#the kind of ruin that can only come from bone deep devotion

[lightningbig]

clawing at the walls any time I even think of vander or silco or their vision for zaun in general. the bitterness of wanting better but knowing you can't have it. clawing through the rubble to build yourself up but all you end up doing is causing more destruction. unburying yourself to bury someone else. the fury of holding on to something so tight that you don't even realize you've killed it.

[prettyboykatsuki]

✭— gn!reader + sfw + arranged marriage.

He doesn't remember much of his ex-lovers. Only that they hated Sae enough to throw lukewarm coffee at him and ruin his white sweater.

And only that they told him a variety of crude, terrible things. Most of them jabs at his career, softened at the ends with words of sadness and melancholy. His first relationship started the same way it finished, empty and obligatory.

Only one thing really sticks out to him. That at the end, the person he'd been with with for nearly a year told him they'd never met someone so incapable of loving before.

Sae wonders about that.

It didn't hurt at the time. It was an inevitable end to a relationship he didn't pay any real attention to. He doesn't even remember their birthday. The world was narrow when he was 22. He has enough self-awareness to know he's always been self-centered when it comes to his career, so it's no surprise a once meaningful relationship fell through the cracks.

Sae doesn't really understand how other people move through life and feel. He has feelings but they're reactive and sometimes misplaced. He gets angry, irritated, or pleased and contented. But the way even his little brother feels so intensely, with such visceral anger or such deep melancholy is foreign.

Sae is a serious character. And he isn't unfeeling or unsympathetic. He has morals and principles. He's human.

But that kind of bone-deep, all-consuming emotion that seems to haunt so many people is foreign. If something is unpleasant, try to fix it. If something can't be fixed, let it go. Worry about the things you can change. Be a good son. Try to be the kind of brother that can make your little brother grow. Be cocky only if it's well deserved. Be even colder because the world is unforgiving, and steel yourself for when it inevitably hammers in your ineptness.

Sae is stoic. In the traditional sense. He's never thought about love. He thought he'd meet someone like him with time. Someone who wants a life of luxury and looks good in the papers - and that he'd spend the rest of his life with someone he tolerates because the thought of loving another person is odd at best. They'd have a hotshot career and Sae would meet them at a fancy dinner party. They'd chat a bit, get to know each other.

And Sae would like them, enough to put it on paper. It'd be mediocre and uninteresting. Born from a sense of duty.

A life full of something like love - is unimaginable. It's an intangible idea, to love someone like they write in songs.

When his mother called him from Japan, said that there was someone she'd like him to meet - he already knew what it was. He was at that age now. 29 and single. It could only mean an arranged marriage.

Sae goes, because he has nothing to lose. He's been single for 7 years. And he's a devoted son who always does what he's told.

Sae meets you with no expectations. Not one to hold you to. You'd be a nice person he's sure - maybe someone who wants to be a homemaker. Polite. Tolerable. Lukewarm like that turns to wedding rings.

The first time Itoshi Sae met you - you arrived late to the coffee date. You came to him panting and out of breath, clumsily rambling about your experience trying to chase down the subway to make it in the nick of time. You rambled on and on, and ordered coffee by waving your hand at someone and talking to them too.

And when you realized he hadn't gotten a word in, you stopped and flushed and apologized so profusely that he found himself smiling. Laughing a little, really - under his breath. He made a comment to tease you about it.

Koi No Yokan, a Japanese saying with no real translatable equivalent. The premonition of love. It means to meet someone and know you will love them inevitably. Not fate, exactly.

But to meet someone that is impossible not to be adored by you. To connect with someone and think you will love them. The realization is off-putting and abstract but even now when Sae is asked.

When did you know they were the one?

His reply is always the same - a small smile and look of familiar mirth.

Since the beginning. It just felt right.

Sae asks you to a second date. And a third, and a fourth before finally asking to be official. Sae learns quickly that there are in fact people in the world who exist like they're made to be loved. Or at least, there is someone in this world he was going to come to love all along.

It turns out - love is less complicated than he'd originally thought. That there are people who see you for who you are and love anyways. Sae doesn't know what you see in him exactly. You're a regular civilian, a regular job. A simple, simple life. None of his accolades mean much to you - though you do always express how cool it is.

They're not words that carry weight because of what they are. Rather, they mean something because of him. It matters to you, because Sae matters to you. And somehow, somehow he just knows that. There is doubt, but only sometimes.

There is hope but always. Always.

You can't identify the difference between designer brands and all your shoes are from the bargain bin except your formal ones. You like to toss coins in fish ponds and close your eyes extra tight when you wish. You always look at the moon - every night when he drives.

Tell him in all sorts of voices about how beautiful the moon is. How you miss the country side, and that there's too much light pollution in Tokyo. He thinks the term down-to-earth suits you well.

But in the kind of way that makes Sae feels a little more grounded. He envies it sometimes. That you manage to shine so brightly and be so good without having to try at all. He envies that you seem to have been born so loveable, so warm.

You love Sae. But Sae knows, deep down - he loves you impossibly more. All the things he once thought to be trivial and pointless get their own color in his busy calendar. He travels and thinks of you - writes locations down with your name. Smiles to himself when he thinks of how brightly your eyes would shine taking in the worlds wonders.

Sae bets that you'd be the same everywhere. Whether in Tokyo or London or Madrid or Chicago or Shanghai - that you'd tug at him and tell him to look up to the beautiful views above. He'd bet you buy sunflower seeds to feed ducks just like you do now, thousands of miles from home.

He bets you'd cry and weep about things he gives you, fluster yourself trying to be grateful. He'd have to wipe the tears of your face, put you to rest in his arms. Let you tuck yourself into his neck and sleep long and sniffly.

Sae loves you more because he'd let you. He hopes the mascara you bough from 7/11 ruins his stupid Dior sweater. He'd die before even thinking about dry-cleaning it. He's sure he'd just keep it in his closet and touch the sleeve every time he's too far from home.

He says it sometimes. Says love you and miss you in those breaths that feel sturdy enough to carry something so heavy. But you, just like him, just seem to know that he loves you. There is doubt, but the days come where you find yourself sleeping in his arms and there's hope again.

He wonders if he'd been incapable of loving. Maybe being around someone so easy to love solved it. It feels like a pin-prick wound. Like one day, he cut himself on the edge of your smile and has been pouring all the things spilling out into you.

He thinks his mostly the same. Intolerable, and arrogant, and unfeeling for better or for worse. He doesn't feel so all consumed. He doesn't feel blinded by the feeling of love. Nothing about it is overwhelming.

He think that maybe the absence of joy goes unnoticed when nothing truly moves you. All Sae can say for certain about anything is this - that if you were to disappear from his life, he'd surely never be able to look at the moon the same. And that he'd always keep sunflower seeds just incase.

Itoshi Sae. 29 years old. Professional Midfielder for Real Madrid CF. Married.

Sae wakes up bright and early, to see you next to him. You crinkle your face as the warmth hits your eyes. Stirring awake to look at him, you yawn then smile.

"Morning," You saying, clinging closely and peering out at the sun "The sun is so bright today.

He looks straight at you and smiles - barely there.

"Very bright."

[sircarebearalot]

Ahah… I made a fic based on it. Please help me name it guys, I’m stuck.

This is the fic:

Maria doesn’t really know what love means.

She has beautiful, shimmering examples of it all around her but she doesn’t have the words for it. It seems like it’s supposed to be good, supposed to be uplifting and magical.

The way her father loves mother. The way she loves her siblings and the way she loves music. All very natural, practically preordained.

Or was love more the way that Fredrick loves Gwen? With bashful earnestness and stars in his eyes?

Or was love more the way that Gwen loved Fredrick? With glimmering trust and hope bringing a sweet flush to her cheeks?

Or was it the way that Leapold loved Jamie? With everlasting patience and with a fervor that manifested in art?

Or was it the way that Jamie loved Leapold in turn? With persistence and the sort of out of body awareness of where he was at all time?

Or maybe, maybe it was the way that Suzanna loved Lorena? Surely even a friendship can count as love?

What else could explain Suzanna’s blatant preference and high regard for Lorena alone? What else if not love?

And what else could explain the specific way that Lorena comes alive under Suzanna’s scrutiny?

All of that is lovely, and powerful and good—and it was love.

Could love also be the way she felt truly wonderfully seen by Blaine? Acknowledged by someone who was also tied to music? Could it have been loved when she wanted to take him to bed and make him vulnerable? Or maybe, maybe it was love before that, when she was so, very hopeful about everything and he was so very dashing and patient and unobjectionably perfect?

Or was it love after? When she saw his insecurities and his frayed ends and only felt the bone-deep determination to see this to the end? To change her uglier bits so she can better match his?

Was that love?

She felt like she was ready to die for him. Well, maybe not die. But she felt like she was on the path to such devotion. She didn’t know what she could discover that would send her packing.

She didn’t know until she did.

Until she heard him call her beautiful, kind, generous, sensitive, baby sister ugly.

She had never felt such a distance from him. She knew then, with a sharp sort of clarity, that the man she might have loved was very different from the one standing in front of her. She was trembling with a mutant sort of rage and grief.

She thought all possible love had died there and then…but was it still love that made her appeal to him later? Tied up in her own home. Scared beyond belief but held together with the tiny hope that he wouldn’t do the worst thing?

That maybe the love that cold have been or maybe was there was enough to keep him from his ever-greedy journey?

Was she allowed to call it love? When it was so angry and desperate and convoluted?

Or was love the now slightly dull thud when she thinks about him? The sort of distant acknowledgement that she wants him to eventually be okay. Could that be love?

Maybe love should be the way she was transformed?

The way that Gwen matured and grew stronger. The way that Frederick grew more confident and kind. The way that father came alive when he was reunited with mother. The way that Jamie found a new passion, and the way Leapold enhanced his. The way that Lorena became more focused and Suzanna less serious?

Maybe love changed her by robbing her of the fairytale trust she had. Maybe love was the way she became a better big sister, no longer just loyal but now fiercely, overarchingly protective.

The way Father is.

Except Father treasures his love and Maria still regrets. Still feels haunted by it. Still feels cursed by it. Still feels like something critical died within her when Blaine didn’t fight for her the way she would have for him.

It’s not entirely his fault. Blaine isn’t evil.

But he still ruined her in a way that she doesn’t think can be undone.

Is that what love is?

Will she ever know?

Maria stared at the parchment before her, a sloppy verse scrawled on:

And I kept holding onto nothing

How embarrassing, that I needed your loving

That bad… and now I just want to say

I missed the me before you

She was kind and she was trusting

Now I’m just so confused

Cuz you broke her spine, trying to build a throne

And all she wanted was to be your home

And all is fair and all is good,

But I don’t think you’re misunderstood

At all…

You ruined my life,

Cut me down

With your fingertips like knives

She scowls, balls up the paper, and tosses it.

She can do better.

(Tbh I’m leaning towards the first one, bc that’s the OG, but I couldn’t get the other line out of my head so I figured I’d ask whatever of the fandom is still out and about 🥰)

Rereading CPC but now I think about it, even if Maria and Blaine didn't end up together, it's clear that his betrayal really affected a huge part of her regardless.

Like, we understand why Blaine behaved the way he did. But we can't discount that Maria, even with all her faults genuinely did do her best to make the relationship work. She tried to understand him deeper, and accepted his insecurities. She corrected her ways when she realized that she was being too openly perverted towards him. Even if uncomfortable, she tried to appease to his mother, and not tell her sisters about Isolde's aggression. She was willing to get to know him more and catch him if he had fallen. Even if he wasn't the perfect dreamy prince she wanted, she tried.

And part of her hoped that Blaine still had it in him to not go lower when she begged him to stop the invasion at the Pastel Kingdom. It will remain in her memory, that the secret she trusted Blaine with was the key to the Pastel Kingdom's invasion. That because of that trust, Gwen who was in a comatose, became even more in danger. That her sister and their maids had to fight and get hurt to defend their kingdom.

The way she acts now, her becoming more mature. Blaine's fall and his freedom will always haunt a part of her. In a way, she lost her innocence due to Blaine's betrayal.

In the end, she was a cursed princess, and her curse was meeting Blaine.

[floralembarrassment]

Love Hurts, no? (1/1) (jegulus) (TW talks of past abuse)

James searched Regulus' stormy eyes. He could see the walls both coming down and trying to stay built up. Like the only thing within the washed out mix of grey-blue, was waterlogged ruins. He didn't reach out, he didn't push. But he had just finished telling Regulus that he wouldn't hurt him.

Regulus took a deep breath, and smiled. James didn't think that computed. Regulus tilted his head, shaking it a little as he spoke:

"Oh but you could hurt me if you wanted to.

You wouldn't be the first whose harsh words and slaps and claw marks on my skin I mistook for love. You are charming so I know you could make it believable.

And who am I? Alone or Independent? Strong or stone-faced? The gates and protectors hold me in but they love the sound of your voice, because the tone and the condescending speeches they'll fit right in.

Oh you could hurt me and oh I would mistake it for love.

Because maybe that's the only thing I know love to be. Making me be filled with pain. Making me feel too small. Making me bleed out a clear thick blood that no one can see.

Because maybe I thought that people did love me and if that love doesn't hurt maybe no one has ever loved me."

As Regulus' words turn dark, James observes every syllable. Regulus' tone never dropped. Like all of this was normal. Like he expects it. Like James should hurt him so that Regulus has the marks to prove James' love for him is real. Like Regulus wouldn't believe he loved him if that love wasn't etched and scarred into his body, his skin. James surveys him a moment longer, making sure he heard everything, making sure Regulus knows he heard him.

"Regulus I don't want to hurt you. I'm sorry those who tried to show you love before didn't know how." James pauses and lets that statement hang in the air between them. When Regulus isn't phased, he has surely heard this a million times and it never really meant anything, James can feel a burning itch crawling under his skin. He wants Regulus to understand that he matters and is wanted and is loveable and deserves to be loved gently, softly, with tender care and devotion. James sighs a bit, "Reg I want to love you the way I know how, would that be alright?" James asks quietly.

"And how is that?" Regulus replies. His tone is even but James knows a challenge when he sees one.

"I want to care for you, and protect you. I want to use my words and actions to show you that love can be sweet and kind. I want to kiss you and not bite. I want to touch you warmly and slow. Caress every inch of you. Regulus I want to worship you, be on my knees for you, pull you away from that ledge. I want to openly and honestly show care and affection, be responsible to and for you, respect you, be forever committed to you and our growth, and I want build trust with you. Reg let me love you the way I know how because I already love you with every cell and all my blood and you live in my bones." James started with an explanation but it quickly turned into pleading.

They really just stood there, looking at each other. Known but like they were trying to find the stranger hiding within. It wasn't a standoff but it was turning point. A choice. Here they would either agreed to turn to or away from one another. Both having to agree to rebuild together. But could they?

[animeyanderelover]

Hello again! Can I have prompt 46 with Ash? Tnx

Recently I told my friend that I had a lot of requests about him and she laughed about it. She doesn't really like him, but she gives him credit since he looks good.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, delusions, extreme paranoia, isolation, desperation, mentions of kidnapping,overprotectiveness, mentions of self-harm, Stockholm syndrome

Prompt 46: "Can I...can I kiss you?"

It was nothing less than a miracle that someone like you existed, someone who was cleansed from all the sins of this world and the corruption of humans. You were radiating with everything Ash had wanted for this world, a world that he wanted to give to you. It was the minimum from what she should and would do for you, it was his duty as your very own guardian angel. A role he was utterly dedicated too, devoted to his very own angel who forgave him his sins every time.

It was true, you had forgiven him his crimes already a long time ago as everything around you had started to fade away and you had lost count of how long exactly you had been stuck in here. Somewhere around one and a half years would be your expectation, looking on how the seasons had changed through the large and closed windows which symbolized your loss of freedom. But you didn't mind anymore.

You only needed and wanted Ash, your guardian angel.

There was clear tension in his body, you could feel how he stiffened up under your embrace. He had never really received that sort of affection before from anyone nor would he have ever wanted it from all those worthless lives walking around freely. You were the only person he actually wanted any sort of touches from. That was how pure you were, even causing someone like him craving something and falling victim to his own desires. And it was his own fault for being so weak-minded. He didn't deserve you yet letting you perish outside would be an even greater sin. He had to keep you safe.

"My Queen...what are you doing?"

Being able to keep his composure was important in front of you, though he remembered to have failed multiple times in the past already. Severe punishment was the only thing he could think of to atone for his failures for not being good enough, for proving himself to be so incredibly useless. Even now he could feel some unhealed wounds aching a bit, but you didn't have to know about his weakness and incompetence.

You blinked slightly confused up at him when he asked you such an obvious question, but it soon turned into slight giggling that instantly plunged Ash's heart into painfully warm emotions and forced his eyes to get wet. It had taken a while until you had been able to look so happy after he had quickly rescued you from all the evil waiting to devour you. The distress he had felt back then could never be put in words and no burns, knifes and broken bones had been able to make up for what you had been suffering under. Even now it remained as a anxiety deeply stuck in his heart. But looking at you now, smiling at him and not staring with wide eyes filled with fear at him, was worth much more than his whole life could ever repay you.

"I’m hugging you. It’s just that you always look so worried and stressed over my safety and never appear to take a rest. Just now you did as well so I thought this might help you a bit. A strong hug can be more worth than thousand words after all. That’s what my mother told me at least when I was younger.”, you replied softly, pressing your face deeper into his chest with a content look on your face.

There was nothing Ash could think of for a few moments, instead he seared the scene in front of him deep into his brain, how you were currently buried into his chest, looking so happy and peaceful. So stunning and precious.

Tears were quick to escape his eyes only seconds later, his insides stirring up with warmth that stung him and yet baked him with something he hadn’t felt in so long. Comfort and peace.

This was exactly why he had to protect you with his very own life, no one was allowed to snuff out the light you carried inside of you and that was able to even share it’s warmth with him. You possessed too much kindness to understand, but normal humans only destroyed what they touched, ruining it with their greed.

He wouldn’t let them do the same to you.

He would kill everyone who would even do as much as getting too close.

He just had to guarantee that you would live.

But first of all he had to calm himself down or otherwise he might worry you even more than he seemed to have done already. The tears were quickly wiped away with his sleeves before Ash was able to look at you again, still feeling like he wanted to continue crying. His heart felt like it might burst at any moment.

“You have so much warmth and love inside of you that I don’t think I deserve any of it. You shouldn’t even be concerned about me, I merely do what I have to do as your guardian. If you were to fall victim to this damned place, I would perish as well. What use is an angel who can’t even protect their chosen one?”

Pain was twisting his voice and face a bit when he dared to imagine how a world without you would be, a world filled with grief and darkness for him. Letting his guard down would be a fatal mistake, he had seen the worst of this world and the humans and he knew that it would happen again. That was why he had to be like this for you were his heart beating outside his chest. If something were to ever happen to you...

The angel hadn't even noticed that he had already started crying again, fist tightened and body shaking whilst getting lost in fears of losing the one good and bright thing this world had still left.

"But for me you're more than just a guardian angel. You're my angel and I want you to feel happy as well. I want you to feel loved as well. You do so much for me, but I feel like I only cause you stress and uneasiness. Shouldn't you be happy because of me?", you asked him in slight protest, feeling sadness whilst seeing the man you had come to love like this again because of you. You had never seen him truly relaxed nor had you ever been able to show him your feelings. He wouldn't let you, not thinking that he deserved you.

His reaction was instant, suddenly falling on his knees upon hearing from what you had said that he had disappointed you yet again, the visible look of your sorrow only stabbing his fear deeper into his very soul.

"I-I am so sorry! I didn't know that you felt this way only because I was so selfish to only think about myself like this! I don't deserve your forgiveness and accept any sort of-"

When he felt the soft sensation of your hands cupping his stained cheeks, he abruptly stopped his rambling, trying to not choke on his own breath that had gotten irregular.

"You don't have to apologize to me. I don't want to hear you saying such things about yourself. Don't you understand? I am unhappy whenever you are like this, seeing yourself as so worthless and not deserving of my love. That's what hurts me so much. You're rejecting my feelings. I love you, Ash. And I want to know if you do too. Because if you do, please stop talking like this and behave so distantly."

Your voice conveyed every bit emotion that was going on inside of you in that moment, something that Ash noticed with widened eyes as well.

Silence was cut short by him when he realized that you wanted something crucial from him which he would gladly give you. He had never considered that you would ever consider his love as something you wanted, consider him as someone you loved. When had been the last time someone had been truly kind to him and loved him? He couldn't remember anymore.

"Of course I do. You should never doubt my feelings for you. I love you more than you could ever imagine. It's impossible to function without you.", he managed to reply with a shaking voice as he grabbed both of your hands in his own.

"Then why are you acting like this? Everyone deserves someone who loves them. Without love it's a very painful life, isn't it? That's why I am hurting as well. Let me love you and I promise that you'll be able to feel peace as well.", you muttered slightly embarrassed out, leaning your head down so your forehead could rest against his own.

Slight sobs were starting to catch up to Ash as he was staring in pure awe at you.

"Thank you. I'll be better and make sure that I won't cause you sadness anymore.", he pressed out, tightening his grip on your hands only the slightest bit so he wouldn't hurt you.

"I'm glad to hear that.", you replied with a sincere smile on your face, joy stirring your heart up just by seeing that for the first time since he had abducted you, Ash was looking relieved and less tense. He just looked extremely grateful.

"May I ask you for a favor then?", you requested with a certain idea in mind.

"I'll do anything for you.", Ash replied, sounding very emotional.

"I want to do something for you for once since you normally do anything for me."

Hesitation and clear dislike instantly shadowed his face, the thought of him asking something from you going against Ash's belief in all the wrong ways. You shouldn't have to do him favors.

"It doesn't have to be something difficult. It can be a really simple thing. Just...something that I can do for you this once. Please.", you begged slightly, seeing the angel already struggling. You knew how he felt about such things, he hated letting you do something for him and he had never done it before either. Ash saw it only upon himself to serve you which was another thing that sometimes made you feel guilty. You wanted to do more for him as well.

"Can I...can I kiss you?"

Maybe that had been more a slip of his tongue, but he had been slightly panicking since hadn't want to sadden you again nor had he wanted you to do physical work for him. It was supposed to be the other way around.

So when he had stared for a moment at your face, eyes locked on your lips, he had considered somewhere deep in his mind possibilities which he had been fantasizing about a few times before, but hadn't thought that they would actually have a change of happening.

In his opinion they were still sinful, it would take a while for him to get used to the idea that you wanted to receive physical affection and love from him. The first impulse when he realized what he had said was instantly apologizing, only to be interrupted before he could even start saying anything.

You had already leaned down to fulfill him his wish before he could take it back again.

[violetnotez]

fic or whatever concept: fushiguro is in love w the reader but they have a huge crush on yuuji and it’s just megumi suffering as the reader and yuuji get together and they’re actually really,,, happy??? and in love???

This is the shit I LIVE FOR -also I made a whole playlist for this idea-you can watch the vid here!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Megumi x reader (not really?), Yuuji x reader

Songs to Listen to: Treat You Better (but the Kurt Hugo version, seriously, thank me later!)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Maybe if he had tried harder, this wouldn’t have ended up like this. He just felt alone, empty, with nothing to show but a broken heart and head full of bitter dreams.

Did he fool himself? That maybe, some miraculous way, he would have won?

Megumi lay on his bed, worn sweatshirt making his skin crawl and his black sweats uncomfortable to wear, his toes curling from disgust.

Nothing could get his mind off of you, even months after you started dating Yuuji.

 It almost got worse, now that you were off limits.

Funny how it works like that.

His brain seemed to just always want to think of you-the way your voice seemed to sparkle when you yell out his name, the way you look too damn cute when you’d walk out of your dorm room in the morning, hair messy and feet bare-

Fuck fuck fuck.

Megumi groaned, placing a hand on his forehead and smoothing his hair back in exasperation.

You weren’t his, and you’d never be his-he shouldn’t be thinking of you like this. You were dating his best friend after all-didn’t he have any shame?

Even though he was in so much heart ache, so much pain from the fact he couldn’t have you.....he couldn’t ever hate his friend from taking you away from him.

Yuuji was good to you, and painfully, he had to admit Yuuji was better than him in every way as a boyfriend.

Yuuji was sociable, able to strike up a conversation and make everyone feel like his best friend-Megumi wasn’t like that.

Yuuji wasn’t afraid of physical touch, constantly having a hand on your hip to keep you near him or swinging you around lovingly like he hadn’t seen you in years- he was terrified of physical touch.

Yuuji was strong, powerful, and able to protect you from the world- he couldn’t say the same for himself.

Megumi’s insecurities were infesting his body, gnawing at his bones, squirming through his muscles and into his skin, making his jaw clench and nails dig deep into his skin from disgust within himself.

Why hadn’t he at least fucking tried?

But he had been too placid, too worried of rejection, too worried of ruining your friendship-

But then again....he was just too selfless. He was willing to let everyone around him surpass him if it meant they would win, thrive, and live happy lives- even if it meant he had to suffer the consequence.

Megumi squeezed the white sheets around him, twisting them into tight spirals around his digits.

He let it happen again-he had succumbed to that fear.

Years worth of affection, years worth of admiration and dedication-washed away like it never happened., because of it And now he was dealing with the repercussion with phantoms of what could have been, with the jealousy, and a broken heart.

Megumi shifted in his bed, feeling his sweatshirt stick to his back, his hand reached out to grasp at the white beams of moonlight drifting into his room.

What would have happened if he had said no that day? Would anything have changed-if he had admitted that he did like you, that he had wanted to call you his?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

He remembers that day like it was yesterday, that feeling of dread filling in his stomach as if he knew something was about to change, the shift of energy making an icy chill run along his back.

Yuuji has been behind him, leaving training as they usually do with his hands in his pockets.

It was quiet, the hallways empty except for the two of them, the wooden floors making soft clicks as it reacted to their footsteps. It should have felt peaceful, a soft breeze fluttering in from the opened windows as the sun began to set outside. But that errie sensation was still boiling in Megumi’s gut, that gnawing feeling of dread making him unable to enjoy the peace.

“Hey man, I wanted to ask you something real quick,” Yuuji’s voice stopped Megumi in his tracks, his feet halting with an echo in the empty corridor.

Megumi turned around slowly, tentatively, almost too worried to face what was behind him. 

Maybe at this time he knew what was about to happen, the feeling of dread settling.

“Sure,” he simply stated, shrugging nonchalantly as the golden sun set the room in a red hue.

“This might be a little personal,” Yuuji began, hands placed in the pockets of his sweatshirt still, “but I got a question about y/n.”

Yuuji looked at him, staring him down like two men in a duel. He was serious, more serious than Megumi had seen him in a long time.

“I know you guys are pretty close...”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Megumi stated, swallowing a ball of saliva down his dry throat.

“Well, I-“ Yuuji sighed, pink hair swaying as he looked down at the floor quickly, almost preparing himself for what he was about to say next.

“I-I wanted to ask them out.....out on a date....”

“- it okay with you?”

Megumi’s eyes widened in shock, the his whole body feeling as if hit by a ton of bricks from Yuuji’s words.

This was it-the worst case scenario, the worst thing he knew was happening but didn’t want to admit.

Megumi tried to recover quickly, his eyes slanting back down to unamused slits in a matter of seconds.

“Why are you asking me?” he questioned, trying to keep the growing panic inside him at bay,” It’s not like I dictate who she dates.”

“I think you know why.”

“I don’t.”

“Fushigoro-“

Megum sighed violently, eyes looking up at the ceiling as he tried to fight the growing pain in his heart.

“I don’t dictate your life-I don’t dictate them-and you don’t dictate mine. Do whatever the hell you want-“

“I won’t date them unless you say it’s okay for me to Fushigoro.”

Itadori’ voice had none of that boyish, playful tone to it. It was more mature than Megumi had even heard it-but something behind it was different.

It was almost like there was this desperateness to it- Yuuji needed him to say yes. Yuuji so badly wanted to call you his-just like him.

“You can say no-“ Itadori rushed on, eyes intense with anticipation, “-I won’t think less of you or hate you for it.”

Megumi watched as he shuffled uncomfortably, the knowledge that he just admitted his crush making him slightly sheepish as he scratched the back of his head.

“Hell, I know I would-” he said truthfully, “ I just don’t want to ruin our friendship by going behind your back.”

Fuck, Megumi wanted to fight for you. He wanted to so so badly.

Megumi had known you for longer, you two were close friends, he had a connection to you-didn’t he deserve to be yours after being so dedicated to only you?

Fushigoro was there for when you cried over your stresses, rubbing your back patiently as you let everything out of you, summoning his animals because he knew how much they made you happy.

He was there for your late night study sessions, the lighting hazy as the pouring rain pounded on the window, cleaning up your room of the papers and flashcards after he convinced you to go to sleep.

He trained with you when you worried you weren’t strong enough, always making sure to congratulate you in someway, fighting the redness in his cheeks after you had successfully completed a new move, your skin dangerously close to his.

God, he had waited for so long-why did the world have to fuck him over? Why did his best friend, out of all the people in the world he could form a crush on, like you like that?

But looking at Yuuji, he knew he wouldn’t win this war. Him and Yuuji were very similar in their passion and devotion, but the simple difference between them was Yuuji wasn’t afraid to be selfish.

Megumi was accustomed to backing down for everyone, sacrificing himself so the people he loved could succeed. It was an awful habit of his, maybe due to his insecurities, maybe just a routine he learned at this point, he would never know- but the fact was he knew that Yuuji would never stop fighting for you. Even if Megumi screamed at him, cursed at him, told him to fuck off and leave you alone-Yuuji wouldn’t ever stop loving you. Itadori would respect Megumi’s wishes, but he would still protect you, fight for you, and love you with everything in him.

And that much devotion coming from someone as charismatic and kind like that-what person wouldnt fall for that?

Megumi sighed, his heart breaking in two at the sudden realization hit him-he was too weak to be any threat to Yuuji.

”You’re not going behind my back.” He finally said, looking down at the floor as the self loathing boiled in his stomach.

“But you-“

“I don’t. Like them.” Megumi was seething, hating every fiber in his body for doing this to himself. Each word was choppy, the sentence laced with sternness and bitterness.

“-Do whatever the hell you want.”

Megumi needed to leave, and leave quick. He hadn’t felt this emotional in a long time, and he didn’t want Yuuji to start thinking that he was actually bothered by all of this.

He turned on his heel, ready to get out of there as quickly as possible-

“Hey Megumi- you really okay with this? This won’t change our friendship? I won’t do this unless youre okay-“

Yuuji took a step forward, hand reaching out to his friend as a peace offering, a sheepish smile on his lips.

Megumi turned, his chest tightening as he looked down at his hand, too tired to reach out for it and pretend like he didn’t hate his friend at this moment.

“They dont like me. They like you- I see it. You’ll make them happy, and that’s all I want for them.”

Yuuji smiled , seemingly content with his quiet friend’s answer.

“Thanks man,”

Megumi turned again, head hanging low as he quickly left the corridor, desperate to get out of there.

“Tell me thank you when they say yes.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

He groaned, letting the painful memories overtake him as he turned his back to the wall.

It just hurt-maybe he would get over all of this one day, but right now he couldnt.

As if on cue to deepen his torture, he heard a giggle from you across his room, the muffled noise of Yuuji’s voice making him cringe.

Thin ass walls-you were probably visiting Yuuji again for the night, staying up all night to watch movies.....

This was destroying him-but he couldnt ever blame you for it, because you were oblivious to his love for you. He had made sure you would never catch on- and now you would never know because he was too cowardly to ever say it. 

God, what he’d do to have the roles switched though...with you breaking school rules to come visit him at night, to here that sweet laugh in his room, to feel your head cuddle into his chest, or see you slowly begin to wake up in the morning....

Megumi felt a pain in his chest at the wanting feeling that would never fully be satiated gnaw at his chest, his hands despertedly grabbing at his pillow and shoving it against his ear.

He didnt want to hear you, he didnt want to see you...at this moment he didnt want anything to do with you or Yuuji. 

This hurt too much...

Fuck, he really screwed up.

[house-of-crows]

It's been a few years now.... Shall we Unpack this?

Sink me in the River like stones, coins beneath the waves; To break your teeth on love and fight what nests beneath your bones-

The River is often known as the River of Memory. In a ritualistic sort of way, one attaches a memory or a thought or emotional response to a coin, a gemstone…. or a simple, humble river rock, and sinks them into the water. What Lies Beneath will guard them, keep them safe for the same hands who released them to retrieve; if and when they will.

"To break your teeth on love" - Love is often deemed a 'soft' emotion and therefore would not 'break' something, especially your teeth. BUT, if you look at the expression "to cut ones' teeth" : Get one's first experience by doing, or learn early in life, as in I cut my teeth on this kind of layout or He cut his eyeteeth on magazine editing. This term alludes to the literal verb to cut teeth, meaning “to have teeth first emerge through a baby's gums." So if you are cutting your teeth on LOVE, it is a reference both to the first experiences of youth, but also somewhat a return to innocence. Simpler views of the world… when love was the all-encompassing thing we felt.

"what nests beneath the bones" is the heart; in a very literal sense it is talking about fighting one's own heart in a quest for new experiences, but also fighting the concept of LOVE itself. This goes back to the Morrigan's meeting at the Ford with Cu Chulainn, the Dagda, and others; and echoing it in my own life with my lover at the time. Using devotion to Her in a literal and metaphorical sense of my struggle with Faith, asking Her to forget me, as one might ask a Lover to forget them.

So the first verse's meaning becomes, largely:

"Forget me, as the River forgets, as those who go to the River forget; sink me in the water like a coin. Less noble and precious than gems, more worthwhile than only a rock. Tell me that I mattered, when I know I did not matter so very much in Your eyes. Then go and, having forgotten me, find new love/a new servant/new believer. Fight whatever memory Your heart holds of me, so I can rest in peace."

My struggle to find my faith is too great, release me! Don't release me without telling me that I was good. For you do eyes blaze with holy fire For you do untamed tongues speak holy words For you are temples all ruins at your feet For you do the hills cry together glory and mercy! Mercy! Mercy!

For the Morrigan and under Her gifts, I experienced the joy of Belief. For Her, and with Her presence, I found faith. Healing… but it came at the cost of the "temples" of my earlier life. Safe places, old refuges that no longer fit me, or no longer allowed me in due to my pagan beliefs. In Her mythos, She is a goddess of prophecy, and battle, self-sovereignty and sacred kingship. The glory of battle, yes, but oh mercy, mercy mercy! In Irish mythology, Macha; one of the Morrigan's faces; is a goddess linked with horses, battle, and sovereignty. She is said to have collected the heads of the slain, which were known as “Macha's acorn crop-” For which reason many would beg Her to spare and show mercy if they failed…. or would swear to sacrifice in Her honor if She gave them victory. ​ You have given me gifts, and I cherish them, I have sacrificed my past safety; grant me victory over my past or grant me mercy…. by sinking me in the River and releasing me from my oaths. What lurks in the depths Bears your face and form- Still waters and deep currents; Reflected in your gaze, Washer At The Ford!

"What Lurks Beneath" are the Watchers in the Water. River monsters, that take various forms. Great eels with giant jaws and teeth, mega-fauna crocodilian-type reptiles, or even something more horrifying. The "washer at the ford" is a mythic vision of the Morrigan washing blood from the armor of the slain. It was a prophecy that battle was coming, and they would die.

The monsters who will guard my spirit have the Morrigan's protective nature, no matter how terrifying their face. The purpose is the same; to set a guarding wall and offer the space to grow before fighting again. A release, or merely an abeyance until the promises can be fulfilled. Her eyes hold that much power and more, and if my time has come, so be it. Take me! If I must struggle and wrestle with faith, I will wrestle! But if I must give up the fight, then I will.

​ For all the feathers between your teeth, You devour death like crows-

The Morrigan's principle animal shape is a hooded crow; Specifically as the Badb Catha, the Battle Crow with a reddened beak and hood. ​ "Hope is the thing with feathers-"

Though my hope of ever having a stable, steady faith or a simple relationship with Deity is dying, the "heart between the teeth" that are "breaking on love" (I love this Goddess, I love this spirituality, I love this path for me, but I am breaking, breaking) Morrigan is only doing as She has ever done… devouring Death. Her Nature. Inevitable.

​

But whether "devouring death" means devouring the circumstances that lead to this cycle of crises in my faith and ability to hold faith in the Divine, or whether it is a devouring the death of my faith as yet another sacrifice…. I still don't know this many years on. It is the same sort of cycle I am walking.

Battle Crow

Sink me in the River like stones, coins beneath the waves; To break your teeth on love and fight what nests between your bones- 

For you do eyes blaze with holy fire For you do untamed tongues speak holy words For you are temples all ruins at your feet For you do the hills cry together glory and mercy! Mercy! Mercy!

What lurks in the depths Bears your face and form- Still waters and deep currents; Reflected in your gaze, Washer At The Ford!

For all the feathers between your teeth,  You devour death like crows- 

[beanieblanchett]

iii. “use me but as your spaniel”

Paring: Cate Blanchett x fem reader

Warnings: professor student relationship, slight smut, masterbation, dom/sub undertone, dirty talk

Read Chapter 2 here

(Sorry for the long wait I have been caught up with my personal and academic life lately🥺I know I’ve been a complete ass making people wait for so long. I’m so sorry)

*not my edits*

The day has been long.

There’s a clock in your bedroom. An old fashioned one, and you could hear the second hand ticking in your room: time passes in the unit of a second at a time, and you are so aware of every second that has passed.

It is painful, really. You try to focus on the reading for your psychology class, but there’s an unsettling feeling in your chest, as if something is suspended in the air, waiting to fall.

To fall. Like gravity, so natural and irresistible. That is how you feel right now as you sigh and look at your planner for the third time in the past hour, a scheduled appointment for office hours with a professor, the professor…...highlighted in yellow, like the color of the sunlight that is now resting outside of your window.

And so you are thinking about her again. The other day when she was explaining the literary devices that Ovid used to show the depth of love. Love, when the word falls out of her mouth you can’t help but tremble. You take in a deep breath as you wander around the meeting link on the canvas site. There’s still 10 minutes before the scheduled time. Even though she has always said in the lecture that anyone’s welcomed to join the meeting room, you decide to wait. The amount of hesitation and a mix of other feelings pumping in your heart scares you. You hate to use the word love lightly, but what other word could you use to describe that feeling that’s dancing in your chest right now? that hopeless attraction, that constant longing you have for her? When you’ve barely even talked to her, you’ve fallen for her. You feel utterly alone, slightly ashamed, and immensely terrified.

You curse under your breath as your eyes refocus on the screen, dragging yourself back from your thoughts, you’re almost late. And so you click on the link, your body tense and your teeth biting your lower lips nervously as you enter the waiting room.

“Well Hello, so how are you doing today?”

She greets you with a smile, her voice reaffirms her presence and makes your heart miss a beat. She’s wearing a white shirt, the first three buttons casually opened, elongating her elegant neck, exposing her delicate collar bones...and the a peek of her cleavage that makes your cheeks burn. Yet you can’t take your eyes off, a silver necklace draping from her neck down to inside her shirt...almost luring you.

“Can you hear me alright?”

She spoke again, and you’re embarrassed by your lost focus...on her. It still feels slightly unreal that she’s addressing you—you’ve gotten used to not answering her questions, as you know someone else always will.

“I’m sorry...yes I can hear you. I’m doing good.” You open your mouth to realize that your voice is a little raspy from not talking all day.

She is looking slightly tired but genuine and kind as usual, staring into the camera with a satisfied smile as she nods to your answer. You can hear her clicking as you both fell silent. You try to focus on the presence of her so as to stop your thoughts from running into wild places, but that seems to do the opposite job.

“So I see you’ve got a 90.5 on your last essay, which isn’t bad at all.” She said with a keen smile as she praises you, which soon turned into a look of curiosity as she raises her eyebrows, “with such a grade you’re not required to come see me, but you still choose to. I wonder if you have any specific questions for me?”

“Oh…” no, you don’t really have any, but you look down on your notes for things you’ve prepared for this meeting, “I just wonder if you have any suggestions for my writing, you know, where can I improve, because I’d like to get a better grade for that upcoming essay.”

“Hmmm..understood.” She nods again, and you can see her eyes quickly scanning through your essay as she speaks.

And her left hand, that was supporting her chin, is now resting on her left cheek. And—an observation that scorched your cheeks—her fingers are now unconsciously touching her own lips...in a most casual, most usual but also insanely sensual way.

“Will you give me a minute? I’d like to inspect your words more closely so I can give you better suggestions.” She lifted her eyes to look at the camera with a subtle grin.

“Oh sure. I’m in no rush.”

Her fingers returned to her lips after she’s done talking. long, beautiful fingers that you have dreamed and thought about. You’ve imagined them on your face, on your hand, on your body...in your body...without realizing how bold a move you’re making, you feel your own touch on your thighs, moving closer and closer to the center before you find yourself messaging your desire, already aroused, over the thin fabric of your panties.

You gasp at the pleasure, a silent one, and then a louder one. You look into the screen to see her now flipping through a book on her desk, (Metamorphosis, you suppose, as that’s what your essay was about), feeling more daring and slipped a sweaty hand into your pantie.

You’re wetter than you expected, providing an easy entrance for your own finger. Your breath gets heavier and heavier with your slow thrusts, trying to maintain your posture until a soft moan slips from your lips.

She’s still intensely focused on the book, and so you gathered the courage and whispered her name, “Cate….”

“Cate...Cate…..” you say to yourself, words muffled with your now loud moans, which is not getting more and more intense as you get closer to the climax——

“Okay I think I’m done here,” she looks up to you, her sudden words scaring you, ruining your orgasm and now your pussy is pathetically wet, and exposed in the air.

She doesn’t seem to expect your response as she proceeds to give you a few suggestions about your writing. She praises your interesting perspectives, and points out a few flaws in your analysis, raising some other questions regarding the texts. As always, she seems to be most genuinely interested in your work, analyzing it as if it’s the work of Ovid himself. Her voice is incredibly captivating to you, and to your swollen desire, but her highly professional manner turns you on even more——the thought of you being naked with your ugly desire, almost dripping in such an academic discussion...how sinful, how humiliating, how dangerously attractive.

“Now would you mind sharing with me the passage you’ve chosen for the upcoming essay? The Shakespeare one.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” You nod, looking down to your notes to avoid looking at those eyes, and looking at your own picture on the screen. You could imagine yourself right now, cheeks red and sweat on your forehead, how weird she must have thought of you to be.

“I’ve chosen the passage in the Midsummer Night’s Dream. Helena’s confession and pursuit of Demetrius. I find that speech of her quite touching...the devotion of putting oneself in such a lowly place, almost an act of submission, but also an act of great courage, to go against societal norms…”

You pause yourself there to look up at her, she’s nodding and smiling as always, but in her eyes, you see almost a tint of a fleeting, mischievous smirk? you must have made a mistake. And you must have been illusioned by your heating desire, so you shake your thoughts and continued: “it’s this passage,

‘Use me but as your spaniel—spurn me, strike me,

Neglect me, lose me. Only give me leave,

Unworthy as I am, to follow you.

What worser place can I beg in your love—

And yet a place of high respect with me—

Than to be used as you use your dog?’”

Finishing off, you look up again, and you feel yourself shaking.

Silence. And you think you see that mischievous smile in her eyes grow stronger. You’re almost certain, yes there’s definitely something behind those eyes. Those eyes that shine with kindness and professionalism, sparkle with interests and curiosity...there must be something behind those eyes.

And now they’re staring at you.

“Professor?” You feel unease, breaking the long silence that felt like forever.

“Is that for your essay or is that for me?”

Your heart either stopped beating or was beating at an unnatural rate, you opened your mouth to find yourself stuttering, “I...this...the essay...sorry?”

She did not respond, but her eyes now burning with a wanton look.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Your voice is shaking.

“Oh yes you do.” She says, stopping the screen share of your essay so that you could see her and only her——eyes filled with mysterious lust, a smirk emerged on her face.

“You thought you muted yourself, didn’t you? Or did you think those filthy little noises that your pretty mouth was making could escape my ear? But I’ve heard them all, even those wet noises coming not from your mouth but from somewhere else. And did you think I didn’t notice you, looking like you’re having too much fun biting your lips with watery eyes in my lectures?”

Her stare was intense, burning you to the ground, to your knees, stripping you bare and making all your attempts to act decent seem useless and pathetic.

“You are quite a daring one, but a bashful one at the same time. How interesting.”

“‘To be used as you use your dog’...now look up and answer this: is that what you want from me?”

(To be continued.)

[killerskillercaptain]

Peace of mind part 2 / 2

pairing : Levi Ackerman x Reader

word count : 3,206 K

summary : you’re the captain of your own squad, and you have a habit to go spend some time alone in a cabin located near the young recruits quarters. One day, you found Levi there who didn’t mind your company.

themes : deep talks, rain, maybe new beginnings, feelings development (on your side at least), slight interest from Levi’s side if you squint hard enough, life choices, fears, insecurities.

warnings : tw astraphobia (extreme fear of thunder), mentions of death.

You can read part 1 / 2 here

“Oi, why are you leaving? Isn’t this the place you come to for some “peace of mind” ? “Yes, but you’re here now” you replied in a quiet yet steady voice. “And i’m ruining the view for you” ? He asked looking at you nonchalantly. His tone was sarcastic, his eyes pressed you for an answer.

«Looks like it’s going to rain »

When the captain let out these words, it wasn’t long before cold droplets started to spill one after the other, soon the cabin was draped in watery curtains, making you and the captain take a step back to avoid getting soaked.

If you wanted to get back to your quarters, it was already too late for that, as the rain intensified rather quickly, both of you have been a bit too slow to react. But then again, who could have anticipated such a heavy rain in this time of the year.

« Dammit, i think it’s best to wait. We’ll get soaked down to the bone if we walk under this downpour»

You let out a small « yes », both startled and worried by the sudden change in weather. You were rather...uncomfortable being trapped in here with Levi Ackerman even though your mind was running with reprehensible scenarios right now .

Let’s face it, you always had a thing for the man, even if your only interactions with him consisted in you admiring him quietly from afar and frankly, you’d imagined you’d be thrilled by the idea of being stuck alone with the captain, but you were in such a state of unease right now because of the weather that you couldn't really care about that right now, because generally, heavy rain also meant-

Your thoughts were cut abruptly by the mention of your name.

You actually heard your name ?

Levi was facing you, and had just called you by your name. Not in a million years would you have thought he has it registered in his mind. He said it again as to carefully confirm he was not mistaking.

« That’s your name right ? »

«Yes » you let out in a breath, a little confused.

As if he was reading your mind, taking notes of your interrogative expression, he answered your inner pondering.

« I asked your superiors for your name not long ago. You may have heard of the initiative by now, Erwin and i are in the process of creating a special squad that i’ll be leading. Details are still confidential, but i can tell you that i have been granted complete freedom in selecting the members. »

He paused before continuing, focusing on you.

« and you might be in it »

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe and your mind went blank with the new information. You did hear something of the sort, but you did not imagine Levi considering, well, you. You'd imagined you need more than just skills to impress him. You did give your heart and soul to the cause, you chose to be a soldier, you didn't get thrown into it, you also made the conscious effort to be better and more effective on the battlefield. And right now you, were having a hard time believing that your efforts were actually paying off. Levi’s devotion and dedication served as a fuel to your own, and here you were, both of you discussing the possibility of working under his direct orders. You felt your stomach flutter, it was impossible to tell if it was from fear, anticipation or anything else.

You ignored the feeling when Levi broke the silence again.

« I’ve seen your ranking and your score since you enrolled in the Survey Corps. A few years ago your skills weren’t the impressive kind, but with time you managed to outgrow yourself. Forty titans taken down solo and more than thirty taken down in team, now that's impressive, so i went and asked for your name. »

The thought of Levi walking up to your superiors and asking specifically to be given informations about you made you feel a certain type of way you couldn’t quite pinpoint at the moment. He must also have asked Keith Shadis you thought then. That man always held you in high regards, and you were grateful for it. You never caused trouble, you were discret but efficient, you started to convince yourself that you were indeed, worthy of Levi’s interest, additionally, he did like quiet and efficient people.

The cabin was getting extremely cold with each passing minute, and you were still stuck with no sign of the downpour stopping any soon.

You started shivering, you were both in uniforms, with only your military jackets to keep you warm, neither of you brought your cloak.

If he had his cloak with him, would he offer it to you to keep you warm ?

A bright dash of light appeared somewhere far away but close enough to brighten the interior of the cabin.

Lightning ?

Your heart started pounding voraciously in your chest, and you were afraid Levi was about to witness a side of you that you were afraid might change his mind about you. Not noticing your hands that already started trembling, anticipating what’s to come, you swallowed a thick lump, trying to ground yourself on the wooden structure.

Levi seemed to notice the change in your demeanor but brushed it off. You stayed quite the whole time, you didn’t say anything at the news he just handed you.

You tried to pin your attention on the captain and what he just said, you tried to compose an answer to give him, or maybe just keep a thread of conversation going, but when you opened your mouth, a blasting sound echoed all around, followed by menacing vibrations in the air. The start of a thunderstorm, the sound was as if the sky got torn in half and soon enough, a harsh light spilled through and painted the entire scenery white for a second.

Instinctively you pressed your eyes shut at the sound. When you opened them, you were one inch away from Levi, gripping at his clothes for dear life, as if you were afraid to drown in the harsh light.

As if you were afraid to die.

Your fingers digged so hard into Levi's shirt beneath his jacket that you were positive you were leaving marks on his skin. When you realized what you were doing, you quickly backed off, body still shaking and lips starting to quiver.

« I’m so sorry Capt- »

Another thunderous blow tore the sky a second time, and this time you ducked on the ground with your two hands covering your ears, your eyes closed so hard that little watery pearls started forming at their corners.

To you, it seemed like it was going on forever, and then, you heard Levi pronounce those words you hated to hear about yourself.

« You’re afraid of the thunder ? »

Yes, yes you were

As horribly embarrassing, childish and pathetic as it was, you were.

Since you were just a child, the sound of the sky tearing up was something that made you unreasonably vulnerable. But you couldn’t help it, such an irrational fear was beyond your control and you were fortunate that a thunder erupting during a storm wasn't a very common event inside the walls.

In the rare occasions where it did happen, you felt your mind losing its grip on your body.

You didn’t answer Levi, you couldn’t focus on him, you just kept the palm of your hands pressed flat on your ears to try and hear the least possible of what was going on outside. You knew nothing was going to happen to you, you knew your body shouldn’t be trembling in this way, but you couldn’t reach your mind in these moments and ask of it to calm down, and this is what scared you the most.

That’s it. You thought

The only thought that emerged in your mind for a moment was how pathetic of a side you were showing levi at this moment. Just after he confessed he was thinking about you joining forces with him in fighting for humanity, here you were, scared out of your skull, and out of your control by the big scary sound in the sky.

He’s probably gonna review his opinion of you.

He's probably reviewing his opinion of you right now.

He probably thinks your not fit to fight under his orders.

You kill titans by the dozen.

But here you were, scared of the weather

Sitting down, you had brought your knees up against your chest now, ears still covered, you moved your hands a little as the sound seemed to have ceased only to put them back on quickly as the sky screamed and shook again. You had opened your eyes just to close them again in terror. In terror how pathetic.

You didn’t here Levi shift or make a move until you felt the hem of his jacket poking at your forehead. For a second, the sound stopped and you opened your eyes to Levi who took off his military jacket and handed it to you.

« Here, put it over your head, it will muffle the sound »

Out of surprise, and still a bit shocked from your tourment, you mechanically took his jacket and covered your head with it, pressing the fabric over your ears as the sky screamed again. It was working, you felt as if you were underwater, you still heard everything, but it sounded so far that you felt somewhat safe, only then did you realize that Levi did what he did.

He didn’t threw an insult at you telling you to get your act together

Instead, he silently offered some comfort, acknowledging your fear,

Validating your fear.

The hellish concert went on for three minutes. Three long minutes during which the sky threw a tantrum with unrealistic vibrations rippling through the air, as a shrieking wind joined in the outburst.

A lot of things happened during those three minutes, Levi coming to sit next to you on the ground, waiting for the storm to pass, and you getting intoxicated by the scent of the inside of his jacket, Levi’s jacket. This is what Levi smells like. You thought.

You were glad your face was covered as you felt it flush. Sure there was a faint note of sweat, but hey, you were soldiers, and soldiers sweat. But you could also recognize different other scents all converging into something you found extremely pleasing, almost soothing to you; a bit musk and something that resembled a type argan oil, you inhaled in silence, taking it all in shamefully. The feeling of being almost afloat under his jacket, the storm seemingly far away, as if you were cut from reality, only being able to breathe Levi's scent, the thought of him soon consumed you, leaving you feeling light-headed.

It was the closest you had been to Levi, since all these years, working together from afar; since you saw him for the first time when he proved to be everything but someone coming from the underground, both in manners and values, since the time you used to watch him ruffle Isabel Magnolia’s hair and feel that ache in your heart that grew more and more hungry.

When you watched him giving the hardest time to the young recruits

When you watched how loyal he was to Erwin, always present by his side watching over their mentees.

When you watched him from a distance, putting his horses in their stables, and staying a little longer to care about them and give them small gestures of affection

When you watched him sitting alone, by himself sipping his tea, holding his cup in his strange little way.

When you watched him accidentally sleep in the stable, on a bench, on a chair, so many times, while hesitant-and scared- subordinates would shake him shyly to wake him up.

When you watched him, from this cabin.

You liked climbing up this cabin, it was quiet, calm, but mostly, you could watch Levi all day long without him even realizing it.

You liked the cabin because watching Levi from a distance was calming to you.

You liked this cabin because observing Levi put your mind at ease.

When you found him up here, you turned heels as quickly as your heart started thumping on your chest, ready to live right away. You knew, soon enough that it wasn’t mere admiration for a comrade, it was more than that. Observing him from this cabin, you realized you wanted to rest a hand on his shoulder and tell him to go rest, the more you looked at him, the more you wanted to touch him, to feel him. There was so many things you wanted to tell him. Thank you for doing so much, you’re killing yourself go have some rest, thank you for bearing the weight of shielding humanity against its terrors, thank you for devoting your life, please take better care of yourself, we need you, we love.

I love you

Just know you have someone who cares so much for you.

Who wants to be by your side.

So badly.

But never did you approach him enough to have this much of him. Sure, you had your exchange of words and your eyes met on more than one occasion, but it was all wrapped in formalities, it didn’t feel human enough.

This

This feels human,

Him handing you his jacket felt human

You crumbling in front of him in all your pathetic glory was also human.

Now all you could think about or feel was Levi, you chewed on your feelings while trying to imprint in your head the only thing you got from him, this memory.

You suddenly felt a forceful tug, his hand was trying to move the jacket, you released your grip as soon as you realized that he wanted to take it off of you. The thunder had stopped for good, there was no roaring, no blasting echoes anymore. Just the quiet sound of the rain now. You loosened up, stretching your legs in a timid relief, your body trying to adjust to the now foreign calmness.

The captain didn’t say a word, and you stayed quiet as well.

The rain was quietly softening and the air was seemingly less cold, you realized your body had stopped shivering at all.

« I’m so embarrassed you had to see me like this Captain» you confessed broking the silence.

« Don’t be. Every fear has its reasons, even irrational ones »

You really thought humanity’s strongest would be repulsed by such a sight, he required people to be always strong or so you thought, but come to think of it, he always acknowledged human unescapable states like fear, regrets and sorrow., especially when those were almost inevitable on a battlefield. You never seen him dismiss any of those emotions when he witnessed comrades and soldiers experiencing them, even outside off the field.

« Do you...have any fears Levi ? »

You called him by his name, your question had a personal undertone to it that it required you to, or so you thought. And you couldn’t believe you actually had the courage to ask the strongest soldier alive if he feared anything.

« Regrets »

You turned to look at him, he was looking down at his jacket, his white shirt slightly wet from the rain it caught, you felt a little guilty witnessing that. You didn’t have a clue what was on his mind right now, but saying that, Levi was thinking about all the soldiers he lost under his commands, his two only companions he lost because of the choices he made, everything he lost, everything he couldn’t get back and everything he have regretted but decided not to, because he feared that if he’d let those regrets slip into the crevices of his mind, he’d never recover from it.

« I think it has been fairly gossiped about, but i lost my two truest and most loyal companions, i let them choose for themselves even though i wasn’t confident with that decision, it ended up horribly, but it was also my choice. It was my first time outside these walls, and also the last time i saw them alive. I feared regretting all of it, i feared the disappointment with myself was going to swallow me whole, but someone...someone who refused to succumb to their demons taught me once how dangerous it is to surrender to regrets, they can make everything loose its meaning in a blink of an eye. I used to fear sleeping on an empty stomach, i used to fear that stealing and killing would be my only reason to live. Now i fear everyday for my soldiers life, but what i fear the most is the regrets i could have, if you let them overpower you, they can make you believe that everything amounts to nothing.

Putting his palms on the wooden wall behind him, Levi pushed himself up, putting his jacket on, arms sliding slowly into the sleeves you were protecting your ears with just minutes ago.

« That’s why i make the choice, every waking day, not to regret any of my actions »

« So you don’t see me as a weak person ? »

« You killed forty human-eating monsters all by yourself, i don’t call that weak. As long as there is no thunder while you’re killing them i think we’re good »

You chuckled a little, your face already a bit brighter.

« It already happened Captain, and i did just fine, seems like it doesn’t affect me when i’m concentrating on something bigger and more frightening »

He was already heading for the door, your eyes following the black and white wings on the back of his jacket, he stopped just before going down the stairs.

« I’ll see you tomorrow at Erwin’s office for some paperwork regarding your new responsibilities »

You watched his figure disappear like it from your view like it always does, even though you were just been announced you’re gonna be working while being even closer to the threat now, you never felt happier. Yes you will be closer to the danger, but you will also be closer to Levi, hoping you could watch over him and maybe just maybe protect him as a token of your love. Be it from your admiration or your strong feelings, you knew your devotion to him had no boundaries. He wasn’t only humanity’s strongest in spilling blood and cutting flesh, he was also humanity's strongest for having a heart equally as great as his strength, but the world had yet to give him credit for that.

Listening to the creaking of the stairs as he went down, you couldn't help but remember when you found him in the cabin, staring at the sky. “And i’m ruining the view for you” ? He asked

You aren’t ruining the view

You are the view »

[stubbychaos]

Let These Words Set You Free

Chapter 6 of Saviin’ika

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4 | Part 5

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: After finding it impossible to break off your relationship with the Mandalorian, you let him claw his way deeper into your heart as you two spend the night together after he tends to your wounds. Deep conversations ensue and the Mandalorian gives you not one, but two gifts to cheer you up.

Rating: T 

Word Count: 7,900

Warnings: There’s really not a whole lot of warnings for this chapter to be honest. Mostly non-descriptive mentions of abuse, tending to wounds, and Saviin’ika struggling with self-deprecating thoughts because of how horribly she’s been manipulated.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the kind words on the last chapter and I absolutely can’t believe that it has over 200 notes?? Like, you guys are all amazing and keep inspiring me to write more and I absolutely love reading all your replies/reblogs/messages/and even the tags!! <3

You’re certain that you must be the most selfish woman in all of Nevarro--in all of the entire galaxy.

Instead of listening to your father’s grave threat against your life, against your Mandalorian’s life, you find yourself letting your fearless warrior stay with you throughout the entire night so he can hold you close to him after a traumatizing week. At one point, he removes his cuirass and the padding that covers his stomach so you can rest your head more comfortably and your heart swells that he’s willing to shed something so precious, just for the sake of your neck not aching, come morning.

You’re half asleep and unaware of how much time has passed since dozing off when you feel him slowly shifting your sore body against him, turning you until your cheek is pressed against his softly defined belly and you bring a hand up to curl into the warm fabric covering his side. You find it slightly amusing that the last time he’d been lying on the medical cot with your hands on his ribs, you’d been absolutely terrified of him and now--

Well, now you’re letting him hold you in such an intimate, vulnerable way and you’ve never felt safer.

As he tenderly caresses your face and hair while you rest your eyes, his cloak wrapped tightly around your pliant form, you realize you’ve never trusted anyone the same way you trust this massive warrior of a man. You’re in an extremely vulnerable position, too lethargic and drained to fight back against anyone who would want to harm you in that moment, but he’s proved to you, time and time again that he couldn’t even bear the thought of causing you such pain. 

You’d witnessed it in the way he continuously went out of his way to brighten up your day by showering you with sweet, simple gestures, or how he held no reservations in taking care of you and your injuries. He hadn’t believed you to be a foolish woman for wanting to fiercely protect the sweet crystalline fox that still comfortably sleeps on the flat pillow you had surrendered earlier, nor had he admonished you for being reckless enough to go anywhere near that dirty cantina where the Trandoshan had discovered you. 

The faith and confidence he has in you to simply be nothing more than yourself is overwhelming and breathtaking in the most beautiful way, as you’ve never had anyone show you such interest in all the little quirks and personality traits that he believed made you unique, compared to anyone else he’s encountered before.

Your heart soars when you think of the pride that had been prevalent in his praises upon finding out that you had kicked your attacker hard enough to get yourself out of a bad situation. You want to learn how to become stronger, for both yourself and him, but the weight of your father’s threats press down harshly on your thin shoulders and you fear that it is such a weight that not even your heavy-infantry warrior would be able to relieve you of.

You ponder if he thinks you’re fully asleep as he gently removes the metal cuffs from the tail of your braids, skilled fingers working at the tangled locks that your father had angrily dragged you by just a day prior to your reunion with your Mandalorian. The stark contrast leaves your lungs bereft of all air as he takes his time to unwind your long braids, taking great care to not tug at them or cause you any discomfort while you get some much needed rest, and you marvel at how someone who possessed so much strength and such a terrifying reputation can touch you so sweetly, so tenderly.

“You are so pretty--so beautiful,” He murmurs with a soft, dreamy sigh as he tenderly rubs your sore scalp with the utmost precision, “I promise I’ll take you away from this awful place soon--just hang in there, ner cyare. ’M gonna take care of this whole situation you’re in.”

You think you must have simply dreamed the excruciatingly sweet sentiment because of the way he utters the promise with complete devotion, his thumb moving to tenderly stroke your bottom lip. It makes you feel like you’re trapped in a lovely fantasy, rather than the nightmares that typically prevent you from getting a good night of sleep.

You let out with a little hum when you feel him shift a little, fearing that he’s going to leave you, but his hand hastily moves to the spot between your shoulder blades and reassuringly rubs up and down the length of your spine.

“I’ve got you, cyar’ika,” He whispers so lowly that you only hear it from underneath his blue helm, “Always.”

Underneath the care and skill of his hands, you eventually fall into a peaceful sleep, letting the Mandalorian comfort you in the only way he knows how. Before you let exhaustion completely take over, you briefly wonder what cyar’ika means and if it will replace the other names he’s gifted you with.

Only hours pass when you feel fingers tenderly squeezing your nape and you slowly wake with a big yawn against his stomach, your fingers curling into the thick fabric covering his ribs as he coaxes you from your restful slumber. Despite being a little tired and there being a dull throbbing aches in the back of your skull from being concussed, you think it’s the most peaceful sleep you’ve ever had.

“I am sorry for waking you, mesh’la,” The Mandalorian’s voice pulls you completely out of your dreamy state and you groan a little as you rub the sleep from the corners of your eyes, “I was not sure when your father would be back and did not want to cause you anymore trouble with him.”

You ignore how nauseous you suddenly feel from both his words and the promise you had broken to your father, “Wh--What time is it?”

He hums a little, his hand easily sliding down your spine like it’s only natural for him, “About an hour before sunrise.”

“We do not have much longer then,” You reluctantly sit up, letting out another soft groan as you stretch out your arms high above your head, cringing when your hear several bones in your back and joints in your shoulders crack. You hear the Mandalorian sigh behind you as you roll your stiff neck and you both understand that you aren’t sore from the position you slept in, but more so the grueling shifts you’ve been working the past two weeks.

Your Mandalorian voices his concern as you begin to part your hair so you can braid it, “This job takes a toll on you, does it not, mesh’la?”

“Yes, but it is worth it to me,” You murmur, shivering a little when his cape falls from your shoulders, “I wish the people were kinder, but sometimes I get someone who is grateful. Yesterday one of my patients was a little girl who had scraped her knees pretty badly--she was the cutest thing, just a little Togruta, no older than six. She was so upset because apparently her older brother told her that I was going to amputate her legs. I had to reassure her for nearly half an hour I would not be cutting off her legs because of scraped knees.”

The Mandalorian laughs, tilting his helmet as he watches you gracefully style your hair and brush it away from your face, “You like children?”

Something about casually talking about children, all while sitting between his thighs on the cot you two had shared the previous night makes your cheeks viciously flush and you’re grateful your back is facing him. You’re not sure how to change the topic and choose your next words carefully.

“Yes, Mandalorian. I think they are... precious and I admire their curiosity and innocence. It is not often my patients are younglings though.”

“Someone like you must be good with little ones,” He voices his thoughts out loud and you think he sounds amused as he grazes his thumb along the outer shell of your warm ear.

For some reason, an intense pang throbs in your chest and you lower your head a little when unpleasant memories surface to the forefront of your mind, causing hot tears to brim your eyes and you quickly squeeze them shut.

“I could only wish to be better.”

His hand falters at the shakiness in your sad whisper of a voice and instead of teasing your ear, his hand moves to your nape and squeezes in an attempt to comfort you. He doesn’t ask what or who’s haunting you and you’re grateful, for you fear you do not have the strength to confide such horrific thoughts and memories to the massive Mandalorian without crumbling to pieces.

It’s silent for a few moments and you hate that you’ve completely ruined the comfortable atmosphere, so you miserably continue to braid your hair with now shaking fingers.

The Mandalorian, however, is determined not let you feel such dejection and speaks as softly as his helmet will allow him to.

"I wish I could watch you do this every morning."

“I am only braiding my hair, Mandalorian,” You smile weakly, forcing yourself to forget about the topic of children as you lift your elbows high above your head, deftly parting three separate locks of thick hair on the right half of your scalp, “It is nothing special.”

“Yet you make it look like art,” He hums, reaching out to softly stroke the half of your hair that you’re currently not braiding; for a moment, you think he’s going to attempt to style it for you, though he simply continues to trail his hand down your back, “I haven’t really touched someone else’s hair in a long time--I enjoy touching yours.”

“How long has it been?”

His hand freezes against the small of your back and before you can even begin to fear that you’ve asked a terrible question, he answers you in a much softer tone, “At least twenty years, mesh’la. My mother used to let me try to style her hair much like how you do yours, but I was never as good as she was and I would usually give up. She would always tell me that she felt bad for any future grandchildren I would give her because of how terrible I am when it comes to such things.”

The thought of this intimidating warrior being a child, attempting to braid his exasperated mother’s hair makes you smile fondly as you keep forcing yourself to not let your mind wander to a dark place that cause you unnecessary pain.

He sounds utterly nostalgic and you marvel at the images his words conjure in your imaginative mind, “Her hair was a lot more stubborn and curlier than yours, but she always made it seem so easy to braid it--you both make it seem so easy.”

“Then it would be good for you to learn as well, Mandalorian,” You quietly inform him, turning your head slightly to regard him with quirked eyebrows as he reaches out to stroke the thick plait with admiration before finishing it off for you with one of the metal cuffs he had dutifully held onto all night.

He sounds utterly amused when he speaks up again, mirth evident in his modulated voice as he continues to thumb the soft weaves and crevices of your graceful work, “Why would I need to learn such things when braiding someone else’s hair has never been a part of my studies in the tribe? What could hair styling possibly come in handy for if I am in the middle of a battle, little nurse?”

‘Braiding the hair of the future grandchildren your mother spoke of.’

You nearly say the words out loud, though you think them to be too personal and you do not wish to cause the Mandalorian any sadness upon bringing up old memories of a different time.

“I am sure the little ones in your tribe would not mind having their hair out of their faces,” You hum as you cross thick locks of hair underneath one another and gently tug to make sure they are tight enough where stubborn pieces won’t escape; you frown at the way his hand falters against your nape and you think you’ve made a mistake in your words, “Unless there are no little ones that don’t wear helmets? I j-just figured--I did not mean to disrespect your tribe or--”

“It’s okay, you are not being disrespectful,” He chuckles, shaking his head a little as he continues to watch your fingers work at your smooth locks, “I just… I was not expecting you to say that--you never ask about our helmets.”

“It is something sacred and none of my business,” You refuse to meet the emotionless gaze of his visor as you hastily bring your braid over your shoulder to continue the lower you get, cheeks burning as you lower your voice into a sheepish whisper; you feel shameful for bringing up something so personal, “I would never--I don’t ever want to--”

“Saviin’ika--you are far too sweet and precious for your own good,” His chuckles dissolve into laughter at how flushed and shy you’ve suddenly become at something that truly does not seem to be a big deal to him, his fingers squeezing your nape in a comforting way, “Yes, we do have young children in the tribe that have not yet sworn to the creed and we have some that put on the helmet as early as their sixth birthday. It is something that they choose whenever they are ready, not something that is forced upon them.”

You awkwardly shuffle your body around until you’re facing him, his thighs still splayed wide and feet dangling off either side of the cot as he lazily reaches forward to grab the loose tail of your braid. He seems utterly focused as he skillfully wraps the silver cuff around the bottom of your plait, fingers lightly stroking the ends of your hair that aren’t weaved together. You think there must be some sort of comfort and reassurance the warrior gains from helping you tame your own unruly locks and you smile warmly at him when he continues to stroke the soft tip of your braids with great reverence.

Curiosity gets the better of you and despite your better judgment, you find yourself speaking a question that’s plagued you since he first opened up about his tribe during one of your first meetings when he finally began to trust you more.

“Are there people who simply do not wear the helmet at all?”

He makes a small humming noise as you shyly lift your gaze to peer up at him through a thick abundance of eyelashes, “Sometimes uh, people who would not be considered to be foundlings are brought to the tribe, but it is rare that they are accepted by everyone. It is a long process that goes into permanently bringing in an outsider and very rarely are they accepted. It usually ends in an intense fight of some sort.”

“M-May I ask why?”

His helmet tilts to the side and his bare hand comes up to gently caress your healing cheek as he easily quells your curiosity in that comforting baritone that must intimidate so many others, “Because, saviin’ika, we need to make sure that whoever is deemed worthy of joining our tribe is able to provide for us in one way or another--no matter how little or big the job may be. We need to be sure that they will not turn their backs on us or do something that will draw attention to the tribe. It is a very delicate and difficult process, but it is for our own protection since our numbers are now so low.”

“I think it is honorable,” You murmur as you sheepishly tuck your hands between your thighs and gaze up at his emotionless visor, “That you value your people so dearly that there is a long process that goes into joining the tribe. It shows that you have respect and love for one another--it’s admirable.”

He hums, his thick fingers twitching against your healing cheek as he heaves a grave sigh and brings his other hand to tenderly cradle your head between his big hands. He cocks his scuffed up helmet to the side as he curiously strokes your skin and you certainly notice the strange shift in the atmosphere when his chest heaves a little and he simply holds your head up between warm palms.

You nervously fidget with the tail of your braid as he remains deathly still and silent, almost making you think he’s fallen asleep or passed out underneath that blue bucket.

He eventually shakes his helmet a little and clears his throat as he reluctantly releases the gentle hold he has on you, your skin now warmed and tinged pink, "I don't think I will ever truly be able to understand you, mesh'la."

You frown a little, confusion pinching your brows together with worry, "Did I say something wrong?"

He chuckles a little when you move to carefully climb over his thigh to slowly slide off the cot, his hands hastily moving to your hips so he can steady you when you nearly fall face first into the floor.

"No, you just--" He makes a funny noise as he moves so his thick legs are dangling off the side of the cot and you're caged between them; you smile when he brings you closer without having to use much guidance. You think the Mandalorian could guide you through your darkest, scariest nightmares and you would still trust him not to let any harm reign down on you--that he would be able to lay waste to anyone or anything that attempted to cause you pain or discomfort, all while holding your hand.

"I'm just daydreaming, like you always do."

You smile at the slightly wistful tone he manages through his crackly modulator.

"About what?"

He lets out a deep exhale when you bring your hands up to tentatively cup the sides of his clothed neck to hold him in place, though he could easily shake you off if he desired.

 "I’m daydreaming about you, mesh'la--always about you."

Your breath catches in your throat when he wraps his arms around the back of your thighs and drops his helmet against your stomach, resting it there as if it's the softest pillow he's ever owned. A small, desperate groan has you nearly giggling and you hesitantly choose to firmly massage the tense muscles in his broad shoulders and the back of his neck. He gently squeezes the back of your legs with gratitude and pulls you impossibly close; you remember with burning cheeks what he had admitted to you last night.

"The things you do to me… The things I would do for you."

You're not used to feeling wanted in any way shape or form, but something about the way he strokes the back of your covered thighs and melts into you makes you think he’s not toying around or jesting with you. Despite never trusting anyone enough to want to pursue some sort of physical intimacy with them, you find that you're absolutely flushed at the sound of every little groan and grunt he lets out as your fingers work at his tense muscles. You’re unfamiliar with the dull ache that’s burning something fierce in the pit of your stomach, but you find that it’s not an unpleasant sensation. 

You’re absolutely certain it has nothing to do with your healing injuries, but more so with the way one of his hands finds the small of your back and gently squeezes.

It’s not until your fingers manage to curl underneath the bunched up material that covers his neck that he lets out with a groan so loud and a shuddery breath that you nearly yank yourself away from him, fearing that you’ve somehow managed to harm your Mandalorian.

“You’re good--fuck, you’re good,” He reassures you before you can remove your hand from his warm skin and you fear that your skin will actually be set ablaze, “Feels really nice, is all.”

You glue yourself to that spot and continue to provide him with any relief he’s willing to accept from you. Happiness and dread burns hotter than coals in the pit of your belly when you realize that you are somehow able to reduce the huge warrior to this kind of state. Something about him displaying such vulnerability is humbling and satisfying, but you realize just how accurate your father was when he spoke of being able to hurt the Mandalorian in other ways. Judging by how upset he had been the previous night upon first noticing your injuries, you are certain that your father would wish to cause him pain through your own suffering.

“If he ever hurt you to the point where you could not be healed, I would not hesitate to act so cruelly and I would not let anyone stop me.”

You remember the Mandalorian’s grave promise and lower your head in shame--fear and sadness suddenly threatening to drown you underneath its massive tidal wave. You do not wish to be the reason for your Mandalorian displaying such acts of violence and you realize that the soft words he had spoken in your sleepy state about taking you away from the village was only part of a silly dream.

“It seems as though you need rest as well,” You whisper, hating that your voice shakes from excitement and fear, “I’m sure your own bed is far more comfortable than this dinky little cot. You should go back to your tribe and get some sleep since you didn’t seem to get any last night.”

“I’m sure my bed is comfier than yours as well,” The Mandalorian huffs, completely disregarding the last sentence, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks and your heart leap at his next words, “Perhaps you would like to test it out sometime?”

Your chest heaves a little at his boldness and you struggle to shrug it off, “I think you just want a body to keep your bed warm at night and I am not that kind of woman.”

“And I am not that kind of man.”

“Yet you would still invite me to sleep in your bed?”

“Did we not sleep together last night?” His shoulders are shaking from what you think is him trying not to laugh and you roll your eyes, though a warm smile stretches across your lips.

“Besides, your skin is always freezing--I doubt you would be doing much to warm my bed, though I don’t think that’s a bad thing, mesh’la,” His voice drops into a deep, low rasp as he slides his hand up the base of your spine, fingers splayed wide against nearly the entirety of your lower back, “I would not mind warming you up every night, especially in my bed.”

“You cannot say these things to me, Mandalorian,” You huff at the tenderness and intimacy of his words and his impossibly tight embrace, “I am not--I’m not used to others wanting me the way you seem to want me.”

“Has nobody--” He seems to struggle with his next words as his hand tenderly squeezes your hip, “Has no one ever told you how beautiful you are? Or how pretty your eyes are? How soft your hair is and how nice it looks when you wear flowers in your braids?”

Your breath hitches at the utter conviction in his modulated voice and you loathe how shaky your voice is when you speak, “I cannot say anyone has said such things to me before, nor do I feel deserving of those kinds of compliments. I know I am nothing special.”

“Is that what he tells you?”

You look away from the warrior shamefully, even when he sits up a little straighter, his visor piercing your soul as you answer him, “It is what I know.”

The tips of his warm fingers curl firmly into the back of your thighs as he moves his helmet backwards to gaze up at you and you think that this kind of skin contact must be so rare for him that it brings more pleasure than anything else. He seems so vulnerable like this--sitting on the medical cot where the two of you had just spent the night together, his helmet pressed against your ribs that had been intensely bruised and aching only hours ago. Though there’s still a small amount of pain that lingers, it is now significantly milder after he used your bacta salve to heal the worst of your bruising.

“Don’t speak lies about yourself, cyar’ika--it hurts me too,” He almost sounds like he’s in pain as he holds you so close to him, “You are by far the most beautiful person I have ever encountered in Nevarro--in the entirety of this galaxy. You are deserving of so much more than my words and I would never stop trying to convince you otherwise.”

“You are too sweet to me,” You murmur, voice still shaking with intense emotions that you’re not used to feeling, “I wish there was more I could give you in return.”

With little hesitation, you curiously burrow your fingers deeper underneath the thick fabric of his tunic as you massage the soft, pillowy muscles of his tense shoulders, enjoying the way he groans and pushes himself closer to you when you rub at a particularly tender spot.

“Being able to hold you is all I could ever ask from you, but having your hands on me like this is a nice bonus,” His voice is deliciously hoarse and low, even through the guise of his modulator and he practically keens when your fingers squeeze the tension away from just underneath his nape, where he carries stress the most between his shoulder blades, “Vor entye--thank you, cyar’ika.”

You’re well aware of the way his hands barely move an inch up the back of your thighs as you reluctantly remove your hand from the heat of his cowl, finding purchase on the hollows of his cold Beskar cheeks instead. He makes a small humming noise when you urge his helmet backwards a little to properly gaze up at you and you can’t stop yourself from smiling from the comfort that the shine of his visor bestows upon you. His hands move to cover yours and you beam when he places them on top of your much smaller ones, carefully squeezing your fingers.

“One day--” He sighs and cocks his helmet to the side as his voice drops, “One day I will feel your hands on my cheeks--on my skin.”

“But your helmet--your creed?”

“There are ways, cyare,” He informs you, his modulated voice crackling a little, “I will show you some day.”

You smile weakly and barely nod at him, deciding it was probably one of those traditions sacred to his people.

A few stray beams of crimson sunlight infiltrate your tiny office through the cracks of the blinds and you reluctantly pull away from one another; you feel the pull he has on your heart, as if beckoning you to remain close to him. You fear him leaving to go back to his tribe will unravel you completely, though you remind yourself that if you rely on him like this, it will only cause more pain when all is said and done.

He stands tall above you, still observing you as you make your way over to the vulptex that is barely starting to wake up, her eyes narrowed in the Mandalorian’s direction. 

After checking the state of her minor wounds and hand-feeding her some dried meat--much to her utter dismay--the beautiful creature seems to be in better spirits as she allows you to tenderly pet her rocky coat. You can’t help but to grin and giggle a little when she squeaks happily, letting you tenderly scratch her rocky little chin with admiration.

“What are you going to do about her?” Your Mandalorian questions when you eventually face him, watching with interest as he easily adorns his chest with that scuffed up cuirass before turning to his much larger equipment, “Would he not be angry about you taking in a stray? It’s just a weak runt, saviin’ika, are you sure she’s worth all this?”

“Do not speak of her like that,” You frown, turning to the tiny vulptex that is staring up at the two of you with curiosity, “Of course she is worth it.”

The Mandalorian sighs and shakes his head as your crystal companion clumsily rises from her pillow and quickly hobbles over to you for comfort; you’re quick to reach down to scratch just behind one of her large ears. Her crimson eyes blink slowly at you with adoration and you wonder how anyone could possibly have the desire to harm or kill a creature so beautiful and sweet. You think it must be difficult for your Mandalorian to be able to relate to having feelings of helplessness, what with being a trained warrior and you wonder what it must feel like to be a feared man in a village like this.

You can’t even begin to imagine not feeling like an easy target.

“What if he--?”

“I’ve been able to hide my smaller patients before,” You inform him, grabbing his large hand in both of yours before he can put his glove on; his helmet cocks to the side and you think he must be amused, “I’m sure she will not be difficult to keep hidden.”

“She is not the first stray you’ve taken in?”

You raise your brows at the blue warrior who seems utterly content to let you explore the coarse, calloused skin of his knuckles, “You’re still here, aren’t you, Mandalorian?”

“Funny,” He huffs in an incredulous manner, shaking his helmet at your teasing voice, “I’m being serious though, please be careful. I would rather you not be bruised and broken the next time I see you because of you having such a soft heart.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod slowly, dread creeping through you as you whisper your next words, “When will I see you again?”

“I--” He watches you as you lower your head, not wanting him to see the fear and despair in your eyes that he seems to find so expressive, though he still seems to have an easy read on you as he speaks with anguish evident in his crackly voice, “I am not sure, but I promise it won’t be more than a few days this time. It is for the well-being of the tribe, something that will benefit us.”

“Then that is good,” You murmur, though the ache in your chest still burns painfully and you force a meek smile, one that he easily sees through “They are your biggest priority.”

You wonder what it must feel like to have that kind of intense love for your family--that willingness to walk through flames and the most dangerous of situations, all to protect the ones you love. You find it absolutely beautiful--the dedication that Mandalorians have to their tribe--and you briefly ponder if you’d ever get to meet any of the warriors from his tribe, if he would ever trust you enough to even entertain the thought.

“You both are my biggest priority, mesh’la,” You absolutely loathe how vulnerable and scared you feel as you keep your tear-filled eyes away from his visor and you hear the heavy-infantry warrior grunt a little, stepping closer to you, “Please don’t cry. Stars, I’m not worth your tears.”

“You are worth every single one of them,” You inform him in the form of a breathy whisper, quickly shouldering away a tear that manages to slip from the corner of your eye, “I will wait for you, I just fear that you would not come back for me. I have--I have been abandoned far too many times, Mandalorian. I am afraid.”

“I will always come back for you,” His back straightens and his helmet jolts to the side a little, as though the thought of not returning to you has him feeling distraught, “That is a promise, ner cyar’ika, and I never break my fucking promises to those I care for.”

Your breath hitches at the utter devotion that’s apparent in his deep baritone and you can’t stop yourself from bringing his massive hand up to your face, barely aware of the way he grunts and shifts when your lips find the rough callouses that cover his knuckles. You’re used to dealing with tough criminals and bounty hunters that have no reluctance in displaying their dominance or strength, but as you gently kiss the rough marks and scars that he’s willingly exposed, you think it’s the first time a man has ever been utterly relaxed and pliant under your touch.

“What are you doing--? Saviin’ika are you--?”

He chokes a little when you maneuver his hand until his palm is facing upwards and he’s gently grasping your lightly bruised cheeks, not quite as tenderly as the previous night, but still making sure not to cause you any pain. You think the bruises must linger on your skin like some sort of beacon, judging by how tenderly he squeezes the supple flesh. 

A part of you gains satisfaction in the way the massive warrior groans loudly when you firmly press your lips into the warm, bare skin of his rough palm and you’re stunned and lightheaded at the thought of having this kind of power over such a fearless man.

“You said last night that you wished you could kiss me,” You remind him and you swear he shudders against the light hold you have on him, as though you somehow have the same effect he has on you whenever he decides to grow bold around you, “This is the only way I know how to give you one.”

His chest heaves a little upon feeling that warmth of your lips in the valley of his thumb and index finger, “I wish I could give you more. I wish I could show you how precious you are to me--so fucking precious to me, saviin’ika.”

You feel your eyes brim with hot tears at the utter conviction in his raspy crackle of a voice and you want to tell him that he’s already done plenty to make you believe his affection and intentions with you are completely genuine. His shoulders drop as you tend to a rough callous on the heel of his palm with your lips and you think you feel his fingers tremble against your cheek. It is then that you realize just how much you two have in common, both of you not used to the tender touch of another soul and you marvel at the thought of someone so much more powerful and far larger than you being just as touch-starved and vulnerable.

“You took care of me last night and helped with my wounds. You saved me from that cruel criminal and held me all night to keep me away from my nightmares,” You remind the aloof Mandalorian, peering up at him with a soft, kind gaze that seems to only unravel him further, “I have… I’ve never been someone else’s patient before--at least not since before my mother cared for me--but what you did for me was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me and I could not ask for more from you. You have given me more happiness and hope in the last decade than anyone else."

“I want to give you more,” He pleads, almost sounding helpless underneath all that armor, a thought so ridiculous and shocking to you, “Cyar’ika, I would give you anything you wanted if it meant you blessed me with that pretty smile of yours.”

He seems hellbent on giving you some sort of gift and you wrack your brain for anything within reason your blue warrior could possibly conjure up for you.

For some reason, you think of all the nicknames he’s affectionately gifted you with, along with knowing your real name, and your cheeks flush when you realize the only name you have for him is ‘Mandalorian’. It feels too formal for your liking and you wonder if he feels the same way--if he longs for you to murmur his real name when you’re whispering soft praises underneath the tender care of his hands whenever he’s softly caressing your bare skin.

You don’t know enough about Mandalorian customs or traditions when it comes to their real names and you think that perhaps it’s taboo for him to share his name with outsiders. The last thing you want is to cause any offense or disrespect to his people that he evidently cherishes and you let out a soft sigh against his palm.

“Always thinking so much and never saying what’s on your mind,” He observes thoughtfully, not seeming upset by your quiet reluctance, “Your thoughts are safe with me, always.”

“I would not wish to offend you for what I want from you,” Another gentle press of your lips against the center of his palm has the huge warrior grunting once again and pushing himself further against you, “It would be selfish of me.”

“I would give you anything you wished for--” He breathes as your lips graze across his rough fingertips, “And knowing you, it is something that is not selfish.”

“How could you possibly know that, Mandalorian?”

“Because I know you are not a selfish woman,” He chuckles as your soft lips continue to praise his warm skin with great tenderness, though every time you think of the promise you made to your father and how easily you broke it, you feel like the most selfish woman in the galaxy, “Tell me what it is you wish for, cyar’ika, and I will give it to you in a heartbeat.”

His hand tenderly moves to cup your cheek and you know that he must feel how hot it burns for him--for the promise that his deep baritone carries and you fear that your heart will actually fail its main purpose.

“Even your name?”

“Anything for you, cyar’ika--anything.”

The way he doesn’t hesitate in the slightest almost leaves you in tears and steals the air from your lungs.

You smile at the way he grunts, as though he doesn’t know how to respond and you relish in the way you are able to reduce him to a state of being speechless when you’re certain that there aren’t many who had such an effect on him. For what you think must be the hundredth time in the last few hours, he leans down to gently nudge his forehead against yours and you shiver when he pulls you in close. Something about the way he holds you this close or how he softly rubs his scuffed up helmet against your head makes you think that these gentle headbutts hold more meaning and sentiment than you originally thought.

His hands find their home on your hips and you loathe that his cuirass and all the padding and equipment he wears prevents you from melting into him as he simply holds you close. Carefully, he drops his helmet into the curve of your neck and you hear the way he inhales deeply before releasing it and you think you feel some of his warm breath tickling your exposed skin. You remember him admitting how he oftentimes swore he could smell your hair--your flowers--and you wonder if that's what he's currently trying to do, even though you lack your usual violets.

“Paz.”

His voice utters a single syllable and your heart leaps high into your throat, threatening to choke you with the intense emotions you’re currently feeling.

Immediately, you grin when he reluctantly lifts his helmet to observe you, as though he's nervous of your reaction and you decide you don't mind seeing the Mandalorian act as sheepish as he often makes you feel.

"Paz," You repeat the three-lettered name out loud with a sheepish grin, your voice sounding so soft and quiet compared to the way he says it in that deep baritone; you say it again, a little louder and more sure of yourself,  "Paz. I… think it suits you."

He hums, shaking his scuffed up helmet at you and you think he must feel embarrassed, for whatever reason, "What's that supposed to mean?"

You force yourself not to giggle at the terseness in his crackly voice, “It is sweet and sharp, kind of piercing, just like you. It is gentle, but also rough--just one syllable and so short, but no less meaningful. It suits you and I… I love it.”

“My name?” He chuckles, and you almost loathe how amused he sounds as he hunches over to press his forehead against yours, "You love it?”

Your cheeks burn something fierce as you nod a little against his helmet, "Yes, but I also wonder, do you have a last name as well?”

“Yes, cyar’ika,” He hums, his deep baritone rumbling like roaring thunder against your eardrums, “Perhaps one day I will give it to you.”

Your frantic heart instantly falters and your eyes widen as he gently grazes the apple of your cheek with his knuckles that you had previously been praising with your lips. You realize you must be overthinking his words, judging by how calm and cool he sounds as he murmurs soft words in his native tongue that barely make it past his vocoder. Though you've only known the Mandalorian for a few months, the thought of having such a future with him fills your belly with an intense heat and you don’t say anything out of fear of your voice shaking.

Suddenly, he pulls his helmet away and you frown at how frantic he suddenly seems to grow, immediately fearing the worst.

“Shit--I almost forgot after everything that happened last night.”

You watch with utter curiosity as he pulls away from you and makes his way over to where he had left his utility belt on your desk, carefully shuffling through one of the pouches with great intent and precision, “When I was traveling the last few days I saw something and it reminded me of you. I want you to have it.”

Your brows pinch together in confusion and you frantically shake your head when he turns around with a white cloth that’s wrapped around your unexpected gift, “You...? You just gave me something so precious--I couldn’t possibly--”

“It is nothing special,” He chuckles as he begins to unwrap the object, shaking his helmet at your anxious tone, “It didn’t cost me anything other than my pride when everyone in the tribe found out.”

Your eyes widen and you gasp when Paz reveals a beautiful white flower that’s the size of your palm, it’s long petals wispy and curled around the ends. You don’t even realize your eyes are brimming with tears and you can’t remember the last time someone has made you cry out of happiness, your cheeks aching from how big you’re smiling.

“I’m not sure what kind of flower it is,” He explains sheepishly when you don’t say anything, “Underneath the moonlight, the tips of the petals turn blue. I thought it might...”

He turns his visor away from your face when you grin up at him, “You thought what, Paz?”

“That it might look pretty behind your ear.”

“You--” Instead of saying anything else, you launch yourself at him and you’re surprised when he actually stumbles backwards the tiniest amount as you squeeze your arms around his broad shoulders. He chuckles and easily holds you close, his arms wrapped around your waist and you’re too distracted by the beautiful gift to feel any discomfort from his gauntlets digging into your back.

“No one has ever given me a flower before,” You press your face into the crook of his neck and listen to the way he sighs your name when you kiss the bunched up fabric, “Th-Thank you.”

Paz reluctantly lets go of you when you move to tuck the flower safely behind your ear where he thought it would look prettiest and you give him an inquisitive expression, as if silently asking him to confirm his suspicions. 

“You are so beautiful,” He reaches out for you and for a moment, you think he’s going to touch your ear or stroke the big flower, but instead, his hand cradles your cheek in a way that steals your breath, “I... I don’t want to leave.”

“You must,” You remind him with a sympathetic smile, understanding his pain all too well, “We both have important jobs to do. I could walk with you as far as you would let me?”

He huffs, the thought of you walking with him no doubt an amusing one, but he nods as you carefully scoop up the vulptex in one arm and grab his elbow with the other, letting him lead the way. You notice that he walks slower, visor dutifully scanning his surroundings and you wonder if he’s always this cognizant of his surroundings or if it’s because of your presence. There’s a slight chill in the air, but not enough to make you shiver and you smile a little when the sun continues to slowly rise and warm you with it’s early-morning rays.

You close your eyes for just a few seconds, pretending you’re elsewhere with your Mandalorian, somewhere far more beautiful, and you’re certainly not aware of the way he stares down at you as he leads you further from the infirmary.

“I could not let you go any further,” Paz finally speaks about twenty minutes later, just outside the marketplace, and you turn to face him with a soft little smile, “Someone else from the tribe has been taking jobs in the village for the past few weeks and it is not safe for more than one of us to be above ground for too long.”

“There is no need to explain--I understand,” You reassure him, giving his elbow a firm squeeze and your heart soars when he taps his helmet to your forehead one last time, “Then I will see you soon again?”

“Yes,” He sighs gravely when you two reluctantly pull away from each other, “I mean it this time too. I am hoping the next time I see you, I will have good news, cyar’ika.”

You beam and cradle the vulptex securely to your chest with both arms. Though you don’t know exactly what kind of news he could possibly have that will affect you in any way, shape or form, you’re still excited to hear more about his tribe--his people--and you give him a frantic nod. After saying your goodbyes and blushing when he gives your chin a little tap and a reminder to keep your head up, you make your way back to the infirmary, a bittersweet sensation lingering like a dark cloud over your heart.

“It’s okay, little one,” You gently shush the vulptex when she lets out with a sharp whine, as though your downtrodden disposition is affecting her also, “At least we have each other, right?”

You give her a soft smile when her eyes slowly blink up at you and even though you should feel ridiculous for talking to an animal, it doesn’t stop you and you continue to tell her of your hopes and dreams for the future--your wants and desires pertaining to your blue Mandalorian. A part of you realizes there’s something cathartic about speaking to someone or something that doesn’t actually know what your saying, perhaps because you know that your crystalline companion won’t judge you.

Before you can tell her that you long to run away from all this, you freeze when you look away from your confidante to check your surroundings, only to be met with the sight of a figure storming towards you with a blaster trained on your vulptex.

You’re not sure what fills you with more fear--

The fact that you’re already going to lose your precious companion, or the familiarity of the t-shaped visor that’s pointed directly at you.

Ner= My, mine

Mesh’la=Beautiful

Saviin=Violet

Cyar’ika=Darling, sweetheart

Cyare=Beloved, loved, popular

Taglist *If I missed anyone or anyone wants to be added, please let me know!*:  @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild  @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aeryntheofficial @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst @anakinsittinginsand @yes-music-is-my-religion​ @tangledlove27 @justrunamok​

[lemonsandstrawberries]

A Day for Romance

fandom: Stony (Steve x Tony)

summary: Tony and Steve didn’t have a romantic Valentine’s day in years and when Tony decides to fix it, something unexpected stops him. 

length: 1 831

a/n: Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! I know some people dislike this day, but for me, it was always more about celebrating all kinds of love, not only the romantic one, but love to your friends, to your pets, to everyone who you hold dear to your heart, and to yourself! So, treat yourself today, because you deserve it! if you like this fic, don’t forget to show me some love, feedback, reblogs and likes are appreciated and needed!

—————

A Day for Romance

"Tony... What's that?"

Steve found himself not able to stop smiling. There was some feeling coming back, one he didn't feel quite in a while, or at least not as prominently as now. Giddiness? Yes, that was the word.

By Tony's smile, twitching and spreading and the happy sparkle in his eyes, Steve could say that Tony felt the same, pleased that his Valentine's surprise worked out so well. Every day, their bedroom presented quite simple, with crumpled sheets, lone clothes here and there, organized in a modern, minimalistic style and with few heartwarming accents like their wedding photo on the nightstand, or more humoristic ones, meaning the tie with a ducky pattern, looped over the wardrobe handle. This was like cupid decided to drop by, got drunk on Tony's scotch, and vomited everywhere.

"Oh my gosh, how did you even - " Steve laughed, still not believing what he was seeing. He was an artist and had a good eye for color, but it was like Tony used the whole palette of red and pink shades and sprinkled random Valentine's day accents all over their bedroom, from the cheesiest giant pastel pink teddy bear, ending on the enormous deep red bouquet of royal roses.

"I decided that we didn't have enough of romance in the past Valentine's days and decided to make up for it," Tony said, sashaying over to Steve, his hips doing some magic movements. To cut the sugar down, Tony chose to wear a simple, black suit, that made him stand out nicely.

"Make up for it?" Steve asked in humor. "More like cramming last five years into it," he answered himself. It wasn't like he and Tony lacked romance in their relationship, it just simmered down into something more steady and comfortable in the last years. Being together for almost a decade developed their relationship from the wild and not having enough of each other into a sturdy and comfortable feeling of knowing that the other person would be always there. The love was still present and growing, not needing outbursts of feelings, but small everyday gestures of devotion. That's what their last Valentine's days embodied which took a form of a shared dinner over a movie and cuddling on the couch while in sweatpants. And it was as good as during the early years of their relationship when they had decided to meet in a hotel under fake names, romance each other all over again, and spent a wild night together.

"Are you complaining?" Tony asked, pressing himself to his husband and grabbing by the collar, pulling him down. "Because if you are, I am not above spanking you to put you back in order, soldier," Tony purred out, their lips brushing together.

"No, sir," Steve denied with a smile, moving his face to match Tony's, lips getting closer and closer. "And I gotta say, you clean up rather nicely," Steve said, meaning that it has been a while since Tony wore a suit, not for a formal event, not for a public speaking, but just for his husband.

"Wish I could say the same about you, but there is an awfully lot of clothes on you for me to be sure," Tony breathed out. Steve wouldn't call a t-shirt and jeans a lot of clothes, but the message was well received. Their lips finally met, slow and passionate, and they stumbled together, falling on the, of course, rose petals covered bed, making them fly everywhere. Greedy fingers went into motion, peeling clothes of each other, lips wanting more and more -

"ACHEW!" Steve turned his head away, blocking his mouth with his hand.

"Uh," Tony blinked, his tie and dress shirt halfway off, "bless you."

"Thanks, babe," Steve rubbed his nose, trying to cease the tingly feeling. "Where did we stop?"

"Hmm, somewhere here," Tony smiled charmingly, pointing with a finger to his neck. Steve leaned down eagerly, ready to suckle and kiss the offered skin, when the irritating feeling came back and he straightened up abruptly, sneezing again.

"Steve? What's wrong?" Tony asked, lifting on his elbows and sounding alarmed. It wasn't like Steve to get sick all out of sudden.

"Nothing, it's nothing - " Steve tried to brush it off, but another sneeze happened. And then another one. And then he felt his throat becoming tight and eyes water and all of this was oddly familiar and disturbing.

"Oh my God, get out!" Tony panicked, not liking what he was seeing, and easily identified as an allergy attack. Roses? The scented candles? The new silk sheets in red color sprayed with essentials oils? There were too many variables and there was no time to analyze them all before Steve's head would swell like a tomato.

"Dohny, I'm fined -"

"You are not fine!" Tony decided, batting Steve off of him and pushing out of the bedroom, "Claritin is the kitchen cupboard, take it!" he ordered in a firm voice which was a total contrast to the half-naked torso and loose tie. Before Steve could react, Tony slammed the door shut, needing to air the room out first.

Well, that killed the mood quickly.

One cleaning and few pills of Claritin later, they ended on the couch, Steve's head settled on Tony's lap, as he still felt a bit fuzzy. Tony put some movie on, but Steve didn't pay attention, going over what just happened.

"Ugh, this sucks," Steve said in dismay, sniffling, the stuffiness in his nose not going away yet.

"The movie? I can change it," Tony said, gently playing with Steve's hair.

"No, not that -" Steve lifted himself to look better at his husband. Tony's gaze followed him and there was some surprise in his eyes, as Steve looked irritated. Irritated with himself. "You wanted to do something nice and I feel like I ruined it."

"Define 'nice'," Tony grinned, using air quotes at the second word, showing that while it was supposed to be nice, at first, he got carried away and crammed as much Valentine's day gadgets as he could fit in their bedroom just because he could, which pretty much caused his husband to suffocate, literally. Steve didn't reply, just jutted his bottom lip forward, feeling that he ruined the day. "Hey, don't make that face," Tony said softly, framing his husband's face with both hands, thumbs brushing below the jawline tenderly. "I can always reuse that stuff next year," he grinned, trying to fix the mood.

"Sure, just this year, we ended in the same spot, as last year," Steve sighed.

"It is a good spot. Comfy," Tony replied, rubbing Steve's cheeks playfully before letting go. He patted his lap back, urging Steve to lay down again. Steve's eyes followed the movement, and then he slid his gaze up, all over the expensive suit and white shirt with undone top buttons, no sight of the tie, his gaze heating up. Such a waste. It all could very well lead in one direction if it wasn't for a question burning in the back of his head.

"Do you think the serum is wearing off?" Steve asked, words running together.

"Pshhh. What?" Tony snorted in humor, but his face changed when he saw how alarmed Steve looked. "I don't know. I don't think so? But we don't exactly have anyone else to compare, you're one of a kind," Tony smiled kinder.

"I shouldn't have any allergies. I remember having allergies, but it all stopped since I took the serum and - " Steve rambled, spiraling into something bad. If his allergies came back, who knew what would come next. And when. And that really scared him.

"Hey, shhh," Tony took Steve's hand and squeezed it, trying to get him back. When their eyes met, Steve's blue ones showed a lot of uncertainty, while Tony's brown ones were calm. "I understand you are worried, but it was one thing, Steve. One thing that was easily fixed with some pills for allergies."

"What if it is not one thing?" Steve asked in a sad whisper.

"Then it will be more things and I will love you just as much I love you now," Tony assured, bringing Steve's hand closer and kissing his knuckles. That made Steve smile. "You still love me too, even if I changed, right?" Tony asked, meaning the flow of time and what it was doing to him. His hair became a bit more grey, eyes were set deeper and more often there was some sort of pain in his bones, one he didn't remember having. It was all part of life and couldn't exactly be stopped.

"You're always beautiful to me," Steve said honestly, meaning every word. He was seeing the same Tony was, but in contrary to Tony, Steve appreciated every change. It made Tony real and tangible and warm, and Steve didn't want a frozen perfection, almost unnatural. The day Steve had found his first grey hair among blonde ones, they both had celebrated, Steve maybe a bit more than Tony, relieved that even if it happened slower, he was aging. He didn't want to live forever and he certainly didn't want to live without Tony and it gave him hope that he won't have to. Just losing the serum was a different story. A one that had danger written all over it.

"That's sweet," Tony smiled, "and you will be always handsome to me, even when you sneeze your lungs out and get teary-eyed," Tony joked, meaning the allergies attack.

"Ha-ha," Steve fake laughed, causing Tony to laugh back, just real and honest. Beautiful. "No need to rub in my face that I ruined our Valentine's day."

"And night. I don't think it is safe to go to the bedroom yet," Tony pointed out, not wanting to risk another attack.

"Right," Steve sighed. Sleeping on the couch was not an option, but maybe they could use one of the guest floors in the Tower. Still, the mood was gone. Seemed that it wasn't a day for romance after all. Tony didn't like Steve blaming himself over something so silly and decided to fix the mood.

"Friday, dim the lights, cue some music," he said, and when the first notes of a soothing melody started to seep in, the lights got softer, Tony stood up and spoke again, offering Steve a hand. "May I have this dance?"

Steve chuckled softly, looking at his husband's calm and smiling face. Tony had this almost magical ability to fix things for Steve. After all, his husband was a mechanic, building and fixing was his thing and it went further than machines.

"You know I will step on your feet, right?" Steve asked teasingly, accepting the hand, and stood up.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Tony kept smiling, putting his arm around Steve's shoulders, Steve drawing his husband close and holding him by the hip. Pressed together, gently swaying to the music, they celebrated Valentine's day just as they liked - intimately and close.

[all1e23]

Between the Stars [Prologue]

Pairings: Past!Steve x Reader, Bucky x  Reader

Summary:  Struggling with the death of your husband, you find comfort in someone unexpected.

Series warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Grief. Overall sadness. Depression. It’s pretty angsty if I’m being honest. Things mellow out as the series goes on. 

A/N:  It’s a military AU which I forgot to mention because I’m an ass. Starting you out with some seriously sad shit right out of the gate. I am sorta sorry. Sorta not. @teamcap4bucky​ Read a preview and responded with “fucking, fuck you” so that should give you an idea of what you’re going into. There is a lot of angst but it’s not gratuitous. It’s purposeful and shows the ups and downs of grief and moving on. I think I grabbed everyone’s tags if not shoot me a message. If you like it write a book report, sing me a song or come scream at me. 

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****

“I’m serious, Y/n.”

“Okay,” You mocked teasingly. “You’re serious.”

Steve growled, teasing smile curling up the edge of his lips despite the frustration in his eyes. He gripped your waist and pulled you away from his duffle, ignoring your yelp of protest and settling you on his lap. His pants scratched the back of your bar legs. You hated those stupid pants, they were stiff and uncomfortable. They made him look like someone you didn’t know. Or, at least someone you didn’t want to know. 

Your fingers find the soft, worn fabric of the ugly tan shirt he had to wear — Army regulation or not, it was still ugly. The fabric twisted around your fingers, pulling it from his pants, ruining his pristine appearance. Maybe if his shirt was wrinkled, he would get in trouble and not have to go. It was unlikely. He had a unit to command, but a frightened wife could dream, couldn’t she? 

This was the fourth deployment the two of you have gone through together. The stupid support groups were all liars. It didn’t get easier after the first, it got harder. You knew the risks before, but now you understood, really understood what they meant. Things became second nature that shouldn’t be second nature for anyone. Like turning your television on in the morning, to see if there would be a notification officer and chaplain knocking on your door within the next eight hours. Every night that passes without a call leaves you wondering if the last time you spoke would truly be the last. 

It leaves you panicked. Did you say I love you enough? Did he say it to you? Will you ever be lucky enough to hear it one more time? 

But then the call comes, and everything is right for the twenty minutes you get to hear his voice. 

The sparks are gone just as fast as he is. 

“Hey,” Steve’s voice had lost the hard, playful edge. It was soft. The softness he used when he tried to coax you awake in the morning, or when Steve spilled the secrets hidden within that generous heart of his — the same gentleness Steve used whenever he told you he loved you.

A roughened index finger tapped under your chin and tilted your head up from where it was hiding in his neck. 

“I meant what I said. This is the last one. I’m done after this.” 

It was that time again. Re-enlisting. You knew Fury had attempting to convince Steve to stay and true to his word Steve would shake his head and end the conversation before they ever got far. The Army could be persuasive, though. 

“You really think they will let you go?” 

Steve cupped your cheek and tightened his hold on your hip, tugging you securely onto his lap, so your legs hung off one side. “They won’t have much choice. I’ve given them all I can give them.” 

“B-But--” 

Steve leaned in and swallowed your broken protests in a gentle kiss. You didn’t have time for more, so it was nothing salacious, but his lips lingered far longer than they should if you were in public. Thankfully, you were still home and could savor the feel of his lips. The cool air hit your barely swollen lips, and you shuddered, immediately wishing he would kiss you again. You wanted to keep that warmth for just a little longer. 

“No buts. Do you trust me, Y/n?” 

You searched his eyes, bright, full of hope and vulnerable like they always were when he looked at you. 

“With my life. You know, I do.” 

Steve grinned, and if you weren’t already in love with him, you would be falling fast. 

“I promise you, Y/n. This is it. My last tour and then I’m all yours. We can do everything we said we would and finally start a family.” 

You could feel your eyes burning from tears; you refused to let fall. Steve brushed a kiss under your right eye, letting you know it was okay to let them fall if you wanted. 

“Do you really promise? This is the last time?” You finally whispered. 

“I do. There’s nothing that could keep me from coming to you. Fifteen months, baby. I just need you to hang on for fifteen months.” 

You huffed a watery laugh and wiped those insolent tears away. “I can wait fifteen months for you. I’d wait forever, Steve.” 

—

“—Steven Grant Rogers. A man who was devoted to his country and his lovely wife—” 

You blinked several times, your eyes focused on the dark wood five feet in front of you, and the words all ran together in your ears. You didn’t need to hear the kind of man your husband is. You knew. You knew how kind and selfless and courageous he is—he was. 

A cool breeze ruffled up the edges of your black dress and left you with a chill buried deep in your bones, one that would never leave you. At least the weather had behaved. There was no rain, the sun was glowing through what little clouds were nearby. It was the kind of day Steve would have called perfect. There was nothing perfect about today, no matter how brightly the damn sun insisted on shining. You had briefly thought of having the service inside some church somewhere, but neither of you attended enough while he was living to make that an option. Sarah had argued with you, they wouldn’t care about that. No one would judge you or ask you to leave, sweetheart. Deep down, you knew that. It simply didn’t feel like Steve, and you wanted his last moments with you to be him. 

Finally, you settled on the park where you met all those years ago, where he proposed, and under the tree where you vowed to love him forever seemed like the only right place to say goodbye. You don’t know how but between Sam and Nat, they found a way to make it happen. You assumed some strings were pulled, favors called in that you could never repay. 

At least Steve came home to you. 

Even if it wasn’t the way, he promised to come home to you.  

You can’t help but glance to your left, Sam was standing there in his dress uniform, shoulders squared and face blank. If you didn’t know him so well, you would think he was simply another soldier paying respects to Captain Rogers. You knew his tells. That clenched jaw, the tightened fists, and the slow, deep breaths he took every few minutes as if he has scheduled them out. Sam’s hand startled you when it reached yours, his fingers threading with your own. He wasn’t supposed to do that, and as if he could read your mind, his shoulder shrugged, and the faintest smirk appeared. 

It was nice, but you couldn’t help but feel like something— someone was missing. 

“Why didn’t Bucky come?” 

You should be quiet, but your silence wouldn’t change who you were burying today or the fact that you were going home alone tonight and every night from here on out. Keeping quiet wouldn’t change that you will never get to kiss or hold your husband again. Everyone in attendance will go back home to their spouses tonight, they get to leave and breathe a sigh of relief because it wasn’t them. They will go home to hold their loved ones and whisper how they won’t ever leave them the way Steve left you and make promises for more because they still have a future where promises and more exist. 

So, if anyone had a problem with your whispers, they could go to hell. 

“He needed to stay with the rest of the unit,” Sam whispered, tightening his hold on your hand for some reason you weren’t sure of. You’ve already heard the worst. You doubt anything Sam said at this point could hurt you. “Someone had to stay behind, and he thought it would be better for guys and… for you.” 

Turned out you were wrong. 

You ignored the pinching in your chest and turned back to face the preacher, your concession to Sarah though it still felt a little off. Part of you had hoped Bucky would be there to help with everything, so when the plane landed a few days before, you had been surprised to see Sam had escorted Steve back home instead of Bucky. Not because they weren’t close or because Steve didn’t love Sam like a brother. He absolutely did, but it’s always been Steve and Bucky for as long as anyone could remember. You found it hard to believe Bucky wouldn’t put up a fight to be here for goodbye.

The casket flag was slowly pulled from atop the casket, and dizziness hit you. It was nearly over. You felt your eyes fall closed, and the voices around you faded away. Everything blurred. You didn’t want this. None of this was fair. You were supposed to have forever, and now you had nothing. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He promised. Steve promised, and he didn’t break promises! 

Especially ones made to you.

“Sam?” You whispered.

You took a deep breath and opened your eyes. They were on the 8th fold. Each fold took another piece of you, just another chip of whatever was left of the person you were. Whoever that girl was, the moment that flag was in your hands, you knew you would never be that girl again. 

“Yeah?” 

“I don’t think I can do this.” You whimpered as a few tears began to fall. 

“I’ll go with you—” 

“No, I can’t do this… go on alone. Without him. I can’t—I just can’t.” 

“You’re not alone, Y/n. We are all here for you for as long as you need.” 

Everyone but Bucky.

A man you didn’t recognize, a nameless face approached you, thirteen folds between his hands, a tiny crooked hat made out of stars and stripes. Strange how something only a little bigger than your purse, could destroy the rest of your life. The man stood stoically and met your eyes as he repeated what you were sure was a well-rehearsed line he practiced many times. 

“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful Nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

You wished it could do something to ease to the ache. They were hollow words that meant nothing. Through the haze that had fallen over you, taking away the sun and the clouds, you must have reached out with shaking hands because Sam stepped forward to help support the newly added weight, guiding it into your arms. You clutched the flag against your chest, holding on to all you had left of your husband. You squeezed your eyes shut and prayed to whoever would listen, Please let me wake up now. Please, please let this be a nightmare.

No savior was coming; it wasn’t a dream, and Steve was never coming home. 

Masterlist // Next 

[vulturhythm]

until the blue ocean turns green - part one

There’s a man with golden eyes who sits beside Jaskier’s sea sometimes.

His hair is the silver of the seafoam, and it glows in the moonlight, when it isn’t made red with blood.

It’s red with blood quite often.

His eyes are like the coastal wolves’, bright and cunning.

Sometimes they’re black.

He comes to the shoreline now and then, at least once or twice in a moon cycle.

When he comes, he sits on a fallen tree, one that Jaskier remembers being struck by lightning many cycles before. Half of it is charred black, and the rest is saltwater pale, gnarled with age.

He sits on the fallen rock, and he merely… sits. Jaskier watches him from behind a rock far out in the water, watches him watch the waves.

The sea is usually calm, only ever riled by storms. Jaskier suspects that’s part of why he enjoys watching.

The sea isn’t fickle and upset like rivers and streams, and it’s a sight prettier than lakes, Jaskier likes to think.

Not that he’s seen many lakes - it’s hard to get to them. Rivers have a habit of becoming too narrow or shallow before he can reach a lake, so he’s stuck with tales from the gulls.

It’s from the gulls that Jaskier learns more of the man.

He learns that his name is Geralt, and that he rides a horse he calls Roach.

He learns that Geralt kills creatures like him for coin.

Jaskier knows coin - he’s heard travelers on the shore talking about it, sailors above water talking about it… the gulls tell him it’s currency, like the seashells where he comes from.

The gulls tell him that humans love coin, and Jaskier thinks them foolish for it, because the most seashells can buy down below is passage from one sea to the next, only sometimes the harpies and the selkies don’t honor the toll, and they sic a shark on you, and you make it away bleeding and poor, without ever getting where you meant to go, and you’re alive, but you’re missing half a fin off your beautiful, beautiful tail -

Well.

The gulls tell him the man is something called a witcher, and they tell him he’s right - the witcher always looks sad.

- -

Jaskier isn’t sure how many cylces pass with Geralt sitting at his shoreline.

“Months,” the gulls correct him, over and over, but Jaskier tells them, quite flippantly, that the merfolk measure by the moon, and they ruffle their feathers, and squawk at him but give up quickly enough.

Geralt comes to his shore wounded one night.

It’s the scent of blood that draws Jaskier up from the sea floor, away from the counting of his shells (he hopes, perhaps, he can buy his way up the northern river, the one guarded by the meanest of the sirens and the toughest of the sharks, and follow Geralt into the mainland).

He’s made a habit of lingering close to the shore when nightfall draws near, just in case his witcher comes.

Tonight, his witcher is hurt.

Watching from behind his stone, Jaskier feels his heart ache at the sight.

Geralt moves with caution, with obvious care, and he moves with one hand pressed to his side, and in the moonlight, Jaskier sees, quite clearly, the blood on his beautiful hands.

His heart aches.

Geralt remains for hours, staring out at the waves. Jaskier isn’t even sure he knows what his gaze is upon - he looks lost, and he looks sad.

He always looks sad.

--

Nearly a year passes before the sadness begins to fade.

“He’s in love,” proclaim the gulls, and something within Jaskier snarls. “He’s met a woman.”

Primarily, Jaskire believes them wrong.

The sadness is merely fading - it isn’t gone.

--

Two cycles later, Jaskier has enough for the northern river toll.

He has enough, and the harpies take the shells he hands them in the seaweed bundle, and he shudders at the sight of their wicked talons and human faces, and he swims past them as they sneer.

The gulls, flying overhead, keep watch.

Harpies aren’t known to honor their word, and the sharks circling down below look awfully hungry.

He makes it less than a ship’s length ahead before he feels the water shift, feels it ripple with the motion of something drawing near - drawing near too fast for him to get away.

--

He makes it out alive.

Only barely.

His tail is bitten deep, meat exposed, nearly to the bone. The fins along the sides are torn, and the fan at the end, the beautiful fan he’s adored his entire lifetime, is ragged now, ragged and bloody and raw.

Deep blue scales are flaking off his tail and arms, glistening as they drift away.

If his kind could cry, Jaskier’s tears would be blending with his blood in the water.

He bleeds silver, like the unicorns of the land.

Coiled into the side of his stone below the sea, Jaskier watches as it rises to the surface, glistening there in the moonlight. It clouds up and fades away soon, and yet, still he bleeds.

Geralt does not come that night, nor the next.

Still he bleeds.

--

Jaskier grows weak.

Without food to eat or plants to bind his tail, he bleeds, and he grows weak.

He bleeds, and he grows weak, and his grip on the rock is lost.

The sea fades to black as he drifts upward, toward the moon hanging low in the sky.

His heart aches.

--

He wakes up numb.

He wakes up numb, with the night air on his skin.

He wakes up numb, and he wakes up with the night air on his skin, and he wakes up with a hand on his chest.

Jaskier's world is foggy when he opens his eyes, but he manages it regardless, and for a moment, he only stares, because that's...

That's a pair of eyes overhead, and they're -

they're yellow.

They're yellow, and they're sad.

"Geralt?" he breathes, and those sad, sad eyes go wide...

... and Jaskier sinks back into darkness, Geralt's voice deep and rough and low and like home in his ears.

"How?"

--

He wakes up next when the sun is in the sky.

This time, he can feel water lapping against his sides, cool and comforting and familiar.

He breathes in deep, opens his eyes and blinks at the glare of the day.

It takes a moment for the rest of his senses to return.

He's resting in a little tide pool, deep enough to submerge his tail, his lower torso. Another second passes before he realizes he's laid across one of the rocks at the pool's edge, head propped on his folded arms. There's a damp towel laid across his back, lessening the heat of the sun.

Jaskier groans as he tries to move, pushing himself up on his arms to glance around. He knows this tide pool - it's not that far from where he surfaces to observe his witcher at night. Confusion knots his brow when he glances down and sees what appears to be an animal hide laid across the rock, cushioning his slumber.

"Don't move too much."

He jerks in ill-concealed surprise, finally looking up, and -

he goes still.

Geralt is seated nearby, crosslegged on a mostly-flat rock at the outer edge of the tide pool. He's watching him, golden eyes locked with deep blue, and Jaskier cannot breathe.

He can't breathe, because he is beautiful.

"What attacked you?" asks the witcher, and he speaks softly, as though he's trying to keep the merman from shying away from - from him, from the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, feels the gills along his throat tremble, looks past Geralt to where his red mare is standing still in the sand. "Sharks," he replies at last.

Geralt hums, low, and that's that. He moves with a heavy sigh, motioning for Jaskier to look back, down at his tail.

He obeys.

His tail is bound in white cloth, stained murky platinum with his blood. Geralt had taken obvious care, binding the fins along the sides as gently as possible. Jaskier moves cautiously, giving his tail an experimental sway, and he grimaces at the pain, but it lets him look at the fan at the end, resting in the sand.

Still ruined.

"There's nothing I can do," comes Geralt's voice, and he sounds apologetically resigned. Jaskier nods, tries not to let his face fall. "I treated everything with potions, the wounds should heal in time - they'll scar, and I'm afraid the fins might not regrow, but you won't feel the damage. Your, ah... the fan, though..."

Jaskier is having trouble following along, the majority of his attention devoted to the sound of Geralt's voice, rather than the words.

He catches just enough to know that his fan is lost.

Part of him - that vain, bitter part - hurts with the knowledge.

"Thank you," he says at last, his voice just as soft.

Geralt is quiet, but when Jaskier looks back at him, he nods, golden eyes on his tail.

--

Geralt comes back for him every day for - four, five months?

(Geralt calls them months, like the gulls, and so, finally, Jaskier gave up.)

Jaskier stays in the tide pool for the first bit of that time.

Eventually, Geralt begins to lift him from the stony area, sets him down in the ocean proper, lets him sink below and soak.

He keeps his arms around him the entire time, refusing to let him strain his tail.

When Geralt returns him to the tide pool, he always re-soaks the cloth draped over him, the deer hide laid out beneath him, and offers whatever food he's brought along.

Human food is... intriguing.

Jaskier develops quite the taste for rabbit.

Every couple of days, Geralt changes out the bandages, reapplies the potions he carries hanging off a belt.

It's very nearly maddening, Geralt's touch so gentle and caring on his scales.

Never once does he touch his skin, not with his palms.

Only ever with his arms, strong and torturous around his chest to support him in the shallows.

Jaskier yearns for his touch.

--

Geralt tells him stories, every day.

At first, it's extremely grudging.

Jaskier coaxes tales of slaying selkiemore and drowners and cockatrice and banshees from his witcher, and for the first couple of weeks, it's an agonizing process.

Geralt doesn't like talking about himself.

When Jaskier reminds him that he's the only source of entertainment available to a virtually bedridden merman, he becomes less reluctant.

A little.

One day, Jaskier asks if he's ever slain merfolk.

Geralt doesn't answer at first. He merely looks at him, and there's sadness in his eyes, just as profound as ever.

He nearly laughs - a low, weary exhale - and turns his head away.

"I won't kill you," is all he says, at last.

Jaskier believes him.

--

They play games, sometimes.

Well, Jaskier invents the games, and Geralt tolerates them, at best.

They play "count the seagulls" and "hide the seashell" and "braid your hair," only it's difficult to count the gulls when they always fly away in a rush as soon as they get wind of the fun, and there's only so many places to hide the seashell where Jaskier can reach it from his confinement, and Geralt's hair is the only hair long enough to braid, and he takes it with...

With...

Well.

He takes it.

Jaskier sings to him, most of the time.

He sings him the songs of his kind, and he sings him the songs he's heard from the sailors going by above, and he sings him the songs he's learned from the travelers at his shore.

Geralt teaches him some of his own kind - well, the human kind.

Drinking songs, he calls them.

Jaskier decides he loves them.

--

Geralt tells him about the woman, eventually.

Her name is Yennefer, and Jaskier loathes her immediately.

She's a sorceress - something like the sea witches Jaskier's kind fears.

They met while Geralt was after a djinn - he won't explain why, not even when Jaskier cocks his head to the side and causes Geralt to derail in an attempt to explain. He doesn't even notice that Jaskier is stalling.

One day, Jaskier asks if he loves her.

Geralt doesn't answer, not then.

Two days later, out of nowhere, Jaskier cradled in his arms so he can enjoy the sea, he says, "No. I don't."

Jaskier decides he loves him.

--

It's a long while before Geralt removes the bandages to reveal healed wounds.

There's raised lines of new flesh where there had once been deep gouges, and Jaskier's scales have grown back a brighter, truer blue, standing out against the deep shade of the rest.

The fins are intact, only the smallest notches in the edges indicating their trauma.

As for the fan, the wide, flowing, beautiful, gossamer, ghostly fan Jaskier had prided himself upon his entire life...

The edges of the bites are healed, no longer raw and sensitive to the sting of the sea, but the bites themselves are still apparent.

His fan is ruined.

Laying there in the tide pool, propped on his elbows to survey his tail, Jaskier wishes he could cry.

He lifts his tail, thwacks it against the water, feels no remorse when he splashes Geralt in the process.

Geralt doesn't seem to care.

Not about the water, at least.

It's as Jaskier's about to hit the surface once more that Geralt reaches for him, props a hand against the backside of his tail, holds him firm and meets his gaze.

Jaskier goes still.

His chest is heaving, fear and shame and pain clogging his throat, and he wishes he could cry, but he can't, and so he doesn't.

He stares back at Geralt, stares back at those wolf-gold eyes, stares at him until he lets his tail go slack. The weight of it is no doubt immense, but Geralt supports it like nothing, lays it down gently in the water and sets his hand on the underside instead.

"I'm sorry," he says aloud, smoothing his hand along his scales, down and down and down until he's tracing along the edges of the fan, of the ruined fan, once Jaskier's pride and joy... he traces the edges, and he watches his own hand, and he says, "I tried to save it."

Jaskier doesn't answer.

He's too busy trying to breathe.

--

Geralt sets him back in the sea that night, tells him to try swimming close to shore, stick close by, rest if he needs, he'll be back the next day...

Jaskier merely nods.

When Geralt pulls away, his fingertips graze across Jaskier's skin, across the point where scales fade into flesh along the v of his waist.

He shudders.

Geralt goes rigid, and yet he doesn't say a word.

He eases him into the sea, says goodnight, waits on horseback until Jaskier dips below the surface and doesn't rise again to leave.

Jaskier comes back when his scent has worn thin.

He floats there, near the tide pool, until his newfound strength begins to wane.

He falls asleep resting against the stones at the rim of the tide pool, Geralt's scent hanging heavy in the air.

--

Geralt doesn't come back until nightfall the next day, but he brings food, so Jaskier can't fault him.

His tail isn't powerful enough yet to drive him deep below and back home just yet, and the seaweed and crustaceans near the shore are nowhere near as satisfying.

Geralt sits crosslegged in the sand, watches with attentive eyes as Jaskier ducks and dives and whirls...

... as Jaskier shows off, twists and arches and writhes, lets what's left of his fan splay in the water in the closest thing to a mating dance he's ever fucking done, and he's always winded by the time he surfaces again, and Geralt...

... Geralt doesn't care.

He makes Jaskier come closer, wades out far enough to feel over his tail, over his fins, making sure they aren't strained and raw and split open.

They aren't, but maybe Jaskier plays up his exertion, if for nothing else than to have Geralt carry him back into the tide pool, sit down at the edge and knead into the muscles of his tail until it takes everything within him not to moan aloud.

--

This continues for another week.

Geralt is always watchful, golden eyes following Jaskier through the water so he doesn't grow weak, and at the end of every night, he carries him to the pool, massages the nonexistent ache from his tail and lets Jaskier sing.

One night, Jaskier asks if he likes his singing.

His witcher looks him in the eyes then, just for a moment, and looks away, the faintest of smiles on his face.

He doesn't answer, but Jaskier gloats regardless.

--

One night, Geralt comes looking... almost happy.

He tells Jaskier he's found Yennefer again.

(Jaskier didn't realize that she was lost, let alone worthy of finding.)

She's moved on, living in another town, in another kingdom. Geralt had gotten word from a traveling merchant, one he's known for years.

Jaskier should be happy for him.

He knows he should.

He knows this, and yet, when Geralt looks at him more closely, asks him what's wrong, he spits out, "Do you love her?"

Geralt goes still.

He's standing at the very edge of the tide, arms crossed.

Jaskier is floating just far enough out that the sand brushes his chest when he settles lower in the water, close enough to talk to his witcher with ease.

"Do you love her?" he repeats.

Geralt's jaw tightens, and he starts to speak, and when he does, it's a low and frustrated snarl.

"I knew her first."

Jaskier's tail hits the surface of the water with enough force to send a ripple through the current, to send a wave toward the shore, lapping at Geralt's boots.

"Jaskier, you can't leave the water, you know you can't - "

"There has to be a way, you see magic all day long, Geralt - "

"I'm not taking you from your home - "

"I haven't seen my home in months!" he nearly screams, and his voice is raw and wrecked and honest, and it hurts to yell, and it hurts to breathe, and, "I haven't gone back below since I met you, Geralt, you have to know that, you are my home!"

Geralt falls silent then.

Jaskier's voice gives out as he cuts himself off, and he falls quiet, and he waits, and he trembles there in the water, his witcher out of reach.

When Geralt speaks again, it's with his eyes averted, and he sounds...

"No. I don't love her, but I can't love you."

He turns away, and Jaskier starts to protest, to call out, to beg for him to stay - but his throat is dry, and so he says nothing.

He stays there, motionless in the water, and watches as Geralt mounts up on his mare and walks away.

He stays there until the sun is rising in the eastern sky.

He stays there until the daylight wears away at his skin and his head is pounding with the atmospheric heat.

He stays there until he grows weak.

He grows weak, and he turns away, sinks below the surface, dives down, down, down... down until the water is dark and he doesn't know if the shadows just beyond his reach are creatures come to kill or merely rock formations lurking in the void.

His heart aches, and he wishes he could cry.

--

The gulls tell him Geralt has moved on, farther north.

They tell him he's accompanied by a woman with hair as black as the abyss, a woman who heals his wounds with magic and keeps him warm at night.

Jaskier looks to the ruined fan at the end of his tail, to the fresh and brighter scales that mark Geralt's care.

He looks to the ruined fan, and he doesn't say a word.

--

The gulls tell him Geralt travels alone now.

They tell him that he left the woman in a kingdom called Cintra, and they tell him he's angry now, angry and just as sorrowful as ever.

Some bitter part of his heart is glad.

--

They tell him they've lost track of Geralt.

It's been years.

--

It's been years, and still, Jaskier waits close to the shore.

Geralt's scent has long since worn off the stones where they used to sit together, where they used to talk and laugh and sing and play... where Jaskier fell for the man with wolf-gold eyes and seafoam-pale hair.

His heart aches.

[know-the-way]

I know it’s really stupid of me but I was kind of hoping for a redemption arc for Faustus. 😅😢

It’s not stupid, not at all! It’s natural to want to see the best in people, particularly when you believe they can be better than what they are now, so it’s completely understandable.

And, ya know, if the show gets picked up - he may have one yet still, we don’t know!

To me, this season really highlighted what the purpose of Faustus’ character is supposed to be, imo. Thinking of episode 4, we’re shown three different levels of corruption through three different characters.

The first is Harvey. Pure, sweet, golden boy Harvey is revealed to have some deep-seeded hatred of witches. Does he have any reason to hate witches? Well, let’s check - he lost a brother, got manipulated, controlled, and lied to by his first love, and has been in an endless cycle of extreme danger for the past year of his life. I think it’s fair to say we all understand that prejudice is not okay, but is it equally understandable why Harvey has some hang-ups about magic and witches? I personally think it is. (Not to the point of joining a literal witch hunt or angrily accusing your distressed best friend of killing your dad at her 17th birthday party 🙃, but understandable nonetheless.)

I personally think the intention with Harvey’s character being a cadet in Blackwood’s army was to demonstrate how, even when we believe someone to be morally good and just, they can become someone else when they endure pain and that pain is never properly addressed.

Did Sabrina apologize to Harvey for everything that happened between them? Yes. But did she repeat the same troublesome behaviors in different ways after that? Also yes. She didn’t demonstrate change in her actions, and a loootttt more happened with Harvey and the witch world in a negative way beyond his relationship with Sabrina, so the mistrust he feels isn’t entirely unjustified.

Then - “oh wow, oh my God, my second love has also hid being a witch from me, can I catch a fucking break here? Why should I ever trust another witch in my life?”

Answer: because they are humans, none being wholly good or bad, and they love you.

Roz talks to Harvey, tells him she believes he’s good, and demonstrably proves her own “goodness” by sacrificing herself to save others at Dr. C’s. Roz shows Harvey that she means what she says and her feelings for him are real - that she is a scared, broken human like him, just trying to do her best with what life has given her. Hence, when the moment of truth comes - Harvey remembers his humanity and proves his own “goodness” by saving her. But if Roz had never spoken to him, never acknowledged what he’d been through and that his feelings were valid... if no one had ever truly cared about his pain? It seems apparent that Harvey would have continued down a very dark path.

Which brings us to...

Mary. Mary has been literally murdered, had her identity hijacked by a demoness, her fiancé is dead, she doesn’t remember several months of her life, and her previous favorite student is a witch who has seemingly performed magic more than once on her.

Mary has every right to fear witches at this point. She has had zero trustworthy interactions with the witch world and from her perspective - her entire life has been stolen and no one cares. No one checks in on Mary, no one validates her pain, and as a result - no one in the witch world seems to have any compassion, humanity, or kindness in them. Enter the Pilgrims of the Night, who recognize her pain and fear without even knowing her, acknowledge it, and offer her solace in their congregation on the basis that her experience with witches is shared by the Reverend Lovecraft and his flock.

They prove themselves to her when the advice the Reverend/Faustus gives her (“let the dark in”) saves her life. My God, someone finally seems to care if she lives or dies!

People who care about others are good, so the church and the reverend’s mission must be good, too. Therefore, she is absolutely invested in whatever is asked of her and will blindly follow their lead in order to protect others from experiencing what she has. To me, Mary in the perverted universe represented the crossroads of corruption - where you truly believe what you’re doing is the right thing, even if it hurts others because those “others” have hurt you... and they will surely hurt again if you don’t stop them.

However, I think if Mary was finally told the truth - the full truth - and Lilith herself apologized for being the first piece in the puzzle... along with all the other witches... AND they showed that they actually cared about her well-being... Mary could find her way back through forgiveness. Or, at the very least, she could understand and process everything so that she could find a way to heal that doesn’t involve persecuting others.

And now, there’s Faustus. We aren’t entirely clear on Faustus’ history altogether, but we do know he’s had many experiences of being slighted by the churches of darkness (despite following the rules to a T).

He was rebuked by Edward for wanting to marry Zelda after mentoring him for who knows how many years, lost the office of high priest to him, and when he finally gets the title - here comes Edward’s self-righteous brat to fuck him over again. There he is trying to carry out the Dark Lord’s request to get Sabrina to sign her name in the Book of the Beast, even though she insults their doctrines and faith at every turn, and the coven and academy he’s had working like a well-oiled machine for the past 16 years is being slowly ripped apart. Why is the Dark Lord allowing this? Why is he having to endure a meddlesome child’s antics? Why is he not being rewarded for doing exactly as he’s been asked and returning the Church of Night to stability after Edward nearly destroyed it altogether? Like hello Dark Lord, can you throw me a fucking bone here?

Small victories - he finally secures Zelda’s hand in marriage and an audience with the anti-pope. This is what his life should’ve looked like two centuries ago, but no matter. He’s correcting it all now and by Satan, nothing is going to stop him this time.

But then...

Oh cool, Sabrina is here to intervene again and has presented the text of his old rival for consideration along with his (clearly superior) manifesto. What’s that, you say? Oh, she’s also gonna crash my wedding, accuse me of murder, and spread claims about my manifesto without having even read it? Wow, ahaha, sounds hilarious... except why am I not laughing?

He arrives in Rome and gets an inkling that the Dark Lord may finally be taking action about this heretical little monster because he’s offered the title of anti-pope by the unholy high council themselves. Finally, some appreciation! He just needs to hang on a little longer, eliminate these small meddlesome threats, and soon he will reside over a peaceful kingdom far removed from anymore mortal nonsense.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, what do you mean Sabrina convinces the council he’s unfit to be anti-pope? This is bullshit, man! You know what? Fuck this place, I’m gonna make my own damn church and ensure no other headstrong witches like Sabrina Buzzkill Spellman can ruin it. That’ll finally return things to ord- MY WIFE KEPT MY OWN CHILD A SECRET FROM ME?! WHAT THE FUCK?! Alright, that’s it, The Spellmans are clearly here to poison others (ironic foreshadowing) - time to wash my hands of them completely, I am so over thi- what’s that? The Dark Lord’s here? GOOD. About time this asshole showed up to set people straight and remind them that the values of his unholy church, which Faustus has exemplified perfectly, must be respected.

You mean for me to bow down to whom now? The halfbreed brat who has been directly and willfully wreaking havoc on the congregation he’s patiently and painstakingly lead back to greatness? Are you fucking serious, m8? No. Absolutely not. No. I’m getting out of here, and since I won’t have the little twat poison anyone else, I will literally poison them instead. Be free, sheep!

It’s up until this point that I believe Faustus was still mostly at the crossroads stage, same as Mary. He believed everything he was doing was the right thing, based on the teachings from the religion he devoted his entire life to, and that he’d be rewarded for serving the Dark Lord so faithfully - until the Dark Lord proved several times in succession that his religion was all a lie. That three+ centuries worth of groveling and abiding and waiting has meant absolutely nothing.

So now we have the Eldritch terrors. Beings more powerful than the oldest gods. He spends 15 years isolated in a time bubble purifying himself, devoting everything to them, and won’t it be so glorious when they welcome him into his ranks? He’s set them free now, after all, they owe it to him.

But doing the same action over and over and expecting a different result is what? The definition of insanity, friends. Of course the Eldritch terrors reject him, too... of course Sabrina gains their attention and veneration instead... of course he should have tried to seize their power for himself a long time ago... so, fuck it all, he’ll do that now. There is no right and wrong, there is no observed justice - if there was, he would have been rightfully recognized for all the time, effort, and pain he’s endured only to receive nothing in return.* No one ever acknowledged his pain... no one ever even considered it. Over time, that takes its toll.

(*Clearly, I mean this to be from Faustus’ perspective and not my own.)

Of course, he has inflicted more than his fair share of pain himself and I am of the personal belief he needed to pay for that, but... equally imagine being hurt over and over and watching those who did it walk away, not only without reprimand, but with the belief that they were right and just to do it? Could it slowly drain on one’s soul to watch the rules apply to some and not others? Debatable, I suppose, but I personally think yes.

So... I say all of this only to point out that there is still potential to acknowledge his pain. And thus, there is imo still potential to understand, communicate properly (I am very interested in any conversations he and Sabrina may have had during their training - I know he said she took a vow of silence, but clearly some talking occurred for Sabrina to learn so much about the void from him), grow, and finally - for him to be given the chance to repair everything he had a hand in breaking. It wouldn’t be an easy or painless task to get to that point, and no one would be faulted for not trusting him to do so, but I think there is potential for it. If they get picked up and they want to finally allow the characters some time to reflect and process shit, they could include Faustus in that.

[feral-bard]

good omens fic recommendations

If you’re looking for coherent reviews you’ll be disappointed, but if you want a list of quality recommendations - with excerpts & some vague ramblings as to what the reader should be in the mood for - enjoy!

29 recommendations underneath the cut.

(17k) Something We Were Withholding Made Us Weak by triedunture 

Crowley and Aziraphale learn to move in tandem.

Mood: beautiful slow burn, misunderstandings, heartache that would be solved if someone taught these besotted idiots to communicate.

Paradox: Crowley has never risen from his seat and gone to stand behind someone at a counter, never put his arms around their middle and pulled them tight against him. Has never apologized with a touch, with a closeness, with the thin line of his body. So why does it occur to him that he might do that now? Might press up against Aziraphale from behind and rest his forehead on Aziraphale’s nape and ask silently to be forgiven. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world when he knows, intimately knows that it’s not.

(51k) how deep the sand by Handful_of_Silence

After the Apocalypse, and with characteristic slowness, both Crowley and Aziraphale think there might be something they need to sit down and talk about.

And then Aziraphale disappears.

Mood: tragic twist of fate, separation, hurt/comfort, guilt & devotion.

He thinks about the picnic they’d have had. He’d have pulled the top down from the Bentley and let the wind tussle his hair, the weather of a glorious August now gone warming his skin. They would have chatted, sitting carefully on a tartan blanket, and they’d have made their own plans.

They might have even found the right time to talk properly. Honestly. About everything that’s been, about the possibilities that could be now that everything’s different.

About maybe not going back to London. Going back to their Jobs.

About leaving it all behind, together.

The words Crowley didn’t say are clogging up his throat.

(14k) Made Flesh by rfsmiley / @redfacesmiley

AU in which Crowley is two entities, and Aziraphale isn’t sure how he feels about either of them.

Mood: oblivious idiots, daemon!fic-if-you-squint, pining & tamed desire.

Eleven years pass, attended by another marked change; the creature cannot bear to be out of the same room as Aziraphale. The angel, isolated and frayed as he is by the fear of the coming war, has no problems with this development – he needs the company – although sometimes he looks into the yellow eyes and feels the spear of a nameless sorrow. If it comes to it, Heaven will win, of course; the certainty, however, is bitter. He tries not to think about what will happen to Crowley, or to this small being that runs at his heels as he moves, gripped by a contagious agitation.

(8k) Ad Astra by drawlight / @drawlight

Some things can only be said in the dark.

Mood: beautiful prose, longing, ruthless inner-voices & insecurities.

Aziraphale swallows. His eyes hold Crowley’s. Crowley stands very still, wretched. Terrified. Watching Aziraphale’s very wide eyes, the open of the mouth. There is a softness in Aziraphale’s look, in the swallow of his throat. It could be? (It might not be.) He wants to scream it; he wants to say nothing at all. Let me stay in this bit of maybe. Maybe is not no, maybe means perhaps, someday. Maybe means you might feel the same. (You might not.)

(13.3k) Alegría by drawlight / @drawlight

After the End That Wasn’t, Heaven and Hell are leaving them alone. Entirely alone. (This is a story with nothing of miracles.)

Mood: beautiful prose, longing, ruthless inner-voices & insecurities + domesticity

(Yes, I know the mood is almost the same as above, but honestly this is @drawlight, what were you expecting? Read it if you want a Crowley that will absolutely wreck you & leave you heart-broken.)

Aziraphale is a touch-strong man. He touches everything (Crowley knows, he always watches). Aziraphale loves and he likes to love through his skin. His fingers on a particularly fine leather binding, dipping into the embossed author, the tooled name of the title. His hands breaking apart a loaf of Italian sourdough, fingers coming away with residual flour. Dipping his hands into sacks of grain, rubbing a fine weave of silk through. He touches Crowley too, in his usual and gentle way. The touch on the arm to still Crowley’s whiplash self, to make a point during an argument. Aziraphale who thinks nothing of oh, my dear, you’ve got an eyelash just there, let me get it for you. Crowley has a good memory. He catalogs them all, cross-examines them. Six-thousand years of maybes and what-ifs and what was thats ? But Aziraphale is just as easy with his touches on glass bottles while pulling out his favorite vintages. He touches his favorite fountain pen far more often than he reaches for Crowley. No, in context, it means nothing. It’s just Aziraphale as usual. Don’t look too closely, it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.

(13k) small infinities and all that by JustStandingHere / @billypotts

Crowley and Aziraphale are turned human. This is the aftermath.

Mood: slow burn, domesticity, best friends falling in love & all the beautiful awkwardness that entails.

And there it is, isn’t it? Something they’ve known for a long time, but haven’t named it. Have been too scared to name it. Something that speaks in their bones, in the space between them.

(12k) the deft, sweet gesture of your hand by deadgreeks / @mortuarybees

Crowley arrives injured at Aziraphale’s door. He takes care of him, reads him an awful lot of Mary Oliver, and knits elaborate metaphors for his insecurities (literally).

Mood: beautiful writing, mixed signals, feeling unworthy of the millenia-long object of your affections, unable to create gifts that are good enough for the people you love and being in love with a complete idiot.

Aziraphale has tended to the sick and injured during periods of plague and war many times throughout his long life, and he tries to adopt the same kind-but-impersonal detachment as he carefully washes Crowley. It is slightly harder, Crowley being the sole object of six thousand years of repressed desire, but he’s also Aziraphale’s closest friend, and a person besides, so he does him the courtesy of not ogling his bare legs or torso as he goes.

(9.3k) Slow by write_away / @theirdarkreturning

Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves somehow married. Crowley fears going too fast. Aziraphale forges ahead. Neither know how to ask questions of each other.

Mood: Miscommunication, with a hefty side order of pining and the urge to yell at your screen in the vain hopes of getting through to these two idiots.

For Crowley - that was the demon’s name, and it’s best to memorize it quickly, before he changes it yet again - knew that the angel would love him if he just asked, and Aziraphale - the angel, though there’s no rush with him, there never really is - knew that the demon would take him in with open arms if he just asked. It’s just that neither of them were good at asking things of one another.

(14.7) Lead me to the banquet hall by obstinatrix, wishwellingtons

Crowley loves taking Aziraphale out to eat almost as much as Aziraphale loves eating, but it’s always a bit of a one-sided affair. Aziraphale has never understood why. Crowley planned on keeping it that way, but best laid plans…

Mood: wonderful footnotes, pining, creating a shrine to the object of your longing and then submitting to the mortifying ordeal of them finding it.

The thing about Aziraphale is quite simply this: Crowley can never have enough of him. God, Satan, everyone knows he’s tried. Crowley has spent centuries glutting himself on the sight of him only to be empty again days later, wondering whether it’s too soon to show his face in the bookshop. Aziraphale drifts from brasserie to bar in his quest to indulge in the best of human culinary expertise; Crowley follows after, because he knows Aziraphale will be there. It isn’t enough, but it’s something, and the only thing Crowley can ever expect.

(14.2k) all i need, darling, is a life in your shape       by deadgreeks / @mortuarybees

After everything, Aziraphale and Crowley, by unspoken agreement, begin sharing their lives.

Mood: domesticity with pining, chosen family, acts of love, boyfriend sweaters & idiots in love.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes indulgently, passing out the rest of the gifts and sneaking little glances at Crowley as he struggled with the box. He’d worked so hard on it, searched all the best yarn shops in London for the perfect skeins. He even had to sit on hold for hours with the manufacturer of the yarn he chose because he needed another skein from the same dye-lot, knowing that Crowley would want only the best, and he’d notice even a minor inconsistency in the coloring.

(27k) Long Is The Way, And Hard by Kate_Lear

A story of Crowley’s thoughts about Aziraphale, from the Beginning to the present day.

And also of temptation, and want, and whether - for a Fallen Angel - redemption is possible after all.

Mood: slow burn, denial, temptation, jealousy, lust to love, character growth.

Aziraphale hasn’t shared his bed with anyone. He can’t have done, because if he has then Crowley is going to hunt down that mortal – in this world or the next – and enact something creatively and comprehensively bloody upon them. Possibly involving methods from the Spanish Inquisition, that have scabbed over in Crowley’s memory and that he shies away from picking at.

(25.7k) your weekend lover by witching

Mood: miscommunication, mutual pining, ineffable idiots who are on the same page but reading a different damn book

It was purely physical, they had agreed on that from the beginning. Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember why he had agreed to that, but he suspected it had something to do with not ruining their friendship, or some such nonsense. At any rate, that was the deal. The new Arrangement. Purely physical.

(16k) I’ve Got You To Help Me Forgive by Kate Andrews (k8andrewz)

Pt1: Crowley deals, more or less, with the Fall. Also, Crowley has feelings. The angel doesn’t help with that. Also, sunny rocks are very nice.

Pt2: In which tea is made, a story is shared, and a leap of faith is taken.

Mood: Lust, first times, innocence, ineffable sex, memory wipes, Aziraphale showing initiative and being a bit of a bastard, overwhelmed Crowley, Gabriel is a total dick. Fair warning this isn’t PWP, it has loads of plot and feelings too and fantastic characterizations.

The air in Crowley’s lungs took leave of him all at once. Memories he hadn’t given a good look at in ages resurfaced. Memories he’d quite ably buried, thank you very much and he sat up abruptly, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. He set his sunglasses on the table, then pressed his face into his palms and gave it a good scrub. After a sidelong glance at Aziraphale who sat there patiently watching him, he asked, “What am I supposed to do with a question like that, hmm?”

(13.9k) The Lightness of You by Rend_Herring

God should not have built them with such discrepancy, made them need for love, and long for wholeness, then left them to their own devices.

Mood: When you want to mix up your pining & angst with a bit of humour, sex and a praise kink.

The jasmine vine actually tries brushing up against Aziraphale’s cheek and he blushes, says, “Oh, you,” all indulgent and sweet-like.  It leaves a fragrant white blossom behind his ear.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says sincerely, and Crowley glares openly at the traitors. “That’s very kind of you.” His smile really is a beacon of otherworldly radiance. An orchid blooms on the spot, the epiphyte whore.

(7.2k) summer and his pleasures by witching

absence makes the heart grow fonder, and crowley and aziraphale’s hearts were plenty fond to begin with. a story told through phone calls while they are separated for work-related reasons.

Mood: drunk dialing and dirty talk, idiots in love

Something clicked in Aziraphale’s mind, and he held back a curse word threatening on his tongue. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, he found himself just in that sweet spot of intoxication where he was cognizant enough to recognize that he was doing something he absolutely shouldn’t do, but not quite enough to stop himself. “I would, you know,” he said, full of newfound confidence. “I’d – if you were here, I’d make it… very much worth your while.”

(3.6k) Birds of a Feather by idiopathicsmile

Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals.

Mood: Jealousy, lashing out, withdrawal, oblivious idiots slowly learning how to use their words.

Is Crowley jealous of a musty old flat above a used book store? In the millennia he’s spent slowly twisting his own heart around Aziraphale’s little finger, it’s not the weirdest thing he’s been jealous of, to be honest.

(11k) A Touch Like Sunlight    by goodomensblog / @goodomensblog / @just-quintessentially-me

When Aziraphale is threatened by angels who seek justice for Aziraphale’s crimes against Heaven, Crowley comes up with a plan to keep him safe from harm.

Mood: PTSD from witnessing the attempted murder of your husband, it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, self-sacrificing idiots & badass idiots protecting eachother.

“Right! Brunch!” Aziraphale says, bouncing up on his toes - as if they hadn’t just been discussing the murder of archangels. “Do you think they have crepes?”

(13.6k) These Things Were Here by MajorEnglishEsquire

Crowley, following times of overwhelming distress, resorted to the snake form as a means of finding comfort and solitude.

Mood: displays of affection, love shown through care-taking, using your ineffable boyfriend as a security blanket.

Nothing like it happened again for years. The pattern, however, was too recognizable to be mistaken when it did reoccur.

When commended for some catastrophe of which he was no part, Crowley became a completely disconsolate mess, but he still actually handled those occasions better than when he was, in fact, party to such disaster.

If he was blamed, but not actually at fault, Aziraphale may find him on the verge of discorporation due to alcohol poisoning, but at least he would say what was wrong. It was worse when he had an assignment he couldn’t breathe a word of. It was worse when he would smile bitterly and leave silently, haunted beyond expression.

(4.6k) let sleeping snakes lie by kythen / @kythen

The world doesn’t end. Crowley falls asleep. And Aziraphale stays by his side, waiting for him to wake up again.

Mood: acts of love, comfort, warmth, home

To some extent, he understands Crowley’s need for sleep. It had been an exhausting decade for the both of them, what with the end of the world business, and it had culminated spontaneously in them cutting off their ties with both Heaven and Hell rather dramatically, which were the only ties that either of them have ever had since the Beginning. Just as Crowley had sauntered from the ranks of Heaven to Hell, he had finally found his way out of Hell and into something that finally felt like freedom.

(6.4k) All The Dreams We Had by ImpishTubist / @impishtubist

This time will be different, Aziraphale thinks. This time, Crowley will remember.

Mood: amnesia, groundhog day - but centered on a single relationship - and with more angst

It takes a year for Crowley to fall for him again, a year until the air raid and the church and the books; a year before Aziraphale finds himself pressed up against a brick wall and exchanging desperate, burning kisses.

Crowley’s forgotten again by morning.

(70k) The Place You Need To Reach by Zetared / @zetablarian 

When Crowley is forcibly recalled to home office, Aziraphale conspires with a denounced saint and strikes a deal with the agents of Hell to get him back.

Mood: sacrifice, loss of self, trauma, love, tenderness and fantasy-novel-esque world & character building

“I have a journey to complete,” Aziraphale reminds the Adversary, primly. “May I begin?”

“In good time, Aziraphael. In good time. Tell me, do you recall the rules correctly?”

Aziraphale grits his teeth at the purposeful use of his forgotten name, but he doesn’t mention it. “Yes, of course. Using no miracles or ethereal influence of any kind, I must walk through the circles of Hell and complete an unknown task in each to earn passage to the next. I must not look behind me, where Crowley will walk. I may speak to Crowley, but he cannot speak back. I will not hear him or see him or feel even a hint of his presence. I will move forward, and, God willing, he will follow me.”

(1.9k) Kissing, Accidentally. by skybound2 / @skybound2

The one where Crowley gives in and kisses Aziraphale while he has him pinned against a wall.

Mood: hilarious footnotes, brilliant Crowley internal monologues and ineffable kissing against a wall.

No. No what actually happens is that when Crowley slams Aziraphale up against a wall in the middle of a hallway at a former-Satanic-hospital-turned-paintball-complex to express to him how very not nice he is, his hindbrain, forebrain and all other portions of his brain, decide that while denial has been a lovely place to reside for the previous six millennia, they are rather due a relocation at this point. And “Oh! Would you look at that! Here’s the oh-so-very soft mouth of an oh-so-very-beautiful angel right in front of us! And all we have to do to get there is to just…lean forward an inch. Less than an inch, in fact! How fantastic!”

(9.3k) Build Our Kingdom by Mackem 

Mood: : ineffable dates, promises kept

“Ready for lunch?” Crowley drops to his knees to start unbuckling the straps on the basket as though this is something they do all the time; as though he hasn’t just effortlessly catapulted Aziraphale back in time almost fifty years.

“You remembered,” Aziraphale breathes as wonder courses through him. He mentioned something once during an awkward moment, half a century ago, and now here kneels a demon atop a picnic blanket.

“Hmm?” Crowley barely shoots him a sidelong glance as he concentrates on opening the basket.

Aziraphale’s eyes do not move from him. “You remembered,” he repeats, no less stunned. “Crowley, you really didn’t have to.”

Crowley’s hands still. Eventually, his eyes still on the basket, he murmurs, “Well, we did The Ritz, didn’t we?”

(9k) On The Matter Of Touch by Somedrunkpirate

For two ineffable husbands, they don’t really touch each other much. Here is a story on why that might be.

Mood: touch-starved idiots in love, heart-breaking internal monologues, misunderstandings, miscommunication, protective idiots.

Crowley had decided long ago that curiosity should have been a sin, because it has been the one thing consistently tempting him in his existence. He’s done everything he can think of and more, just so see what it was all about. But this, with Aziraphale, feels more than just an experience he can add to his endless tally

(8.2k) dum memor ipse mei by NeverNooitNiet

There is something, Aziraphale thinks, that is inherently selfish— unangelic, even— about grief. But then of course, the same could be said about love.

Mood: identity angst, calling Aziraphale out on his bullshit

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous ,” Crowley snaps. “Of course I don’t— angel, do you have any idea just how much more straightforward my life would be if only I were able to hate you?”

(5.6k) bent to the very earth by Ark / @et-in-arkadia

Use me, please, Crowley had said, so Aziraphale takes him at his word.

Mood: tenderness & kisses & sex against a wall

Aziraphale kisses him back because that is what makes sense, kissing Crowley, why, the thought crosses his mind often enough—he just never had the sort of momentum that seems to fire up Crowley now. Crowley whose hands are shaking before they ball up as fists on Aziraphale’s lapels, Crowley who keeps kissing him and kissing him like otherwise he’ll drown.

(40k) Lit in the Darkness by ToEdenandBackAgain / @toedenandbackagain​

Mood: Aziraphale and Crowley sleeping together through the ages. Mutual pining.

Aziraphale, despite being nowhere hear as gangly as Crowley, is somehow still all arms and legs when he sleeps. Crowley takes an elbow to the face three times before he wedges the angel between the wall and his body with an angry growl, making sure to trap the flailing limbs tight beneath his own.

Works In progress

this gorgeous ineffable wives snippet by @mia-ugly

Mood: beautiful writing, emotional vulnerability, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known,

“Whatever happens tomorrow -“ And something will happen, they won’t walk away from this. They’d never be allowed. “Darling, you should know -”

the bucket list

  by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons  / @watsonshoneybee​

If you’re going to go native, you might as well go all the way.

Mood: saying the absolutely wrong thing at the wrong time, reaching your breaking point, miscommunication and heart break.

“You know, we are the way we are,” Aziraphale said slowly, pressing it a little, brushing his wing up against Crowley’s, “but we can also change, Crowley. We have done, over the years. We’ve changed quite a lot, since we first met.”

[littlemeangreen]

Since you like my alt-Marauders (WHICH IM SO HAPPY FOR) how about challenge for headcanons of them interacting with the Smashers, as allies or foes or just a chance encounter? No need to, I just thought it might be something you'd have fun with!

@thecorteztwins k I'm suddenly in a big writing mood so!! FINALLY getting around to this I'm so sorry sksksk

For anyone who doesn't know: Thecorteztwins has an amazing au where she's collected Haven (thicc angel lady who was possessed by a demon disguised as a baby), Claudine (Miss Sinister),Madelyne (clone of Jean Grey), Pyro, Sebastian Shaw, Shinobi Shaw and sometimes Alice (a clone being tested by Claudine)!

I feel like the first few days are really testy. Everyone's got some bone to pick, the usual. But the biggest thing? The name. A brief encounter with paparazzi ends with their name and the reactions go from Pyro and Claudine scoffing at how silly it sounds and what a rip off it is (Pyro being a writer?? U KNOW he wouldn't stand for Alt Marauders) to Shaw sighing about the fact that he's been stuck on a team with a cliche super nickname.

Then there's personal names because once again, Pryo and Shinobi both agree that everyone needs a name to reapply make them unique! Hardly anyone goes for it, ranging from Haven's soft "no thank you" to Shaw punting Pyro into a wall. Madelyne is slightly soft for Pyro's RPG themed alias ideas for her and less than impressed for Shinobi's idea of "Mad Milf".

Alice....I'm definitely thinking she gets nicknamed "White Rabbit" or "Wonderland" because; 1) no one can leave her out of getting a name. 2) Pyro 100% would give a cheesy media related name and 3) I like the very small connections of white rabbit to the white and red queens in Alice in Wonderland (and 4) rabbits always get experimented on :).

Gamma Gals having amazing duos with the ladies of the Marauders? Absolutely!!

Jen and Haven, being an amazing duo and I feel like they'd be the two who would have that issue where they're the only ones who can save the day and end up learning a lot from each other? Haven is probably thanking her stars that she finally gets to meet a hero who believes in her kindness just as much as she does (S H A W).

Just....Haven being able to meet an even bigger woman and trading stories and being GalPals(TM). Its a really interesting concept to me that Haven is someone who was deliberately used to destroy and Jen is someone who's entire identity is formed around smashing and destruction. It's probably rather cathartic to be working with someone who purely doesn't want to resort to violence immediately and who has been used (Haven by her demon and Jen by different people).

But also learning something from each other? Haven being able to see that sometimes you do need to fight for what you love and Haven proves to Jen that even after all this time, it isn't the muscle or power that can save everything, it's her and her drive and will alone. Catch Red and Shaw scoffing about it.

Speaking of, those two could either REALLY clash or really get along, no imbetweens. Have we found another old man for Shaw to wrestle with, Roman style??? (Ngl that would be hot in a sick way)

Skaar and Shinobi? Both long haired, beautiful, sons of big figures, grew up in abusive environments,,,,its a duo. Just put Shinobi into a mini team with Skaar and Daken and we have the "Black haired brood squad"

Rick and Pyro working together to have a joint production??? FIrebomb productions baby!! My podcast ideas? Absolutely would happen when you combine these two and its hell. Aka; Rick and Pyro gossip on their podcast and give advice to starting heroes as immortals and smack talk. But also outside of that I imagine they can get along a lot in the "had a hard time accepting stuff" and "we were heroes who often did a lot for others and got disregarded and hurt for it".

Pyro: Hey if I set you on fire can you become a flaming bowling ball

Rick: well let's fine out!!

Red and Shaw....there's a lot there. Both are old men who have been pressed on in their lives and affected by masculine presences in their lives...both are regarded as awful shitbags but they're both MUCH more complex and driven by a need for power and stability...lots of thoughts here.

Shaw and Red are one team you do NOT wanna mess with because two old men who are perfectly willing to do what's needed? Red can respect a man willing to get his hands dirty with clear means and Shaw can probably like a guy who has the drive to do what he believes is the better good. Also big hulk man who can give you endless power.

But also differences in them because Shaw abused and continues to abuse Shinobi while Red neglected and most likely emotionally abused Betty but it seemingly trying to make a difference in it now that she's come back? I feel like these two probably have a SUPER in depth conversation when forced to or alone and then never speak about it again.

Spending of Betty! Her and Madelyne?? What a DUO they're litreally a great mix because Maddie is a clone of Jean, Betty was assumed to be a clone at first and often has to suffer being the "domintrix" she hulk. Both have serious issues with their mental health and identities as well as dealing with their lives being ruled or devoted to men who ruin them. Both want freedom and have such passion! I just....so much to say about these two and the similarities. They're both red.

But yeah Phoenix and Harpy?? Skksks Maddie voice: I'm FIRE HARPY nOW

Am I still yelling for her hero name to be Griffin because of how mystical they are and being a bird and lion??? Yeah.

Also sad thoughts but,,,gals talking about their lost kids (Maddie with Nate and Betty suffered a miscarriage induced from stress), the stress of their lovers and who they've lost to (Jean, Emma, Caiera, Jarella,,,) and being manipulated by men for their power (Maddie by Sinister into Goblyn queen and Betty by Leader into Red She-hulk, Harpy, both died).

Anyway point is I can fully see them two just CLICKING or fighting a lot at first until someone points out just how similar they are. Then? Maddie and Betty out here being the brand new Thelma and Louise. Red and Black styles, willing to use force but protect the innocent, both take Alice and this cute kid that Betty absolutely mother henned in her run and,,,two moms and their talented daughters pls step out the way sir.

Tbh I don't think I have much for Samuel apart form him having a small crush on Claudine (and like,,,,not in That Sense, but Samuel does have a big history of falling for smart women or just...OP women). And then a series of gags where Haven wants to know him because he's like Shaw but also incredibly different in thinking and everytime she walks into the room,,,,Samuel is doing some horrific experiment and she just NOPES OUT. Shaw wants to make use of this but it goes horribly wrong oh God why did he try.

Lyra! I just....feel like there could be a lot for her and Claudine and Alice. Lyra was genetically engineered to be used in a war and was bullied relentlessly for being "half man" which...is rather transphobic and sexist but that's her storyline and it's too deeply embedded for me to headcanon over it so...sighs.

But yeah!!! Lyra taking Alice and giving her a night of being able to just....be whoever that night, not being pressured to have an identity of the sorts from anyone and just being able to fight people with a giant green woman. Probably has a lot of deep talks later that night with Lyra, sitting over a building and eating ice cream because it was one of the first things Bruce shared with her and a first realisation that Lyra could be more than someone's daughter.

100% would picture this with Carmilla (Lyra's sister and...also messy kinda clone) or Laura Kinney hopping along and!! Clone weapon woman team!! I could GET INTO this!!! Just...pls marvel give me a team of women overcoming abuse and forming identities among each other and cool women,,,,

But also Lyra admittedly would respect Claudine for her skills and her...tenacity? Yeah, that. She has strength and guts and Lyra probably actually tells her that she'd rather get experimented on by Miss Sinister than some pig of a man and Claudine just "thhhanks?"

Hulk,,,,funny enough I don't think I have many ideas for him yet? Probably gets into a fair few fights with Shaw and Haven over different stuff, Maddie has a bome to pick for Betty,,,I am,,,blank.

I feel like a lot of things for him would be Haven trying to break through into him, maybe each of the Marauders dealing with different parts of the system? I can imagine Shinobi and Pyro don't have a high opinion of the oversized dad until Bruce turns super ashen pale and immediately Joe starts yelling for some whisky and GIRLS....and a fella or two for matchstick and ghost baby here.

Maddie thinking that he's another Scott and then finding out that Hulk's thing is more complicated than Scott simply looking for Jean again. Also Maddie demands that she will forcefully adopt Hulk's kids and these two bonding over abusive dads???

But uh,,,that's about it!! Hope you liked it!!! I probably could easily delve into more thoughts if there's anything specific for me to set my mind on.