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my-lovely-writing · 3 months

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(Note: as always, please check the tw tags before clicking read more. Also, if formatting isn't the same for every post, I'm experimenting, but it should be relatively the same.)

"I've always held fast to the belief that we're reborn. That we live in the world we created." The hero circled the villain, dragging their nails across the dining table with a sharp screech. "You better pray I'm not right, [villain], because the only thing you've ever created is massacre."

The villain paused, fork and knife hovering over their steak as they chanced a glance at a nearby booth of curious onlookers. They turned back to the hero. "Sit down. You're drawing attention to yourself, to us."

"And why should I?"

"I just said, you idiot. Are you going to eat that or what?" The villain sat down their fork and reached for the hero's salad, who smacked away the villain's hand, glaring.

"It's mine."

"Then sit," the villain growled, careful to keep their voice quiet.

The hero rose taller. "Not with you."

At the commotion, a few hushed murmurs rippled through the room. The villain exhaled through their nose. Their voice was a whisper, but it dripped anger: "I swear to whatever almighty being you believe in—are you here only to make a fool of me?" They shoved the knife into their steak. Possibly a threat.

"No," the hero said, a bit more quietly. Their jaw clenched.

The villain narrowed their eyes and stared at them for a long, silent moment. Their next bite felt hard to swallow. "Then why, [hero]?"

The hero shook their head, as if that was an answer. Why would they, of all people, accept the invitation, much less show up? The question left them reeling just as much as the villain.

Perhaps it was the idiocy of the moment. Of spitting out blood and shaking on their knees, their body so wracked with pain that the pouring rain felt like a thousand shards of glass embedding into their skin and hearing the villain ask, not unkindly, "How does dinner on Monday sound? Olive Garden at midnight?" Or maybe it was the comfort of somehow waking up the next morning, safe in their bed, a bottle of painkillers tucked beneath their pillow.

The hero frowned. Maybe it was the creepiness of the villain knowing where they live. At least there was nobody else they could hurt with that, but still.

"What's that look?" the villain asked.

The hero blinked and snapped back to reality. "You know my house, and that's creepy."

"Your house—that's what I was going to discuss, if you would ever sit down." The villain pointed a sharp finger at the chair.

Their house? That was worth all this? The hero crinkled their nose. For a moment, they gauged the villain—they looked sincere enough, slightly less ready to murder. And they did pay for the food. But on the other hand, the villain had caused so much pain and suffering, all for a reason the hero couldn't name. They struggled with themselves. The villain waited patiently for a few moments, before shooting them another scathing look. The hero sat down.

"I know what you're thinking," said the villain. "Why is this evil man/lady inviting me out to dinner? Why do they want to talk about my house?" They nodded towards the salad. "Eat that—I know you're starving. And the truth is, I don't really want to talk about your house, that was an error of phrasing on my part. I want to talk about your home life."

The hero's frown deepened. They were starving, but how did the villain know that? The villain seemed to pause and wait for the hero to follow the command, and curiosity got the better of them, so they did. An acidic taste filled their mouth—tomatoes. The hero would have spit it out if they weren't so hungry.

"I've noticed that you always show up to stop me, no matter when I decide to blow up the next building." The villain arched an eyebrow. "Getting enough sleep? You're getting weaker."

"I don't see how any of that is your business."

"I'm not much of a villain if my arch-nemesis can't take a hit, now am I?"

So that's why they asked: villainous pride. The hero snorted. Of course.

"Something funny, [hero]?"

"Hilarious, actually."

The villain's lips quirked into something like a smirk but not quite, at that, deep green eyes slowly roaming up their face. The hero felt, distinctly, like the villain could see every microscopic muscle and twitch like a one-way mirror to the heart beneath their skin, all with the poise of a cat. No need to bloody their claws ripping out their ribcage, for that.

"You're adorably misguided, [hero]. I mean, veganism? Really?" The villain chuckled. How terribly casual they were, signaling the waitress over in the midst of this. "Starving your body of nutrients and being a hero don't go together well."

"What do you want?" the hero demanded. They were getting sick of this one-sided game. They were so infuriated they barely noticed the clacking of the waitress's heels as they suddenly appeared beside them—if they had, the hero would have wondered why they were so quick, if the waitress knew the villain was [villain]—but they didn't.

The villain took their sweet time in answering the hero, first telling the waitress to bring [hero] crackers for their salad—crackers, of all things to interrupt them for!—and then went even further in annoying the hero by taking long, slow bite of their steak before responding with a lithe smile, "For you to eat your dinner."

"Bullshit. You want something more than that."

The smile never left the villain's face even as they turned their attention to the returning waitress, going so far as to take the crackers and crush them into [hero's] salad themself. [Hero] never said they wanted them, but they politely thanked the waitress anyway, even as they seethed at the fact the waitress hadn't double checked with the hero themself. Children are usually provided that courtesy.

"So, what's your favorite color?" the villain asked.

The hero was caught off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"Your favorite color. What is it?"

And, perhaps in defiance of such inanity, the hero jammed a bite of their salad into their mouth. And then another and then another and then another until the conversation had long since died. They kept expecting [villain] to reiterate their question or order them to answer, but the villain didn't seem to mind at all, and instead merely turned back to their steak.

When their bowl was finished, the hero took the liberty of gritting out an insult at the villain who, despite everything logical and sane that would contend otherwise if there was anything logical and sane about them, seemed to be expectantly awaiting their answer still. "You have no taste. You said this restaurant is the best in town, but the crackers here taste fucking stale."

"Huh." The villain's hand slid underneath their chin, elbow resting on the table. "I've always wondered what it tastes like."

"What wh—" And then it hit them, and the hero's head was swimming with tired and dizzy and the world was a spinning blur of the villain's signature black and blue—and how horrifically funny to notice now that the restaurant was a black and blue thing. A heartbeat and [Hero] was up, stumbling away. They fell like a newborn doe.

The villain watched from their seat as the waitress caught them—no need to bloody their claws.

The hero awoke, alive, on something soft. Their body was coiled like a boom of thunder, fast and furious and inconsequential, but the hero was wise. They waited, eyes closed, for the sound of breathing, but none met their ears. They slowly peeked an eye open—no one that they could see, and they didn't feel anything around their wrists or ankles. Only after their eyes were adjusted and they were absolutely certain no one was with them did they slip out of the unfamiliar bed, testing the cold wooden floorboards beneath them before surrendering their weight. They didn't creak.

The hero's hand twitched at their side. They wanted to test if the door was locked, but they didn't put it past [villain] to wait in the hallway for that tell-tale half twist of the knob and really, they already knew the answer to that question, didn't they?

So instead they decided to search the room on the off-chance that the villain had accidentally left anything useful—and froze as they spotted a neatly folded up note on the nightstand, a small circular mirror beside it. They—the hero—was dressed in a stunning dress/tuxedo of black and blue. Faint taste of bile of their tongue and hands trembling, the hero unfolded the note.

"Good morning, [hero]. Since you didn't tell me your favorite color, I thought about it for a while and I decided that you'd look amazing in mine. I'll be home at five, okay? :D"

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flaringfoxsoul03 · 1 year

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Hi there Writer, can I ask some Match up Romantic Obey me? Ofc if it's okay to you

How should I started, well.

know myself actually but it's hard to describe it, I'm a Female She/Her pronouns Demisexual INTJ-T. I'm a quiet person and rarely talk but somehow I can make people befriend me easily, maybe because everyone says I'm "Cold outside but warm inside" I guess??? I'm also an ambivert who tends to be more extrovert actually, I'm not easy to get comfortable with new people but I think I'm a friendly person because in my hometown Being friendly and polite is a bridge of socialization and it's already in my bloodblood. I sometimes feel bad for someone even though I know it wasn't my fault when I got into a fight and when I get angry I just stay quiet and don't react much maybe I'll just give them the cold shoulder or at least try not to be seen with them.

the place I hate the most when I hang out is hiking. I got lost and almost died (obviously I don't want to experience that again) and my Favorite Place to Hang out is Cinema and My house. I really like drawing and I often draw my daily life on my tablet like a diary (my hands are fine-)

My love language is quality time, I know I may not be a talkative person but spending time with someone special is what makes me want to talk a lot, i might be the silent jealous type, not because I don't want to admit it but maybe because it's not my right to forbid my partner from interacting with anyone (I will stare at the person who is the reason I'm jealous). I'm also not the type of person who believes in "love at first sight", maybe other people feel it but not me

a little information about my appearance: I am about 176 cm tall. My hair is short Platinum blonde (dye), and black eyes and Oliver skin

Things I like : Flowers, Books, Rabbits, Spicy and sour food (but I'm not a picky eater), Going out or staying at home, Coffee, Drawing, and the color white

Things I hate : Lizard, smoke, Ghost, Horror game and movie ( I'm a scared cat ok-)

I'm sorry if it's too long and feel free to ignore this if you want to, and thanks if you read this. I'll see you soon

You are literally too sweet for words. Nothing can describe you accurately in the amount of sweetness and kindness you possess. Yet ever so valiant of the human traditions of pain and suffering. Even demons would be initially blinded in your radiance, mistaking you for the Virtue of Kindness. I’m not kidding, you are giving me a lot to work with. Let’s see if I can put my work up to the test…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I match you with…

Mammon!

——————————

Look, he is called a scumbag a lot, but he’s different with you. You both met under unfortunate circumstances and got forced into a very difficult situation to navigate, but you both figured it out slowly and like every slowburn romance novel that Satan reads, you fell for each other faster than Lucifer has even seen with Lilith back when they were still angels in the Celestial Realm

Now, it seems odd to put you guys together, but trust me, this works really well. He’s the voice when you’re the words, you fit together so well and would be totally lost without the other, no structure or flow to have anything go smoothly. You, the eye of the storm and he, the raging turbulence protecting you. He’s your first demon, he ain’t letting you go and he’s hoping you won’t let go of him either

Speaking of which, this demon has also raised a very angry creature. He gets angry and its many types, so when he sees you giving the cold shoulder to everyone and being way quieter? Bet on it that shit is gonna turn around real fast. He’ll offer to spend time with him on whatever sounds good in the moment. Whether it be homework, a joyride, or even just cuddling together, bet on it that he’s gonna convince you to be together alone for as long as it takes you to finally break and talk to him. He’s not even trying to talk over you either, he wholeheartedly listens to every little detail you’ll spare him. You deserve to be heard, you should know that better than anyone since you listen to him all the time

Will never actively let you walk by yourself when on a hike, let alone consider the idea of going on one if you’re not totally over the whole near death experience. While he does wanna show you the secret little places he’s found, he knows that you’re not for hikes, especially since you informed him of your last traumatic hike experience. He’s conflicted, he knows pictures will do it no justice, but at the same time he’s worried he’s never going to be able to show you some places he treasures and wants to share it with you. Please help him come to a decision already

Will immediately spend tons of Grimm he’s managed to save up to turn his room into a movie theater from home. He does get the appeal of the cinemas, but why not be able to have it all to yourself when you don’t feel like being sociable? He thinks this is a grand idea, Lucifer is less thrilled with the charges that Mammon has managed to rack up ever since learning your love for the cinemas

Will absolutely try to test your tastebuds against the Devildom’s spicy levels of food. He’s ridiculous and he needs to get that energy out somehow, eating spicy helps him stay at maintained levels of goofiness. He really does love it when you scarf down your food and on top of that be able to handle it? Super hot, literally and figuratively. Even when you can’t handle the heat, you both have a good laugh about it anyways. No shame in spice!

Has great relief that you are never willing to watch horror movies. As much as he claims otherwise, he’s terrified of the movies as he just gets so invested into it, he feels as though he’s part of the movie itself. That’s why he’s so scared of them, even if he knows it’s not real. He’s much more of a Fantasy, Action, and Adventure genres are more his type of movies. But minus the horror? He’s down to watch anything with you, no matter if it’s at the cinemas or in his room

Even if you seem like the opposite couple doomed to fail to everyone else, your relationship with Mammon is of energy balancing acts. If it fails, it’s hilarious at the end usually. If it succeeds, it’s a marvelous accomplishment in your guys’s relationship to be able to do a new thing without getting hurt for it. Sure there’s a few more bumps here and there, but he will never not be by your side

=================

The follow ups are:

Asmodeus

And

Leviathan

===================

That’s it folks, until next time!

~Fox

#obey me #obey me asmodeus #obey me leviathan #obey me mammon #om mammon #om leviathan #om asmodeus #obey me matchups #obey me shall we date #om satan #om lucifer #obey me lucifer #obey me satan

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cursehole · 2 years

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stupid question… and a little personal. If you don't want to, you don't have to answer. Since my teens I've always had some sort of dark circles under my eyes, probably because of genetics. I remembered that you had spoken in a very old Twitter post about this and the beauty industry. How did you manage not to bother with your dark circles anymore? I've never really cared about my dark circles, but for some reason I've been pretty anxious about them lately.

I don't think that's a stupid question. Long reply bc Idk how to keep it to three sentences or less.

Hmmm I understand. The truth is, I just resolved to like them and appreciate them. I did that with my nose, my hair, and skin tone as well (my undertone is olive and tans brown, esp as a kid, which I was made fun of for believe it or not lol). I looked at the media and had to acknowledge it for what it was-selective standards and photoshopped models. It represents a fraction of what the world has to offer in terms of appearance and puts the same few beauty standards on a pedestal, and even those few things are photoshopped to hell to match more similarly (literally not an exaggeration). Another thing I did that helped a lot as a kid was that I would ALWAYS draw myself as accurately as I could and include features that I didn't necessarily like at the time and somehow doing that really made me feel like I was uniquely me- because I am. Things like my eye circles or my prominent nose are parts of me that separate me from the next person, who have their own features too. I'm not saying I'm more unique than the next person, I mean to say that it's very nice to look like yourself. You're the only you, as corny as that sounds lol Drawing myself was sort of an exercise in self love (sounds dumb) and it did help me to develop confidence and appreciate myself. I know that its hard bc a lot of people are easily persuaded into thinking that these beauty standards are factual. Those are the same people who hated freckles bc media said they were ugly, but as soon as they were trendy those same people started to give themselves semi-permanent freckles lol SO I MEAN, I wouldn't worry much about THOSE people. There are a lot of them, but for me, I've never gravitated towards them so what they think doesn't bother me much. In school, being picked on sucked but I didnt LIKE those people picking on me so that helped me stop caring about their opinions too. For me, it came down to acknowledging that my features dont need to be represented to be attractive or cool and I don't need anyone's approval to exist. I found ways to appreciate my features and grow to love them. + If anyone picks on you etc, its helpful to remember that those people have two brain cells max and that's their struggle. Wow this is long and maybe unhelpful idk??????????? I have so much more to say about beauty standards from various periods in human existence (like how small lips and small dicks were considered beautiful) or about how they vary around the world (In japan, its cute to have puffy eyes and girls do their make up to give themselves that appearance) etc Not to mention I could pop off about the tiktok trend where people LITERALLY USED MAKEUP to give themselves dark under eye circles lol But it's not relevant I suppose. TL;DR You're good how you are, fuck the rest :~)

#idk if this is helpful #maybe? no?#its a complex subject #ask #anon

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justavulcan · 3 years

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Make Your Tieflings Fiendish (3)

The final part of the project, for now. Mordenkainen’s Tome of Foes gave us a huge assortment of fiends to work with, so what if your grandparent was one of them? I’m leaving off the demon lords and unique or archdevils on the basis of their being unique individuals, but that still leaves an absolute bestiary’s worth. So, what if your fiendish grandparent was a…

Akilith Demon? You’re either weedy and thin or absolutely massive, bulky like you grew to fill the space around you. Your skin looks greenish and mossy somehow, and always seems to glisten with a thin sheen of sweat that leaves a sharp chemical smell in the air. If you’re lucky you’re proportioned like the mortal side; if not, your limbs might be different lengths as though they grew until they couldn’t fit. Your eyes are likely stark red, and you may have a useless extra one or two spotted about.

Armanite Demon? You might be easily mistaken for a centaur; if you are, your lower body is tawny and hardy, and your hooves seep with something dark and ichorous; you may or may not leave a trail wherever you trot. If you haven’t your grandparent’s hindquarters, your legs are certainly still equine, powerful and muscled through the thigh and ending in a dark hoof. Your horns curve out from your temples and back to meet near the crown of your head.

Bulezau Demon? Your face is likely goatlike, with some mix of long pointed ears, horizontal pupils, a thick ruff about your neck, and a billy’s beard and horns. You’re wiry no matter your strength, and your cloven hooved feet find natural purchase on sheer surfaces. If you got the worst of your grandparent, you’re given to taking ill, and often show the marks of some illness or other- boils, scars, pox marks, and other such features mar your greyish, pallid skin.

Dybbuk Demon? You’ve the look of a rotting corpse about you, or worse show your grandparent’s true face. If you’ve the corpse, you look dead walking, bloated or shriveled to nothing like a body well on its way to decomposition, with the coloration to match. If you were less lucky, you look like your grandparent in their own form- a ghastly pallor tints your skin, which might even be translucent to show the working parts beneath. Your hair is long and grows thin and tangled, forming natural dreadlocks or tendrils. You’re far too flexible in either case, with hypermobile joints all over your body.

Maurezhi Demon? Your skin hangs slightly loose on your frame, as if it were too large for you. While this is strange to look upon at rest, you can pull and contort it into shape, giving you a fair range of flexibility with your features. Your teeth are hard to hide, though; stout, bone-cracking things, and too many for your mortal parent’s side to account.

Molydeus Demon? You tower over your mortal parents’ kind, with skin the red of fresh blood or new red earth, and you’re solidly built, thick through the trunk, thighs, and shoulders. Below the neck, you’ve little hair; above it, your face is nearly hidden behind a thick gray wolf’s coat of fur, and you might even have the snout and nose to go with it. The beginnings of a second head sprouts from one collarbone- either the barest peek of a snake’s snout, or the whole first foot of a serpent body, long enough to wear tied as a necklace and withered to uselessness.

Nabassu Demon? Your inky-black skin is scaly and lustrous like an oil slick. Glowing yellow eyes and short horned nubs leave little doubt of your heritage, and your shoulders are thick with the muscle to support the vestigial wings or remains thereof. You have a hunger in you for something hard to name, and demons and some other tieflings feel a momentary chill looking upon your face.

Rutterkin Demon? You were a mistake, and you look it. While your body isn’t as twisted, random, and nonsensical as your ancestor’s, it’s still just wrong to look at- arms with extra joints, mismatched limbs, odd lumps and twists in your skin and bone, and misplaced fingers, teeth, nails, and non-functioning eyes tell the tale of your abyssal heritage loudly. You grow little hair, and your skin varies wildly in color across your body, as if your sculptor couldn’t decide what would be the most fitting tone.

Sibriex Demon? Your head is the best-developed part of you, and that’s not a good thing. Your mouth is uneven, your nose crooked, and your eyes heterochromatic if they’re not even more distinctly differentiated by mismatched size, shape, or pupil type. Bloated and misshapen, you bear the marks on your flesh of chains that you’ve never worn. Boils, spurs, discolorations, and random patches of thick, coarse hair litter your whole body randomly, and below the neck your body feels like an afterthought, added on after the artist’s work was done on your head. Fused fingers and toes, uneven limb lengths, loose flaps of skin, misplaced bits of nail or scale, and a generally varying skin color mean that even if you have siblings of the same ancestor, you look little alike.

Wastrilith Demon? Your most striking feature are the spined fins sprouting from your head like a lionfish in place of hair. They’re scattered across your body, down your spine especially and perhaps at your elbows and knees. Your skin is hairless, scaly and a sick lavender-maroon shade, and your hands have thick yellow nails that run to claws if you’re not careful to keep them trimmed. You might have webbed hands or fused fingers. You’re built long and lithe, with bulky back muscles and shoulders that make you a natural swimmer.

Abishai Devil? You could be mistaken for chromatic dragonborn, but your arms are too long, almost to your knees, and you’re far too lean to be a full-blood dragonborn. You have bulky back muscles as though you were meant to have wings, but if you do, they’re useless for flight, and mostly get in the way. Your tail, if you have one, is long and active. Rather than proper hair, you might have a head full of tendrils forming a messy mop about your shoulders.

Amnizu Devil? Your rubbery pea-soup green skin is the greatest mark of your ancestry. Your mouth is perhaps a bit wide for your mortal parent’s side, and you can’t grow any hair at all, but otherwise you could easily be mistaken for any other mortal. It’s your bearing that sets you apart- you radiate authority like someone in a position of power, and your demeanor seems effortlessly, seemingly supernaturally charming.

Merregon Devil? You’re built like a soldier, tall and sturdy with a straight spine and dark gray skin. Your face is oddly ill-defined, as though someone didn’t care to give you real facial features, but it sits well because you have an instinctive urge to cover your face. Your voice is soft and may be ill-used- your grandparent’s blood leaves you with a distinctly nonverbal tendency for communication.

Narzugon Devil? You were born to the saddle, and your body tells the story ably. You’re small and light like a jockey, and you likely have bow legs and have since you were born. Your skin is an ashen color and your eyes the red of flame, and if you’ve a tail or horns, they’re stubby and ill-defined. When you ride, you draw the eye, a subtle hint of your grandparent’s command.

Nupperibo Devil? Your grandparent did you few favors by managing to reproduce. Your head is tiny in proportion to your body, and you have the kind of broad, clumsy bone structure that makes it difficult to move. Flies and other buzzing insects find you appealing, and so you are constantly bothered by them. You’re nearsighted, hard of hearing, or both, but your senses of smell and taste are sharp as a blade, which helps you fill your endless hunger.

Orthon Devil? You are built like a barrel, with a thick torso and matching arms and legs- indeed, you are almost as wide as you are tall, with thick, elephantine legs and arms like tree trunks. Your skin is ashen or sallow but basically a normal human skin tone, and you grow little hair. Your most dominating facial feature is your tusks- your lower canines are long enough to protrude from your jaw when your mouth is closed, and you have an underbite.

Howler? Your face is fairly skeletal; naturally lighter skin covers your face, making your eyes and mouth stand out. Your eyes are like as not black through the sclera and red in the iris. Your throat is a dark, sullen red and you may even have a throat pouch you can use to make your voice really boom or carry. The rest of you is top-heavy, with stout shoulders, a narrow waist, powerful thighs, and a short, naked tail it’s best to wear wrapped around your waist. You’ve no hair, but may have a line of thin spines from the crown of your head down your back.

Canoloth Yugoloth? Your features are fairly bestial, from back-bent knees like a dog’s to a distinct snout and thick jaw full of stout, sharp teeth. Your most distinct feature is your tongue, which is at least a foot long and is covered in small thorny protrusions; your sense of taste is supernaturally acute. Your skin is stark crimson, a muddy yellow, or somewhere in between. Built like a bulldog, with a thick neck, stout shoulders, and barrel-like body, you’re not large so much as you are wide, almost as wide as tall.

Dhergoloth Yugoloth? You have more arms than you ought to. Not working ones, mind, your fiendish blood doesn’t run strong enough for that, so arms three through five are an encumbrance rather than a blessing, and must be worn under clothes or lopped off to keep them out of the way. Your shoulders and torso are oddly shaped to account for the extras, sort of a lumpy, squashed pentagram. Your skin’s an olive-green color and faintly iridescent if not chitinous. While you’ve no horns and little hair, hiding your pure red compound eyes is a challenge. Thankfully you probably didn’t end up with mandibles.

Hydroloth Yugoloth? Your skin is pebbled and rough like a toad’s, and that same look marks your face, which is wide and set on a neck that seems too short and wide. The effect overall is that you have no neck, and your wide mouth and broadly-set eyes add to the toad-like look. Your fingers and toes are webbed and long, and your thighs are thick as tree trunks to spur long jumps. Your memory is excellent, bordering on photographic, and you sometimes wake from dreams of lying on the bottom of a dark river, feeling comforted.

Merrenoloth Yugoloth? You’re a gaunt one, and pale too. Your face is sunken, with hollow cheeks, deep-set eyes, and drawn lips, giving you a profoundly skeletal look. If you grow hair, it’s only around the sides, never on the top of your head, although a long but thin moustache or beard grows naturally. You never get seasick, and the feel of planks under your feet, swaying gently with current or tide, feels more natural than the motionlessness of solid ground.

Oinoloth Yugoloth? Your skin, already an unhealthy bruise color, is often pocked with boils or buboes, which while harmless to you are unsettling to others. You otherwise always seem ill somehow, with a persistent cough, constant sweat, or low fever. You have horns that curl out and forward slightly from your temples, and your nails are long and a natural crimson color- they also grow like weeds, forcing you to chew or clip them constantly.

Yagnoloth Yugoloth? You’re distinctly lopsided to look at- the fact of the matter is that one arm is much larger and stronger than the other. Curiously, it’s not the one you use for writing- that hand is small and delicate, slender for fine work like writing contracts. Whatever the case, your shoulder and pectoral on the larger side are similarly bulkier, which may lend your torso a bit of an unnatural twist.

See the original post here and the second post here.

#tiefling #tieflings #fiends #demons #devils #yugoloths #others #D&D #Dungeons and Dragons #Character Designs #Character Ideas #Fiendlings #Planescape #make your tieflings look like freaks #not just technicolor horned people #YOU COWARDS #give me your non-human tieflings #play games as the super long-tongued dude and have to explain that the guard dog instincts come from your grandparent on your dad's side #worldbuilding

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kohanayaki · 3 years

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.:Time and Time Again:. (Marauders Era x Reader) Ch 3

Continuing the story of how you and Sirius became friends; as James and Remus grow closer to you, Sirius continues to treat you coldly until a late night encounter makes him question everything.

LINKS: CH 1 CH 2 CH 3 CH 4 CH 5 CH 6 CH 7 CH 8

________________________________________________________

Ch 3 .:Resistance and Reconciliation:.

~Previously~

“I'm not going to bother making friends with someone whose family is so wrapped up in blood politics they forget to be human beings first. Trust me, I've met their mother enough times to know.”

“Did you ever ask them about it?” Remus pressed.

“I don't really need to, do I? They're a (L/n). Open your eyes, Moony!”

Remus' brow furrowed, a shine in his eyes akin to sympathy as he regarded Sirius.

“Perhaps it's you that needs to clear your vision, friend.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1974 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sirius sat on the stone ledge on the window of his dorm room, looking out towards the Black Lake. He could see the push and pull of the wind as the thin branches of the ash trees bowed gently with the rhythm. In the reflection of the glass he could see James and Peter behind him experimenting with an altered set of wizard's chess, complete with fire-breathing knights and bishops that threw daggers, while one of Remus' records spun in the background.

Despite everything he could have been thinking about at the moment, his thoughts, irritatingly enough, drifted to you. He frowned slightly as he leaned his shoulder against the window, annoyed that you occupied even a portion of his mind. He just couldn't understand you. Somehow you had turned James, who had once openly proclaimed you his sworn enemy, into something close to a friend in the span of a year. You had no qualms with pranks pulled on you, yet you were fiercely protective when they were directed at others. You were always smiling, yet your temper took no prisoners. If you weren't a Slytherin you might even be attractive.

The thought made him bolt upright. Where the hell did that come from? He almost laughed. No. Absolutely not. He was Sirius Black, he could get anyone he wanted in this bloody school, and he certainly wasn't going to busy his mind with you. What the hell was wrong with him? It's not like he noticed the way you smiled to yourself when you were reading, or the fact that the sound of your laugh got stuck in his head like a song—

No. Stop it. Get your head straight, they're evil.

Sirius exhaled deeply, rubbing his tired eyes with his hands. For some reason that thought didn't sit right in his brain, and the longer he sat with it he came to a horrifying conclusion:

Maybe Remus was right.

The only time you'd really been nasty to them was when they'd instigated it first, or whenever they had a go at Snivelus, which had become less and less frequent; Sirius suspected because of your tentative friendship with James. He'd always just assumed you were like the other Slytherins he'd come to know. There's been hearsay circulating around you, especially given your family's reputation, but you yourself hadn't really done anything to prove the rumors. Maybe you really weren't like your family at all. Maybe you were like him. . .

Suddenly, he caught movement in the corner of his eye, not from his friend's reflections but from outside the window itself. A figure emerged from the lamplight of the castle gate, making their way towards the edge of the forest. If the green lining of your school robes and (h/c) hair didn't peak his interest, the flash that he saw of your face as you shot a quick glance over your shoulder confirmed it was you.

Sirius' mind began racing as he watched you disappear into the foliage, and suddenly every thought that had given you the benefit of the doubt vanished. He'd heard the rumors about the gatherings in the forest, everyone had. He'd even caught Snape practicing dark magic there himself one of the first nights they'd used the Shrieking Shack passageway.

He jumped off his perch by the window and grabbed a sheet of parchment and a quill, drawing a rough outline of the perimeter of the forest. He labeled the Black Lake so his spell would have a going off point and pressed his wand to the still drying ink.

“Revelare Popularis,”

The enchantment was a work in progress— a technique he'd learned from a seventh year. It wasn't exact, but it was enough to tell him if anyone else was in the forest right now. His eyes darted across the paper as he scanned his makeshift map, and the color drained from his face as he saw names suddenly appear in a cluster by the lake: Mulciber, Wilkes, Avery, and Malfoy.

Was this it? Were you really one of them?

James looked up from his game as he saw Sirius grab his leather jacket off where it hung from his bedpost.

“Going somewhere?”

“(L/n) just went into the forest,” Sirius said, “I'm following them.”

“Why, Sirius?” Remus said sardonically, having had enough of his unusual grudge against you, “We're not really ones to talk when it comes to sneaking around the forest at night, now are we?”

“He's got a point,” James said, “I mean, what do you think you're going to see?”

“What do I think?” Sirius scoffed, pushing the paper into Jame's hands, “what does it look like?”

James looked down at the parchment blankly.

“What am I looking at?”

“A variation on Revelio,” Sirius explained quickly, “if you have a location in mind it shows you who's there, but only at the time the charm is cast.”

“Are you kidding me?” James' jaw nearly dropped, “You're just now showing this to us? We could have been taking advantage of this spell to dodge Filch this whole time!”

“I'm serious.”

James had to fight hard not to make a joke out of that one.

“If (L/n)'s meeting up with those guys it can't be for anything good,” Sirius continued, “and I'm gonna find out exactly why.”

Before any of the boys could get another word in, Sirius took off running down the corridor. James groaned, rebelling against the urge to slam his head into the wall.

“I've got to stop him before he does something stupid,” he said, pulling a coat on over his shoulders, “You with me, Remus?”

“Probably not the best idea,” Lupin reminded him, “the moon's full tomorrow. I won't turn, but in the direct moonlight I may get a bit. . . well, you know.”

“Right,” James sighed, running a hand through his hair in distress, “Peter?”

The boy jolted as he was addressed, his eyes quickly cast down to his twiddling fingers.

“I. . . w-well. . .”

“Fine,” James said, waving them off in annoyance, “I'll go at him alone.”

___________________________________________________

You took a grateful breath of the crisp night air, letting the wind whistle through your hair and clothes. You loved your common room, but it could feel constricting at times, especially when there were nights as beautiful as this taking place.

Your eyes drifted up to the moon, smiling at the sight of it. It was nearly full, only a sliver of white missing from the very edge of the sphere. The sight alone was enough to make you feel more at home in your own skin, an inexplicable sense of comfort washing over you. You hadn't been able to really let loose and just run in so long. You'd made doubly sure no one had followed you into the forest, but you still gave your surroundings a quick once over. You jumped as the sound of leaves crunching suddenly asserted itself behind you and you lit your wand quickly, turning to see who it was.

“. . . Black?”

“Sorry, were you expecting someone else? One of your pureblood friends, maybe?”

The confused look on your face only made his anger flare.

“Don't act coy,” he asked harshly, “just what are you playing at?”

Your back straightened in surprise, taken aback by his words.

“Excuse me?”

“I've seen you talking to my brother, Rosier, Snivelus, and all those other Slytherins. Don't think I don't know what you're doing,” the words flew out of his mouth before they had time to pass through his brain, every irrational irritation he had regarding you spewing out of him at once, “I've had to sit through it, you know. All those dinners where my parents talk blood politics with all the fanatics who think just like them. I've listened to your mother brag all about your pure blood line and how her child is 'so eager to carry on the family traditions'. So whatever you're planning by getting close to James, I'm not going to let it happen.”

You felt like you were frozen in place, staring at him as your throat tightened into knots.

“My mom?” you said, voice suddenly small, “Sirius. . . my mom passed away when I was little.”

Your words hit the Gryffindor like a truck.

“. . . what?” he asked dumbly, his brain delaying slightly in processing what you'd just said.

“She got sick. . . an experimental spell gone wrong. If you met someone with my family's name that spoke like that, it was probably my aunt. My cousin goes to Ilvermorny. That's the child she's talking about, not me. The divide between purebloods and muggleborns is even more severe in America, if you can believe it. . . ”

Sirius faltered, this new information going against everything he'd heard and thought he knew about you and your family.

“But,” he hesitated, “your father—”

“Put up the image he had to in order to keep me safe,” you said. You knew he was documented as being very open about his pureblood pride and distaste towards muggles, but it was a cover more than anything, “Since he stopped speaking with my aunt and moved us both away from the estate, she's acted as the new head of the (L/n) House, and that was years ago. . .”

You trailed off awkwardly, not feeling very self-righteous in your explanation.

“I know my family doesn't have the best reputation. . . that's probably why you hate me, huh?” you chuckled humorlessly, wincing at how harsh the words came out. But if you were honest, you were hurt that out of everyone in their group, Sirius was the one that didn't even seem to want to give you a chance. You were the one who had extended the olive branch in the first place on the condition that they ease up on Severus.

“Hate you?” Sirius echoed hollowly, feeling guilt creep up on him like a shadow, “that's. . . shit, no, that's not—”

“Everte Statum!”

You gasped as Sirius was suddenly shot backwards, his body flipping wildly through the air from the force before being slammed against the trunk of a nearby tree. His head spun, heavily disoriented as his vision shifted in shades.

You had drawn your wand on instinct, looking around for your attackers when you saw a black-clad figure lift their hood, revealing a long mane of white hair that stood out starkly in the night.

Malfoy.

“Well, looky here,” Mulciber taunted, revealing himself behind you, “we've caught the two biggest blood traitors of the last century having a touching little moment together.”

Laughter echoed from the trees, Wilkes emerging from the shadows. You took up a defensive position as their group surrounded you.

“Now, let's not be hasty, Mulciber,” Lucius said, “their father may have disgraced their house, yes, but they didn't have a choice. It's not too late for them to make the right one now.” His lips turned up into a snarl as he regarded Sirius, “get away from that blood traitor, (L/n), he'll rub off on you.”

You grit your teeth hard, preparing to cast a spell when Malfoy put his hand up in a silencing gesture, the pretentious little prat.

“Ah, you don't want to make any rash moves either, (L/n),” he said, looking to your left. You followed his gaze to see Avery coming out of the foliage, grappling with someone under his arm.

“Potter?!”

James smiled weakly as Avery held him in a choke hold, a bit of blood dripping down the side of his head.

“Hey,” he said, humor still light in his voice, “So, this didn't exactly work out as planned.” He groaned as Avery's elbow was driven into his stomach, effectively silencing him.

As soon as you tried to move towards him, Lucius had his wand pointed at you.

“Let him go and get lost, Malfoy,” you said lowly, “you've taken this far enough.”

“You've been avoiding us, (L/n),” Lucius said, ignoring you entirely, “Snape may have come up with some rubbish excuses for you earlier, but you can't keep running from this.”

“If practicing curses on first years and terrorizing other people is how you plan on using magic, then I don't want any part of your little cult,” you spat, “face it, Malfoy— you lot need me, but I don't need you.”

Lucius exhaled sharply, his genuine surprise at your resistance replaced quickly with anger.

“Think about what you're doing, (L/n),” he said, his eyes narrowing dangerously, “don't be a fool like your father.”

That did it.

With a growl you unleashed an orange bolt of energy from your wand, your Stupefy hitting Lucius square in the chest. Mulciber was quick to retaliate with a jinx of his own, which you quickly nullified with a shield charm. Shock flashed across his expression at your casual use of nonverbal magic, and he recovered one second too late.

Sirius was back on his feet, petrifying Mulciber and swatting Wilkes away like a fly with the knockback jinx before either could cast a spell at you. You and Sirius found yourselves back to back, fending off Lucius as he continued to direct a steady stream of curses in your direction. Sirius managed to create an opening for you and you turned to where James was being held.

“Evanossa!”

A flash of blue hit Avery, who shrieked in horror when he saw that the arm he was using to hold Potter had turned gelatinous, fingers drooping down like melting ice cream. James wasted no time paying him back in kind for roughing him up earlier, sending him flying into the oak tree and using the water from the Black Lake to freeze him there before joining you in the fray.

“Expelliarmus!” he called out, sending Wilke's wand spinning out of his reach and leaving only Malfoy against the three of you.

Lucius faltered for a moment as he stared down your group of three, but held fast.

“Leave it, Malfoy,” you said, “it's over.”

He growled under his breath, taking up an obvious offensive stance, but you were too quick.

“Ebublio!”

Lucius gasped as he suddenly found himself encased in a giant bubble, his knockback jinx ricocheting off the inside and hitting him in the back of the head. He pounded against the bubble in frustration but found it to be thick as Plexiglas and just as strong, unable to pop it. Suddenly, he was hoisted into the air as you raised your wand higher, directing him farther and farther away until he was hovering directly over the Black Lake.

“Let me go this instant!” he growled.

A devilish smile graced your features.

“You got it.”

“No, wait, don't you dar—AHH!!”

You turned your back on him, your breaking eye contact promptly bursting the bubble and sending him flailing into the water a few feet below.

You chuckled as you sent a few quick counter-jinxes out from your wand, restoring Mulciber's range of motion and liquefying the ice that trapped Avery.

As soon as Mulciber was unpetrified he took off running towards the Lake where Lucius was furiously treading water, tripping over his feet as he dragged Wilkes along with him. Avery limped after them, defrosted but still chilled to his bones (which you had been so kind to also restore).

“I'd fish him out quickly if I were you,” you called after them, “the giant squid is more active at night.”

“You're out of your mind, (L/n)!” Avery turned around and yelled, but with fear evident in his eyes, “You'll live to regret this, mark my words. The Headmaster—”

“Would love to know who cast the first spell, I'm sure,” you said darkly.

Avery stammered out some lame response under his breath before turning around and running after the rest of group, retreating.

Sirius turned to look at you, awestruck and chocked full of adrenaline. Maybe you really weren't so bad after all.

“That was. . .” James trailed off, grasping for the words and blurting them out as soon as he found them, “Brilliant, (Y/n). You're bloody brilliant.”

You felt your face heat up, not expecting that. You and James had stopped trading insults and threats (serious ones, anyways) and your teasing had become well meant, but neither of you had crossed the threshold of actually paying the other a compliment before.

“Thanks, Potter,” you said, unable to fight the smile on your face. You turned to Sirius briefly. “I hope this cleared some things up for us,” you said, “I'd really like to try and be friends, so. . .”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, wanting to kick himself at the way you turned him into a monosyllabic neanderthal with just a look. You gave him a small smile before turning back to James who was trying desperately to hide his limp and aching rib cage.

“Alright, let's get you to the hospital wing, Potter,” you sighed, “you look like a cheap action star in a muggle movie.”

“Uh,” James said nervously, “better we not. If I go to Madame Pomfrey three times in one day she'll never let me hear the end of it.”

“And who's fault is that?” You huffed, slinging an arm over his shoulder and helping him walk, “at least let me patch you up, then.”

Sirius followed some distance behind you, watching as you walked James back towards the castle and laughed at his occasional jokes. This one night had just turned everything upside down for Sirius. This whole time he was sure that he didn't like you because you were a blood-purist Slytherin and he was jealous that you were taking his best friend away from him; but the way you had stood up to Lucius and his goons made your position on blood politics very clear, and the tight feeling that struck Sirius' chest as he watched you cozy up with James made him reevaluate just which one of you he was jealous of.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sirius?”

The man blinked, slowly coming back to reality. You were looking up at him in concern, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. It took an embarrassing amount of his willpower to keep from leaning forward just a few inches and kissing you.

Could you pick a worse time, you numbskull? He thought, mentally smacking himself for even thinking about it.

“Are you okay?” you asked hesitantly after he stayed silent.

“I'm alright,” he insisted, giving you a reassuring smile, “just. . . thinking about how far we've come.”

His answer surprised you, though not in a bad way.

“I suppose we have,” you smiled back, “this is a far cry from you scowling at me from across the Great Hall over your breakfast.”

“I did not scowl,” Sirius scoffed playfully, nudging you away with his shoulder.

“Right,” you grinned, “scowling, glaring, glowering, whichever you prefer.”

“I said I was sorry,” he said, putting his hands up in mock surrender, although you both knew you weren't really upset about it. You'd long since forgiven him for his initial misjudgment.

When your light laughter died down, your head found itself lulling to the side again, tiredness taking over your mind as you rested against Sirius once more. When you tilted your head up to look at him he had a surprisingly pensive look on his face. Your eyes traveled across his expression, his gray eyes almost taking on a deep shade of blue in the shadows of his room. You noticed how much younger he looked when he was smiling; it was in moments like these when it really set in how long you had known each other, because you could see the years in his eyes.

Your own flickered down to his lips in spite of yourself and Sirius' heart skipped a beat, fearing you could feel it racing in his rib cage. When had you turned him so soft? He chuckled inwardly. Long before he had fully come to terms with how he felt about you was the answer. Even when he was in Azkaban, with two of his closest friends dead and the world convinced he was at fault, even if he had to live with the fact that he would never see you again, he still thought of you, and that kept him alive, sane— himself. But now you were here in front of him, and he was terrified that at any moment you would vanish into thin air and he would find himself back in that horrible cinder block cell, face to face with a dementor as it took his last memories of you away from him.

Your hand squeezed his, almost as if you had read his thoughts— as if you were assuring him that you were real, and you weren't going anywhere. You noticed him leaning in closer, even if he didn't, possessed by some invisible force. You were nearly about to meet him halfway when you were suddenly startled apart by the sound of quick, heavy-footed steps bounding down the stairs.

You both looked at each other as if you had just awoken from some sort of trance, instinctively putting some distance between yourselves as you shifted away awkwardly.

“I. . . I should probably get to bed,” you said, your face warm.

“Right,” Sirius said, reluctantly getting up from his seat at the edge of his bed, “I've kept you up long enough, I'm sure you're tired. . .”

Before you left his room you turned over your shoulder, a small smile on your face.

“It's really good to see you again, Sirius,” you said earnestly, “we should catch up for real later.”

“Definitely,” he said, a bit of his old self reflected in that smirk of his, albeit forced.

You steeled yourself, turning the doorknob and closing the door behind you gently before you did something to ruin the friendship you had just gotten back after over a decade. You shook the thought aside, your head hurting. You really did need to sleep after today.

You were about to head into your room, but something in you didn't feel quite right. You'd definitely heard someone go down the stairs, but you hadn't heard the front door open or close. Dread pooled in your stomach at your gut feeling, and you found yourself inexplicably making your way back down the stairs.

The house was eerily silent now that its residents had either gone off to bed or disapparated until the next meeting in a few days time. You'd left Sirius upstairs, and you knew Harry was staying here for the time being until school began, but everyone else had gone home. So then why did you still feel someone else's presence so acutely?

You stared at the empty hallway leading to the front door, taking a cautious step forward; the image in front of you didn't feel real. The colors were too saturated, the edges too sharp, and the surfaces too smooth. And that's when it hit you. The smell of rain. Leather-bound books. Lavender.

You froze, staring at the seemingly empty space in front of you.

“Severus?”

The potions master didn't dare make a sound, thinly veiled behind his invisibility charm but clearly not well enough. He was standing not three feet in front of you, taking in the sight of you as if it were the last thing he would ever see.

He panicked slightly as he felt you reach out to him with your mind, shutting himself off expertly. Your hurt expression as you were unable to detect anything pained him, but he wouldn't dare think that he deserved to say anything to you. What was there to say after everything he'd done?

Your gaze roamed the empty hall, and for a moment he could have sworn you stared him right in the eyes.

You knew he was there.

The moment lasted no longer than a second before you looked away, turning to go back up the stairs. As soon as your back was facing the front door you heard it open then close gently, and the tears you had been fighting to hold back finally spilled over.

Read chapter 4 here !

Taglist: @sleep-i-ness, @blackpinkdolan, @parker-natasha, @ornella0910 @undertaker1827 @thatwierdo-koemi

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kashimos-hajime · 3 years

Text

no regrets (8/8) | r.b.

summary: For the first time, he thinks of a future he could have, and someone who loves him, and there’s something bright in his heart. Or, Reiner finally understands what peace is.

WARNINGS: MANGA SPOILERS!!! angst, mentions of violence, we get our happy ending :) pairing: reiner braun x fem!reader word count: 6.7k

a/n: welcome to the last chapter!! thank you so much for being on this journey with me. there are a few callbacks to previous chapters so see if you can catch ‘em all heheh

masterlist

crossposted on ao3 x

Few months ago ymir asked if I could let her write one last letter to krista, and I did let her. I stood over her shoulder the whole time, watching her pen down all this sappy shit and I kept thinking about you the whole time, behind those walls. What you were doing, what you were thinking. Maybe if you thought about me. I dont know.

I’m starting to see the appeal of wrting what youre not strong enough to say to a persons face. I never thought Id find myself on the other end of this stick. for some reason, I thought that I could stop myself, resist the temptation, or maybe that I didnt feel for you as strong as I thought I did once I was away from you. I was wrong.

What do I even say? I mean shit, I can barely see, my limbs are barely in tact, and all of it—shiganshina, it haunts me, even though I cant really remember it that well. Half of it goes black and then I remember hearing your voice, I remember Bertholdt, I remember you screaming.

You couldve walked away. why didnt you walk away? It doesn’t make sens. Why did you think to cut me out? Why did you try to save me? Im trying to make it make sense inmy head. It’s not working.

Fuck I dont know what I was thinking when I asked for a paper and pen. Why am I asking you questions? Its not like ill ever understand. At this point, I think it’s pity thats letting Zeke let me waste ink on trying to write straight. He doesn’t know what im doing, but thats better this way. Better than sleeping—better than eating. I just wanna talk to you and this is as close as I can get. Its my own damn fault, but I dont care.

I completed my mission. After this, im done. ill give up the rest of my term. I dont want any of that glory anymore. I dont want to be a hero. Im just done.

Fuck, my head hurts so much. I dont really know if what im saying is making sense. Im hoping you never read this.

im sorry. I wish I could explain it to you some day, but chances are, ill be dead soon. Whether for treason or because they need to pass on the Titan, and I wont be able to see you again. Which means youll never know how sorry I am. How much I

Thats okay. I dont think youd believe me now even if I did say anything.

I remember your dream to live by the lake with a bunch of kids. You know I started to wonder if youd mind if they were our kids, not just some orphans who needed a home. I’d imagine one of them with blond hair. Imagine them swimming in the lake.

Never told you that was my dream too. Never knew i could have a dream of my own, something only I wanted and not just something to further marleys damn agenda, til I knew you. Sounds stupid but its true.

I think youd like Marley, if we weren’t sworn enemies. Just want you here with me right now. make me sleep easier knowing you’re there when I wake up.

Dont want secrets either. Fuck I miss you so bad. I feel s o tired all the time.

I rember when i first saw you all could think about was how you were the most prettiest girl id ever seen. I don know if you know thats why I tried to distance myself. Knew I couldn’t get distracted from my mison. happened anyway. Wish I could tell you that.

wish I could tell you I love you. Wish I could see the look on yur face when you try lobster for the first time. Youd love it. Not sweet, but tons of desserts here too.

Shit. And the ring on your finger. ill put a ring on your finger. I promised. i swear ill go home and buy a ring for the moment I see you again. Might not be pretty but will do the best I can.

Olnly wnat only wnat only want to see you again and beg for your forgiveness. Let you know if I had a choice, I wouldnt have done it. Would take it all back, nd stay. i wanted to stay, stay with you and the others. I used to want to spend the rest of my life in those walls, now I think im sick and tired of them dividing people who arent even that differnet.

My eyes are beginning to burn. Worse because the skin is sitll growing back. Fucking hell god I miss you. miss your smile more.

I know i dont deserve your forigvneess forgiveness. I want you to be angry with me. I deserve as much, and I cant ask you to, but

With love,

Rienr

You fold the letter, eyes closing as your fingers trace where the ink bled, the old tear stains wrinkling the paper beyond measure. Some are older than others, and you trace over his name again, your eyes burning, your throat tight enough to suffocate.

You’re leaning against the wall as everyone disembarks. They had taken Eren off first, Hange and the others getting ready to depart for the city while Connie and Jean lift a covered stretcher too white for the vivacious girl that lays dead beneath it.

They pass you silently, and you catch sight of a certain captain approaching, his pale eyes nearly swallowed by the shadows haunting his face.

“Captain,” you say, straightening. Placing the letter back into the tin, you slide it back into your pocket as he folds a green jacket over his shoulder. You give him a nod.

“You made it out alive,” Levi observes. He stops beside you, eyes more focused on what’s ahead. No doubt he’s not looking forward to having to take Zeke to wherever he needs to go—somewhere far, far away from Eren. You cross your arms.

“It’s good to see you, too, Levi,” you intone. Sighing, you step in beside him and look out at the Walls you can’t see in the distance, your entire body wrought with a strange fatigue that’s only sewn into muscles by adrenaline leaving the body. “I think I’m going to stay.” He tilts his head to you, eyes flickering to your face, and you mirror the shift, your arms tightening. “I can’t leave this unfinished. Not after Liberio.”

“The farm will have to be abandoned,” he points out. “The kids, too.”

“I’ll make sure I move them where someone can take care of them. Somewhere north, far away from the brothers,” you assure, although still, your heart begins to sink and you close your eyes, exhaling deeply. “I have to hope they understand.”

Levi only nods, and you open your eyes as he wordlessly takes the jacket off his arm and offers it to you. Grasping it wearily, you open your mouth to ask questions but he only sets off, back towards the cabin where Zeke is still being held, and you snap your jaws shut, looking down at the jacket.

When you unfold it, you swallow the hard rock in your throat at the blue and white slipping beween the folds of olive green before there’s a sharp whistle. Looking up, you see the carriages already beginning to load up, and you glance back at the door where the captain has disappeared through before jogging down the ramp.

You slither your arms through the sleeves and shuffle the fabric along your frame as something thumps against your thigh, and you frown, reaching down into your pocket and coming into contact with something smooth and hard.

Withdrawing, your lips part at the green bolo tie gleaming in the lights of the port and you, without another thought, pull it over your head, letting it fall against your breastbone.

“For your services to the Survey Corps.”

There’s no time to second-guess now. No time to debate.

“Good to have you back,” Hange murmurs as you walk towards the carriage taking Mikasa, Armin, and the others back to the city. You tug the lapels of the jacket tighter around yourself and flash them a weak smile.

The Wings of Freedom on your arm feel like a brand, and it prickles your skin as you climb in after them.

Distantly, he remembers flashes.

Eren reaching forward for Zeke, the exhaustion ripping him every which way, the sound of ODM gear whizzing in his ears as he tries to make sense of the punctured sensation in his armour.

How he had softened his nape, intending to die then. At least, let his death have some meaning, he had thought. Let him make one last effort to repent for everything he did to Paradis, and to his friends who’d been more family than his own mother.

He slips in an out of consciousness for the next few days. He doesn’t know what is up, what is down, but he does recognize his surroundings blearily, the way his head spinning somehow slowing when he presses his temple to the wooden floor.

How can he almost hear your voice in the echoes of the panels, countered by someone who almost sounds like Annie before he drifts off again.

When Reiner finally regains consciousness again, he wakes to someone crouched down in front of him. Jerking up, he lets out a sound before a palm slaps over his mouth and your face is shoved against his own.

“Shut it,” you whisper fiercely. “It’s just me.”

Your name muffled by your own hand, his eyes begin to burn and you lift your palm away as he sits up and you draw back. You’re dressed in clothes that look like they’ve seen better days but you’re relatively uninjured as you pull back. New lines adorn your face—one of the many prices of their damned war—and you only look exhausted.

Sitting up, Reiner’s whole body groans as he leans against the wall, but he can’t tear his eyes away from you. Your hands are hovering around his body like you’re scared he’ll collapse and there’s a fracture in your mask.

Something gleams on your finger and his eyes flit to it, his heart lurching when he realizes what it is.

The ring. You’re wearing it. You…

For a moment, a glimmer of their teenage selves shine through and he wants to reach for it—touch it so he can remember what it’s like to be happy. He thinks it’s an awful like now; the swelling of his heart so big he can’t breathe; the way his lungs are static in his chest; how he can’t say anything because there are so many words that want to come out first.

“You’re here. You’re alive,” he finally settles on raspily. Your eyes glint with a youthful pain as you nod.

“So are you.”

And he doesn’t know who moves first—you or him. Nothing is forgiven as their bodies crash in an embrace that lacks grace, but they cling onto another like the world is ending and they’re the only ones left standing.

Maybe they are.

He buries his face in your neck, and your arms are so tight around him your fingers dig into his shoulders as your body melts against his and his skeleton sags in his own body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “I‘m sorry.” A hand against your neck and an arm around your waist, he wraps his legs around your own and traps you against him. You seem to only sink into him even more.

Is that enough? I don’t want you to hate me.

You suck in a breath, and then it comes out shuddering. “You can spend the rest of what life you have left repenting for making me fall in love with a man who was always supposed to die.”

Softly, in his mind, your voice cools the searing heat of hatred inside him. It’s enough. It has to be.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. It’s like they’re the only words he knows. He can’t remember ever meaning it this much. For him dying, for making you love him, for ever coming to Paradis. For loving you. For loving you. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know. I know.” Your face turns to press against his own. Your lips brush against his jaw and his eyes slide shut, tears rolling down his face. “I read every single one of your letters.” Drawing back, you cup his face in his hands and your fingers smear his tears all over his cheeks as his palm rests against your neck. Thumb stretching up to touch your chin, he feels sobs shuddering in his throat at seeing you again—looking at him almost like you used to. “I can’t begin to understand, but I know you are. And I know you love me.”

Choking, he gasps, “You should hate me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I should.” You’re crying, too, voice thick, tears stubborn on your cheeks as you give him a watery smile. “I should hate Marley, too. But it’s beautiful there. The water by the sea… I want to be there with you next time. We need to go together, before you leave me alone, okay?”

Reiner doesn’t quite hear you. He hears Marley, and beautiful, and he’s never noticed how beautiful you are when you cry, but right now, it’s the simplest truth he knows.

“Okay.”

When you tilt his chin up and kiss him softly, something inside him explodes from the gentleness that makes him want to crack in the palm of your hands. It sears him from the inside out, makes him grab onto you like you’ll disappear—this is another dream, isn’t it?

It has to be.

You can’t be kissing him again after four years. He doesn’t deserve it. You’re an illusion, something his mind made up to deal with the pain. He’s finally cracked for good, just like Bertholdt said he would, and he’s the devil, not you.

But then you pull away just for a moment to smile, eyes barely open as you look at him with a sad tenderness that wraps him in an invisible embrace, and he is faced with the heart-wrenching reality.

The sky is falling, you are holding him tightly again, and they’ve lost their years. But you’re here. With him.

He knows that this isn’t a dream as he feels the coolness of the silver band on your finger and the heaviness in how he knows he hasn’t repented a damn thing.

Why him?

As you run your hand through his hair, you press their foreheads together.

“And I do want a family with you, by the water if you’d like,” you murmur fleetingly against his mouth and his eyes widen, cheeks burning, entire face crumbling as he turns his face in to your shoulder, crushing you in another brace. Sobbing into your neck, his fingers dig into your shoulders, wrap tight around your waist, squeeze you so close he isn’t sure where you end and he begins and your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Reiner, say it.”

“Please,” he whispers thickly into your skin, and you cradle the back of his head with a hand. He’s nothing more than shambles. “Please, don’t go.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again,” you promise. His breath is hot against his own face as you pull his head back and cradle his face again, thumbs brushing away the tears from his red face. “Just a bit more. A bit more and then it’ll be all over, you know?”

And he understands, then, what you want from him. Struggling for breath, for his lungs to stop seizing in his aching chest, he cups your face that turns into his palm on instinct, your face wet with your own tears as, for a moment, they try to pretend this isn’t where they really are.

Like they’re still in that afternoon in Trost, a thousand years ago, with the kids flipping coins into the water fountain and a cream bun between them. Like they’re under the tree, apple juice on your wrist and his lips on yours.

Like it’s those trips to the city, the walks on the Walls. Honey is dripping down your chin and he’s pretending he doesn’t want to kiss you, or there’s grease smeared on his forehead, and you’re reaching up to wipe it off his skin.

Like a thousand moments all at once, and he nods to himself as you brush your hand over his temple. The world outside is startlingly quiet, as if the universe itself stopped everything itself to watch this moment, and Reiner takes a breath that bruises his sternum before he’s holding your left hand where that ring still sits.

And slowly, he pulls it off, whispering as firmly as he can. He’s sure he fails—he’s shaking all over from your presence alone.

“When this is over, I’ll put that ring back on your finger. I promise.”

The smile that splits your face is dazzling. It’s the smile he’s missed since the day he left it.

“We have a lot of things to work out, Reiner Braun.”

And your fingers barely brush his jaw before you’re leaning to press a sweet kiss against his mouth. It’s sugary on his tongue, like honey and apple slices.

Your back is warmer when you’re pressed up against Reiner’s. The ship is quiet, and their pinkies are just barely hooked on oen another’s as you stare blankly at the empty space between Connie’s boots. You don’t speak, and Reiner’s gaze is only on you. He can’t look at anything else now that you’re back by his side again.

There’s a cut on your cheek from the fight just half an hour ago, and there’s dried blood along your hands where your knuckles had split open, but everyone seems too exhausted to clean themselves up.

Reiner himself has a blanket pulled over his shoulders, and he sighs, slouching in his own sack of flesh.

Your head tilts towards him, enough that your temple presses against his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into your touch. Not a word passes by, but their hold on each other’s hands tightens. And Reiner thinks.

For the first time, he thinks of a future he could have, and someone who loves him, and there’s something bright in his heart. Something that hasn’t burned since he left Marley as a child.

Reiner thinks he doesn’t want to die anymore. He doesn’t want to miss you for another moment.

Raising from the steam, you groan, your hands searing from the inside out as you touch your face where you swore every inch of your skin had been stretched, but nothing seems out of sorts as you glance around. Everywhere, all your friends who had turned just as you had are in various states of disoriented. The air is still hissing, crackled with surprised screams and shouts of names as people look for one another across the field.

It smells like cooked meat and burnt hair, a none-to-pleasant mixture that turns your stomach.

Getting to your feet, you wipe at your face, trying to ignore the weird feeling underneath your nails and the ache seizing your muscles. Trying to ignore the remnants of Eren lingering like a ghost that won’t really leave you alone. You shiver, and a strange cold sweat takes over your body.

He had taken you to the sea, except it wasn’t the shore you were familiar with. There was a cabin nearby, with blonde children running, chasing after one another and a man with golden hair standing on the porch, firewood in his arms as he calls out silently. Or maybe you had been standing too far to hear.

“Eren… where are we?”

“Wherever you think you are,” he had said. “I just brought you where you wanted to be.”

A voice, quiet as a memory, catches your attention. “Here let me help.” A soft wind blows throw the mist, cooling your scorching face as you feel a presence stand behind you.

“Oh, thank you.” You look over your shoulder to see a tall boy, and your heart stops. Mouth dropping open, you stare at his foggy image, but he only smiles fully, a smile so tender it reaches every corner of you as you stumble forward, fingers stretching for him. “Bertholdt!”

His smile grows only that much more, eyes squinting a bit and a flash of teeth before he’s looking at your hand that passes through his chest. All at once, all the hope built up in your chest crumbles, and your hand snaps back, trembling just before him. He lays a hand over your own and your eyes begin to burn, tears slipping down your cheeks.

And then, softly, you barely whisper, “I miss you.”

Bertholdt’s smile merely grows, as if to say everything he couldn’t say before. As if to show he’s at peace now—that your last memory together isn’t every part of him, and your lips press together, trying to stop yourself from shaking.

Shadows form in the fog, and together, the two look as a freckled boy and another girl steps out of the mist a distance away, beaming like the sun. Connie and Jean stagger to their feet just behind you, and your heart lurches into your throat when you recognize them.

“Marco! Sasha!”

Someone calls your name and you turn around just as arms scoop you up and you let out a surprised noise before settling into Reiner’s arms. Looking over your shoulder to look at Bertholdt, your heart only sinks.

He smiles and Reiner lets out a sharp breath beside you, settling you down. “Bertholdt…” More shapes emerge. A shorter boy accompanied by another taller one, both alike in their features. You recognize one as the Jaw Titan holder before Falco, but the other—

“Marcel!” Reiner chokes out the name, hand stretching out to the fog, but the boy merely tilts his head and waves.

Closing your eyes, hot tears streak over your cooling flesh as you fling your arms around Reiner again and press your face into his neck. He cradles the back of your head, and he feels… somehow weaker, but still, there is that impassable strength in his core that wraps around you as he watches over your shoulder, still clinging on despite your clothes hot enough to burn.

I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive. It’s the only thought in your head. Your last clear memory had truly been the others taking flight, and the pain that had ripped apart your body before sewing it back together again in unjust proportions. Your limbs had been too big, your blood racing too warmly through your head as your legs pumped but your brain screamed to stop.

Your fingers had sank into Reiner’s legs to pull him down and you had watched—watched Jean take a bite out of him—

You shiver and Reiner’s arms tighten around you instinctively, constricting enough to let you know that his attention isn’t on you quite yet.

Boots shifting on the ground tentatively, your knees feel gummy as you draw back long enough to look at him. He still looks over your shoulder, and you follow his gaze to watch the mist retreat. Bertholdt and the other two boys fall into a pool of fog, and your lips part in a farewell, but it’s already too late.

He’s gone.

A wind sweeps through the battlefield, tickling your sweating neck and cooling your boiling blood.

“Hey,” a soft voice croaks.

Their eyes meet in tandem. He regards you softly, like you are the reason the sun rises and the stars hang at the sky. Overwhelmed, you can only cup the back of his neck and pull him into a deep kiss. Your other hand along his jaw, it takes all you can not to pull him into a bone-crushing embrace that’ll send them both to the ground.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you whisper hushedly against his mouth, throat swelling as he lets out a soft noise of surprise as you pull him into another tight hug. You don’t care that you’re crushing him, just that his heart is pounding against your own chest. “I couldn’t stop myself. I’m so sorry.”

His eyes widening, he wraps his hands around your wrists and pulling you back just enough to kiss your fingers that crumple against his mouth. Clasping one of his hands in both of your own, you close your eyes and he uses his free fingers to brush the tears off your cheek before reaching into some dented tin you don’t recognize.

Eyebrows furrowing, you feel the heat leave your entire body, sapping your energy too, and your eyes snap to Reiner who steps back, cracking it open and presenting it to you.

“You’re not the one who has to be sorry. I don’t think I’m the Armoured Titan anymore,” he whispers. “I don’t know if I get the rest of my life back, but either way, I want to spend the rest of it repenting to you in any way I can, if you’ll allow me to.” A weak smile. “Truth.”

Your throat closes up, and you stare down at the ring so protected, gleaming despite the destruction around them. It looks almost out of place amongst the grime smearing your skin, the sweat drenching their skin, the smell of blood and metal clinging to their clothes, but Reiner only watches you with a tenderness you can barely meet. It’s so overtly overflowing with devotion that your heart is resting on your tongue, seizing control of everything.

You barely nod, chewing on your lip, trying not to cry even harder as his eyebrows rise in relief and he lets out a long sigh.

He lifts the ring out of the tin, snapping it closed before sliding the band back home onto your finger and all at once, everything floods you. The exhaustion, the pain, the hunger, thirst, grief wrapping around your bones and chaining you to the ground.

It’s over.

The minute he put the ring on your finger, it would mean it was over. No more blood, no more fighting.

Just like he promised.

You barely croak out his name before you fall to your knees. You trust him to catch you, and he does.

[THREE YEARS LATER]

Just after the Rumbling had stopped, you had gone back to Paradis alone and came back with three children to a man who was still uncertain in a world that was changing.

Since then, you’ve learned so much about the world, about yourself, about Reiner.

How he’s seized by night terrors even now, just like you, and how one thing that soothes it is going out for a walk while the sun still simmers below the horizon, the sky a dark navy blue spliced with orange rays. The intricate details like him making a point to tie his own tie because his father never taught him how or the way he has to chug his coffee so he has enough energy to get through the day.

And some days are horrible, haunting, but now, it is far outweighed by the good. He teaches Xav how to dress smart, takes the girls out shopping. Sometimes, he’s spotted around Liberio with a flame-haired boy riding his shoulders, you trailing behind hiding a smile behind some ice-cream.

Different nations, foods, cultures surround you now—citizens of countries coming to settle down roots, spread cuisine to Marley. The idea before, of humans so different than you but still similar at the root of it all, existing, still blows your mind. The technologies that you had never seen before, languages you’d never heard, sights you’d never seen, had all swarmed you as you stepped into a new world with him.

But there is always one thing you’ll come back to.

Leaning against the railing in the port city Reiner told you was the harbour he had left twelve years ago, and returned to seven years ago, you watch the clouds travel in slow drags across the pale blue canvas hung high above your head. The water spans for as far as you can see, glimmering under the sun and gorgeous enough to take your breath away. You pull at your coat across your chest absently, ignoring the tender growl of your stomach.

Breathing in the salty wind, you feel your chest expand at the litle fishing boats a little ways out.

Reiner was right. You don’t get sick of the sea. You never will—not of this much water. You still remember the first time you had swam in it, the salt-water making your hair crisp, the cold sweat forming on your your sun-warmed skin.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. Looking up, you spot blonde hair and warm eyes and smile. Your heart flutters a bit. You shift on your feet.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Reiner leans down beside you, and you clasp your hands, letting the sea wind curl against your neck. Reaching to slip his hand in between yours, he sighs and you lean against his shoulder, glancing at their pile of interlaced fingers. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” you whisper, although even still, you can feel a numbing at your fingertips. You remember what it was like to be a Titan, even now. The sensations haunt you—flashes of your own mutated body, the grotesque meat of your hands sinking into the ankles of the man beside you, the bloodcurdling roar spilling out of your throat.

Glancing at their fingers, you watch the flashes of silver of the rings play in the sunlight, your band now having a matching counterpart on his own hand. You grasp his hands tightly, bringing them up to your lips and his own grip tightens when you dust a kiss gently along his scarred knuckles.

“No,” you finally say at length. “I’m not okay. Going back to Paradis makes me nervous as hell, but we’ll manage.” He nods slowly, and you let go of his hands to wrap your arms around his neck. His own encircle your waist, pulling you flush against him and your eyes close at the familiar warmth—a warmth you’ve woken up next to most days for the past three years.

“Have you eaten yet?” he murmurs, and your fingers play with the soft edges teasing at your pads as his nose presses against your cheek. Your eyes flutter at the soft heat emanating from his skin, and you shake your head, melting against him. With one arm still around you, he slants his body away from just enough to pull a bag out of his pocket and it crinkles as he hands it to you. Taking it, you frown and look inside.

A cream bun. You can’t help the crumbling in your expression and Reiner holds your face in his hands carefully, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Let’s stay positive,” he whispers. “We don’t know the situation until we get there and Historia briefs us.”

“I know,” you whisper and his entire expression eases at your words. His eyes gaze at you as if you’re the sole centre of his universe, and he cups your jaw more insistently, pulling you in for a gentle kiss, one you ease into, your eyes fluttering shut as his tongue traces the seam of your mouth. Laughing, you feel his little nose scrunch and your heart bounds up into your throat as he pulls back only to kiss you again, softer this time.

“Get a room!” A sharp female voice ruins their moment and you pull back just enough to see a red-headed boy running towards them and Reiner crouches down just in time to scoop Xavier up.

“When are you getting married?” he demands. “I was promised cake when you guys got married.”

“I dunno. When you move out of the house I guess,” you tease and Xavier pouts, rubbing at the side of his nose with the heel of his palm.

“Besides, you got cake for your seventh birthday, buddy,” Reiner groans as the boy twists in his arms. “You’re getting heavy. What are you feeding him?” he adds, smiling roguishly at you and you roll your eyes as Alina and Anya approach, sun hats protecting them from the glaring sun. Alina, grocery bags in hand, waves. Anya, who’d been the one to shout, tucks her coin purse back into her bag before flashing you a great big smile.

Only fifteen and seventeen. You can barely recall what it’s like being that young anymore, but you’re grateful they didn’t spend it the way you did. They get to know beauty, and no limits at all. The former comes naturally, the latter is partially because Reiner spoils them rotten.

Alina picks a flower with velvety purple petals from a bouquet she cradles in her arm, extending it to you.

“For good luck,” she says. “And protection.” Your heart melts at her words and you pause for a moment, looking from the gorgeous bloom to Reiner, occupied with the boy in his arms making silly faces at him. Then, without another moment, you sneak the flower behind his ear and he reaches up immediately to hold it against his head, turning to you in surprise.

“To protect the both of us,” you explain.

“Thank you. I’ll be extra careful now.” He looks at the girls, setting his free hand on Alina’s head heavily and she flushes, smiling grandly. “You three behave while we’re gone, alright?”

You nod. “Listen to Levi.”

“And listen to your sister,” Reiner adds to Alina and Xavier. The former rolls her eyes, the latter sticks out his tongue. “I’ll miss you.”

This is their home—their family that tumbles together into a huge hug, and you can’t help but stand back, watching how they all seem to merge into one unit, unaware of where one part of their reach ends and another begins.

As Reiner pulls you into the hug, your heart soars through your body, effortlessly pounding in your throat and in your fingers and everywhere at once. Liquid heat pools everywhere as Xavier screws up his face when you kiss his cheek, the same way Reiner does after he’s eaten something sour.

And maybe it’s a bit different, or a bit broken, the shards of their bloody history still poking at their heels whenever they think you’ve forgotten them, and it’s most definitely not perfect, but you would rather have it like this then anything else.

“Hey, guys!” Breaking apart, the family look over to see Armin, Annie, and Pieck walking over. Gabi and Falco meander a little bit behind, pushing Levi in his wheelchair, and Jean and Connie are running not far behind them, shouting at one another. You stifle a laugh and Xavier shimmies out of Reiner’s hold to run towards them. The girls follow after him, trying to hold back their runs but the closer they get, you can tell the more frantic they are to say goodbye.

So this is what they’ve made a peace. Something, you hope, is good.

Annie bypasses them quickly, making her way over to you and you survey her face as Reiner squeezes your shoulder, walking over to their friends. Her blue eyes are fixed on your face, and you feel your lips curving into a smile as she shoves her hands in her pockets. Her hair is swaying in the wind, gleaming flaxen, and you remind yourself, not for the first time, that Armin and Annie’s kids, if they ever decide they want them, will be gorgeous.

Hope for the future, and all that.

She stops in front of you, tucking a strand behind her ear.

“So,” she says at length, “we’re going back to Paradis. I’m surprised you decided to come with us. You don’t owe any of us anything.”

“I know. But… you’re my best friend. You do the talking, I fly the getaway plane, right?”

“Yeah. There used to be a time when it probably would’ve been the opposite.”

You nod, and they stand in silence for a moment, watching each other. Two women who should not have been friends, but were against all odds. You don’t think you would be here today if it weren’t for Annie.

Your heart lurches and you take a step forward just as she does, her mouth open to say something. You throw your arms around her and she lets out a noise in surprise as you close your eyes. Arms coming underneath yours, her hands dig into your shoulders and you smile against soft hair as she sighs, easing into your hug.

“Finally working together on an actual assignment,” you mumble and her head tilts as her small frame shifts, a hand patting you on the back as a sign for you to back up. “Just like we always said we would.”

Bluntly: “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“You, too.” Pulling back, the two look at one another for another soft moment before you remember the bag in your hand and you shift the bun up in the bag, extending it towards her. “Want some?” Her eyebrows rise in faint delight, before she’s reaching over, pinching and tearing a piece off.

You grin and do the same and you gesture for her to come stand by the rails with you, stuffing the bag into your coat pocket. Leaning against the warm metal again, you hear a seagull call. The plane you’ll be flying to Paradis floats on the water, the technicians giving it the final check before you take off.

If anything goes wrong while you help prepare and oversee accommodations for the rest of the ambassador group, you’ll remember to fire the black signal flare, but you trust Historia. You trust your friends.

You glance over at them, all laughing, and you notice that the flower has gone from Reiner to Pieck, who’s taking it out of her dark hair to tuck it into Jean’s, and his cheeks redden as he brushes it more securely behind his ear.

Annie catches your attention again, pointing out idly that they’ll have to separate soon when they finish with the plane, and you tell her to just wait a couple minutes more as Reiner catches your gaze. Setting Xav, who has somehow wormed his way back into his arms, down, he walks back over to you, and his hand trails purposefully over your back before resting at the nape of your neck, a reassuring weight on your body.

“You guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” Annie replies. “You have a clingy boyfriend,” she tells you.

“I think it’s charming.”

She rolls her eyes. Reiner smiles, and you pat the railing beside you—silent invitation. He leans in on your other side, clasping his hands and watching the fishermen pull themselves to shore, singing a tune to each other—one familiar to all three of them and one that you wish you could get out of your head.

“Soon may the Wellerman come…”

A faint breeze tickling at your fingertips as a sharp call for embarkment splits the harbour, you simply sigh and look over at Reiner. “I just want these last few moments to last.” His eyes meet yours, and he leans forward to press a kiss between your eyes. Annie lets out a soft noise of disgust and you bump your hip against her as Reiner pulls back.

Closing your eyes and lifting your head to the wind, you can almost imagine the one person missing standing on the other side of Annie, dark hair like spun, stained bronze and eyes like warm chocolate. He’d smile and tell them not to worry in that sincere way of his that makes you believe every word he says—as long as they were careful, they wouldn’t walk into any traps.

Your chest aches, and your lips tug into a heart-wrenching smile as you begin to sing along. Reiner slips a hand in between yours, pressing his temple against your head and you loop your other arm through Annie’s.

She rests her head on your shoulder, listening to your voice, eyes on the sailors bringing in their haul below them. Reiner hums the shanty softly, distractedly, eyes cast across the sea.

You tilt your head up to the sky, at the stars you cannot see but will join one day, and smile.

258 notes · View notes

seijorhi · 4 years

Text

Nothing Fucks with My Baby

The (not so) long awaited Hitman AU 👀

Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader

TW Blood, minor violence, referenced/implied murder, stalking, implied kidnapping

Iwaizumi has one rule. No kids.

They could be the damn antichrist for all he cares, if they’re underage, they’re off limits. Anyone else is fair game - kind old ladies, rich corrupt businessmen, housewives, politicians. He doesn’t give a shit so long as he gets paid, and paid well.

You were fair game.

He never cares why. Iwa has better things to do than listen to meaningless justifications and vendettas. They make no difference either way - he’s being paid to kill, so he’ll kill, ruthlessly and without prejudice. All he wants is a name, a picture and whether or not they want brains splattered on pavement or something a little more refined. An address doesn’t go astray, but he’ll work with what he’s got, it’s the reason he can charge a fucking premium.

But you… you weren’t what he expected. He’s used to filth. Liars, cheaters, bottom of the barrel trash. Every once in a while some poor idiot gets caught up in something they don’t understand and ultimately pay the price for it, but good people don’t often end up in files splayed across Iwaizumi’s desk. He’s not used to innocence, and as far as he’s concerned, you’re as close as they come.

He supposes that things might have been different if they’d wanted you dead quickly.

Publicly.

But they didn’t want that. They wanted you to disappear without a fucking trace. It wasn’t a kindness - it just meant more work for him. It meant that instead of staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle perched in the window of an empty apartment across the street from yours, he’d have to get his hands dirty.

If you want somebody to blame, sweetheart, why don’t you start with them?

In hindsight, he probably didn’t need to go inside the little coffee joint you worked at. He could lie to himself and say that it was an excuse to get closer to you, to see if you had friends at your work who might try and get in the way, but the simple truth was that he’d been up since four in the fucking morning, and he might just have shot somebody out of sheer irritation if he didn’t get a hit of caffeine and soon.

Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?

And it wasn’t like you were going to recognise him. Three days in, and as far as Iwa can tell, you don’t have the slightest idea that you were being watched, much less that the pair of eyes watching belonged to a cold hearted killer.

People tend to be a little more scared when they sense he’s coming - there’s a kind of innate fear that seeps from every pore as they scurry about trying to hide, trying to put off the inevitable - but you, you’re just blissfully oblivious, flitting around with those wide doe eyes like you haven’t got a damn care in the world.

He honestly doesn’t know whether he wants to envy or pity you for that sweet naivety.

Currently though, he’s more concerned with whether or not you can make a half decent cup of coffee.

“I asked for an extra hot latte.”

Or he would be, if the asshole with slicked back hair and an expensive suit hadn’t cut him off just as he was about to step up to the counter to shove the coffee you’d just made him back in your face. He watches your eyes widen for a split second before you smile - apologetic and demure before you can even open your mouth.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it not hot enough?”

The moment the words leave your lips, you all but flinch. Both you and he know that despite the fact you mean them sincerely (which kind of surprises him, considering that if your situations were reversed he wouldn’t have been nearly so generous) they’re a mistake.

The asshole sneers down at you like you’re nothing more than scum on his shoes. “If it was fucking hot enough, I wouldn’t be wasting my time complaining, now would I?”

Even before he found himself dabbling in his current line of work, Iwaizumi never considered himself much of a knight in shining armour. The world’s a shitty place, it’s not his job to go around fixing things and softening blows. He’s not a cold, emotionless bastard, as most people assume, he just has better things to do than run around playing a damn bleeding heart and sticking his neck out for strangers. It’s not his problem and as far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t owe anybody shit.

Impassive olive eyes watch as you try and backtrack, apologising again, offering to make him a new drink, explaining that the reason the coffee wasn’t as hot as he wanted was because you were trying not to scorch the milk- for naught.

You in your naive little world don’t seem to realise that the asshole doesn’t actually give a shit about the coffee. He wants a power trip, and you’ve given him the perfect excuse. He wants to yell and scream and stamp his feet and take all of his repressed anger and feelings of inadequacy out on you so that he can feel like a big man. He wants to see you whimper and cry and bow down before him.

It’s pathetic, but Iwa’s content to watch it play out, drumming his fingers against the wallet in his hand, more irritated with the delay in getting his own coffee than the outburst itself-

Until the asshole reaches for his latte.

Iwa’s good at reading people, predicting their movements before they’re even made. It’s a necessary skill in his profession, one that’s saved his skin more times than he can count. He sees the little vein in the asshole’s temple throb, his jaw tighten, and the moment his hand twitches towards the still steaming cup of coffee, Iwa knows that he fully intends on throwing it at you.

He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to, an iron grip wrapping around the asshole’s wrist, squeezing. He glares, sneering down at the man who all of a sudden doesn’t seem quite so angry, much less imposing.

“Get out,” he hisses.

It’s not a request.

But the asshole either has a death wish or he’s trying to salvage what’s left of his fragile ego, because his beady eyes narrow and he opens his mouth - no doubt to spew more vitriolic bullshit.

Iwa twists.

Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that it sends the man to his knees, whimpering like a kicked puppy, desperate to relieve the pressure on his wrist.

“I said,” he begins, his voice colder than ice, “get out.”

Yet he doesn’t spare the asshole another glance, not even as he releases his grip and the man skitters away like he’s been burned. The cafe is deathly silent, and without even glancing around, Iwa knows that they’ve managed to draw the attention of most if not all of its patrons.

And for once, he doesn’t give a single fuck.

Iwa’s eyes, his attention, all of it is focused entirely on you - on the wide eyed, stunned look on your pretty face. It’s a violent outburst, not nearly close to what he’s truly capable of, but in the quiet little cafe on a dreary Tuesday morning, glaringly out of place.

Will you burst into tears, he wonders. Ignore it, brush it aside and pretend it never happened? Stutter out more apologies for causing a fuss, for making a simple mistake? He somehow doubts you’ll be the type to scold him for it. No, you’re far too meek for that.

You surprise him, smiling slowly instead, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm.

It’s a far cry from the contrite air you’d graced the asshole with earlier. It’s hesitant, nervous, but it’s very much real, and Iwa finds it difficult to stop the corners of his own lips from twitching upwards in response.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He inclines his head a fraction. “Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t charge him for the coffee, even when he practically shoves the bills across the counter into your hands.

“Don’t worry about it,” you shyly parrot back at him, and he almost fucking snorts when there’s a warmed chocolate chip muffin waiting with his coffee when it’s ready.

He’s being paid forty grand to make sure you’re dead by the end of the week, and you’re here giving him free muffins. Oikawa would see the humour in that. Of course, Oikawa would have absolutely no qualms in charming the absolute hell out of you seconds before he pulled the trigger. Realistically, he shouldn’t either. It’s his job, nothing personal.

To say he enjoys killing is probably a stretch, but he takes pride in it. Iwa’s good at what he does. It’s simple. Easy - so long as he follows his own rules.

This shouldn’t be any different. You’re cute, he supposes, in an odd sort of way. Innocent.

Endearing.

It shouldn’t have an effect on him.

It doesn’t, but-

He could have killed you two days ago. He’d be willing to bet good money that he could’ve walked right to your apartment, knocked on your door, made up some bullshit excuse on the spot and you would have smiled and invited him right inside.

And it’s not like you’d stand a chance of being able to fight him off.

Over the past few days there have been at least twelve different moments that Iwaizumi could have stepped in and snuffed that pretty little life of yours out without making a fuss and it would have been easy.

But he hadn’t.

There’s a difference between surveillance and stalking - it’s a fine line, a blurred one maybe, but it’s there all the same. After yet another night spent camped out watching you move about your apartment - cooking dinner for yourself, zoning out on the couch and fiddling with your phone while the tv plays in the background before finally curling up in bed in the early hours of the morning - Iwa comes to the realisation that he’s crossed it.

He wonders why it doesn’t bother him like it should.

The next day, he goes back to your little coffee shop. There’s no muffin this time, but your face brightens when he walks through the door and when he goes to pick up his coffee there’s a tiny, bite sized cookie sitting atop the lid.

“Don’t tell my boss,” you whisper, darting a glance back over your shoulder even as another pretty little smile graces your features.

Something unexpectedly warm and pleasant sings through his blood, and this time Iwa allows his own lips to twitch into the faintest hint of a grin in response.

You really are a truly awful judge of character.

Maybe that’s your downfall, that beautiful, naive innocence you just bleed. It’s a wonder that nobody’s come along to take advantage of you, especially when you are so very ripe for the taking.

Well, nobody until him, he supposes.

Iwa doesn’t know for certain why the men who want you dead do, he doesn’t particularly care either, but he does know that whatever their reasons are, it’s not enough.

Neither is forty thousand dollars.

It takes time, more than he’d like, to find the root of it all. It’s messy and he has to call in a few favours from old friends, but Iwa is nothing if not thorough.

He’s never particularly enjoyed killing, but there’s a certain satisfaction he gets from watching the light leave their desperate, pleading eyes knowing that he’s finally done his job. When he comes home, his shirt flecked with blood, his hands still dripping with it and coaxes your stricken, tear stained face up into a lingering kiss, Iwa feels content.

They wanted you to disappear entirely, he made sure that you did.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere iwaizumi #yandere iwaizumi hajime #yandere iwaizumi x reader #yandere iwaizumi hajime x reader #yandere fic #my writing #tw stalking #tw blood #tw minor violence & implied murder

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vennilavee · 3 years

Text

starry eyes

pairing: levi x reader (moon/stars universe) ft kaiya and rina!! summary: some moments through your pregnancy with baby Peach. warnings: pregnancy, cursing, details of a difficult pregnancy, c-section delivery, blood mention a/n: for this drabble prompt req “give me more picking out baby names, painting nurseries, and cradling their children. For moon and stars please”. but it ended up being 2.6k. i didn’t include the part about painting nurseries bc i want that to be it’s own drabble/part of another part of the story!

“Do you think we should have Peach share a room with Kaiya when she’s old enough?” You muse, “We only have our bedroom and Kaiya’s…”

Levi hums and scratches his chin. He absently places a hand over your growing belly- you’ve only started showing in the last week or two.

“Kaiya will be five years older than Peach,” Levi says, “She will need her own space.”

“Then we need more space,” You say with a raise of your eyebrow, “We only have two bedrooms, baby.”

“What shitty timing,” Levi sighs, throwing his head back against the headboard of the bed, “Is this a good time to move into another house? We haven’t even started looking-”

“We can either do it now or when Peach is a few months old,” You say, leaning your head on his shoulder, “You and Erwin spent so much time decorating Kaiya’s room and painting the walls…”

“We can do that at the new house,” Levi says, “And Kai can do it with us.” He kisses your forehead and continues rubbing your belly absently.

“Are we making this decision too quickly? Shouldn’t we think about it more,” You wonder out loud.

“We need more space,” Levi says simply, “We got a baby coming. Or did you forget?”

“How could I forget?” You roll your eyes, “You knocked me up. Again.”

“Shut up,” Levi rolls his eyes and pulls you in for a kiss. And then flicks your forehead.

House hunting was a much quicker affair than you had anticipated it to be- Levi had a sixth sense for this type of thing (and it had long begun to rub off on you, too). You had been looking at houses with Kaiya for about two months now, without any luck of a space that you could truly see yourself living in with your family.

Kaiya dutifully holds your hand as she explores the new kitchen, peering into the glossy, light green cabinets and giggling when she sees her reflection in a small mirror.

She gasps when she sees the size of the backyard, bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly. “Mommy, look ousside,” She whispers, “Pwetty.”

“It is, isn’t it?” You reply, giving her a smile.

Levi has a mental checklist of questions to ask, and you do too, but he can see you falling in love with the house already. It’s cute and has charm- he can tell you’re already envisioning where Kaiya and the currently unnamed baby would play in the living room, where you’d set up your sewing materials…

Because he’s thinking about the same. He’s thinking about what Kaiya might want to paint her walls and how to set up the new baby’s room, about where his wine collection might go and his favorite leather chair.

Sometimes when you know, you just know. He has a good feeling about this place and the more the real estate agent tells you both, the more you subtly fall in love with the house. You feel like you’re a character in a small fairytale when you climb the staircase and get a view of the yard from the bedroom.

“Honey,” You say softly, tugging on his sleeve.

“Hmm,” He says and scoops Kaiya in his arms when she lifts her arms up.

“Daddy, mommy say she like it,” Kaiya whispers. Or attempts to.

“Oh, is that what mommy said?” Levi says, eyes lit up with amusement.

“Kiki, tell daddy that mommy loves the house very much.”

“Daddy, mommy say-”

“Daddy likes the house, too,” Levi says and you beam at him.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really!” Kaiya exclaims, her arms outstretched.

And that’s that.

Moving and settling the paperwork had taken another month despite Levi’s attempts on speeding up the process. You had insisted on helping with the physical labor of moving, despite Erwin, Hange, Eren, Jean, Armin, Connie, Sasha and Mikasa volunteering to help you and Levi move.

Kaiya sat on one of the boxes that Jean and Eren carried out of the current apartment with a yellow hard hat on her head, directing them outside of the apartment to stack the boxes by the elevator.

“Baby,” You mumble, tugging Levi’s hand, “A house. We bought a house together.”

“Yeah,” Levi says, “Guess I’m stuck with you now, huh?”

You ignore him and peck his cheek. Your eyes have been watering on and off all day, memories of this apartment and of the initial stages of your relationship blossoming hidden in the spaces between the walls, between each shelf and cabinet.

“We fell in love here,” You say thickly, “We created love here.”

“We did,” Levi says softly, rolling his thumb over your hand, “Kaiya started walking right over there-” He points to the empty space of the living room, “You broke a wine glass over here-” He points to the space where the small dining table used to be, “And Kaiya’s birthdays were here…”

“Stop,” You complain, “I’m gonna cry again.”

Levi lets out a soft chuckle, “The new house is gonna have all of that and more. With this kid.” Levi palms your belly and kisses your temple.

Your second trimester, as it was with Kaiya, is relatively easy in comparison to the first trimester. You and Levi take the ease that comes with the second trimester to plan out what the nursery in the new house will look like when the baby is old enough to sleep alone.

The new house is a cozy four bedroom house (complete with a guest room) and plenty of room for play and relaxation. You had converted one of the rooms on the first floor into a small office for Levi, as he was able to work from home more often than you were.

Kaiya had demanded that her room be space themed. So you and Levi had painted her bedroom a pretty pale blue, decorated with glow in the dark stars and planets across her ceiling and the walls. A grey full moon hangs on one of the walls, along with frames of the planets, galaxies and Kaiya’s own drawings of the solar system (and really whatever else she wants).

She had even painted some stars on the side of the wall where her bed is, with Erwin’s help. Her bedding is navy blue with gold stars printed on it and of course, she has her stuffed elephant, her stuffed sun and her stuffed moon on her bed. A galaxy projector sits on her nightstand, and she loves to turn it on when Levi reads her a bedtime story.

Seeing her reaction made you cry, too.

Now was the hard part. Determining what to paint the walls for the growing peach in your belly. You and Levi go back and forth on muted yellow, olive green, and pale green-

“Do you want Peach to think they’re in a forest?”

“But green is such a calming color!”

“So is yellow, yellow is happy-”

“You think a newborn baby will know that?”

“We should create an atmosphere of relaxation and happiness-”

In the end you and Levi decide on a yellow and green theme, with accents of grey. Compromise. You both decide to hold off on painting the walls, until Peach is a little older to decide on what they want to accent the walls. Kaiya’s old crib sits in your bedroom for when Peach arrives, which somehow feels like it’s creeping up on you but still so far away.

Your second trimester is when you can’t get enough of Levi- every small action he does, whether it’s cooking dinner, putting things away from unpacked boxes or giving you a foot rub- makes you want to jump his bones every chance you get.

You’re glad your man can keep up with you. And Levi makes it well known how much he loves you and loves your body. He always has a hand on your hips, your waist, your chest whenever he can.

You bask in the attention. Your skin glows, your hair is healthy and your nails full.

And then the third trimester comes, and it’s possibly the most difficult experience you’ve ever had to stomach. The third trimester is complete with backaches, frequent heartburn, varicose veins and mood swings that give Levi whiplash.

Your mood swings weren’t this intense with Kaiya. But he knows every pregnancy is different. You’re uncomfortable in your own skin and distressed and so tired in the last few months.

In the last few months, you and Levi settle on a name- you’d found out that Peach was in fact a baby girl, and Kaiya was upset that she wouldn’t be able to refer to her baby sister as Peach any longer-

“Let’s name my sissy ‘Berry’ then.”

“That’s not any better than Peach, honey.”

In the end, after a few weeks of deliberating, you decide on Rina Ackerman. You had tossed around the idea of naming her after Levi’s mother, Kuchel, but Levi shot it down. He didn’t want his kids to have the burden of living up to a legacy that they knew nothing about.

You could understand that.

Levi and Kaiya help where they can. Levi holds you when you cry and he rubs your belly and your back when it gets to be too much. You tell him that this baby feels different, that you’re scared. So when you start having contractions about four weeks too early, you’re not surprised.

You scream and you cry, terrified that something’s gone wrong when you spot blood pooling on the bed. Levi looks at you with wide eyes before jumping into action quickly.

He holds your hand tightly, grateful that Kaiya is with his mom and Kenny for the day.

Once you reach the hospital, you’re a mess, almost refusing to let the doctors look at you. You’re terrified that something awful and terrible has happened, and Levi looks you in the eye with your hands tight in his-

“You can do this. You have to do this. For Rina. She needs you.”

“She’s too early, Levi, I can’t-”

“She’s strong. Like her mother.”

In the end, Rina is delivered via an emergency C-section. Levi only sees and holds her impossibly tiny body for a moment before she starts to cry and she’s whisked away by the nurses and doctors. You’re still sedated in the hospital bed.

He sits in the blue plastic chair in your room and holds his head in his hands.

It’s hard for Levi to believe that that melancholy morning in the hospital was a little over two years ago. When he sees his youngest little girl, strong and quick on her feet, being chased by her older sister, he can’t believe that she came out into the world in such a difficult manner.

You like to joke and say that Rina is a troublemaker and she liked causing a scene right from the first breath of air she took.

Levi feels like his heart stops whenever he sees Rina fall or nearly injure herself. It’s different than it was with Kaiya- maybe because he was the only one who saw her struggle to breathe during her first moments. It’s hard for him to lose the overprotectiveness he has with Rina that didn’t necessarily exist with Kaiya. Of course, he was protective over his oldest, but it just feels different.

He doesn’t want Kaiya to feel like Levi has favoritism over his two best girls. But he can’t shake this feeling.

You recognize it in his eyes even if he says nothing. You see it in the shine of his grey irises, the way they’re panicked only for a millisecond when he hears Rina’s first cry whenever she falls.

The Ackerman family is currently in the backyard, on a nice summer evening. You’re sitting on a picnic blanket with your legs outstretched and a small smile on your face as you watch your babies run around and chase each other. Rina is still clumsy on her feet, almost waddling after Kaiya before she gets distracted by a patch of grass. She immediately plops down and pats the grass under her and pulls at the grass as hard as she can, throwing the pieces up in the air and squealing happily.

“Kaiya!” Rina exclaims, “Kaiya!”

Kaiya sits across from her with a beaming smile and her hands outstretched and Rina gently places the pieces of grass in her hands.

“Hey, thanks, ‘Ina,” Kaiya smiles and Rina bashfully hides her face. She crawls to her big sister and sits in her lap, playing with the flowers and pointing to the small garden that Kaiya and you had been working on.

“Let’s go to the flowers,” Kaiya says and holds her hand as they both waddle to the garden patch.

“Mommy’s growin’ fruits and veggies here,” Kaiya says, pointing at cucumbers and okra, “I pretend like I don’t like them, but I do.”

Kaiya laughs and Rina giggles, too. Rina watches Kaiya with identical eyes, wide and grey and full of wonder. She catches sight of her daddy and lets go of Kaiya’s hand to waddle to Levi.

You nudge Levi’s foot and he stretches his arms out for her. Rina concentrates on Levi, smiling as he gets closer and closer as she walks towards him. But she’s small and she’s clumsy, so she lands on her fresh overalls, knees in the dirt.

Levi is about to jump to his feet but you stop him with a hand to his chest. Rina only stands up with wobbly legs before resuming her walk to Levi.

She nearly jumps into his lap and bounces in his arms when he holds her close. Levi adjusts her sparkly purple headband and Rina just beams at him, standing on her feet and tugging the strands of hair that fall into his eyes.

“Daddy,” Rina whispers and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a few pieces of grass and shoves it in his face. “For you, daddy.”

Her fingers are dirty, coated in soil and dirt and Levi winces. But how can he focus on that when his baby is offering him the gift of the earth?

“Thank you, Rina,” Levi says quietly and kisses her forehead. Rina smiles, satisfied, before settling in his lap and giggling when you pull funny faces at her.

Levi hugs his youngest close, gesturing for Kaiya to come join him. She immediately plops down next to him and Levi wraps an arm around her shoulder.

“You’re getting too tall,” Levi says to Kaiya, who takes it as a compliment.

“My teacher says I’m tallest,” Kaiya beams at him. He pats her head affectionately.

“Come here, mommy,” Kaiya calls. Not like you were too far, anyway. Rina is busy playing with Levi’s long fingers and clutching them in her chubby hands. She gasps when she sees you approaching, outstretching her arms for your attention. You come bearing freshly cut fruit and juice before sitting down next to Levi and pecking his cheek.

“Mommy has melons,” You chirp and Levi snorts.

“Yeah, she does,” Levi says with an upturn of his lips. Only you catch the teasing bite of his tone.

“Mello!” Rina chirps happily, eyeing the watermelon in your plate.

“It’s for you Rina,” You say, and cut up the piece into smaller pieces.

Levi lives for quiet summer nights like this- nights with his girls with the setting sun and a light breeze. Nights with you in a cute sundress, Kaiya and Rina smiling and laughing.

He doesn’t think he can ever get used to how his girls’ laugh makes his heart swell.

tags: @simpingmaize @captainchrisstan @kentobean @alrightberries @puredivinity @regalillegal @castellandiangelo

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi x you #levi ackerman #aot x reader #snk x reader

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theseshipsshallsail · 3 years

Link

Chapter 1

The revelry from the bookstore leaves a heady buzz of la libertà flowing through their veins, and as the crescent moon climbs higher in a pin-pricked sky, Rome’s labyrinthine streets bear witness to the loss of their remaining inhibitions. Drunken kisses give way to drunken dancing - and unfortunate drunken vomiting - but the ancient cobbles are their compass on this ferragosto evening, steering them back to the complicit safety of their hotel.

The stale scent of sex still lingers in the room, yet tempted as they are to add to it, the prospect of their imminent separation is a sobering force. Elio’s body is heavy with exhaustion. The oppressive tightness in his chest magnified by all that he’s trying to ignore. Their time is borrowed. Soon, all of this will be naught but memory. The man beside him nothing but a ghost. Haunting his every step with visions of a life denied. A future obfuscated by what-ifs and maybes.

He refuses to sleep, however. Refuses to sacrifice a single minute to unconsciousness in spite of the grappa’s siren call. Absurd though it is, a part of him dreads waking up alone. That Oliver will disappear like a thief in the night - taking what’s left of his shattered heart with him. His guards are down - all his pretences stripped away - but here they are, stretched out on a too-small bed, solemn fingers caressing familiar skin. Worshipping each other by words, if not by the flesh.

And it isn’t easy. Of course it isn’t. Elio’s an individuo reservato. A trait he’s uncomfortably aware of. But he can’t let that stop him from spilling his innermost thoughts. From divulging the things he wishes he’d done differently. Or not at all. In some aspects, he’s sure he’s repeating himself, but there’s just so much he needs Oliver to hear. Things he never dared tell him previously - never deemed vital - when the end of their summer idyll was a nebulous concept.

Like how he’d leave the adjoining door open at night, hoping beyond hope that Oliver would walk through it. Or that afternoon at the tennis courts, when he’d recoiled from his massage for fear of leaning into the frisson of excitement. Needs him to understand his visceral reaction the morning after they first slept together. The crippling anxiety that twisted his intentions, necessitating a hasty - if short-lived - retreat. Wants to beg him not to forget. To remember everything. So that when next he tastes the salt-tang of the ocean upon his lips, the sweetness of apricot juice beneath a cloudless yonder, a piece of Elio - nevermind how fleeting - will slip into that parallel life, too.

All his secrets.

All his worries.

All he’s put off for later.

A futile notion, admittedly, now that there is no later.

No more chance for postponement.

Thankfully, he isn’t the only one speaking, and Oliver lays his own regrets out like a hand of cards whenever he stumbles into a tongue-tied silence. His forearm is slung around his waist, their legs tangled at the knees, and Elio drowns in his eyes as he recalls the steely glares that once pierced him to the core, but which he now appreciates were a means of self-defence. An attempt to stave off the unavoidable.

“Did you mean it?” he whispers, twisting Oliver’s Star of David between his fingertips as he burrows into the sticky warmth of his neck. “When you said you’d been happy here?”

“How can you even ask me that?”

“How can I not?” Elio replies, failing to control the tremor in his voice. “You tried to keep your distance when you arrived. It was me who sought you out. If I hadn’t pushed so hard -”

“I’d have probably spent ten more days kicking myself for my cowardice,” Oliver tells him, dropping kisses to his knuckles as though they’re something to be cherished. “Wearing holes in my espadrilles… trying to hide a semi each time you passed by in those swim trunks...”

Elio snorts. “The feeling’s mutual, mon ami.”

“So we’re both idiots, then?”

“Well… one of us was being purposefully difficult...”

“Goose,” Oliver growls, and Elio giggles despite himself when he’s tickled without mercy. “I’ll show you purposefully difficult.”

It soon devolves into a childish wrestling match, Elio’s wrists pinned above him as Oliver scrabbles along his sides, leaving him bow-taut and winded. “Tutto apposto! Enough!”

“You give?”

“I give,” he says, lungs heaving in his chest. “Dio… I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Nonsense.” Oliver rolls to the side, tipping his chin up to better meet his eyes. ”This is new to us both. It’s only natural to have doubts.”

Elio huffs. “Doubt is the father of inventions.”

“And may I ask what you’re inventing?”

An awkward shrug. “Nothing,” Elio says, afraid his misgivings will lead them down a destructive path. “And everything. You know how my brain works.”

“I do, yes.” Oliver brushes a thumb over his bottom lip. “Though for my sins, I’ve yet to find cause for complaint.”

“Déviant.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Elio nips at the tormenting digit, not quite ready to let the subject go. “I want to hear it,” he murmurs, teeth scraping the nail. “I think I need to hear it.”

“Elio…”

“Just tell me,” he insists, and sighing, Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?”

Impatience flares at the return of his evasiveness, and the remorse in Oliver’s gaze is immediate. “We never talked much about my family, did we?” he asks, and Elio shakes his head, shuffling closer as Oliver draws a shuddering breath. “My parents, they’re.... well. To describe them as traditional would be a kindness,” he continues. “Our relationship has been strained for years, but they have certain... expectations, I suppose. For my future, specifically. You know how it is.”

“Do I?” Elio asks, stiffening as I'm sure I'll pay for it somehow echoed from the not so distant past.

The implication is clear, and maybe there are razor blades in his expression, because Oliver’s own turns instantly apologetic. “I guess not,” he says, sliding a conciliatory hand to his hip. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

Elio frowns. “In what way?”

“With your folks,” Oliver explains. “My father would cart me off to a correctional facility.” A beat. “He still might.”

“Only if he finds out,” his traitorous mouth blurts before his alleged genius can catch up, and Elio’s heart sinks. “But he won’t, will he?”

It’s less a question, more a statement, and Oliver’s jaw clenches as he stares at him in silent concession. “I wish things could be different.”

“I know,” Elio says, the words braver than the sentiment behind them. “Me too.”

But the universe isn’t that lenient. Like Icarus, they’ve flown too near to the sun, and the consequences of such defiance will see their wings clipped once they crash back down to earth. He’d cautioned himself on the journey south to prepare for the blow. Peered out the grimy window of the direttissimo, knowing that when he next stands on the platform he’ll be alone. That he’ll hate it. Those rehearsals, it seems, have done little to dull the pain of what’s to come, and latent superstition has left him fumbling in the dark, regardless.

“E’ la vita,” Elio says, resorting to self-preservation as he dredges up a smile - the over-bright, false one he’s perfected through years of dinner drudgery. “Why risk it all for a bit of fun, right?”

“Don’t do that.” Apparently Elio’s not the only one who can see through a facade. “You mean more to me than some fling, and you know it.”

“But -”

“No. Hear me out.” Earnest, Oliver smooths the hair from Elio’s temple. “These past six weeks… I don’t know how to describe how important they were to me. The freedom. The acceptance.” His throat bobs in the grey strokes of dawn. “You.”

“Me?”

“Us.” Oliver fidgets with a loose thread on Elio’s shirt. “I meant it,” he mutters at last, winding an errant curl around the index finger of his other hand. “I have been happy here. I’ve been happy with you.” He hesitates. A quick flash of indecision. “I’m not sure I was ever really happy before you.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Per carità! That only makes it worse,” Elio says, whirling away to hide in Oliver’s collar. The sour musk of sweat is soaked into the material, and he inhales deeply, hoarding every piece of him while he still can. “You are the very best parts of me,” he confesses, lifting his head. “I don’t know what I’ll do when -”

“Hey…” Oliver’s grip tightens. “Didn’t we go over this? You’ll be -”

“Fine. You said.”

“Clearly it bears repeating.”

Elio touches his face. Watches the ripples of emotion spread out like a pebble cast into the lake. “And you?” he returns, recollecting that night on the rock. His naivety in presuming Oliver’s ghost wouldn’t always be staring out at the horizon. Rodin’s Thinker clad in billowy cotton. “You’ll be okay?”

A breath. “I’ll be okay.”

Elio’s not sure which of them he’s trying to convince, so he kisses him gently in lieu of examining it further, his stomach flipping when Oliver pulls back with an air of exquisite softness. “What time do we need to be at the airport?” he asks, seeking sanctuary in distraction. “You have your passport, sì?”

“I do,” Oliver says, studying him carefully. “The plane leaves at noon. But don’t feel you have to -” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “You don’t have to see me off. Not if you don’t want -”

“I want.”

“Elio -”

“Non essere ridicolo. I’m coming,” he tells him, fighting a shiver as the cool breeze from the window brings goosebumps to his skin. “Of course I’m coming.”

The relentless tick of the clock rings loud in the sudden silence, and Elio raises up on his elbow, only for Oliver to cup his cheek before he can turn towards the wall.

“Don’t look,” he whispers, sounding choked as he double checks the time on his watch. “It’s ten minutes fast at any rate.”

“Ten minutes?” Elio laughs. Slightly unhinged. “What difference does that make? Ten? Twenty? You still have to leave.”

He detests the unspoken word that hovers between them. The entire phrase a sullen admission of weakness: you still have to leave me.

“Don’t think of it like that,” Oliver murmurs, one hand stroking the base of his spine. ”We have a few hours yet.”

Elio sniffs. “Not like they’ll matter tomorrow.”

“Maybe not. But they matter right now.” Oliver nudges their foreheads together. “Every second, Elio.”

“Every second, Elio,” he echoes numbly, if only to call him by his name one last time.

He’s shaking, he realises, though in all honesty he doesn’t care that his vulnerabilities are on display. That Oliver can see how lost in him he really is. That the situation is gutting him, and he’s unable to stop the bleeding. His chest feels concave. The space below his ribs too small to contain the sheer need and protectiveness that washes through him. He wants to shelter Oliver from the storm that lies ahead. To house him beneath his breast where the burdens of this world cannot touch him. Encapsulate everything Oliver is within the confines of himself, meagre as those confines might be.

But what can he do? Implore him to stay? Ask him to give up his doctorate? His career? His responsibilities? And for what? A life in the shadows? Always looking over their shoulders. Always that sense of shame.

He thinks of the pink and yellow lilies that bloom in the giardino back in B. The delicate petals that unfurl for such a brief period of time. There’s something recherché, he knows, in such transitory beauty, yet Elio’s never lacked for stubbornness. Oliver may believe his story is already written - that their destiny is forged in stone - but no one’s ever survived a freefall by continuing to spiral.

For something so tragically temporary, their bond has left a permanent mark. And Elio? He wants to beat his fists against this odious ending until they’re bloodied and raw.

#cmbyn #fanfic #elio x oliver #angst #last night in rome

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straight-into-the-animus · 3 years

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Meet Me Halfway (Alexios x F!Reader)

For @alexandra-alle who requested for the Valentine’s Day Playlist Challenge something inspired by the song Meet Me Halfway by the Black Eyed Peas for an Alexios x Female Reader. I’m sorry it took so long but I hope it’s worth the wait!

Warnings: Mentions of blood, spoilers for halfway through the game (starts after the second italic section)

The first time you met the Eagle-Bearer, he had saved you from a wild boar.

People always saw the past clearer than they saw the present, you were aware. Looking in the past, it was very easy to see the flaws in the idea of going looking for ingredients when most people with sense were asleep. But something in your mind gave the idea that to get there earlier than everyone else, a whole night earlier, you would be able to get some of the better roots and plants and have a better store to start later in the day with preparing. It made sense at the time… until you were being charged and tried to climb up a tree in sandals that had nothing to them, closing your eyes and holding on as if it were the leg of Hermes himself.

A sickly squelch, a squeal of pain, and then silence, aside from the sounds of your heart thudding wildly in your chest. Grass swayed and crunched under boots, and a voice eventually broke through the night, deep and concerned.

“Are you hurt?”

“...No.” You got out, cracking an eye open and looking down at the side to see a man looking up at you with deep brown eyes that even you could make out in the darkness. A broken spear was in his right hand, covered up to the elbow in blood, but the other seemed to hesitantly reach out and up to help catch you. You hoped the flush was hidden and realized how little your chiton actually hid as it rode up where you hugged the tree, but accepted the help gratefully.

“Thank you… Misthios, I can assume?”

“You may call me Alexios. Or the Eagle-Bearer. Many call me either.” He smiled a bit, and you couldn’t help but somewhat return it, glancing from his face to the spear to the boar and back within a few seconds.

“Whatever I call you, you’ve saved my life, and I must thank you properly for that. Let me take you to my house so I may look at your wounds and pay you.”

A look of surprise almost seemed to flash on the misthios’ face for a second before he nodded slowly; though this time, you were able to catch the smallest smile on the corner of his mouth which stayed for longer. “If you must insist.”

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

It had begun that night, and it had never stopped. There was no need to, no want or desire to. You realized a long time ago, since that night, that waiting was the worst part. You were getting frighteningly used to the feeling after a few years, but every now and then it would hit you in the chest as if it were a deadly arrow straight from a soldier. But even if you somehow found yourself getting used to it, you also found your feet sometimes straying a bit far out of the safety of the walls of the city in the morning to go stand by the docks and examine the ships, to watch for sails arising on the east horizon with Apollo’s sun.

At the same time, there had been many nights like tonight where you had spent overlooking from hills and mountains thinking it would afford you a better view, taking a bit too long to gather herbs for your practices and healings as you watched the ships come and go. It was becoming too dark to see, the night gently starting to overtake your vision, and with sadness you were starting to overtake, you left back for the city.

He had warned you when he had first met you, warned you many times he was dangerous -- how could he be dangerous when he spoke so sweetly --, and liable to hurt you -- but he touched you softly so you didn’t understand that --, but he had warned you how long he would be gone for, how his visits could be so short in comparison, always on his journey that Odysseus would envy, but you had listened… reluctantly.

“I almost think you simply don’t want me coming along because I’m a woman.”

“Hmm?” Alexios cracked an eye open, finger still tracing patterns you couldn’t discern in between your shoulder blades. They left prickles in their wake, and shivers down your body in pleasure, but you willed yourself to ignore them and propped yourself on your elbow to look at him. The fact that you were both bare hardly mattered.

“I might not know how to fight, but my father taught me everything possible from the gentle Asklepios I would need. I could come along, I would be useful to you. Could likely keep you out of trouble. And stop any more of these from happening…” It was your turn to touch as you reached down to his right side, running your fingers on a still healing scar, pink and white against the olive color of his skin. He let you have your fill of it before grasping your hand gently, so gentle between rough fingers, and bringing it to his mouth to kiss it.

“And if something were to happen to you that I could not stop…” He shook his head, and you knew with a sinking heart that there would be no more discussion. All you could do was make sure he knew how much he was loved, and take every bit of love that you could from him to warm yourself before it would eventually be gone in a few days. What else could you do when you loved the Eagle-Bearer? Nothing else at all.

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

In hindsight, the door being open a bit more than you remember leaving it was cause for alarm, but your mind was still cloudy from the thoughts of earlier in the day and it didn’t sink in until the door properly closed behind you and you turned to make sure it was secure.

“Y/N?”

You jumped a bit, a small gasp and shout mixing in your throat as you spun around and took in Alexios in the center of the house, who looked just as startled and reflexively jumped.

“Dear Gods, Alexios, I-”

“I meant to surprise- Are you alright?”

“I think so.” You leaned against your door, closing your eyes and placing a hand over your heart to will it to stop beating. You took a breath before opening your eyes and making sure it really was it, that it wasn’t imagination working itself into a frenzy over him.

But then he moved a bit closer, and you could take in all the little parts about him; the scars on his bicep, the warm glow of his skin illuminated in the fire he must have started while you were gone, how you could make out every thread in his clothes and crack in his leather armor. And though part of you knew it was difficult, that you shouldn’t, you couldn’t help but to reach out to him at the same time he did you and hold onto him, hugging him close and burying your face into him.

“I missed you, my love.” His hand stroked through your hair, and you took in a deep breath, inhaling him and allowing yourself to be surrounded by it.

“I missed you as well.” You said quietly, and you meant it. “What brings you back? A Cultist? News about your family?”

He stiffened just a bit out of habit, apparently still holding onto that as a wound too raw to be picked on, but you held on tighter for reassurance before pulling away to look him in the eyes.

“It goes well on that front. I have… I might have found word on where my mother is. I will sail there soon. There was simply a great deal of loss in Athens recently, I…” He shook his head and your heart sank and all the words you felt he couldn’t say, or that he wouldn’t say. Something had brought him here, and though it pained you, you knew you were still here. You liked healing the body and the spirits as well. Before you could even offer anything, he spoke again. “I came back because I thought of what you said. Of our last…”

And you knew what he meant.

There had been too much anger in your last meeting, too much pain once you parted, and you never wanted that to tinge any of these little things you had. The last time you saw him had been months back. When he had entered late one night and saw the things left for you. Heard the aftermath of what was said.

“I have waited, Alexios, but it is difficult still. Two years, and people speak. Men look. Do you even have anything to say?”

“I’ve said I’m sorry, there’s not much else-”

“You can say you’ll stop this and stay, or you can take me with you.”

He had been unable to make that decision back then, and though your heart had ached for him since then, still ached for him… It was hard to be in his arms now, without anything that seemed real otherwise.

“I meant what I said, Alexios.” You started off, quiet but sure as you stayed at arm’s length. Your hands gripped his tightly, drawing strength as much as you tried to give it to him. “I love you, you know that. But I can’t sit and wait.”

“I know. I can’t make you.” Fear almost passed through your heart at the way he sounded, the quiet tone of his voice, and you felt your breath catch before you quickly cut in.

“I want to go with you, Alexios. Please. Let’s… Let’s sit. We can speak on Athens. Come.” You led him near the fire and had him sit down, sitting across from him as well, back straight. He would not leave tonight like this, broken and saddened, and you knew that. “Tell me everything.”

The plague in Athens had reached every corner of Greece, you all knew about it. But to hear the truth, about the Cult -- and you only knew the barest details from what you pried out of Alexios when he was willing to share -- and about their puppet, his sister being in the center of everything to murder Perikles, to take out Athens itself… You couldn’t help but be shaken a little bit as he told you the story. It was completely dark out as he told you the story, everything silent both outside the house and in, before he spoke again.

“Now do you see why I was always scared for you to come with me, Y/N? My heart, I cannot bear- If I lost you…”

“I won’t lie and say I’m not frightened, Alexios. But only for you, not because of them.” I’m frightened of what might happen to you. This is why I wanted to come with you. Did you ever think I might be safer with you, where you could protect me, than alone and away from you?” You crept closer to him, the floor hard under your knees, but you were spared as you came closer and on top of his lap, into warmth. “You don’t have to do it by yourself, my love. I want to be there. Let me be there.”

He studied you, brown eyes creased with new lines, but also full of a new understanding that wasn’t there in these past discussions.

“Allow me to be here tonight for now. We can talk more in the morning. But…”

“I understand.” You nodded.

And you would both talk, you knew. You would talk until you couldn’t any more. And you would hold each other until it felt as if you were in the same body, never to be parted again even when you would eventually be forced to let go. But now, to be here, and to know that soon your life could very well be full of these moments very soon… How wonderful it sounded. And how worth it it would all be, how you swore you would make it.

I hope you enjoyed! This was part of the Valentine’s Day Playlist Challenge, details/info for how to request your own can be found on the bolded link above. I have a Masterpost here and more unrelated ideas for writings and prompts here, so feel free to request! If you’d like to support me, I have a ko-fi here but absolutely no pressure on that front. Have a wonderful day!

#assassin's creed #alexios #alexios x reader #my writings #valentine's day playlist

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chunhua-s · 4 years

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WITH OUR HEARTS CONNECTED ➽ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA X READER

PART OF THE HAIKYUU SOULMATES! ONESHOT SERIES

genre: fluff

soulmate au: you are able to feel the emotions that your soulmate feels through the bond you share

warnings: none

you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this rush — the strange feelings that swell up so deeply inside your chest and cause the very wind to lose itself in your lungs. they’re so sudden and far in between that whenever they do happen, you’re left reeling from the weight of them as they slam into you. on those days, all the intense feelings that your soulmate unknowingly sends to you through your bond render you utterly exhausted, until you’d be able to collapse into his waiting arms. the strong emotions that so often had your knees jerking and your chest tightening would all melt into something so tender and undoubtedly affectionate when you got to see him at the end of each day, when he bent down so that he could press his nose and his lips against your neck and inhale the cocoa butter smell that he’d long since grown familiar with. his hands would rub gentle circles into your hips as you both came down from the high of his adrenaline, allowing the rush from countless drills and practice matches to slowly flow out of your bodies and leaving you both to finally relax into the other’s embrace.

it was certainly an experience to be ushijima wakatoshi’s soulmate. you’re one of the few people who are born with one — one of only a handful of others who had a partner whose heart would be tightly bound to your own for eternity. thus, you learned at the age of three that your feelings and emotions would be shared through the bond you had with your soulmate and vice versa. at that age you weren’t able to understand the implications of what that meant, and it became hard to identify what you were feeling separately from what you felt through your connected hearts; days where you felt so inexplicably happy that you sought around the house looking for something to do (these days, for ushijima, had been the days when he could play volleyball with his father in their garden); days where you were restless and burning with the urge to fill your long and dragging days with whatever could take that need to be active away (and similarly, those feelings were thanks to ushijima, whose father began taking him to volleyball camps as soon as his matriarchal household allowed it). thanks to those days, you ended up finding your place of relief in dance; your mother had the brilliant thought to get you into it when she realized your restless days were becoming more frequent as you grew older, and so both she and your father put together money and enrolled you into classes after school. thankfully, your being active helped to burn away all the extra energy that had sometimes caused you sleepless nights, and overtime, you eventually found your passion with dance and decided to nurture what ability you had further into your years.

it was when you grew older, nearing the age of 6, when you were hit with strong, torrential feelings of hopelessness and desolation, sometimes strong enough where it would affect you for entire days. the sensation itself wasn’t necessarily sudden, having been building up, like droplets of water slowly filling into a bucket. when that bucket finally overflowed, it felt as if you’d lost something — as if it had been taken away from you, and had gone to somewhere you couldn’t reach. it felt as if your words couldn’t find their way past your throat, stopped by an invisible hand around your neck that you couldn’t go against if you tried to. it made you want to cry and hold yourself, wondering what could be causing your soulmate to feel this way. during those days, you wished for nothing more than to reach out for them somehow, to hug them so tightly until those emotions would be a distant memory. you wanted to take their pain away and make them happy again — to let them know that they had someone who would do their best to ease their suffering in whatever way she could, however they needed from her. the feelings that followed after could only be described as cold and lonely: your head would feel so blank and empty, smothered by a fog that provided you no answers to questions you didn’t have. your days became blurred as you went through your motions and your only solace was in dance (ushijima’s would be volleyball). you sometimes felt so incredibly frustrated that you would lock yourself away and brood, sometimes you were left feeling so broken and abandoned, and no matter how muted the feelings would sometimes be (as if your soulmate was trying to push them away from his mind) they still managed to twist your heart as you could only imagine what must have been happening to your soulmate.

you couldn’t talk to anyone in your family about it for nearly a year because you didn’t know what was wrong, only that these weren’t your feelings and that they were being shared to you through your bond. your parents didn’t know how to handle it because neither of them had a soulmate; aside from basic knowledge, they were in the dark on how to help you. and so, you could do nothing but try and push as many positive feelings as you could through your bond, hoping that somehow, it would reach your partner’s heart. “i’m here for you” ; “it hurts, doesn’t it? if there was anyway i could help to take your pain away, i would do it in a heartbeat” ; “if you can feel what i’m wishing for you right now, i hope it can bring you some comfort” ; “you’re not alone even if it feels like it, I promise.” it was the only way you could think of to help them through whatever was hurting them so much, and you prayed to whoever would listen that it would lessen the pain they felt. (it was after meeting ushijima that you learned of his parents’ divorce, and even though he was no longer grieving, you could never forget the helplessness and sorrow that he’d unintentionally shared with you as a child. you promised him that day that, whatever it would be, you would always be there to hold him through moments of pain and hurt. he smiled at you so tenderly, the sight of his normally stern expression melting with so much love, and assured you that he would do anything he could to make sure you would never hurt the way he had to).

as you grew older, you started searching online about soulmates, specifically about how you would know when you met them. the answers you found were, at the best, incredibly vague and did nothing to quell your uncertainties and budding anxieties. every forum and vlog told you the same thing: “it’s like the world suddenly grows brighter and you learn how to breathe for the very first time!” or “meeting him changed everything for me, it was like i finally found something i didn’t even know i was missing, you know?” no — you didn’t know, that had been your whole reason for searching in the first place! it didn’t take long for you to give up, growing frustrated after coming across one blog that said “you’ll know when it happens, trust me.”

at the time, you couldn’t predict just how accurate those words would be.

the ac inside the gymnasium effortlessly seeped into the sleeves of your kitagawa daiichi pe jacket, drawing goosebumps across your skin like a pattern. and yet, you felt an indescribable kind of warmth flooding through your entire body as the world around you suddenly grew muted; the screams and cries of your schoolmates, the blow of the whistle that signaled your school’s call for a time-out, it all turned to white noise that faded out of your mind, all turned irrelevant in the face of him. green eyes that reminded you of summer leaves and olive trees stared up at you from the court during his team’s discussion period, and you found yourself drowning in their depth when he became the only thing you could see. his gaze was wide and his body was turned ever so slightly towards where you stood, as if he would take off running to you had it not been for his game. the pounding of your heart, the way the sound of it filled up your ears and the way his heavy, exhausted breathing echoed out to you were like the beating of taiko drums, loud enough that they drowned out the chants of “go, go, kitagawa!” on your side, the overwhelming shouts of “shiratorizawa!” from his. nothing else mattered to you in that moment other than him.

he took off towards the doors of the gym floor as soon as the award ceremony ended and the coach had dismissed his team, not sparing even the slightest second once his gaze found yours again. you didn’t even worry about the fact that your school had just lost its match, or that your friends would be looking for you so that you could leave together. you hurried to meet him, running down the stairs two at a time (forget that you’d injured your ankle during one of your practices, the pain was near non-existent to you in that moment). you found each other in the wide hallway; he stood before you, just as breathless as you felt as bodies passed between you. hesitantly, you took one step forward, and when he did the same, every bit of fear and uncertainty melted away from your body until you were standing directly before him. the light of the sun caressed his skin with such a tenderness, bathed him in yellow lights as his hair stuck to his forehead and his chest rose with his heavy breathing. he was sweaty and worn down from his match, but with the way his olive green eyes glittered like green jewels, he was painted in the sight of something so vibrant and breathtaking; to you he was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. your own heart was beating so wildly against your rib cage that you feared it would break through and fall into his hands; your breathing felt as if you’d just danced for hours and your throat felt full of all the words you’d wanted to say to your destined partner when you met them for the first time. now, they all poured out from your heart and gathered on top of your tongue like a weight.

he was the one to speak first, the natural baritones of his voice filling up your ears and forbidding that you should hear anything else other than him. “i’m ushijima wakatoshi.”

“i know.”

“oh.”

it was the first thing you thought to say, and despite the initial embarrassment you felt (because how did you even think to respond like that?) gentle laughter bubbled up from your chest and fell out from your lips. you weren’t sure why you were laughing, but your first awkward interaction with your soulmate somehow managed to remove what bit of nervousness sat lurking beneath everything else you were feeling at that moment. “sorry,” you gave him, taking a deep breath and offering your hand for him to shake. “i’m (l/n) (y/n), it’s nice to finally meet you.”

the tender smile he gave to you as he took your outstretched hand was an image that you’d permanently burned into your mind.

since then, the both of you have only grown so much more together. you learned that he wasn’t the most expressive person, where the people around you so often believed him to be an impenetrable man, nothing but the southpaw canon, the dominating power inside shiratorizawa’s volleyball club. to you, he’s your closest confidant, whose heart interlaced so tightly with your own that it was never difficult for you to understand what he’s thinking or feeling in any given moment. while his world meets the unmoving volleyball freak, you’ve been able to recognize the tell-tale signs of his happiness by the fluttering of your own heart since you were three, could so easily take one glance at his eyes and understand when he was feeling particularly affectionate after a long day of practice. the subtle lifts of his lips when he got a text from his father, or the way his brows would furrow if he was struggling with a subject he didn’t like. and the honest and pure smiles he would take to wearing whenever you held his face between your arms and kissed his forehead, his nose, each rise of his cheeks and the very corner of his lips, you get to see everything that your world didn’t get to see. and why would they? to him, no one else needs to see him like this — it doesn’t matter to him whether or not the world understands him for more than his powerful spikes; with your heart connected to his, he has everything he’d ever dream of having.

you remember one particular day during the summer. you’d met with him briefly before he went to practice, letting him know that you were heading home early instead of heading to your dance practice, the headache from your newly-done box braids wearing you down. and so, he gently kissed your forehead and reminded you to take painkillers to help. (“try and drink a lot of water,” “do you have your silk bonnet?” “i could come and help you apply your oils later on,” “no i won’t be too tired after practice. it won’t matter if it’s for you.” you could tell he felt the obvious fluttering and the gratitude in your heart when he smiled down at you and squeezed your hand in his.) after wishing him good luck, and giving him a swift kiss when you were sure no one was there to see the pair of you, you took the bus straight home where you showered, ate a light snack and immediately crashed into your bed.

what woke you up wasn’t the six pm alarm that you set so that you could start your homework, but rather a sudden spike in your heart that had your blood burning beneath your skin and rushing like molten gold. it was the same feeling that would flow down to you through your bond, during ushijima’s games where you knew him to be domineering and competitive, and yet, this one was somehow different. rather than the familiar sense of we’ll win this round, no doubt about it, the same unyielding confidence that filled you up with pride, you were instead left reeling from an overwhelming need to crush, crush, crush! it was intense and all-consuming, like the heat of a particularly hard dance number that so often emptied your lungs of that well-needed air and replaced it instead with pure and unfiltered adrenaline. a shiver ran up your spine, forcing you to sit up and hold a hand over your chest. the pump, pump, pump of your heart was reminiscent of a long day of practice, the satisfaction that you felt when you finally completed an entire routine without mistakes. it was exhilarating and consumed every thought you had, and you had to wonder if it was the match against that college team that had wakatoshi feeling this way.

the bond you shared with him told you that it wasn’t.

“i met two volleyball players today,” he explained to you easily, his voice sounding relaxed as his legs nestled you between them. his hands worked their way between each box of hair, applying drops of lavender oil and using one finger to gently massage the pain out of your scalp. you did nothing to hide the content in your voice, humming at his actions and closing your eyes to the relaxing feeling of his hands in your head.

“is that what had you so worked up earlier?”

his answer came to you in a slight nod that you caught in your mirror, his hands not pausing in their journey over your hair. your eyes held on to the reflection of his face, you watched with a smile as his lips pursed and you felt the remnants of that intense competetive fire fluttering through your bond as he remembered the two boys he met that day. “they’re interesting,” he said to you, but you knew that there was much more to it through your connected hearts. i will crush them, the words still echoed in your mind.

“you’re excited to play against them,” it wasn’t a question, left your lips with assuredness as you tilted your head back to meet his eyes. in them, you could see the very same fire lighting the green colour until it they burned like liquid lightning. when he nodded, you turned yourself around so that you could face him, lifting yourself to your knees as his hands fell from your head and instead to your waist, where the tips of your braids tickled his knuckles. “play a fun game against them and win, okay?” you whispered with the palms of your hands against his cheeks, gently caressing the skin there and placing a tender kiss to his lips. you felt your heart swelling up with every ounce of love you felt for the boy-turning-man before you, and felt it all multiply with his own affections until both your hearts were singing in sweet harmony. he smiled and chased your lips before you were able to pull back before wrapping his arms around you and placing his head in the valley of your neck.

now, as you feel a million things running through your heart, you remember the same sensation that had woken you up that evening. the overwhelming urge to crush him, crush number 10, that near consumed your entire being has you cheering louder than you ever had in your life as the fifth and final set against karasuno drew closer and closer to its end. wakatoshi is absolutely relentless, each ball he shoots over the net a command for them to stay down, to drop the ball and crumble in the face of his power. it has you burning so viscously that your hands tightly clutch over the metal bar to the point of cramping. annoyed, impatient, eager, they all choke the breath from your lungs and force you to gasp for air at the summit, and yet, you can feel his heart singing on the nodes of pleasure. he’s having fun, you know this when he glances up at you from the benches during the final time out. through your connected hearts, you’re able to feel every rise and fall that follows his jumps, his spikes, his serves; every bit of emotion that he feels wounds around the red string that binds you together and you share them as your own. as you watch your soulmate blend into his element, you support him in the best way you know how, taking everything he gives to you and pushing it into your voice so that you’re the loudest in the audience.

and through your connected hearts, you’re able to feel the love and gratitude that he bears for you.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

haikyuu!! soulmate au taglist: @nishiya-is-baby @aiiishiiiteru

wow this was longer than i expected it to be?? i decided to cut it short since the rest of it would delve into the rest of the shiratorizawa vs karasuno match and i didn’t really want to repeat what everyone already knows happened :v sorry if it’s a lil over the place, my brain’s been filled up with ushi brainrot and i kinda let myself go on this one. im not sure if i wrote him the way everyone likes but i tried to emphasize on him being more than just “ushijima the southpaw,” especially during his family’s divorce. i hope i did a good job trying to translate what i think he might have been going through during that time? in my head i feel as if his homelife with his mother would be a kind of smothering place where he wasn’t able to open up to her, and when his father was suddenly gone one day, he didn’t have anyone to show his heart to. and so the reader would do her best to let him know that, even if they haven’t met yet, she was there for him, that she could feel his pain, and that she wouldn’t ever make him hide those from her. she wanted him to know that whatever it was, he could express it to her without fearing those feelings being brushed off.

this is part of a series, so please send me an ask or dm if you’d like to be apart of a taglist! i’m currently taking request for haikyuu characters and soulmate au’s, so please come and leave your requests for those as well! thank you for reading! ♡

previous: asahi azumane | next stop: hajime iwaizumi!

#haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x black reader #haikyuu x black reader #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima wakatoshi x black reader #haikyuu reader insert #black reader #haikyuu soulmate au #haikyuu x black!reader #ushijima wakatoshi #self indulgence at its finest #ushijima wakatoshi x you #ushijima x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu!! soulmate au 💕✨

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magalidragon · 3 years

Text

making music | a Jonerys AU | fic tease

a/n: Bêcha thought I forgot this one? LOL Nope, just working on it here and there. It will be longer than I thought of course. So here’s a tease to part 1 up soon!

Once again, turning the corner, she almost stepped straight into a busker only this time a trumpet player, and when she knelt down to pick up the coins that had fallen out of a flatcap set on the cobblestone, she heard a low chuckle, and a heavy Northern accent, her blood going cold.

"You just can't help yourself can you?"

"I'm sorry I..." She whipped up, glaring. She shouted. "YOU!"

Jon chuckled, leaning against the brick wall, a foot propped up behind him, his other stretched out, and a trumpet loose in his fingers. "Me." He rolled his eyes, but still smiled. "You want a piece of my gig here or what? That why you keep stepping into my payment?"

She glanced at the cap, noting there were only a few stags; he had way more as a guitar player. She smirked up and straightened. "Maybe you should stick to strings then Mr..."

"Snow," Jon said, lifting the trumpet up. He blew into it, fingers fast on the keys, the tune upbeat, jazzy. Someone walking by tossed in a dragon coin. He finished the snippet of a song she thought she might have recognized as a twist on a famous Essosi opera aria, and had gathered a few other admirers, including, she noted, some young women who giggled behind their hands and ducked their heads coquettishly, trying to catch his attention.

It was the music that held her attraction-- although he did look good standing there in his all black attire, hair pulled from his face, his strong forearms on display. She spied some tattoos peeking out from under the rolled cuffs and one on his inner wrist, a series of musical notes on a scale. She frowned, wishing she could see it closer, wondering what song held such importance to him he wanted it inked to his skin permanetly. Or maybe, was in his mind during a drunken moment and now was inked permanently. Could be anything.

He finished the song, the crowd gathered applauding. He swept the trumpet aside and bowed, moving towards the case while people dropped coins and other things into the flatcap. Several of the women dropped phone numbers. Dany remained standing, waiting for them to disperse and Jon to collect the money. "Do they not pay you enough?" she asked.

He chuckled, unfolding the bills and darting a glance upwards through his dark curls. "They do. This is for something else." He pocketed the money and shoved the cap into the side of the padded trumpet case. He quickly cleaned out the trumpet, wiping down the gleaming brass, dragging the cloth through the valves to dry it, and set it into the velvet lining.

Dany waited and caught his attention when he stood, slinging the case over his shoulder. "Are you first cello?" she asked, wanting more information. He was the only one she knew now from the sympthony, she wanted to get as much information as possible. Especially if they were to play together.

He nodded. "Aye."

"But you also play guitar and trumpet?"

"I play a lot of instruments."

"Yeah so does everyone," she scoffed. They all said that. Viola players claimed they could play violin and vice versa. Guitar players claimed they were also proficient in banjo and ukelele sometimes. Anything for the résumé. She rolled her eyes. "There's a difference in maybe playing something and being proficient in it."

Jon eyed her sideways, chuckling. "Alright, I'm proficient in a lot of instruments. And you?"

"Four."

"Let me guess."

She grinned. "Go ahead." He'd never guess.

Jon ticked off his fingers. "Violin."

"Duh."

"Guitar."

She wrinked her nose. "Yes."

They turned a corner; she had no idea where he was going, somehow she was stuck to him like a magnet, unable to tear away. He patted his pockets, searching for somethng, and removed a pack of cigarettes. He smiled sheepishly. "Bad habit."

"Terrible habit, especially for someone who plays a brass or woodwind instrument," she chided.

He lit the cigarette, pocketing the lighter with a flick of his fingers. She spied a wolf etched into the side of the silver Zippo. He paused at a corner, studying her a moment. She shifted, oddly uncomfortable with the x-ray-like gaze. His irises were gray, a peculiar color. They shimmered, reminding her of the ash on the cigarette or else storm clouds. He blew a stream of smoke out to the side, gesturing with the cigarette. "Piano."

She grit her teeth. Eyebrow quirked, she shrugged. "Alright. Yes."

"I've got three. How many more guesses do I get?"

"One more, I told you I play four."

Jon kept his gaze on her, once again giving her the x-ray once over. He narrowed his eyes and smiled wide. "Harp."

Her mouth dropped. What...how...WHAT!? "You cheated!" she exclaimed, at the same time he burst out laughing. He dodged the fist she flung out to smack at his shoulder, this perfect stranger, but she was positive he deserved it. First for chastising her when she completely accidentally stepped into him, then for his comments after her incredbile audition, and now well, for whatever was happening with this. She glared at him, simultaneously impressed he got them right and also annoyed.

Now he laughed. "How did I cheat? I didn't know you until like three hours ago."

"But you did," she realized. He knew her real name. Could have been a good guess, but she tried vrey hard to keep the lives separate. So how did he know?

They were still walking. She realized they were approaching a nondescript old building, stone and worn, with moss growing on the side from the healthy amount of humidity King's Landing endured. There was a large olive tree out front, providing shade over a fountain of a series of wolves chasing each other. They stopped near the entrance to the small courtyard, his fingers idly running down the strap of his trumpet case, his cigarette almost worn down to the filter.

He flicked off some ash, drew in a last pull of it, and stubbed it out, tossing it into a trash can. He smiled again, but it didn't meet his eyes. He tapped her case. "Violin, easy." He gestured to her fingers. "You have piano hands, calluses on your wrists, your black and white outfit, probably what, teacher too?" She scowled, refusing to acknowledge he was right. He carried on. "Guitar because that was actually just a guess."

"And harp? How'd you guess that?" she demanded.

Jon blinked, shrugging. "You're a Targaryen."

Her jaw set. "Yes," she ground out. She arched her brows, silver bouncing up to her hairline. "Which I would kindly request you keep to yourself."

"You should probably hide your eye color then."

"I could just be Lyseni or Valyrian otherwise."

"You have your mother's face," he said. He continued, her shoulders drawing back at that, surprised. He smiled again. "And Rhaegar Targaryen was one of my first music teachers. I know a Targaryen and I know he has a little sister and well, Targaryens are the only harp players that actually make it a worthy instrument to learn." He grinned wider. "I'll give you a hint. One of the instruments I do not know how to play is harp."

Rhaegar's student? Her mother? Harp? What? There were questions swirling around in her mind, before she could ask him to clarify. He walked by her and to the fountain, dropping some of the coins in it and then depositing his earnings into a box near the entrance to the building. He tipped his fingers to his temple, saluting her. "See you around Daenerys Targaryen. Or Dany Storm. Which do you want me to call you?"

"Dany," she whispered, unsure what to make of him.

He nodded, smiling. "Dany." He turned, walking off and reached into his pocket, removing a harmonica, lifting it to his lips and humming off on it as he wandered away, out of sight.

#jonerys #jonerys au #my fics #my moodboards #jonerys fanfic #fic tease

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kimium · 2 years

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for the headcanon thing, shoichi + alcohol and nagito + clothes?

(From this ask meme HERE)

Thank you so much, Anon! I love the two characters you picked and the words!!! Let's get started!!! Since I'm talking about alcohol for the first one just be wary if that's not your thing!

Shouichi + Alcohol

-Shouichi's preferred drinks are semi-sweet ones. He doesn't like overly sweet drinks (like Byakuran), but he's not going for a scotch on the rocks. He's also not too big on creamy drinks.

-I'm by no means an expert when it comes to alcoholic drinks, but I do think Shouichi would like sangria or mimosas.

-If I had to describe what sort of drunk Shouichi is I'd say "appears quiet but will babble about his favourite topic if asked". He's also very pliable. Byakuran abuses the hell out of this. Shouichi has been found on more than one occasion perched on Byakuran's lap as Byakuran fiddles so he can hug Shouichi and drink his monstrosity of a drink at the same time.

-I believe Shouichi does not have good alcohol tolerance. He's a mid-tier light weight. Doubly so if he doesn't eat along with drinking. Shouichi flushes red due to his Japanese heritage and the blush will not go away for hours. Byakuran thinks this is cute as hell and pokes Shouichi's red cheeks. (I think Byakuran uses his flames to help burn the alcohol off so he's always in control.)

-However, I think Shouichi is somehow the best at avoiding hangovers. For one, he doesn't go out drinking without knowing his limits. He's very aware and will doubly make sure he's drinking responsibly, especially since he grew up with Japan's zero alcohol tolerance law (basically once you drink even a little you cannot drive period). This does not mean he never gets hangovers. Shouichi sadly has experienced them and it's not pretty. He'll only recover by drinking a ton of water and taking a painkiller like ibuprofen.

-Shouichi doesn't believe in drinking alone. He thinks drinks should be with friends or for special occasions. Also, I think overall he prefers tea so if the choice came up he's ordering a green tea and watching everyone else drink. This makes him a great designated driver.

Nagito + Clothes

-I think Nagito prefers clothes that are a bit looser and flow. His shirt is slightly too big and his pants aren't skin tight. Even his jacket is a little big. It's a comfort thing for him. Freedom of movement and not feeling constricted in clothing is key to Nagito.

-Nagito loves soft, warm materials. Cotton is great and blends of cotton are fine. Jeans are barely on the tolerate level so he prefers worn jeans that don't have that stiff firmness new denim can have. Nagito dislikes silk clothing. It's too slippery and smooth and feels weird on his skin.

-Nagito prefers to be a little too warm than cold. Part of it is due to being sick as a child and in the hospital (you could never 100% be warm in a hospital no matter how hard anyone tries). The other part is due to my head canon that Nagito gets cold easily. This tendency backfires on the island when he's running around in a jacket. He's stubborn and refuses to take it off.

-One piece of clothing (besides lingerie, which I think is beautiful in general) that Nagito is in love with are ties. There is something about the patterns and colour that draw him to it. (Doesn't help that Hajime wears a tie and Wow that looks Good on Hajime.) Nagito also loves hoodies and jackets. I bet if he's allowed he'd have a collection of them.

-Because I'm Komahina Trash, once he gets together with Hajime, Nagito is all about Stealing His Boyfriend's clothes. Find Nagito wrapped in one of Hajime's shirts or wearing his pants. See Nagito in Hajime's hoodie or jacket. To Nagito sharing clothing is a love language in itself. When Hajime walks out wearing his signature olive jacket Nagito nearly dies on the spot and is So Into It that they are late for breakfast ahaha.

-Nagito likes touching clothing to feel the texture! I think he's a tactile person. Cue him sitting with Peko and Sonia who both can sew for different reasons (Peko for practicality and Sonia because that's just a skill she had to learn growing up) and marveling over the fabric they're working with.

-Speaking of sewing, I think it's a hobby Nagito picks up. He's very good at it too. Nagito has an eye for detail and if his stitches aren't perfect in size or aren't 100% in a straight line he wants to redo them. I also think he likes the skill for the practical applications.

#personal #replies #ask meme #danganronpa 2 #khr #tw: alcohol

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novelconcepts · 3 years

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can we do platonic physical affection prompts??? like number 4 for nell and luke?

a hug after not seeing someone for a long time

He’s pretty sure she’s gotten smaller. How is that possible? How does a person--a person like Nell, especially, who has always been his big sister in every way that counts--just...shrink this way?

His fault, maybe. His fault, probably. Everything is his fault these days, and there’s nothing he can do to change it. He tries. He’s been trying since he was thirteen to change things. To convince the world to spin backwards, to convince everything that once made sense to fall back into place.

It hasn’t made sense since he was six. It hasn’t made sense, and the lights rounding the corner never mean Mom is coming home, and the monsters don’t go away just because he closes his eyes, and Nell is...

So small.

She doesn’t know to look for him yet. Her attention is fixed on the job at hand--parallel parking, one of the few skills he picked up before she did. Her eyes are serious, her nose all scrunched up the way it gets when she’s thinking hard; he remembers watching her get that look more and more, back when they still shared a room. Remembers the way she’d fold around her books, her expression creased, and thinking, Mom used to look like that. Mom used to look exactly like that, drawing her maps.

They always felt that way to him: maps. Treasure buried in the walls, maybe. Secrets buried between the lines. Mom would hike him into her lap, brush back his hair with one hand--he still remembers the gentle thump of her wedding ring against his scalp, her hand pressed to the crown of his head. If he closes his eyes hard enough, he can will that tiny, irrelevant pressure under his hair.

Mom always looked so solid, sitting at her desk. Nell is that way now, and Theo, and Shirl. Steve, too, probably, though Luke hasn’t seen him in a while. Hasn’t seen any of them. Maybe he’s the only one who didn’t get that look. Didn’t inherit Mom’s special way of squinting at the world, moving her pencil, making something real where once there was only imagination.

Dad made it real, he thinks, as Nell finally straightens out, the wheels of her four-door kissing the curb. Mom dreamed it up, Dad gave it bones. Neither of them ever saw how many teeth a thing could have, in the end.

He rubs his nose, hating the shiver rocking up under his clothes. Three layers of t-shirt-hoodie-jacket, and still, he’s freezing. Always freezing. Nell runs warm; always has. Even when they were little, she’d climb into his bed, tuck against his side, and it would feel like cozying up to a personal heat lamp.

He always felt a little bit braver, with Nell tucked in like that. A little bit braver, knowing things were finally as they should always have been: Nell and Luke, Luke and Nell. Shared a womb. Shared a room. Shared so much fear.

So much loneliness.

She looks tiny, climbing out of the car now. Tiny, with her hair bound up in a messy bun and her nose pierced on one side, her earrings bent from some kind of silver wire she probably did herself. Does Nell make her own jewelry now? Does Nell do all sorts of things he can’t imagine, like Mom did, inventing magic straight out of her head?

He tries. He tries so hard to make magic, but all that ever seems to come out are the monsters.

“One, two, three,” he mumbles, watching her lock the car, push her hands into the pockets of an oversized olive jacket. “Four, five, six, seven. One, two, three--”

Counting steps. Counting earrings, and wayward locks of hair falling into her face, and shades of blue--her jeans, her shirt, her Converse sneakers so much further from falling apart than his. Nell is always so much further from falling apart.

When did she get so small?

She’s caught sight of him at last, and he almost wishes he’d thought to get up. Run away. He’s good at that, isn’t he? Running. Had to be. No matter where he goes, the monsters follow, but if he just runs fast enough--far enough--into the arms of something sweet and floaty and protective--

Her hand raises in a wave, and he senses a warning behind the greeting: Stay put. I’m coming. Nell hates when he runs. His legs are so much longer, his fear so much more potent. Nell is brave. Nell has always been brave.

For a while, he thought she might make him brave, too. That she’d rub off on him, sooner or later. He knows the others hoped it would happen--that her good grades, her dedication to doing things right despite the visions in her head, would sink into his skin somehow.

It’s too late to run. Too late to escape. He hasn’t seen her in over a year, not since she accepted a scholarship half a state away. He meant to go to art school. Meant to put it all somewhere valid, somewhere productive. Steve thinks he’s wasting his time, refusing to go: All that talent, and you’re burning out on booze and pills. Steve thinks he can be better.

Luke knows he’s only ever been this: scared. Scared, a vessel for things he doesn’t understand. For bowler hats and too-bright smiles and the gentle thump of his mother’s ring against the crown of his head.

“Hey.” She’s here, standing just a few inches out of reach. She’s here, and she’s smiling, and she looks like his sister, when she smiles. Looks like Nell as he remembers her--not as a teenager, but when they were little. Nell in that big old house with its hungry memories. Nell counting soldiers with him. One, two, three, four...

She’s reaching for him, and he almost flinches back. If she’d been anyone else, he’d rebel from the idea of hands on his skin. If she’d been Theo, or Steve, or even Dad, he’d be too repulsed by his own fear, his own shivering bones, to accept.

But it’s Nell. It’s Nell, and that’s always a kind of truth he needs in his life. One person he can always, always count on.

He wishes it went both ways. Wishes he could be better, the twin she deserves instead of the one who sets off alarms in her head, in her ankle, in her chest with his poor judgment.

He’s hugging her--she’s hugging him; it doesn’t matter. They are, briefly, one entity again: Nell-and-Luke, the way it was always supposed to be. One womb. One room. One fear.

She’s so small now. Or maybe he’s just too big. He doesn’t like to think of it that way; it doesn’t seem fair that she’d get all the good heart, all the courage, all the reliability of a big sister, and he’d get this body. Broad shoulders and big, clumsy hands. Long legs, perfect for running away.

That’s Luke, he remembers Theo saying when he was fifteen. Not enough common sense to fill a fucking Dixie cup, but boy, can that kid run.

“I missed you,” Nell mumbles into his chest. Her arms don’t even fit all the way around him anymore, but she’s trying her best all the same. He wonders if Mom would have hugged this way--if her arms would have grown shorter as he expanded, if she would have fought to hang on despite how big he is, how small the rest of the world seems in comparison.

She’s going to pull back soon, he knows. Tilt back her head, fix him with the eyes he sees in the mirror whenever he dares to look. She’ll smile, and it’ll be a little sadder than it was last year, and she’ll ask, “How’ve you been?” Like she hasn't heard the stories. Like she doesn’t know.

Everyone else knows before he even tells them. Only Nell pretends otherwise. Only Nell gives him the benefit of the doubt, the space to weave his own story.

He could lie. Maybe he will. He’s getting better at it, even with her.

But first, there’s this quiet. This quiet, simple moment of Nell pressed against his chest, Nell’s hair tickling his chin. Nell, not saying a word, just letting his heart sync up with her own.

Her heart has always been stronger. He doesn’t deserve it.

“I missed you,” she’d said. He can’t say it back. He doesn’t know how.

The only thing to do, he thinks, is hang on.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of hill house #luke crain #nell crain #it's a twin thing #physical affection tag

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