#tydus x reader

Shelley: The second you let out a screech after she scoops you up, she stumbles in shock. Will likely release you the second you beg for her to put you down, leaving you flat on your ass. Apologizes profusely and once you explain that you’re uncomfortable with it, she promises she won’t do it again without asking first. She’ll still lift you a few inches off the ground when hugging you on occasion. She can’t help it, she’s just so excited to see you!

Abel: Was honestly trying to be romantic when he sweeps you up in his arms the first time, but when you tense up and yelp moments later, he’s locating the nearest couch, chair, or other comfy place to put you down. Asks what’s wrong and when you explain he becomes a bit sheepish, explaining that he wanted to sweep you off your feet (no pun intended), not scare you. He apologizes and says that he’ll let you stand on your own legs from now on (pun intended).

Daisuke: Was also attempting to be romantic. When you let out a scream he immediately and gently puts you back down exactly the way you’d been before. You admit you don’t like being picked up, and he apologizes for not asking first. He might beat himself up about it a little, honestly; now believing it to have been exceptionally rude of him to do that without warning. Just reassure him that you know he was trying to do something charming- not something to scare you, and he’ll be alright. Will be extra gentle with you for a few days after that.

Dasha: Was trying to give you a sexy surprise, but is instead met with a shriek from you. Like Daisuke, she will put you down exactly in the place you were before. “My beloved, have I done something wrong…? That scream was not the kind I like to hear from your lips!” You explain your dislike of being picked up and she nods, completely understanding. “I see. I also prefer keeping two feet on the ground, except in bed, of course. It’d be hard to sleep with half of me hanging off the mattress!” She gives you a firm pat on the back instead, then wraps an arm around your shoulder. “This is enough for me. Let’s get back to our date, yes?”

Kristof: Oh boy… he’s the hardest to explain it to. He thinks it’s just your usual play-wrestling at first, taking your scream as you just getting really into your ‘violence’ session, but will release you when he realizes that “Put me down, Kristof” and its variations are the only thing coming out of your mouth. “What is the problem, lover? Did you get a cramp?” He scrutinizes your face for any signal of pain, but comes up with nothing. When you confess you hate being picked up and that it scares you, the blonde viking is confused. “Scary? There are far scarier things in the world. Like the violence I did during the battle with Friar Bjartur!” He questions you a bit further, and eventually you admit it’s the fear of being dropped/falling that makes you hate being picked up. “Ha! You think I would drop you, lover? You insult me and all of the violence I’ve ever done!” While he insists that he would never, ever, drop you- even if someone took an axe to his ankles while holding you; eventually he agrees to not do it again without asking first.

Tydus: Would never pick you up without first asking your permission. Ever. She’s definitely strong enough to do so, more than enough, in fact- but does not feel the need to show off to you in that way. If you happened to bring up your dislike of being lifted in casual conversation, she’d be supportive and reassure you she wouldn’t do it unless dire circumstances came up somehow. “My love, let it be known that come the flames of defeat or the light of victory, I shall never act upon anything that frightens you so.”

Tony: He was trying to be smooth, let’s be real. He loves to impress you, so he thought a show of strength like picking you up would make you swoon and fawn over him. He was in for quite the opposite reaction however, as you were squirming and yelling for him to put you down only milliseconds later. “Whoa, hey, easy there! You’re gonna give me a dent with all that flailing around!” He eventually puts you back right where you were, and as you’re catching your breath you tell him you loathe being picked up and to never scare you like that again. Tony laughs awkwardly, scratching his nape while doing so. He feels bad for scaring you, honestly; he did run up behind you for it, so you hadn’t even seen him coming. “Sorry babe, I uh… didn’t know that was a thing you… didn’t like.” He avoids eye contact for a few moments, but eventually manages. “Can ya forgive ol’ Ton’ for uh… bein’ a little too rough?” Of course you can, you tell him; as long as he doesn’t try anything like that a second time. Tony agrees without a second thought. “You’re the best, babe! ‘Lemme give you a smooch in apology, yeah?”

Loving Tydus feels, sometimes, like a battle all on its own.

It is rare for you to find her away from the laundry room. That much is obvious, and expected; she was a woman of station and a tribute to loyalty, never would her simple dalliances deprive her of such virtues. And yet—

And yet—

Straight-backed with a hand lazily curled around the end of her sword, it is almost impossible to imagine that Tydus was, for what was almost certainly the first time in her life, in the bedroom. Intimidation seems almost antithetical in such an intimate space, but you would be foolish to admit…something about the scene is cosy, in spite of it.

"You look tense," you say, smiling when she jumps. Tydus did not startle like most did, physically as still as a statue, but you are close enough to see the glint flashing across her eyes, and closer that you can see the way the corners soften as they meet yours. "You can relax, you know. There are no battles here."

(Even at rest, she is poised for battle: she sits still like calm waves harbouring dangerous riptides, like flying above storm-ridden clouds.)

Tydus nods; once, assuredly. "There are not," she affirms, although she looks no less comfortable than she had a second before. "Thy bedchambers remain, as always, a safe haven." She pauses, unsure in her hesitance, before holding out a hand. "But even the promise of security is enough to relinquish my guard. Promises are as easily broken as they are made, and I would sooner run myself through on my own silver than allow you— and yours— to come to harm."

Undoubtedly, the sentiment is…incredibly sweet. It would be lunacy to claim that Tydus was incapable of it, she held a great deal of fondness for her own Dipodgenes and was not at all silent in this fact, but it is still somewhat of a shock to have such affections directed at anything else. At you, for that matter.

"There is no imminent danger. Or any for a thousand miles, maybe. We can rest," you offer, grazing fingertips across the curve of her jaw, disguising argument behind warmth.

Tydus, much to your surprise and joy, seems to semi-consciously lean into the contact, begging for solidity instead of gentleness. She'd never been one for softness, despite the label on her container that boasted otherwise, and preferred her tenderness firm. Love, to her, was its own war.

It made sense, of course; your own bond was "forged in the fires of combat, whetted from the pleasures of victory", after all.

Even so—

"Every warrior needs their repose, no?"

Tydus pauses. "Indeed they do," and her gaze follows you, watching you lean against the pillows.

"Then come," you say, holding out a hand. With a a wariness befit of a rival, and the ease of a soldier following command, she takes it, and settles. "You are, as much as anyone else, deserving of respite. And if it is amenable to you, I'd like to share ours."

Although her eyes remain wide open, there is a haze to them, an ease that shadows the irises. Tydus is silent the rest of the night, but she remains ever-present beside you, and you revel in a warm victory.

==

Loving Tydus feels, sometimes, like loving the wrong edge of a knife.

It is almost scary to touch her, but something strangely alluring as well: in the moonlight she is almost luminous, glowing moon glinting off of toned skin. Tydus is beautifully magnetic, but the way the brink of a cliff is. You know, in your heart, that one misstep will send you tumbling over an unforgivable edge.

(Even so, it is too tempting to resist; your fingers brush against blushed locks, so strangely soft on such a tough exterior. Tydus, enemy of the water, had hair that faintly resembled an ocean of rose.)

"You hesitate," she says.

You jolt, suddenly, out of your thoughts, and laugh. Keen is a warrior's eye, and Tydus was more warrior than any other. "Maybe," you nod, "yes. I'm not so sure what to do."

While you are more than happy to…perhaps indulge in some of Tydus' other desires, to slake her lust for bloodshed is another story altogether. Never had you been athletic in any sense of the word, but it's never been so painfully obvious as it is now, lying bruised and battered on the ground. Even with the markings of battle colouring your body, there remains the scent of Springtime Breeze that lingers on your skin.

And there:

Tydus, a figure of ruin, stands above you, one hand still loosely curled into a fist, evidence of your undoing staining her knuckles, and yet— and yet— she watches you so warmly, other hand stretched towards you. How you were ever able to see her as terrifying, as a threat, is beyond you. Love hurts and you know it as well as you know the feeling of blood staining your skin, this is no different.

She is so gentle as she pulls you to stand. She is so gentle as she examines the bruising left by her own touch. She is so gentle as she runs a thumb down the slope of your cheek. She is so gentle that it is almost impossible to think that the scars on your body were hers to bestow.

Such a juxtaposition should frighten you; after all, very few could survive a tempest let alone love one. And yet…

"You're beautiful, you know," you say, the heart speaking before the mind can comprehend. Tydus' eyes widen minutely, caught off-guard by the sentiment. "Like…a storm."

She frowns. "You would compare me to destruction?"

"No— a storm can be sustaining. It can be so beautiful. Have you ever seen one, a rain that feeds the flowers? They can give life as well."

"But they destroy in the face of it."

You sigh, and manage half a smile. "That's how it always is, isn't it? No growth without harm? You know it as well as anyone." A pause. "I don't mean it in a bad way, of course. I wouldn't say something I don't think is true."

Tydus has always been good at refuting what she disbelieves; steadfast in her values. You have always been fucking stubborn. The next few moments are endured in silence— your statement hangs heavy between the two of you, and for a moment you are suspended in a silent battle neither of you are willing to surrender to.

She leaves without a second word, and you wonder whether you have made the mistake of loving the right edge, for once. How difficult it is, you think, feeling phantom blood on the tips of your fingers.

==

Tydus does not apologise and neither do you; in the wake of a battle an opponent does not beg for forgiveness, after all.

But this is no battle and you are not the opposition. She finds you, as she always does, when you walk into the laundry room. She does not drop to one knee and ask you to forgive her, but she draws her knuckles along the plane of your cheek, and speaks.

"You have likened my own visage and mind to that of a storm, and I in turn have rebuked such a comparison. It feels too selfish to liken myself to something that sacrifices for a greater good, though I know it to be true." She sighs, and gently takes one of your hands in her own. "But now, I understand— my love, I understand. I see it as clearly as I see the dawn break bloody through cotton-clouds. The storm brings pain and destruction, yes, but it also forgives the land. It brings salvation to the thirsty. It…is beautiful."

"Isn't it," you tease, and she smiles in a way both proud and bashful.

"Perhaps. But you also cannot deny that I…destroy. My own people, my valiant fighters, the ones who barely know the weight of their own sacrifices. Still my conscience is stained with cruelty."

You shake your head. "The Dipodgenes love you," you say, "and they do not blame you for their fates. Never. They understand their duty as well as you understand yours. You are not cruel."

Tydus, steel-hearted, closes her eyes and hums when you cup her jaw. "I still do not believe you," she says finally, "but I try to, my love. I truly do. My Dipodgenes…are so strong. And it aches to send them to their own ends, but…"

"It's necessary. And it's brave of you to admit. Bravery is admittance, no?"

She does not answer, and it is answer enough.

"Looks like I've won again," you grin.

"It is no surprise, from a warrior of your caliber," Tydus says, but there is the shadow of a smile playing on her lips. "Indeed you have."

==

Loving Tydus feels, sometimes, like standing in the eye of a hurricane. For a moment there is nothing, until suddenly a whirlwind that leaves only devastation in its wake.

Although this is less devastation and more commotion in a general sense. You are not stupid; it was obvious from the very first day that the moment Tydus had the means to travel beyond her confines, only the stars would know her path. You would not be the one to hold her back.

(To be entirely, completely honest: you have many doubts that you'd even be physically powerful enough to hold her back.)

"I am remade," she says, curling her fingers into fists and letting go, marveling at the way the blood rushes to the crescent-indents in her palms. "I am…human."

"You are."

"The possibilities are endless. To think…" Tydus trails off, momentarily lost in the unfamiliarity. "To think I may now know the rush of battle. To think I may now feel myself bear battle scars. I have a canvas which is only to be painted."

You smile. "You do," quietly, and then louder: "The whole world is waiting for you."

Tydus nods, absently. "Freedom awaits." With this, she turns to you, a hand cautiously splayed across her sternum. "It is comforting, to know that I now possess a heart which beats in your presence, and aches in your absence…I am, truly, reborn."

Muscle ripples under defined, real skin, roiling like thunder between dark clouds. God, she is beautiful. And you are suddenly overcome with a wave much like one that crashes into rough sand. You will miss her.

Immovable fact, definitive verity. You will miss her and there will be something to miss.

"You're leaving," you say more than ask. It hurts when she nods, so decisively, a truth both she and you have known for as long as you have known each other.

She nods. "Yes."

"And you…will come home?"

The words are gentle yet their weight is not. Tydus is smart enough to hear it, to feel it, and closes her eyes.

There is a long pause before she answers. "I have only sworn two oaths in my life," Tydus states. "You would ask me to swear a third."

You sigh, turning away and glancing out of the window. In the hazy reflection of the glass, you can still catch a glimpse of her watching you with steely eyes. "No," you say finally, before shaking your head. "I— yes. Maybe. Maybe. But it's asking too much of you."

She's silent, and somehow it hurts worse than an answer. Then: "My first oath was to my pods. It was my creed, my law, that it would be my duty to protect them; my loyalty to their wellbeing. In becoming human I have not relinquished this promise, but redefined it in my leaving."

You gently prompt, "and...your second?"

She's silent, and somehow it feels more wonderful than an answer. Tydus takes your hand, rests it on her chest; with the new presence of a real heart, you can feel it thrumming beneath your fingers.

And then she speaks.

"I wish to hold you in a way that matters. I want to hold you in my visage, my arms, my mind and my soul. My heart as well. Love is a battle and you have me caught in a crossfires the likes of which I could never dream of escaping." She opens her eyes, then, and it hits you that for once she is somber. "Love is a battle, and I have found myself on the brink of surrender."

Oh. Oh.

"We have lingered on this stalemate for far too long, my love," she smiles, an ease to it unlike herself. "Will you accept this victory?"

Oh, god. You are presented, for once, a gift almost too great to bear.

"Yes," you breathe, and Tydus grins with the power of a thousand suns, leans down, and does not let you go.

==

"A ship does not sail the sea with no harbor," Tydus says quietly, some time later, a strong hand cupping your jaw, firm in its sentence and gentle in its touch. "Their tether is stronger than that of any material. Do not fear, my love, and do not think me cruel: I would not depart with no intention to return." A pause, where she glances to the window, the beckoning world. "When the dawn breaks over the horizon, I will be gone. But do not fret. Never once have I made a promise and broken it; I am and always have been a warrior of my word." She offers you, handle first, her sword, glinting silver. "If I ever break my vow, let the blade strike me true."

You smile, and push the offering down gently with a hand. "I believe you," you say with a little laugh, "and I would prefer to see you in one piece."

Tydus nods in understanding. "Many battles will be won in your name. The flowers of forever will sprout from the ground, grown from blood spilled in your honour."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," you laugh. And you touch, for a moment, the chest that hides her ever-beating heart. "So long as you come home."

==

True to her word, Tydus is gone in the morning; leaving behind barely a trace on the wind and memory. The sheets smell faintly of Springtime Breeze, and beside you there is the faint outline of where she once lay.

How strange it is to be anything at all, you think, tracing the indents with a finger, as if you could somehow feel any lingering heat, siphon it and keep it for yourself. A reminder, of sorts, or a promise. She would inevitably return and you would inevitably still be here.

==

Loving Tydus feels, sometimes, like waiting for the rain to swallow a drought.

The days pass. Every week, a new slip of paper appears in the mail; never adorned with anything more than the date scrawled across the top in large letters and a signature at its end.

Tonight I caught a glimpse of my lover's reflection in clear water. It is strange, if not oddly comfortable, what the mind does when it longs for another.

She does not come home. You love her still and the scent of her remains for days; weeks if you are deluded enough.

The wind in the sails echo with lost words I will never speak to human ears. Let the pages hear it, and keep its secret.

You are not brave enough to ask her to come home. And you know it would be a lost fight, and you are not one to lose; love is no battle and you are no fool. Tydus loves the thrill of adventure as much as she loves you, maybe even more so, and you know it as well as you wish to have known her.

If I were even a slightly weaker woman—

If only, if only, if only…

—perhaps I'd have turned around by now—

You are not selfish enough to ask her to stay, but greedy enough to wish she had nonetheless.

—and I would have sailed home to a heart that loved me.

A heart that continues to love her, and would for as long as hearts are able to beat, you think. It is strange having something to ache over after so long.

I cannot, of course, but to know that there is an alcove within mine chest, a home made safe for the one that burrows there. I am not sentimental enough to hold a photo to my chest in the midst of bloodshed; but my heart has softened enough to imagine my lover's gaze reflecting in the blood left behind.

It is almost beautiful. Cathartic.

Love is difficult the way battle is not.

You will continue to yearn, and so will she. That is what love is.

The storm rages on. My fight is with the ocean, and my lover's is with the moon. So far but so intertwined, interconnected.

And you are more than willing to wait.

==

Loving Tydus feels, sometimes, like—

—a battle all on its own—

—loving the wrong edge of a knife—

—standing in the eye of a hurricane—

—waiting for the rain to swallow a drought—

—loving a storm.

==

On the driest day of the year, a new letter burdens your mailbox. It is distinctively different from the other pages you have received: this one, unlike all the others, bears your name.

It carries the scent of the ocean and the familiar smell of off-brand detergent, and you smile and unfold the pages.

It is known that dedicating a journal is a fool's errand, but every warrior is susceptible to their own fits of foolishness, and I find myself prisoner to my indulgences. It is rare that I speak of my heart— my real, beating heart, shielded by the chest— but it is often that I hold it in my thoughts in gentle hands.

Oftentimes, on the dark and stormy sea, my mind is haunted by you.

It is the fighter's folly to yearn and the lover's lament to neglect; to speak loudly of my affections is to announce my weaknesses, but to ignore them outright is to lie to my mind and body, both of which miss you uncontrollably. I have always been a soldier of my word with nary a falsehood, and it is with this mind that I admit, wholeheartedly, that my heart had known nothing but longing since it has left your embrace. Be it weakness or strength; nonetheless, it is real.

Soon the anchor will fall by the docks, and I too shall return to the tether of solid ground, and I will again be free to revel in you. Once more I pledge the world to you, kneel before you in worship; if it is foolish to be so defenseless, I would tear my heart from its crevice and declare myself a fool.

And while I am too proud to say it aloud: know, and believe, that out on the tumultuous waves, there waits a storm that loves you.