kiame-sama · 2 months ago

Note

You discussed humanfuckers in the monster au recently and listed several characters who would be among the humanfucker ranks but I was surprised not to see Rook and Rollo on that list. I would have thought they'd be on that list as I can totally see them reading human erotica and 'appreciating' pornographic art of humans , maybe not on Trottr but perhaps published romance/erotica novels and classical style art pieces, perhaps even antique ones from when humans were still around. Also if Malleus is an honorary humanfucker for his interest in THE (his) human rather than just humans overall, wouldn't that mean most of the cast could be considered honorary humanfuckers too, if not right now then soon?

First part here:

Warnings; yandere, yandere behavior, mention of adult content, by selecting 'view more' you consent to view content and are of age to view content.

~~~~~~~~

Because Rollo and Rook are on their way into it quickly due to sparked interest, but they weren't obsessed over Humans before meeting The Human. Those listed prior were obsessed long before meeting a Human in the flesh.

Rollo, up until he actually meets The Last Human, sees it as demeaning the species as a whole to write such hedonistic trash. He wishes to emulate the Righteous Judge in any way he can and the Judge cherished Humans above everything, even his own life. Rollo sees it like someone is depicting his deities- who he devotes his life to work in the name of- as common whores. He could tell you everything on the written history of Humans and the Humans of Fleur City because he has devoted his own time to learning about Humans. He respects and honors the legacy of Humans in Twisted Wonderland.

His attitude switch towards suggestice works involving Humans is as abrupt and jarring as a flash of lightning when he finally meets the Human of Night Raven and suddenly he sees the appeal. He thought the depictions of Humans were beautiful whenever he saw them, but his more carnal interests only really hit him when he met one. Now he gets it. He will never admit to such vile thoughts, but he has far more than he would like.

Rollo is going to be in future chapters, don't worry.

~•§•~

Rook is awakening into that role and idea. He really only saw Humans from a history standpoint, an end note to file away under mythical tales and long gone creatures. Sure, Human things exist all around him, but he likes to observe beauty in the moment. Why weep over what is long lost when there are beauties to observe here and now?

The Human of Night Raven is certainly now a beauty he can behold and marvel at. He is understanding the appeal and he is becoming more interested in learning all he can about these Humans. He is frustrated there is so little agreed upon when it comes to Humans. Human remains are so contested they can't even classify Humans in any official species. The popular theory is they are closest to pigs, hence the belief Humans shouldn't eat pork often. He thinks that's stupid, where are the pig ears and tails? The Boar variants of Minotaurs were very well known.

He is just falling down the rabbit hole, don't you worry. We will get to Rook's interest soon enough.

~•§•~

Malleus is honorary compared to the others for a few reasons, first; he won't turn up his nose to such works- published works, he still is not fond of technology- but when he reads them, it is his Human he thinks of. Not all Humans or the idea of Humans. That one Human in particular that is part of his Hoard and belongs to him, that one right there. He mentally overwrites all details of the Human love interest in the piece with the details of his Human and replaces himself as the monster suitor. He often imagines his Human as a Dragon as well and the romance the two of you could share as Dragons.

Second; Humans and the truth of them are still as illusory to Malleus as the surface of the moon would be to a cow. According to Lilia, they all looked different and had varying skin tones and hair styles, even eye colors, some even had completely different instincts from others. His entire view of Humans as a whole is based on the idea that no Human is the same or even comparable.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #humans are extinct twst au #yandere malleus draconia #yandere malleus x reader #yandere rollo flamme #yandere rollo x reader #yandere rook hunt #yandere rook x reader

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scoonsalicious · 10 months ago

Text

A Scoonsalicious Masterlist

All fics are 18+ Minors: GTFO; I don’t serve your kind here. I exclusively write for Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader at this point in time, for maladaptive self-indulgent purposes.

If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3

Individual fics will contain individual warnings.

Bucky Barnes

(Fluff 💖) (Smut ❤️‍🔥) (Angst 💔) (Horror 🖤) (Violence ❤️‍🩹) (AU 💞) (1k+ Notes 🏆)

Series

⚜️ The Pocket MCU: ❤️‍🩹 A series of miniseries and one-shot prequels featuring the MC from Unwanted, integrated into the existing narratives of the MCU films. ONGOING (Updated 5/20/24)

⚜️ Unwanted: ❤️‍🔥💔🏆When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn't be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust. COMPLETED 155.4k words (Epilogue Posted 04/27/24)

⚜️ Post-Unwanted: ❤️‍🔥💔💖 A series of miniseries and one-shot sequels set between Unwanted and Unbroken. ONGOING (Updated 11/18/24)

⚜️ Unbroken: An Unwanted Sequel: ❤️‍🔥💔💖‼️ It's a secret, but doesn't that title sound ridiculous?! BRAINSTORMING

One Shots

⚜️ Like a Fairy Tale: 💔💖🏆 Dating Bucky Barnes had been like living a fairy tale, but as he distances himself from you and your relationship, you come to the realization that maybe fairy tales aren't meant to come true. 3.4k words (Posted 3/4/24)

⚜️ Your Choice: ❤️‍🔥💖💞You're minding your own business at home one evening when local police Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes comes knocking on your door. Someone's reported a crime being committed on your property, and the sergeant can either bring you down to the station, or get you off with a warning... it's your choice. 4.3k words (Posted 3/5/24)

Series On Hiatus

⚜️ With Friends Like These...: ❤️‍🔥💔Lily McIntyre, trainer for new SHIELD recruits at the Avengers Tower, has been in love with her best friend, Bucky Barnes, from the moment she met him. She's been content with her role of the #1 girl in Bucky's life, even if it means she has to sabotage a romantic relationship or two. It'll be worth it when he realizes that they're meant for each other, right? There's just one small problem: Lily McIntyre never expected Bucky Barnes to fall for You. ON HIATUS (Updated 6/17/24)

Upcoming

⚜️ Hunted ❤️‍🔥🖤❤️‍🩹 A plane crash leaves you stranded in the Canadian wilderness with the one person who can't seem to stand you: Your mission partner, Bucky Barnes. You'll have to work together and put your differences aside in order to survive and get rescued. Only, the two of you aren't alone; someone, or something, is watching you from the woods. WRITING

⚜️ Boys of Summer ❤️‍🔥💔💞 Every summer, the wealthy Barnes family escapes the heat of the city to their beach house on the New England coast, and every year for as long as you can remember, your father has been the caretaker of their property. Now your father's gone and you haven't seen Bucky Barnes since you two spent a summer night together when you were eighteen. Four years later, Bucky's returned with a slew of college friends in tow for the ultimate beach summer to celebrate his college graduation, and his recent engagement. PLANNING

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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outofconcheol · 1 year ago

Text

not yet (ksm x gn!Reader)

pairing: Seungmin x reader

genres/au/rating: angst, fluff, friends (idiots) to lovers, pg

summary: "Not yet" was a phrase that came to define Seungmin's life for the longest time. Until you came along, and changed everything.

warnings: swearing, kind of fake dating, emotionally stunted Seungmin, kissing, a smol but significant fight, Minho being a menace but also the voice of reason

word count: 2.8k

a/n: this was something cute I wrote on a whim and tell me why my whole heart is fluttering (probably bc Seungmin is bias wrecking me a lot lately). This is me being a space and time nerd on main, but I imagine Seungmin as lowkey a math nerd in this too. it'll make sense when you read! i hope you enjoy!

To Kim Seungmin time was always infinite, the universe stretching out like a vast abyss that he sought to understand. He’d grumble when his mother stretched the too-tight party hat around his ears on every birthday growing up. Because what was the point, when every day was a birthday for someone or something?

An infinite series of moments made way for an infinite number of chances, and Seungmin became fearless. Fearless because there was no way he could mess up at life, not when there would always be another chance to try again later.

And so, Seungmin’s favourite phrase, whenever his mother asked him to do anything, was “not yet.”

It was a phrase that came to define his life for the longest time. Until you came along, and changed everything.

“Seungminnie, don’t you ever get tired of showing up to dinner alone?” his mother laments over the yukgaejang, while Seungmin stares blankly at her, unable to comprehend her question. What did she mean, alone? The whole point of family dinners was so he wouldn’t have to resort to eating ramen in the dim light of his own apartment, or risk begging Minho for home-cooked food, fearing the smirk on his older roommate’s face.

As if on cue, the doorbell sounds, and Seungmin is the first one up, spoon clattering on the table and stew abandoned. Within a few strides, he’s swinging the door open, only to be met with burning in his nose and scratching in his throat, the tell-tale signs of a sneeze making themselves known.

Your face peeks out from behind the flowers, flustered and eyes growing wide with concern.

“Damn it, I thought you wouldn’t be allergic to these ones,” you whine, and Seungmin sniffles, ushering you inside. “Sometimes I think you’re faking it, Minnie.”

“___!” his mother runs to the door at the sound of your voice, nearly smushing the bouquet as she wraps you in the biggest hug. “We haven’t seen you in so long, I made extra yukgaejang, come!”

And as she leads you by the hand into the dining room, Seungmin hangs back, a smug smile on his face. The universe had his back, once again.

The dinner table conversation turns lively once again, his parents and sister pestering you with updates about your life in the city, like you and Seungmin aren’t still attached at the hip like you were when you were children.

There’s a lull in the conversation, silence falling over the table with only the clanging of utensils to fill the void, broken only by a heavy sigh. Seungmin knows what’s coming next, and so do you, judging by the way you sink into your seat.

“I always thought the two of you would end up together,” his mother blurts out, tears forming in her eyes.

You pat her on the back, dancing around her confession, telling her you’ll always be ready to show up uninvited to dinner as long as there’s an extra bowl of yukgaejang waiting, and all Seungmin can do is stare into his bowl.

No matter how many times he reminded her that you were just friends, that the realistic probability of you and Seungmin dating moved closer and closer to zero the older you grew, she stubbornly refused to give up hope.

She’d throw it back in his face, repeating his favourite phrase. “Not yet.”

And Seungmin couldn’t tell her maybe some things were just meant to never come to life.

The two of you walk back towards your apartments in silence, your shadows dancing on the sidewalk, creating a far livelier scene than the comfortable silence that exists between you.

Seungmin doesn’t notice you’ve fallen behind until he’s at least ten paces ahead of you, turning back to see your lonely figure under a streetlight, staring up at the stars. He resists the normal impulse in his brain to leave you behind, knowing you’ll catch up, and instead backtracks, stopping to stand next you.

“Do you really think it’d be so bad?” you ask the darkness, not turning to meet Seungmin’s eyes. “If we were to actually date?”

Seungmin’s mind is sent reeling at your confession, the neat box in which he’d compartmentalized your relationship suddenly bursting open, exploding with chaos.

“We’re getting older, Minnie,” you ponder. “Don’t you ever feel like you’re running out of time?”

Seungmin’s face darkens, and he knows he can’t answer the question without hurting your feelings. Because to him, time was never something he’d run out of. If he fucked something up, there’d always be something new, something better waiting for him on the horizon.

“You shouldn’t think like this, ____,” he breathes out. “You just haven’t found the right person yet.”

The two of you are sitting on the sidewalk now, long legs hanging off the curb. Seungmin instinctively pulls you into his side, making sure your body is shielded from any stray passerby that happen to be inhabiting the sidewalk or the wild people in the bike lane.

“It’s always yet, Seungmin, but what about now? What are we doing with our lives?”

Seungmin’s never thought about now. He’s thought about the past, like the time he showed up to your house on your 16th birthday, a copy of your favourite novel clutched behind his back. Only to go ungifted when you’d barreled into his arms, raving over the used car your parents had gotten. He’d thought a lot about the future, the two of you going on to end up with faceless partners, settling down in houses whose walls he couldn’t picture, kids whose names he hadn’t thought out, maybe a dog or a cat.

But he never stopped to think about the present, and looking into your eyes, he remembers exactly why. It terrified him, the faint glistening of tears, the way your breathing sped up, your fists clenching and unclenching. And he’d never had good advice to give, just always ranting on about how “tomorrow is a new day.”

Seungmin bows his head, long strands of hair falling into his face, hopes you don’t see the way his own lip quivers when he thinks about right now, the two of you sitting on a city sidewalk, together but still lonely.

“Okay,” he manages to choke out, and your head whips around in shock.

“What do you mean, okay?” you sniffle, and Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Let’s do it. Let’s try dating.”

He feels your body go still next to him, arm going limp when you suddenly decide to let go, hoisting yourself up.

“Minnie, I was just kidding when I said that. You don’t have to date me if you don’t want to.”

“Who said I didn’t want to? I mean try, at least?” Seungmin rises up to his feet, heart thundering at the blank look on your face. “If we try and it doesn’t work, there’s always another chance, right?”

Your face twists in a strange expression, so brief Seungmin could have almost imagined it, before you let out a dazzling smile, one Seungmin thinks rivals even the brightest star he sees in the sky tonight.

“Right.”

“You’re actually fucking insane,” Minho mumbles through a mouth stuffed full with dumplings, stealing the container away when Seungmin reaches over with his chopsticks. “I shouldn’t be offering you food, I should be signing you up for therapy.

“Everybody always wants ____ and I to end up together,” Seungmin grumbles, snatching a dumpling anyway, much to Minho’s dismay. “Now that we actually decide to date, it’s suddenly a problem?”

“Dating isn’t some science experiment, okay!” Minho grows flustered, the tips of his ears turning red. “It involves real people, and real feelings! Have you even asked ____ if they’re okay with this?”

You were fine, Seungmin convinced himself. In fact you’d been exceedingly chipper, brighter than usual, chatting about anything and everything under the sun. It gave Seungmin confidence that maybe this could work. That maybe things didn’t have to change between you two, because maybe you’d been right for each other all along and he’d just missed it.

His phone vibrates with a text from you, and Seungmin is shoving the last dumpling in his mouth, ignoring Minho’s disapproving look as he throws his coat over his shoulders, bounding down the stairs to meet you outside his apartment.

“Want to go to a coffee shop—” the air is knocked out of your lungs when Seungmin crushes you in a hug, your fists banging on his back to let you go ten seconds later. Your face is flushed, an eyebrow raised in confusion, and Seungmin thinks you’ve never looked prettier.

“Isn’t that what couples do when they see each other?” Seungmin asks innocently, only to be met with a sigh.

“You’re paying for my coffee today,” you grumble.

Dating you is easier than Seungmin imagined — the years of friendship provided enough experience in how to spend time together, but now he gets to tell everyone that you’re together together. He thinks his mother’s joyful scream nearly splits his eardrums the moment she finds out, rushing to the phone to dial up your own mother. The conversation between them lasts a good hour and a half, and a smile pricks at Seungmin’s lips at the pride in her voice.

He gets to catch you off guard by randomly deciding to pay for your smoothie, or to wrap an arm lazily around your waist when you’re talking to someone, the subtle squeak in your voice sending his heart aflutter.

Dating you is everything Seungmin could have imagined and more, because those infinite moments he’d always thought about, are moments spent making you laugh at his deadpan jokes, moments spent clinging to your back, begging you to make him some food since Minho stubbornly refuses to, and he thinks there’s no way he could mess this up.

Until he kisses you. The two of you are cuddled up on the couch, the soft soundtrack of the film you’d chosen together lulling Seungmin to sleep in your lap, his eyes heavy-lidded. It’s when your leg shifts that Seungmin wakes up, sleepy eyes blinking up at you, only to realize your hand is resting against his cheek, thumb softly stroking his skin. He wonders if the stars in your eyes are from the reflection of the movie on the screen, or whether they mirror the ones in his own.

Seungmin moves without thinking, his forehead collapsing against your own, and he feels your surprised gasp against his cheek before his lips are brushing against yours softly. Warmth blooms where your fingertips still rest on his cheek, lighting up his entire body with an unspoken feeling.

He breaks away from you, still holding you close, but the smile that grazes his lips is gone as soon as it appeared, your downcast face in front of him. Seungmin waits one second, then two, then a whole minute, but it feels like an infinity while he wills you to meet his eyes.

“I can’t do this Minnie,” you finally whisper, your voice bubbling and breaking, a lone tear streaming down your face.

“I don’t understand,” the words feel heavy on Seungmin’s tongue, like he’s numb and struggling to get them out. It was just one moment, there’d be another that followed, but how could everything have gone wrong?

“I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t mean something to me,” you finally let go of his hoodie, and Seungmin felt the cold he hadn’t noticed before seep in. “To you, this is all infinite, like it’s always been. There’s always a yet, because every moment is temporary. It’s meaningless when you have tomorrow to worry about, right? Wondering where we’ll go on our next date or what random thing you’ll do next to knock the breath out of me?”

“But this,” you continue. “Right here, right now, it isn’t just something to me. It’s everything. It’s everything because I love you and because I’ve always loved you and because you’ve never been able to see that in your infinity, there has to be some kind of beginning and end. And you’re it for me. But I’ll never be enough for you.”

Seungmin wants to tell you you’re wrong, that he’s stopped thinking about infinity and mere moments, because he realized the same thing, that he never started actually paying attention to time until he met you, and you injected all the moments of his life with meaning. But the words that come out instead are wrong, so wrong.

“You’ll get another chance,” he watches you flinch at his words, rushing to slip on your shoes. You linger at the door, hand twisting around the doorknob. “You just haven’t met the right person yet.”

The knob clicks, and the door slams. And Seungmin is left alone, in the vast abyss of his infinity once more.

Minho spares him the lecture, and Seungmin is grateful. He doesn’t need to hear the “I told you so”, doesn’t need to face his mother’s concerned face when she asks why you haven’t been coming by lately. The loneliness cuts into him like a knife, and he wonders if the imaginary future he’d dreamed of all his life would be enough to take the pain of right now away.

The weather grows colder, and Seungmin’s heart freezes along with it. Time stretches out before him as he looks at his phone, waiting for a call or a text, teasing him, threatening him, as if to say - don’t you wish you had enough?

He spends his days staring out the window, watching the world pass by around him, realizing he’s tired of moving alongside it without you by his side. And then the snow begins to fall, a few flakes to start out, until it turns into a sea of white, and he can’t even see outside anymore.

The door clicks softly behind him, Minho’s voice echoing behind him while he stomps the snow from his boots.

“It’s really coming down out there,” Minho pauses, his voice clipped. “I saw ____ at the grocery store just now.”

Seungmin’s head whips around at the mention of you, but Minho, ever the menace, keeps his mouth shut, not knowing whether the next sentence that leaves his mouth will send Seungmin spiralling or not.

It’s silent between them for a few moments, Minho putting away his food in the kitchen cupboard, while Seungmin runs through endless scenarios in his head about whether you’re happy or sad, whether you’re doing fine or falling apart, whether leaving tore your heart in pieces as much as it did his.

And that’s when he spots it, tucked between the cushions of the couch. Your scarf, blue patterned and worn. You must have left it the last time you were here.

Seungmin knows that rationally, you’d probably have a backup scarf. Knows that rationally, with how much he’d chewed your head off about the future, that you’d have planned ahead.

But you’d never been the rational one.

Minho jumps in surprise when Seungmin leaps to his feet, yanking the scarf out from the couch.

“It’s cold outside,” Seungmin breathes out, and Minho raises an eyebrow. “Right now. Right now it’s cold outside, and ___ left their scarf here, and they, and I– shit!”

He’s running out the door before Minho can stop him, your scarf against his chest like it’s a lifeline.

. . .

He sees you just outside the grocery store, struggling with the heavy load of groceries you’d bought for the storm. The tiny shiver that rakes down your spine is enough to send him running your way.

“Seungmin?” you call out to him in shock, seeing his frantic figure bound towards you in the snow.

“Your scarf,” he heaves, shoving the crumpled fabric into your hands. “You left your scarf.”

“Minnie,” you can’t help the nickname that slips out. “It’s okay, I have another one for next time–”

“This isn’t about next time,” Seungmin interrupts you, wrapping his arms around you, not caring that you drop your bags into the snow. “This is about right now. And right now it’s snowing.”

“Yeah,” your breath comes out in a fog. “It is.”

“And right now,” Seungmin’s voice cracks, unshed tears filling his eyes. “Right now I love you. I think I probably always have and I probably always will, but that doesn’t matter. You’re my past, you’ll be my future, and I hope you’ll be mine, right now in this moment.”

“What about not yet? The infinite possibilities of the universe?” You whisper, clutching his coat while he wraps the scarf around you.

“The universe is infinite because you’re at the center of it - an infinite number of ways to make you smile, to be whatever you need, to tell you I love you. You’re the beginning and the end, and everything in between.”

Your lips are crashing onto his, mouths colliding messily through the veil of your tears, and Seungmin never wants to let go. When you break apart, it’s to lay your head on his chest.

“Come home with me,” he whispers into your hair. “Let me make you some tea.”

You shake your head, burrowing into Seungmin’s neck, humming your response.

“Not yet.”

a/n pt. 2: As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

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amethystarachnid · 1 month ago

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Hey rose! I hope you're doing alright! I absolutely adore your Tony stark fics!! I hope you'd write one for Steve Rogers or loki. Can you write something with any one of them where their partner (reader) is very emotional, like cries at tv shows and books, can never NOT tear up when any of them say anything romantic or meaningful. And as much as they don't want their partner to cry, they feel really appreciated. Just loads of fluff! Thank you!<3🩵

P.s. ofc feel free to change or add anything you fell like. Appreciate it!

HAPPY TEARS

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Summary: You have always been the sensitive type, crying over movies and every sweet thing Steve did for you, and that's one of the reasons he loves you so much but, at the same it, it gets him worried for your possible reaction to the question that has been in his mind for sometime now.

ᯓ★ Word count: 8K

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing just pure fluff and just like a few words about a passionate night

ᯓ★ As always, since reader's gender isn't specified in the ask I'll write it as fem!reader because I'm a girl and it's what I'm more used to write, but if you want it to be with another gender are sure to specify it in your ask and I'll write it! <3

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, warm and inviting. It greets you before you even open your eyes, a little luxury of the life you’ve built together. Your sleepy mind pieces together the familiar sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen—the soft clink of the coffee pot returning to its base, the gentle scrape of a plate across the counter.

He’s making breakfast.

The thought alone tugs at your heart. After seven years together, Steve Rogers still finds a way to make every morning feel special, no matter how ordinary. You pull the blanket tighter around you and close your eyes for a moment, letting the sound of his hums blend with the noise of the city beyond the window. It’s moments like these, the quiet ones, that remind you just how deeply you’re loved.

By the time you shuffle into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he’s plating up pancakes. He’s not wearing a shirt, just his gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, and his blond hair is damp and tousled like he’s already gone for a run. It’s infuriating how good he looks, even at this hour.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you that boyish smile, the one that makes your stomach flip even now.

You give him a sleepy grin in return, padding toward him on bare feet. His hand automatically finds the small of your back as you lean into him, your cheek pressing against his chest. For a moment, there’s no one else in the world but the two of you.

“You didn’t have to get up so early,” you mumble against his skin, your voice still thick with sleep.

“You were out like a light,” he says, his hand running gently up and down your spine. “Figured I’d let you sleep in a little.” His voice is low, affectionate, and entirely too effective at making your heart melt.

When you pull back, he tips your chin up with one finger, his blue eyes scanning your face like it’s the first time he’s seen you. “Coffee?” he asks, already stepping away to grab your favorite mug from the counter.

You watch him pour the coffee, a soft smile playing on your lips. He’s careful, deliberate, like he’s handling something precious. And you suppose, in his eyes, he is.

As he hands you the mug, his fingers brush yours, sending a spark of warmth through you. The gesture is small but thoughtful, the way so many of his gestures are. Seven years, and he still makes you feel like you’re worth all the time and effort in the world.

The first sip of coffee is heavenly, and you sigh contentedly as you sink into one of the kitchen chairs. Steve sits across from you, his long legs stretching out under the table, and slides a plate of pancakes in your direction. “Banana chocolate chip,” he says. “Thought you might want something sweet today.”

Your eyes go wide. “You made these just for me?”

His laugh is soft and teasing. “Who else would I make them for?”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice, and before you can stop it, tears start to blur your vision.

Steve freezes mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. “Hey,” he says gently, already moving his chair closer to yours. “What’s wrong?” His hand lands lightly on your knee, his thumb stroking small circles there.

You shake your head, letting out a watery laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. I just…” You glance down at the pancakes, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions. “You made me pancakes.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, clearly not understanding why that’s enough to turn you into a mess. “And?”

“And you made them the way I like them,” you sniff, wiping at your eyes. “With the chocolate chips on top, not mixed in, because you know I like the crunch.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you look up at him, feeling ridiculous for crying over pancakes. “You’re too good to me.”

His expression softens instantly, a mix of affection and bemusement. He moves his chair even closer, until his knees bump yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs catching the stray tears. “It’s just pancakes.”

“No, it’s not,” you insist, your voice a little shaky. “It’s… it’s that you always think of these little things. You always go out of your way to make me happy.” You gesture toward the plate, then to him. “Even after all this time, you still do stuff like this.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles, leaning in to press his lips softly against your forehead. “I hope you know I don’t do any of this because I feel like I have to,” he murmurs. “I do it because I want to. Because seeing you happy is worth it. Every single time.”

His words are a balm, soothing the tight ache in your chest, and you let out a shaky laugh. “Well, congratulations,” you say, trying for levity. “You made me cry before breakfast again.”

“Again?” he echoes, chuckling softly. “I’m starting to think it’s my superpower.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, even as you swipe at your damp cheeks. “You’d give Tony a run for his money.”

“I’ll let him know,” Steve says with a wink, sliding the plate closer to you. “Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.”

You roll your eyes, but the teasing warmth in his tone makes you reach for your fork. The first bite is everything you expected—soft, sweet, and rich with the perfect balance of flavors. You moan appreciatively, and Steve grins at the sound, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Good?” he asks, resting his chin on one hand as he watches you.

“Good,” you say around a mouthful of pancake, the tension in your chest easing with every bite.

For a while, the two of you eat in companionable silence, the kind that only comes from years of knowing and loving each other. Steve tells you about his run—how Sam gave him grief for being late to their meeting spot, how the park was unusually crowded this morning—and you listen with a soft smile, chiming in occasionally with little jokes or questions.

But even as the conversation flows, you can see the way Steve keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, like he’s still trying to puzzle you out. He’s always been like this, endlessly patient, endlessly curious about the way your mind works.

Finally, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, studying you. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how sensitive you are.”

You pause mid-bite, your fork hovering just shy of your lips. “Is that a bad thing?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Not at all,” he says quickly, his expression earnest. “I mean it in the best way. You feel everything so deeply, and… I don’t know. It amazes me, I guess. How you can look at something as simple as pancakes and see all the love behind it.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, and you glance down at your plate. “I don’t mean to make a big deal out of things,” you mumble. “I just… I can’t help it. When you do something sweet, it gets to me.”

He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. “I don’t want you to help it,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I love that about you. I love that you cry over movies and surprise gifts and little things like pancakes. It reminds me to slow down and appreciate those things too.”

You blink at him, your throat tightening all over again. “You mean that?”

“Every word,” he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “So, if you feel like crying over pancakes or anything else, go ahead. I’ll be here to catch the tears.”

It’s too much—his words, his presence, the unshakable love in his eyes. Before you can stop yourself, you’re crying again, this time out of sheer gratitude. Steve just laughs softly and moves to your side, pulling you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you,” you whisper against his chest, your voice trembling.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your head. “More than anything.”

Friday nights at the Tower are sacred—a time to unwind, laugh, and for Tony Stark to force his eclectic taste in movies on the rest of the Avengers. Tonight, the team has assembled in the massive home theater, complete with a state-of-the-art sound system, plush recliners, and enough snacks to sustain a small army.

You’re curled up next to Steve on one of the oversized couches, your legs tucked beneath you and your head leaning on his shoulder. His arm is draped casually around you, and he’s absently playing with the ends of your hair as Tony prowls the front of the room, remote in hand, his enthusiasm palpable.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tony announces, dramatically pointing the remote like it’s a scepter, “tonight’s feature presentation is the cinematic masterpiece, Titanic.”

Groans ripple through the group.

“Tony, again?” Natasha asks, leaning back in her seat with a smirk. “You have a billion-dollar movie collection, and you keep picking this one.”

“It’s called having taste, Romanoff,” Tony retorts, tossing her a packet of Red Vines. “Some of us recognize greatness when we see it. This movie has it all: romance, drama, social commentary, and the single greatest piece of floating debris in cinematic history.”

“It’s a door,” Clint says flatly.

“It’s art,” Tony snaps back, dramatically clutching his chest like he’s been wounded.

Steve chuckles under his breath, squeezing your shoulder gently. “You okay with this one?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “We can always sneak out and watch something else.”

You shake your head, giving him a small, teary smile. “No, it’s fine. I just… I’m probably going to cry.”

“I know,” he says softly, brushing a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay.”

The others are still bickering as the lights dim and the iconic opening notes of James Horner’s score fill the room. You take a deep breath, already bracing yourself. You’ve seen Titanic before—enough times to know that you’re in for an emotional ride—but somehow, the anticipation makes it worse.

It doesn’t take long. By the time Rose boards the ship and gazes out at the ocean, your eyes are already brimming with tears. The sheer scale of the doomed ship, the haunting foreshadowing—it all hits you at once.

“Uh, are you okay?” Bruce whispers from the seat next to you, looking genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice thick. “I just… I know what’s going to happen.”

Steve, unfazed, reaches into the bowl of popcorn and pops a kernel into his mouth. “This is normal,” he explains casually to Bruce, his tone as calm as if he were describing the weather. “She gets emotional during movies. It’s just how she is.”

Bruce nods slowly, his brow furrowing like he’s trying to understand. “But… it’s barely started.”

“She’s a big feeler,” Steve says with a shrug, pulling you a little closer as your sniffles grow louder.

“Is someone crying already?” Tony hisses from the front row, twisting around to squint into the dim light. When his eyes land on you, he raises an eyebrow. “We haven’t even hit the iceberg. You know that, right?”

“She knows,” Steve replies evenly, not even looking up from the screen. He grabs a tissue from the box he always keeps nearby during movie nights—specifically for you—and hands it to you without missing a beat.

Tony’s jaw drops. “You brought tissues specifically for this?”

“Of course,” Steve says, as though it’s obvious. “It happens every time.”

The group exchanges looks, equal parts bewildered and amused, but Steve just leans down to kiss the top of your head. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “Just let it out.”

“Wow,” Clint says, his tone dripping with mock admiration. “You’re a braver man than I am, Rogers.”

The movie marches on, each scene tugging at your heartstrings with surgical precision. Jack and Rose meet. They fall in love. They dance in third class and spit off the back of the ship. By the time they’re standing on the prow, their arms spread wide as the wind rushes around them, you’re openly sobbing into Steve’s chest.

“Am I supposed to do something?” Bruce whispers, looking helplessly at Steve.

“Nope,” Steve replies, rubbing slow circles on your back. “Just let her cry. She’ll feel better afterward.”

“I’m not sure that’s how crying works,” Bruce mutters, but he stays quiet, occasionally passing you another tissue.

Tony, meanwhile, is watching you with thinly veiled amusement. “I’ve gotta ask,” he says during a quieter moment, “do you cry at every movie, or is this one just special?”

“Not every movie,” Steve says, his lips twitching into a small smile. “But most of them. Especially the ones with tragic endings.”

“That’s an understatement,” Natasha says dryly. “Remember Finding Nemo?”

Clint snorts. “Oh, that was legendary. We weren’t even five minutes in, and she was already bawling over the mom dying.”

Tony looks scandalized. “Finding Nemo? That’s a kids’ movie!”

“And yet…” Clint gestures toward you, now hiccupping softly as Jack and Rose sneak into the cargo hold for their iconic steamy scene.

“She just feels things deeply,” Steve says, his voice laced with affection. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”

Tony groans dramatically, throwing a handful of popcorn in Steve’s direction. “You’re making the rest of us look bad, Rogers. Stop being so disgustingly wholesome.”

“Not my fault you guys don’t bring tissues for your girlfriends,” Steve shoots back, his smirk widening.

By the time the ship hits the iceberg, the mood in the room has shifted. Even Tony has gone quiet, though he’s clearly trying to maintain his composure. You, on the other hand, are a wreck. The sight of the passengers scrambling for lifeboats, the haunting wails of the violinists playing “Nearer My God to Thee”—it’s too much.

Your sobs reach a crescendo as Jack and Rose cling to each other in the freezing water, their breaths ragged and visible in the frigid air. Steve adjusts his hold on you, tucking your head under his chin and murmuring soft reassurances.

“I’ll never let go, Jack!” Rose cries, her voice breaking.

You lose it completely, clutching at Steve’s shirt as though your own heart is breaking. Steve strokes your hair, his voice calm and steady. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

Tony, meanwhile, is blinking rapidly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “What?” he says defensively when Clint raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s allergies. Big-screen projectors always make my eyes water.”

Natasha snickers. “Sure they do.”

As the credits roll, you’re still hiccupping softly, your face buried in Steve’s chest. He doesn’t seem to mind, his hand moving in a soothing rhythm along your back.

“Okay, that was… intense,” Bruce says, looking around the room like he’s not sure what just happened.

“I’m pretty sure I lost three pounds in tears,” Clint adds, tossing an empty box of tissues onto the table. “Do we have a hydration station somewhere?”

Tony sniffs loudly and stands, stretching his arms overhead. “Well, folks, that’s how you do cinema. Epic. Heartbreaking. Unforgettable.”

“Admit it, you cried,” Natasha says, smirking at him.

“I did no such thing,” Tony replies, looking deeply offended. “Unlike some people…” He gestures dramatically toward you, still snuggled against Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says with a shrug, his tone as casual as ever. “She’s passionate. It’s one of the reasons I love her.”

“You’re an actual saint,” Clint mutters, shaking his head.

You finally lift your head, your cheeks streaked with tears but your eyes shining with gratitude. “Thanks for letting me cry all over you,” you say softly to Steve, your voice still wobbly.

“Anytime,” he replies, his smile warm and unwavering. “You know I’ve got you.”

Tony groans loudly, throwing his hands in the air. “And this,” he says, gesturing wildly at the two of you, “is why I’m never inviting you to movie night again. You two are too cute, and it’s ruining the vibe.”

“Tony, you’re just mad because you cried,” Natasha quips.

“I did not cry!” Tony protests, his voice rising an octave.

Bruce chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Whatever you say, Tony.”

As the group dissolves into laughter, Steve leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “You okay now?” he asks, his voice just for you.

You nod, your heart swelling with love for the man who always makes space for your emotions, no matter how messy they are. “I am,” you whisper. “Thanks to you.”

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling you close. “Because we’re definitely sneaking out before Tony picks another three-hour tearjerker.”

You laugh through the last of your sniffles, feeling safe and loved in his arms. As far as you’re concerned, there’s no better way to end a movie night.

After the emotional rollercoaster of Titanic, the Avengers agree on one thing: no more movies that could make you cry. Steve, ever the supportive boyfriend, gently suggests a comedy for the next round, earning nods from everyone in the room. Even Tony, slightly miffed from being accused (rightfully) of shedding a tear during Rose’s tearful farewell to Jack, throws in his agreement.

“Alright, team,” Tony announces, striding to the movie library with a flourish. “Since apparently, I’ve been overly ambitious in my cinematic choices, I’ll keep it light. Comedy. Laughs. Penguins falling over or something. Nobody cries at penguins, right?”

“Right,” you say with an encouraging smile, though your earlier sob session has left your voice hoarse.

Steve wraps an arm around your shoulder, his lips brushing your temple. “You sure you’re up for another movie?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I’m good. Something funny sounds perfect.”

The new movie is a slapstick comedy involving ridiculous pratfalls, a few over-the-top explosions (Tony’s insistence), and a hilarious subplot about a cat that keeps stealing its owner’s Wi-Fi password. It’s everything you need to decompress from the earlier emotional onslaught, and soon the room is filled with the sound of laughter.

Even Steve, who isn’t always in sync with modern humor, is chuckling at the absurd antics on screen. You’re curled up next to him, giggling into his shoulder as a character accidentally sets his kitchen on fire trying to make toast. Across the room, Tony and Clint are reenacting a particularly ridiculous dance scene, complete with exaggerated hip thrusts.

“See?” Tony says triumphantly, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. “This is how you do a movie night. Fun! Light! No tears.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed by his theatrics. “Give it time, Stark. We’re not done yet.”

Hours later, after the comedy has ended and a few rounds of drinks have been poured, Tony somehow stumbles upon a nature documentary titled The Journey of Life. The cover features an adorable penguin waddling across a snowy landscape, and Tony declares it “perfect background noise.”

“This,” he slurs slightly, pointing at the screen, “is what we need. Penguins. Cute, waddling, ice-sliding penguins. No emotions. Just vibes.”

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Bruce asks cautiously, but Tony is already pressing play, plopping down on the couch with a fresh drink in hand.

Steve looks at you, his eyebrow raised in question. “You okay with this?”

“It’s just penguins,” you reply with a shrug, snuggling into his side. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

At first, it’s exactly what Tony promised. The documentary opens with breathtaking shots of snowy mountains and vast, icy plains. The narrator’s soothing British accent describes the challenges of survival in the harsh Antarctic environment as a colony of emperor penguins waddles across the frozen landscape.

“Oh my god, look at them!” you exclaim, your eyes lighting up. “They’re so cute!”

“They’re ridiculous,” Tony says with a chuckle. “Like tiny, overdressed toddlers. I love them.”

Everyone relaxes, lulled by the majestic scenery and the gentle cadence of the narrator’s voice. Even Steve seems to be enjoying himself, his hand absentmindedly stroking your back as you watch the penguins slide on their bellies and huddle together for warmth.

It starts with a single penguin chick—fluffy, wide-eyed, and impossibly adorable. It stumbles away from the group, its tiny feet slipping on the ice as it struggles to keep up with its parents. The narrator explains, in heartbreakingly calm tones, that not every chick survives the journey to the feeding grounds.

“No,” you whisper, your hand flying to your mouth as the camera zooms in on the chick’s desperate waddling. “No, no, no. Someone help him!”

“It’s nature,” Clint says uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. “It happens.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to watch it!” Tony snaps, his earlier bravado evaporating. His face is red, and he’s gripping his whiskey glass a little too tightly.

Steve sighs, pulling you closer as your sniffles begin. “It’s just a documentary, sweetheart. It’s the circle of life.”

“Circle of life my ass,” Tony grumbles, his voice thick. “That chick deserves better.”

As the chick stumbles farther away, your tears begin in earnest. “He’s lost! He’s so little! Steve, he’s not going to make it, is he?”

Steve pats your back, his voice soft but resigned. “Probably not, sweetheart.”

“Why are we watching this?” Tony demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Bruce. “You should’ve stopped me! You’re the smart one!”

“I didn’t know it was going to get sad!” Bruce protests, throwing up his hands. “It’s a documentary about penguins!”

By the time the chick’s fate is sealed (you can’t even bring yourself to look as the narrator solemnly declares that it’s “a tragic but essential part of the ecosystem”), you and Tony are both a mess. You’re clutching Steve’s shirt, sobbing into his chest, while Tony sniffles loudly into his empty glass.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, your voice muffled. “He was just a baby!”

“I know,” Tony says, his voice cracking. “He didn’t even get a chance! He deserved a chance!” He gestures wildly at the screen. “Why didn’t they save him? Someone could’ve—”

“It’s a documentary,” Natasha interrupts dryly, though even she looks mildly uncomfortable. “No one’s interfering.”

“That’s barbaric,” Tony declares, wiping at his eyes. “I’m calling PETA.”

Steve kisses the top of your head, his hand running soothingly along your back. “You want to stop watching?” he offers quietly.

“No,” you hiccup, though you’re clearly still devastated. “I need to see if the others are okay.”

The documentary continues, alternating between moments of lighthearted penguin antics and devastating tragedies. Each time something sad happens, you and Tony are reduced to tears, much to the bemusement of the rest of the team.

By the end of the film, when the surviving penguins finally reach their feeding grounds and triumphantly slide into the water, you and Tony are clinging to each other like war survivors.

“That was horrific,” Tony declares, dabbing at his eyes with a napkin. “Whoever made that documentary is a monster. I need a drink.”

“You’ve had several drinks,” Natasha points out, rolling her eyes.

“Not enough to erase that from my memory,” Tony replies dramatically. He glances at you, his expression softening slightly. “You okay, cry queen?”

You manage a shaky smile. “I think so. That was just… a lot.”

Steve, ever your rock, kisses your temple and pulls you close. “I don’t think we’ll be watching documentaries again anytime soon,” he murmurs.

“Seconded,” Tony says, raising his glass. “To no more emotional devastation disguised as education. Who’s with me?”

“Agreed,” Clint says, shaking his head. “No more penguins. Ever.”

As the team dissolves into laughter and lighthearted teasing, you snuggle deeper into Steve’s arms, feeling safe despite the emotional rollercoaster. No matter how many tears you shed — or how often Tony joins you — you know you’ll always have the world’s most patient boyfriend by your side.

The tower is unusually quiet after the emotional whirlwind of the movie night. The penguins have long since waddled off the screen, the room cleaned up from the chaos of snack wrappers and spilled drinks. You’re asleep now, curled up on the couch with your head resting in Steve’s lap, the faint remnants of tears drying on your cheeks.

The others linger, nursing drinks or settling into the comfortable post-movie quiet. Steve’s hand moves gently over your hair, his touch instinctive and protective as he listens to the idle conversation around him.

“Poor thing,” Natasha says softly, nodding toward you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cry so much over a documentary.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint retorts, jerking a thumb at Tony. “He went through an entire roll of tissues.”

Tony, leaning back in his chair with his drink in hand, glares. “It’s called empathy, Barton. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Empathy,” Natasha repeats dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Or maybe whiskey?”

“A little of column A, a little of column B,” Tony mutters, waving her off. His gaze flicks toward you, then back to Steve. “You’ve got the patience of a saint, Rogers. How do you do it?”

Steve chuckles softly, looking down at you with a fondness so deep it’s almost tangible. “I love her,” he says simply, his voice quiet but steady. “She feels everything so deeply, and yeah, that means a lot of tears, but it’s also what makes her so special. She’s got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Aww,” Clint says, his tone mocking but not unkind. “Cap’s going all gooey on us.”

Steve shakes his head with a smile, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression, something weighing on him. He glances at the team, then back at you, as if debating whether to say more. Finally, after a moment’s hesitation, he clears his throat.

“There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to talk to you all about,” he begins, his voice low. “I want to ask her to marry me.”

The room goes still. Natasha blinks, her eyebrows lifting slightly. Bruce, who’s been quietly sipping his tea, looks up with a small, surprised smile. Tony leans forward, suddenly all ears.

“Well, that’s not shocking,” Clint says, breaking the silence. “You’ve been together, what, seven years? We were wondering when you were going to pop the question.”

Steve nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, it’s been a while. I’ve known for a long time that she’s the one. But…” He hesitates, his eyes dropping to your sleeping form. His hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch featherlight. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Bruce asks gently.

Steve lets out a soft sigh, his brow furrowing. “Her reaction. She’s so sensitive, and she gets overwhelmed easily. What if I ask and she has a panic attack? Or starts crying so much she can’t even answer me? I just… I don’t want to put her through that.”

Tony snorts. “You’re worried she’s going to cry? Newsflash, Rogers: she cries when you bring her coffee in bed. This is a proposal, man. Of course she’s going to cry.”

“Tony,” Natasha says, shooting him a warning look. “He’s being serious.”

“I am serious,” Tony retorts. “Look, she’s emotional, yeah, but she’s not fragile. She loves you, Rogers. That’s the whole point. She’s not going to freak out because you ask her to marry her—well, not in a bad way, at least.”

Steve looks unconvinced. “I know she loves me,” he says quietly. “But I also know how overwhelming things can be for her. I don’t want to put her in a position where she feels pressured or out of control.”

Natasha tilts her head, studying him with that sharp, analytical gaze of hers. “So don’t make it overwhelming,” she says simply. “You don’t have to plan some elaborate proposal. Just talk to her. Make it quiet, intimate. Something that feels safe.”

“Yeah,” Bruce adds, his tone thoughtful. “She’s not the kind of person who needs a big show, is she? She’d probably appreciate something small, just the two of you.”

Steve nods slowly, his mind working through their words. “You’re right. She doesn’t like big gestures. She always says the little things matter more to her.”

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “So make it one of those little things. Something simple but meaningful.”

Tony, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the past minute, suddenly speaks up. “And if she does cry,” he says, his voice unusually soft, “it’s not because she’s scared or upset. It’s because she loves you so much she doesn’t know how else to show it.”

The room falls silent at that, the weight of Tony’s words settling over them. Steve looks around at his teammates—his family—and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” Natasha replies, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

The apartment is quiet, the kind of warm, serene quiet that feels like a cocoon against the bustling world outside. It’s just the two of you tonight, the city’s hum dimmed by the thick curtains and the steady rhythm of the life you’ve built together. Dinner was simple but perfect—Steve made your favorite meal, and you couldn’t stop laughing when he got flour on his nose halfway through baking the dessert. Now, the dishes are done, the candles still flicker softly on the dining table, and the scent of warm vanilla lingers in the air.

Steve’s been acting a little off all evening. Not in a bad way, but in that telltale way that you’ve come to recognize over the years. He’s quieter than usual, thoughtful, his blue eyes darting to you and away as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle in his head. You’ve asked him twice if everything’s okay, and both times he’s smiled at you and said, “Of course,” before steering the conversation somewhere else.

You’re curled up on the couch now, a blanket draped over your lap as you sip the last of your wine. Steve sits beside you, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. His gaze lingers on you, soft and reverent, like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Steve,” you say, turning to him with a playful smile. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?” he replies, though he doesn’t look away. His lips curve into that small, lopsided grin you adore, and your heart does its familiar flip-flop in your chest.

“Yes, you are,” you tease, nudging his leg with your foot. “What’s on your mind?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His hand moves to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle and deliberate, as though he’s memorizing the shape of you. Then he leans back slightly, his hand slipping into his pocket.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” he says, his voice calm but carrying a weight that makes your stomach flutter.

Your brows knit together as you sit up straighter. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” he says softly, and there’s a flicker of nervousness in his eyes now, a vulnerability that catches you off guard. He shifts, moving from the couch to kneel in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees.

Your heart skips. “Steve—”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. The sight of it steals the breath from your lungs, and you clasp a hand over your mouth as tears instantly pool in your eyes.

“I know how you’re feeling right now,” Steve says gently, his voice steady despite the faint blush creeping up his neck. “And I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?”

You try—really, you do—but the tears are already spilling over, and a choked laugh escapes you as you press your fingers to your lips. Steve smiles, his thumb brushing over your knee.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of affection. He opens the box, revealing a stunningly simple yet beautiful ring—a delicate gold band with a single, glittering diamond. It’s understated and timeless, just like him, and it’s so perfect you can barely breathe.

“Y/N,” he begins, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve loved you for seven years. From the first moment we met, I knew there was something about you, something I couldn’t let go of. You’ve taught me what it means to live in the present, to love with my whole heart, and to find joy in the little things.”

Your tears are flowing freely now, and you’re shaking your head as though you can’t believe what’s happening. Steve chuckles softly, his own eyes glistening.

“You’ve stood by me through everything,” he continues. “Through battles, through doubts, through all the times I’ve struggled to figure out where I fit in this world. You’ve always been my home, my safe place. And I can’t imagine spending another day without you by my side.”

He pauses, his voice catching slightly, and for a moment, you see a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “I know how deeply you feel things, and I know this might be overwhelming for you. But I promise, sweetheart, you don’t have to say anything right away. I just need you to know how much I love you.”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. “So, Y/N,” he says, his voice trembling just the tiniest bit. “Will you marry me?”

The question lands like a thunderclap in your chest. You’re crying so hard now that you can barely see him through the blur of your tears. You try to speak, to form words, but they come out in a jumble of half-sobs and gasps.

“Steve—oh my god—I—” You press your hands to your cheeks, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions coursing through you. “I—I don’t—”

Steve waits patiently, his hands still steady on your knees, his expression soft and understanding. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he says quietly.

“I love you,” you finally manage to choke out, your voice trembling. “So much. You don’t even know—I just—”

Steve smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I think I have an idea,” he says softly.

You laugh through your tears, shaking your head as you try to pull yourself together. “Yes,” you finally gasp, your voice breaking on the word. “Yes, Steve. Of course, yes.”

His breath leaves him in a rush, and his smile widens into something radiant as he slips the ring from the box and gently slides it onto your finger. It fits perfectly, and you stare at it through your tears, your heart bursting with so much love you think you might actually explode.

“I love you,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls you into his arms. You cling to him, your face buried in his shoulder as you sob into his shirt. He holds you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist.

“I love you too,” you whisper against his neck, your voice muffled and shaky. “So much. I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’s real,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Always.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your tears still streaming but your smile brighter than the stars. “You’re too good to me,” you say, your voice trembling. “I don’t deserve you.”

Steve shakes his head, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “You deserve the world, Y/N,” he says simply. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to give it to you.”

You laugh again, a soft, breathless sound, and Steve leans in to kiss you, his lips gentle but full of promise. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the kind of love that feels eternal.

When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, your hands cupping his face as you whisper, “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Steve’s smile is soft, his eyes shining with unspoken emotion. “Me neither,” he says quietly. “Me neither.”

The morning sun streams through the windows, bathing the room in a golden light that feels impossibly warm and perfect. You stir under the rumpled sheets, the fabric soft against your bare skin, and the memories of the night before come rushing back. It had started tender, Steve’s hands moving over you with a reverence that left you breathless. But the sweetness had given way to something deeper, more passionate—an expression of love so consuming that it had left you both utterly undone.

Beside you, Steve shifts, his arm tightening around your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Good morning, my beautiful bride-to-be,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and full of affection.

Your heart clenches immediately, and before you can stop yourself, tears well up in your eyes. You press your hands to your face, a choked laugh escaping as you try—and fail—to keep it together.

“Oh no,” Steve says with a chuckle, propping himself up on one elbow. “I didn’t even say anything that emotional this time.”

“You called me your bride-to-be,” you manage to say through your tears, your voice trembling with joy. “How am I supposed to handle that, Steve?”

He laughs softly, his hand brushing over your hair as he pulls you closer. “Sweetheart, if this is how you’re going to react every time I call you that, I’m in trouble. Because I plan on saying it a lot.”

You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his chest. His skin is warm and familiar, and his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek feels like home. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I don’t mean to cry so much. I’m just… so happy.”

“I know,” he says gently, his fingers trailing soothingly down your back. “And I love you for it.”

After a while, your tears subside, and you lift your head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are soft and full of love, and the way he’s looking at you makes your breath catch. “Good morning,” you say softly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “My handsome fiancé.”

His grin widens at your words, and he leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet. “I like the sound of that,” he says against your lips. “Fiancé. And soon, husband.”

You feel your cheeks heat, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I can’t believe this is real,” you say quietly, tracing a finger along his jaw. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’ll all be a dream.”

“It’s real,” Steve assures you, his tone steady and full of certainty. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

The moment stretches between you, filled with a quiet, glowing warmth that feels too perfect to be real. But it is real, and as you lie there in his arms, you can’t imagine anything more perfect.

Eventually, Steve glances at the clock and sighs. “We should probably get up,” he says reluctantly. “The others are going to want to know.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “Do we have to tell them today? Can’t we just stay here a little longer?”

Steve laughs, pulling the blanket off of you just enough to expose your shoulder. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, they’re going to find out eventually. Might as well tell them now before Tony starts making bets.”

You sigh dramatically but can’t help smiling as you roll over to look at him. “Fine,” you say, your tone mock-annoyed. “But if I start crying again, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” he promises, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

An hour later, you’re dressed and ready, though your face is still a little puffy from all the happy tears. Steve holds your hand as you step into the elevator, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your skin. You feel nervous for some reason, though you know the team will be thrilled. It’s just that sharing something so personal, so precious, feels a little daunting.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, squeezing your hand. “It’s going to be fine. They love you.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as the elevator doors slide open to reveal the common room. The Avengers are scattered around the space, Tony sprawled on the couch with a cup of coffee, Natasha and Clint engaged in what looks like a very serious game of chess, and Bruce flipping through a book at the kitchen counter. Thor is munching on a Pop-Tart, his expression as cheerful as ever, while Sam lounges in a nearby chair, scrolling through his phone.

Tony is the first to notice you. “Well, well,” he says, setting his coffee down and smirking. “If it isn’t our golden couple. What’s with the glowing faces? Did Rogers finally tell you about his collection of antique baseball cards?”

“Tony,” Natasha says without looking up from the chessboard, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Let them talk.”

Steve clears his throat, his hand still firmly holding yours. “Actually,” he begins, glancing at you with a small, encouraging smile. “We have some news.”

At that, everyone looks up, their interest piqued. Clint leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “This should be good.”

You feel your cheeks heat under their collective gaze, but Steve’s presence beside you keeps you grounded. “We’re engaged,” you blurt out, unable to keep the words in any longer. “Steve proposed last night.”

The room erupts. Natasha and Bruce smile warmly, their congratulations genuine and heartfelt. Thor lets out a booming laugh and claps Steve on the back so hard he nearly stumbles. Sam grins, shaking his head as he mutters, “About time.” Clint whistles, looking impressed, while Tony raises his coffee mug in a mock toast.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tony says, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. “Congrats, lovebirds. I guess this means I need to start planning the bachelor party.”

Steve groans, and you laugh despite yourself, leaning into his side as the team continues to shower you with affection and teasing remarks. It’s chaotic and overwhelming, but it’s also full of love, and as you look around the room, you realize just how lucky you are to have this family.

Later, when things have settled down, Steve pulls you aside, his hand resting lightly on your waist. “See?” he says softly, his blue eyes twinkling. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “No,” you admit. “It wasn’t bad at all.”

He leans down to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees weak. “I love you, future Mrs. Rogers,” he murmurs, and once again, you find yourself wiping away happy tears.

The day has arrived. Months of planning, fittings, tastings, and a thousand little decisions have all led to this moment, and yet, standing in the bridal suite of the church, you feel like you might burst into tears before you even set foot down the aisle.

You’re wearing the dress you spent weeks obsessing over. It fits like a dream, a shimmering vision of white and lace that flows around you like a fairytale. Natasha, your bridesmaid—and perhaps the most patient person you’ve ever met—stands beside you, hands on your shoulders, trying to keep you from falling apart.

“Y/N,” she says firmly, her green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “You’ve got to hold it together. You’re going to ruin your makeup if you start crying now.”

“I know, I know,” you say, fanning your face with trembling hands as you try to will away the tears. “It’s just… everything’s so perfect, and I’m so happy, and—oh my god, Nat, what if I trip?”

“You’re not going to trip,” she says, her voice calm but decisive. “You’ve practiced this. You’re wearing sensible heels. You’ve got Tony holding onto you like a lifeline. You’ll be fine.”

At the mention of Tony, you glance toward the door, where he’s pacing just outside. Your “man of honor” had insisted on walking you down the aisle, and though he’d tried to play it cool, you could see the emotion brimming behind his bravado. He’d barely been able to get through the rehearsal without tearing up, and now you’re both in danger of becoming sobbing messes before the ceremony even begins.

“I saw him wiping his eyes earlier,” you say with a sniffle, a hint of a laugh breaking through. “If he cries, I’m done for. I’ll start sobbing right there in the aisle.”

“Then don’t look at him,” Natasha advises, picking up a tissue and dabbing at the corners of your eyes. “Keep your eyes on Steve. That’s the goal, remember? Just make it to him without crying.”

At the mention of Steve, your chest tightens with a rush of love so overwhelming it’s almost too much to bear. You picture him standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for you, his blue eyes soft and full of adoration. The thought is enough to make you inhale sharply, and Natasha quickly steps in, snapping her fingers in front of your face.

“Focus,” she says sternly. “Breathe. You’ve got this.”

You nod, taking a deep, shaky breath as you try to calm yourself. “Okay. Okay, I can do this.”

Natasha gives you a small, approving smile. “That’s my girl.”

The door opens slightly, and Tony pokes his head in, his face immediately softening when he sees you. “Wow,” he says, his voice unusually quiet. “You look… wow.”

“Thanks, Tony,” you say, your voice wavering. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t you dare,” Natasha warns, pointing a finger at him. “I just got her under control.”

Tony steps into the room, straightening his tie as he tries to compose himself. “Okay, okay, no crying. But seriously, Y/N, you look… breathtaking. Steve’s going to lose it when he sees you.”

The lump in your throat grows, and you press a hand to your mouth, willing yourself not to cry. Tony steps closer, taking your hand in his and squeezing gently. “Hey,” he says softly. “You’re going to be amazing. And if you cry, who cares? It’s your wedding day. You get a free pass.”

You laugh through the tears threatening to spill, nodding as you squeeze his hand back. “Thanks, Tony.”

He grins, his usual bravado creeping back in. “Besides, if anyone’s going to cry, it’s me. I’m already a wreck. You’ll have to carry me down the aisle at this rate.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “You two are a mess,” she says, shaking her head. “Come on, it’s time.”

Tony offers his arm, and you take it, your fingers trembling slightly as you hold on. The doors to the bridal suite swing open, and you catch a glimpse of the decorated aisle, lined with flowers and softly glowing candles. The music starts, and your heart pounds in your chest as you take your first step forward.

The church is full of familiar faces, but you barely register them. Your eyes are fixed on the man standing at the end of the aisle, his gaze locked onto yours. Steve looks devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, his expression a mixture of awe and love that makes your knees weak.

As you and Tony make your way down the aisle, you hear him sniffle beside you. “Damn it,” he mutters, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I said I wasn’t going to cry.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, your own tears threatening to spill again. But Natasha’s words echo in your mind, and you keep your focus on Steve, drawing strength from the love shining in his eyes.

Finally, you reach the altar, and Tony steps back, giving your hand to Steve with a small, emotional smile. Steve’s hands are warm as they take yours, and his voice is steady as he whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

And that’s it. The tears spill over, and you laugh through them, shaking your head as Steve gently brushes them away with his thumbs. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

“I don’t mind,” he says softly, his voice full of affection. “I love that you feel so much. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

The ceremony begins, and though the tears continue to flow, they’re tears of joy, shared by more than just you and Tony. By the time you say “I do,” the entire room feels wrapped in the warmth of the love you and Steve share, a love that shines brighter than any tears.

we need more soft fics in this sea of smut! (I like smut fics too but like...sometimes I just want something fluffy)

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