xdncrkay

Latest Posts by xdncrkay

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 7

Series Masterlist

Words: 7.2k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, gaslighting, coveting, drugging, voyeurism, manipulation, plans to falsely imprison, vandalism.

Your world continues to implode in the wake of Ares' breakdown. What happens with his apartment now that you were added to the lease? What of your wedding plans? And the art gallery...

Jonathan realizes that the League of Shadows gave him the key to a fully-realized fear toxin. But what will they want in return? The only leverage they have to use against him is her so he's running out of time to lock her down...

She knocked softly three times. Right on time. The clock read 12:13 exactly. 

Jonathan didn’t say anything, just opened the door with deliberate calm. 

She smiled faintly as she stepped inside, a takeout bag in hand. “Lunch, love.” Then she froze, and her eyes widened. “I... I'm so sorry. That was habit. I didn’t mean...”

Jonathan tilted his head slightly, just studying her. 

Habit.That word didn’t belong to me. But it will.

She moved past him, setting the food carefully on his desk. She was dressed like she had been in the early days when she'd arrive for Ares with a calm smile and soft conversation, confident in her skin, polished without effort. A tailored coat with a simple blouse tucked into slacks. Her jewelry was understated.

But it wasn’t what she wore that caught his attention. It was the scent of her perfume. He just realized she hadn't worn it in many days, the faint, clean smell of linen and her. 

Jonathan turned slightly as she passed, tracking the air she disturbed as he closed the door.

You’re trying. Putting yourself back together, and keeping the routine intact. Making it look whole again.

But it isn’t. Not anymore.

He looked at her more closely now. The illusion of routine was in place. But the light was gone from her eyes. The easy laughter he’d observed on her first days at Arkham? Absent. The subtle self-assurance in her posture? Faded.The confidence in her voice when she used to tease Ares or distract the staff? Muted.

There was something else now. Strain. She was tired. Not just physically, but beneath the surface. 

I’ve bent something in you. Not enough to break. Just enough to shift the balance.

It would make her easier to guide and shape. Now she'd ask fewer questions. She'd trust him faster, doubt less.

Jonathan should like that. He should want that. But something about it… unsettled him.

She was vibrant when I first saw her. Untouched by decay. Now there’s a shadow.

And I cast it. It works in my favor. But it’s mine. I’ll have to fix it. 

Not to restore her. But to own every piece of her, including her joy and warmth. Not just what was left after the storm... but what he rebuilt from the ruins.

“Well,” she said, trying to recover, “I asked a few of the nurses if they knew what you liked. A couple mentioned this place. I hope it’s okay.” She took her normal seat while he sat in the chair next to her.

Jonathan opened the bag slowly, surprised. Yes, he did like that restaurant. Lean protein, quinoa, a side of steamed vegetables. Not quite his usual order, but remarkably accurate.

You did research.To please me.

He looked up, as she pulled a wrap from her own bag. She was watching him, not expectantly, but hoping.

“Yes,” he said. “This is fine.”

This is perfect.

The meal unfolded quietly, comfortable. Until she asked. “How is Ares today?”

“Stable,” he said gently. “Still nonverbal and disconnected, unfortunately.”

Jonathan didn’t soften the truth because it served the narrative now. He watched her fingers stiffened around the tea cup.

With practiced ease, he continued. “We’ve adjusted his protocol. Low-dose antipsychotics, and a carefully managed sedative taper. I’ve removed all environmental stressors.” He glanced at her briefly. “Limited light. No auditory stimulation. Strict familiar routines. We’re treating it as an acute psychotic break with fear-induced catatonia.”

Let her hear the language. Let it sound official. Make her feel like she’s already in too deep to find clarity on her own.

You see? I’m the only one who can help him. And I’m not done trying. But if he slips too far… you’ll already be anchored somewhere else.

Her eyes dimmed slightly, and he watched it happen with controlled detachment. Jonathan saw sadness and guilt. Dependency. All of it played out across her features like the stages of a test subject adjusting to new sensory inputs.

And when the new toxin is ready, Ares will be its first vessel. If it works the way it should… he’ll never speak your name again.

She took a sip of her tea from the restaurant. Habit? But her shoulders were drawn just slightly inward, like she didn’t realize the shape of her own grief.

Jonathan set down his own water glass and leaned forward, not too far. Just enough to make the moment feel deliberate.

"How's your tea?" he asked.

She made a face, then smiled. "Not the greatest."

"I made tea for you," he said, moving to get it for her. 

She held up a hand to stop him. "I'll get it," she said. 

But he didn’t miss the subtext. She was trying to keep her balance. Trying to reclaim routine. 

Still trying to move freely in a world that belongs to me now. And I let her. Because watching her move is its own kind of control.

Jonathan stayed in his seat, enjoying the lunch she brought him. But he watched her, shoulders drawn back, the loose fall of her blouse shifting with each movement. Her fingers wrapping around the handle of the teapot with familiar confidence. The lines of her body moved like muscle memory. Not quite graceful, too tired for that. But sure and natural. 

Jonathan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to conceal his body's reaction to her. Her slacks fit her like a second skin, showing off a perfect ass and those long, long legs...

I want everything. Not just her body .Not just the sound she makes when she exhales into my collar or the shape of her mouth when she says my name. I want her gaze, her choices, her routines. I want her to wake up and make my coffee without realizing it’s devotion. I want her to forget that she ever had mornings without me.

She poured the tea carefully, still unaware of how closely he watched her. Still safe in the belief that she was here by choice.

You’re building a new life. And I’m going to be every part of it. Even if I have to burn down everything you knew to make room.

She returned to her chair with the cup in hand.

"You’ve asked about Ares every day,” He said low and steady. “But you never talk about yourself.”

That line of conversation caught her off guard. Her mouth opened, then closed. “I… I’m fine,” she said quickly, but not convincingly.

He tilted his head. “Are you?”

She hesitated. And that tiny gap between instinct and truth? That was his opening.

“You witnessed a deeply traumatic event,” he said softly. “You went into shock. You were attacked when that patient was accidentally freed from his room. Today you returned to the same environment. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s survival.”

She lowered her gaze, a faint, strained smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Guess I have a talent for being in the wrong place at the worst possible time.”

Jonathan didn’t return the smile or reward the deflection. “It’s not bad luck. It’s trauma. And it’s not something you’re meant to carry alone.”

She didn’t answer right away, just stared down at her tea, fingers wrapped too tightly around the cup. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “I think I’m just… alone.” She didn’t look up. “Ares was my rock. Even when things got hard. He could be stubborn, but he was... he was steady.” Her thumb rubbed anxiously along the porcelain. “My parents are gone, and I don't have siblings. I have an aunt in Boston, but we haven’t seen each other in years. And Lex...” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “She and I own the gallery together. Lexi has enough on her plate. I don’t want to add more.”

Jonathan listened, saying nothing yet. He’d already known all of it, including her reluctance to burdening others. It was all in her messages, her patterns and silences. It was data first.

But now, it was confirmation.

You feel you're drifting, untethered. And you’re telling me that directly. You don’t even realize what you’re giving me.

Every anchor you’ve lost becomes another reason to bind yourself to me.

He leaned forward just slightly. “You don’t have to perform for me,” he added.“Not here.”

Her shoulders loosened, she exhaled. Her fingers curled slightly around the base of the teacup. “I don’t really know how I’m doing,” she admitted finally.

Jonathan nodded, slow. “That’s common. You’re in a state of transition, there's uncertainty. It can cause disorientation, fatigue, even self-blame.”

Finishing his lunch, he asked. “Have you been sleeping?”

She nodded too quickly while he tried not to remember watching her sleep last night. Those red panties...

“Restfully?”

Her silence was the answer.

“Your mind hasn’t accepted the change yet,” he said gently. “It’s still trying to reconcile what happened to Ares with what it wants to believe about the world.” He watched her face closely. “That disconnect is painful, but manageable. With guidance.”

With my guidance.

She looked at him then, vulnerableand tired. But still trying to stand upright in her own shoes. 

He admired that, the way she still tried to hold herself together and meet his eyes without trembling. But it couldn’t last. She was already falling apart at the seams. Held together by routines and the memory of stability, or Ares. 

And now him.

“I’d like to help you with that,” he said finally. “As someone who’s… invested in your well-being.”

That was the softest he’d ever said it. Invested.

She looked at him, really looked. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. Searching his face like she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to see.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she admitted, almost a whisper. “But… thank you. That means more than I know how to say.”

She smiled, grateful. And lost.

Let the line blur, and feel like comfort, not intrusion. Let her reach for it without knowing what she’s touching.

She was quiet now, the kind of quiet that comes after surrender. It wasn't because she wanted to give in, but because she didn’t know how to keep standing on her own. She was exactly where he needed her, and where she'd be safe. 

You won’t have to worry much longer. Very soon, you’ll be somewhere warm, quiet, protected. Safe and sound. Because I’ll put you there.

And no one will ever touch you again.

She glanced at the clock then,startled by how much time had passed.

“I should probably go.” She stood slowly, not rushed, but reluctant. She gathered her things, and stood with a tired, grateful smile.

Jonathan rose with her. “Let me walk you out.”

She hesitated, but nodded. They moved down the corridor together in silence, her footsteps slow beside his.

Jonathan kept his hands folded behind his back, resisting the urge to touch the small of her back. He was so close now. Close enough that if anything happened, she’d reach for him without thinking. She already had. And she would again.

Outside, the afternoon sun filtered through a thin layer of clouds, casting everything in a grayish hue. Her car sat in the visitor lot which was emptier this time of day.

Pausing beside her, he said, “Be mindful when you’re out in Gotham. There’s been a rise in petty crime lately, muggings, break-ins. Especially downtown.”

She looked up, concerned. “Really?”

Jonathan nodded once. “It's been all over the news.”

She swallowed hard. He watched her eyes flicker with unease.

Good.

You won’t have to worry much longer. Soon, you won’t drive yourself to work. You won’t sleep alone. You won’t lie awake wondering if the city outside your window still remembers how to be cruel.

Because I’ll have you. And that will be the end of it.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, unlocking her car.

He didn’t respond, waited. He watched her slide into the driver’s seat, close the door, and glance back once before turning the key.

She didn’t know it yet, but she’d just survived her last solo trip to Arkham.

The gallery had been quiet all day. Almost too quiet. Lexi hadn’t come in, again. Another family issue with another vague apology by text.

You didn’t mind helping. You never did. You loved the gallery. Loved the way it smelled in the mornings, like fresh paint, old wood, and a thousand possibilities. You loved seeing an artist’s face light up when their work found a home. You believed in what you were building, and to you, it was a valuable contribution to the world.

But lately, it felt like the whole weight of it had been dropped into your arms. Every exhibit, email, meeting... The pedestal that cracked mid-install? Yours to fix. The broken lightbulb over the entrance? You replaced it. The delivery that showed up two days early? You made it work.

And Lexi? She was always sorry, overwhelmed, and somewhere else. You understood. She had her problems, and always had.

But Ares was in Arkham right now, fighting for his mind. And Lexi had barely asked about it. Once. Other than that, she hadn’t followed up or offered to help. Nothing.

It wasn’t fair to expect more. But wasn’t it also unfair to expect so little from someone who was supposed to be your friend?

And then there was Jonathan.

You didn’t even realize how much you’d started to depend on him until recently. The way his voice could cut through the noise in your head. Staying calm, you knew, was a big part of his job. Ares had been the same, only when everything was slipping sideways, Ares could help talk you down and couch it in humor and affection. When he decided you were okay, the matter was done. Even if it really hadn't been. Jonathan didn't do what he thought he should until you seemed stable. He saw you. Not only was he taking care of Ares, trying to bring him back to you, but he also took care of you, thought about your needs. 

Without him… I don’t think I could even walk into the gallery right now. What would you do without him? And the scariest part? You didn’t want to find out.

You locked the front door at 8:47 PM and stood in the street a little longer than usual.

Jonathan’s warning crept back into your mind. Be mindful when you’re out.

You made it home fine. You had leftovers for dinner with the tea you always made yourself. But now, it didn't seem nearly as good as what Jonathan made for you. 

Jonathan had been particularly kind today. You hated how much you clung to it. How it filled the space Ares used to take up, and on another level, that felt wrong. 

Ares is still here. Somewhere. You can’t give up on him.

You curled into bed with your phone, scrolling back through your old messages with Ares like you did every night. The casual ones.The late-night ones.The ones he sent on nights he worked late, telling you how much he couldn't wait to see you. Couldn't wait to marry you. You read them slowly, trying to remember the last one where he still sounded like himself.

You missed him. More than that, you needed him. And the ache of that need twisted something in your chest. The only person who seemed to understand that pain…Was the man who’d replaced him.

Jonathan would be Arkham’s new Chief Administrator. It wasn’t official yet, but everyone knew. And you knew what that meant. Even if Ares recovered, if some miracle reversed what had happened to him, he couldn’t go back to that role. That part of his life was over. But he’d still have you. You’d help him rebuild, and start again somewhere. You’d take care of him. You just needed him to come back.

Just come back.

And still, your mind kept drifting to someone else. To the way Jonathan had stood between you and danger. To the quiet way he said your name like he already knew your breaking points.

You trusted him, hard to believe with how he'd treated you when he arrived at Arkham. You hated that the voice that calmed you most was no longer Ares’s.

You just needed time to get through this. And when Ares comes back to you… this will all be something you survived. Together.

But the world kept moving around you. Two emails sat unread at the top of your inbox. The first was from the realtor, the final paperwork for the apartment was ready. Ares had added you to his lease. After six years of loving each other in borrowed spaces and parallel lives, you were finally going to live together. The forms were signed. You hadn't started packing because honestly, you didn't have a lof things to pack.

And now? Now you didn’t know what to do. What happens to his apartment if he doesn't come back? Do you move in without him? Do you cancel the lease? Do you wait… and for how long? And it wasn't like you could afford to keep up both places for long. You’d reached out to his brother, Colin, over the weeked. He’d been kind, but shocked like you. He asked for updates saying he and his wife were planning to come visit soon. They’d meant well.

But you weren’t ready to face anyone who’d ask all the questions. You were barely holding together yourself.

The second email was from the wedding planner. Lexi had found her for you back when things were normal. When there were color palettes and tasting appointments and venues to tour. Now the planner was asking why you hadn’t responded.

“Still waiting on final headcount and floral preferences. Please call me tomorrow!”

Tomorrow.

You closed the app. Let the phone slide onto the pillow beside you. You’d do it tomorrow. You just felt so tired. You fell asleep sometime after midnight.

Jonathan’s eyes remained fixed on the mirrored phone screen. He could picture her in bed, phone cradled in both hands, the way someone might hold a fragile memory. She was scrolling through her old text messages with Ares. She did it every night. Always in the same order, far enough to catch the softness. The in-jokes. The familiar cadence of a man who hadn’t yet come undone.

But tonight, she didn’t go as far. He watched as her scrolling slowed. Her thumb hesitated, and stopped. She had read only half as many messages as last night. And last night had been fewer than the night before.

The threads are fraying. You're unraveling the attachment by accident. Thread by thread. Memory by memory.

You weren’t forgetting Ares. But the ache was dulling.

Jonathan leaned back slightly in his chair, watching the screen. You don’t even know you’re letting go. But I do. And I’ll be there when your hands are empty.

Exhaling through his nose, he rose. He still had a couple of hours until the gallery strike began. He had plenty of time. 

Downstairs, the air in his lab was cool and sterile, just the way he preferred it. Glass glinted under the recessed lights. Notes were neatly ordered in columns on the back wall. Every variable mapped. Every failed attempt annotated.

But tonight, something was different. 

In the small glass vial on the center table, the powdered extract from the Himalayan Blue Poppy shimmered faintly in solution, an iridescent tone that hadn't existed in his earlier trials. Adjusting the syringe, he introduced the compound into the toxin’s latest base, and watched the reaction unfold under the microscope.

And there it was.

The lattice he couldn’t form before, the depth he’d been chasing. The new compound didn’t just amplify the fear response, it personalized it. Jonathan’s pulse rose slightly. Enough that he noticed it, but didn’t stop it. He adjusted the formula, refined the carrier agents, and made detailed notes on dosage calibration. 

He was already thinking ahead to first trials. Ares was the perfect subject with his personal history and emotional significance. And the public explanation? An already unraveling mind. It wouldn’t just work, it would validate everything. And if it worked there would be permanent fear, silence.

He straightened slowly, stretching his spine, the faint ache in his lower back a familiar sign of real progress.

His visitor was right. It was the missing piece. The breakthrough he’d been chasing for months, buried in the petals of a rare flower used for centuries by those who understood that fear was not a symptom but a weapon.

And the man who’d given it to him? Jonathan had since learned his name. Henri Ducard. At least, that was the name he currently used. He wasn’t in any medical or scientific registry. No academic papers or corporate affiliations. But Jonathan had found traces, buried in older intelligence archives, outdated MI6 records, a few declassified CIA fragments. 

Ducard was the kind of man who didn’t exist until it was too late. The kind of man who walked in the shadows of governments, who led the shadows. 

The League of Shadows. A myth to most, but Jonathan didn’t believe in myths. Only patterns, and Ducard had a pattern. He didn’t extend help, he extended control. And now, they had their eyes on Jonathan’s work because it was effective, and aligned with their vision. 

Order through fear. Correction through collapse. Change through control.

He didn't know the full extent of their plans. They want my fear toxin. Mass-produced, scaled, and fully weaponized.

And if I refuse, they’ll tear apart the only variable I haven’t fully locked down yet. Her.

Jonathan sealed the formula sample and entered the compound into a new encrypted file. 

But if he played this right, the League could become his resource, not his threat.

But if they touched her, if they even whispered her name again, he’d find a way to bring all of them down without hesitation.

Checking the time, Jonathan saw that he had thirty minutes until the gallery would be hit, until the silent alarm would trigger. He had scheduled it down to the minute. He had already watched the footage once, looped security camera test runs, trajectory paths, the placement of the crowbar, the sound the first frame would make when it hit the floor. He didn’t plan chaos here. He had engineered precision.

While he waited, he scrolled through the rest of her activity. There were two emails, and he read them quickly. The first was from the realtor about Ares adding her to his apartment lease. 

He meant to live with you. Even while he was drifting from you, even as his mind fractured, he was still trying to claim space beside you.

Jonathan’s thumb hovered over the message, reading the subject line again: RE: Lease Addendum—Co-Occupant Approval Finalized

It had been sent the night of Ares’s collapse.

So close. You almost had a life together. A shared bed, a shared name. Almost.

Jonathan’s gaze sharpened. Now it’s just logistics. The apartment--Ares’s apartment--would be in limbo soon. Jonathan knew how these things worked. If no family stepped in quickly, the property manager would initiate forfeiture. His belongings would be boxed up, returned to his brother or disposed of quietly.

Her name was now on the lease. A late-stage gesture from a man already unraveling, still trying to carve out permanence even as his grip on reality slipped away. She could move in, in theory.

But Jonathan had already done the math. She couldn’t afford it alone. Even if she gave up her own apartment. Not with her gallery barely sustaining itself.

The rent, the utilities—it was impossible unless she drained her savings, if she even had anything left after months of stress and stagnation.

And she wouldn’t let herself ask for help from friends or family. Not even from me…

But she would.

She’d wait until the pressure built just high enough, until it squeezed out the last bit of independence and left her standing in the doorway of that empty apartment, surrounded by boxes she couldn’t lift and a future she couldn’t carry alone.

That’s when she’ll look to me. And I’ll be there.

He wouldn’t push her. He’d just be the solution when everything else fell away.

And when she stepped over that threshold, into his house, into his design, she’d start to see what he already knew.

You don’t need a place of your own. You need a place that keeps you safe. And that place… is me.

His home was large, private, and already secured. Already adapted for the kind of control he needed to maintain equilibrium. All he had to do now was coax her out of her apartment, make it feel like her idea. 

Your world is shrinking. And I am the last structure still standing.

All he had to do was tilt the floor a little more.

It’s mine now. Not just the role he lost. Not just the institution he failed to protect. But the life he left behind. And the place you were supposed to build with him, it will be mine, too.

The second email was from the wedding planner. A brief, cheery nudge. “Still waiting on final headcount and floral preferences. Please call me tomorrow!”

Jonathan didn’t smile. But his breath shifted, steady and possessive.

There will be a wedding. Eventually. Until then, we'll burn the pieces of your old life until there’s nothing left for you to hold onto except me.

Jonathan moved through his house with purpose. The sedative was already prepped, measured precisely, and tucked into the breast pocket of his coat. He moved to the garage, remote-started the car. 

It was time. He tapped once on his phone. The signal was sent.

The hired crew, three of them, masked, gloved, and ready, would be at the gallery in five minutes. The timeline was set. Fourteen minutes inside. No more.

Enough to terrify. Not enough to be caught.

He returned to the mirror feed from her phone, watching her screen come to life.

Gallery motion alert.

Her gallery. Her sanctuary being ripped apart. He had ordered it because she needed to be shaken. Fear clears away confusion, faster than grief, sharper than guilt.

And this? This was the final nudge. The gallery was her last tie to the life before him. The space where she clung to Ares, to Lexi, to independence.The place where she smiled without him.

So I broke it. You only truly run to something when you’ve been stripped of everything else.

She was still in bed, but she'd be awake in a few seconds if she wasn't already. Her hands would shake, move too fast, fumbling with her phone. Trying to refresh the footage, trying to open the app, trying to do something.

Jonathan watched and waited. 

Here it comes. The moment fear overtakes reason. The moment you forget everything except what you’re losing.

Lexi’s texts started coming in fast. 

Lexi: Are you seeing this?

Lexi: Should one of us go down there?

Lexi: Please tell me you’re awake.

Jonathan smiled faintly. Perfect. Now Lexi looked careless. Her so-called friend looked like the kind of person who asks others to risk what she never would.

She started typing. Deleted it. Typed again. 

You don’t know what to say. The only person you want to talk to right now isn't the one texting you.

He picked up his keys. 

Tonight wasn’t just another step in the plan. It will be the moment you finally believe it’s not safe unless I’m near.

Jonathan stood in front of her door in just under ten minutes. Inside, he could hear her steps, frantic and disorganized. The unmistakable sound of keys clattering in a bowl. A coat being shrugged on. The zip of a bag.

She thought she was going to walk into the storm he started.

No. That’s not how this ends.

He knocked once, then softer. The door opened seconds later.

She stood there dressed with shoes on. Her coat was half on, her phone in her hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wild, from tears. From fear.

Jonathan looked at her, truly looked, and for just a second, the image froze in his mind like a painting. 

You’re so beautiful like this. Unguarded, spiraling. And reaching for me because there’s no one else left.

Her fear didn’t worry him. It filled him, like a current running through his blood.

It’s not fear of me. It’s fear of everything else, everything I protect you from. And that makes it mine to soothe.

“Jonathan?” The desperation in her voice made him shiver.

“I saw the alert.” He kept his voice was calm, grounding. “I came straight here.”

She just stared at him. “You saw it?”

He nodded once. “Of course.”

Her hand went to her mouth. Her voice cracked. “I was going to go down there... Lexi said someone should...” She broke off, breath hitching. “They’re destroying everything.”

Jonathan stepped forward gently and took her by the shoulders. His touch was firm, but careful. Just enough to make her still. She was trembling under his hands.

“You're not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “The police are already on-site. There’s nothing you can do there except get hurt.”

Her face crumpled. Not into sobs, but into that quiet, collapsed panic. The kind where the body hasn’t caught up to the fear yet, and the tears are already too late.

He stepped inside without asking, closing the door behind him. 

This is where you need to be. Not out there. Not with them. You freeze in place when the world unravels, and I can hold you steady.

You just need to be reminded. Who gets to decide where you go... and when.

She let him lead her back toward the couch, no resistance at all. She sat numbly on the edge, still holding her phone with shaking hands. She wasn’t texting anymore, just staring at the camera feed like maybe, somehow, if she looked hard enough, she could undo the damage.

Jonathan crouched in front of her, not too close. He kept his expression neutral, his voice gentle.

“You need to breathe,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. But I need you to sit still for just a moment.”

She didn't speak, just nodded, her eyes still locked on the screen.

He walked calmly into the kitchen, pulling one of her tall water glasses from the glass-front cabinet where she kept them. The filtered pitcher was right where it always was, cold and half-full. His hand reached for the sedative inside his coat pocket, practiced and precise. Two drops. That was all. The compound was odorless, tasteless, and fast-acting. Short duration, but enough to still the tremor in her hands. To slow her pulse, weaken resistance.

It’s not sedation. It’s protection. You won’t remember the moment you stopped panicking. You’ll just feel better… because I'm near now.

He brought the water to her, offering it without a word. She pulled her gaze from the screen and accepted it. Her fingers brushed his. She didn't drink all of it, but enough.

Jonathan sat beside her, not touching her, but close. Within minutes, her shoulders began to ease, and her breathing slowed. The screen dimmed in her hand, and the shaking stopped.

That’s it. You’re winding down, and you think it’s you. You think your mind is calming itself.

She set the glass down on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch with a quiet exhale. Her eyes fluttered shut for just a second. That’s all it took.

You won’t be leaving tonight, or waking up in a panic. I'm here. And soon, you’ll want me to be. Every night.

Not sleep, not yet. But close. Jonathan shifted slightly beside her, and she leaned without realizing it, dropping her head to his shoulder. Her breath slowed. The adrenaline was gone now, flushed from her system with chemical assistance. Now she was perfectly calm, and he didn't move.

You’re still holding onto the idea that you’re okay on your own. But tonight proved otherwise.

A few minutes passed like that, with soft breathing and the occasional twitch of her fingers. She’d curled slightly toward him, instinctively.

Jonathan eased her gently down, sliding his arm away and lowering her onto the couch. She murmured something, but didn’t wake. He found a soft blanket in the hall closet and draped it over her. Her breathing had deepened now, rhythmic and even.

Jonathan moved silently to the chair next to the couch, sitting just out of her reach, where he could observe and think.

Her phone buzzed, then again. He moved instantly, catching the phone from where she’d left it on the arm of the couch. The screen lit up with her name.

Lexi

Jonathan stared at it.

You had your chance, Lexi. You sent her toward danger. I pulled her back. You don’t get to disrupt that now.

He unlocked her phone easily. There was no biometric set up on her phone. No PIN. That made him pause, just briefly.

You trust too easily.

With one smooth swipe, he declined the call. Then he toggled her phone into Do Not Disturb, silencing the noise that didn’t belong to him. He put her phone where she'd remember it last.

Returning to the chair, he watched the soft rise and fall of her chest. 

Let Lexi panic, and wonder why you’re not responding. Let her guilt swell.

Jonathan was staying right here tonight. She was too shaken to be alone. Lexi had failed her, and Ares was gone. He was the only one who clearly saw what she needed and delivered it without being asked.

You were mine to protect, even before you knew it. Tonight, I kept you here. Tomorrow, you’ll thank me for it.

And someday soon…you’ll wonder how you ever slept without me close by.

Jonathan didn’t close his eyes. He watched her sleep.

The sharp, hard knock startled you out of a dead sleep. You jolted upright on the couch, your heart hammering. The blanket slid off your shoulders, and you blinked into the gray light filtering through the blinds. It was dawn, and the next knock was even louder. 

You were already on your feet, stumbling towards the door with sleep-stiff limbs and a racing pulse. You weren't alone, which made you pause. Jonathan was there in the chair by the window, completely still. Asleep, somehow. He looked exactly the way you remembered from the previous night, calm, arms folded lightly, as if he'd kept watch until he couldn’t anymore.

But there wasn’t time to process that.

You opened the door, and there was Lexi. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She looked pale and furious, with dark circles under her eyes and exhaustion hanging off her like a second coat.

“Are you serious right now?” she snapped.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I texted you, I called you, and I went down to the goddamn gallery myself at four in the morning. Did you know that?”

You were still half-fogged, still wearing the same clothes.

“Lexi, I—”

“My son is home sick, I was running on two hours of sleep, and you—” She jabbed a finger towards your chest. “You didn’t answer anything. You didn’t go. You didn’t even let me know you were okay.”

You felt panic clawing at your insides. Your throat tightened, and shame washed over you in a single wave.

"I just..." Your voice cracked, and you glanced over your shoulder. Jonathan hadn’t moved. You didn’t even know if he was awake yet. "I froze. I didn’t know what to do.”

Lexi’s jaw clenched. Her expression shifted slightly, but the lines of anger carved in her face didn’t soften.

“The gallery’s wrecked. No one got caught. They took pieces. Vandalized the whole front.” She exhaled sharply. “We’re insured, but still. We built that place.”

You looked down, your fingers curled around the edge of the door. You didn’t know what to say. But she was right. Last night you couldn’t breathe. You didn’t call Lexi, or anyone else. And Jonathan arrived...

You felt small standing there in the doorway with Lexi in front of you, furious and tired. You swallowed hard, trying to find words that would make any of this okay.

“I didn’t mean to worry you or let you down,” you said quietly.“I was watching the cameras when it happened. I panicked.” You shook your head, your eyes starting to sting. “I called the police and then..."

Lexi crossed her arms. She wasn’t yelling anymore, but the hurt was still there, flickering behind her exhaustion. “I get that you’re going through a lot,” she said, more clipped now. “But I needed you. The gallery needed you.”

“I know,” you whispered.“I just…”

You felt backed into a wall, still shaking from the night before, and the weight of guilt was already pressing hard against your ribs.

You felt him before you saw him. Behind you, Jonathan rose from the chair, his footsteps light. He moved to your side, pinning Lexi with a glare. As you watched, he pulled off his glasses. 

“Lexi, isn’t it?” Jonathan’s voice was low.

Lexi blinked. “Excuse me, who the fu—”

But Jonathan didn’t let her finish. “I’m sorry about the gallery. I truly am.” He said it like he meant it. “But tell me, what kind of friend asks someone to walk into an active break-in?”

Lexi’s mouth parted slightly. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he continued. “You suggested she go alone to a crime in progress.”

You froze.

Lexi turned to you, flustered. “Is this guy serious?”

Jonathan didn’t let you answer. “Ares is in Arkham. His mind is—” he gave the smallest pause, “hanging by a thread.”

He looked back at you, briefly, softening just enough to make you feel seen, and then returned to Lexi.

“She’s been carrying your gallery alone while trying to survive the collapse of her personal life. Where have you been? You pushed the weight onto her and expected her to keep moving without rest or reason.”

Lexi recoiled slightly. She wasn’t used to being challenged. But she was used to being right, and Jonathan’s words hit like facts on paper. 

“I made the call last night not to let her walk into danger. You might want to consider the emotional impact before demanding more from someone who’s already depleted.”

Lexi crossed her arms, but didn’t speak.

Jonathan’s tone didn’t change. “You’ll hear from her when she’s in a better place. But that won’t be today.”

Lexi opened her mouth, then closed it.

Something about the way he stood, utterly immovable, unnerved her. Jonathan then literally shut the door in her face.

And you stood there, stunned. Your heart still pounding. 

He didn’t just protect you. He dismantled her. With words so quiet, they left an echo.

You stood there, frozen. Still holding the edge of the door like it might steady you. Your heart was still racing, but now it wasn’t just from the confrontation, it was from the way he had handled it. Handled Lexi. You'd never seen that before.

You slowly turned back toward him.

Jonathan stood a few feet away, his hands loosely at his sides, like he hadn’t just flattened one of your oldest friendships in under two minutes. And he just stood there, watching you calmly, waiting. You weren’t used to anyone stepping in like that. Not since your world cracked down the middle. Lexi had been your friend for years. She could be difficult, sure, but she’d been there when you were still finding your way in the art world. She’d come up with the idea for the gallery, and you'd done everything to help see it realized. Now the gallery was gone, and Lexi likely was too. Ares never liked her, maybe now you understood why.

Jonathan sent her off. And the terrifying part was that you couldn't bring yourself to be that angry. Relief at having her dealt with outweighed everything else right now. 

Lexi came at you with demands and judgment. Jonathan came with boundaries and protection. 

And it felt good. Especially at a time when one more thing would break me.

You didn’t know what that said about you, but you were too tired to unpack it right now. You let your back rest against the door, the tension in your shoulders slowly giving way to something else. Something heavier.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Jonathan inclined his head once, just slightly. 

You shifted your weight against the door and glanced at him. “What you said to her…” Your voice trailed off, your throat still tight. “Do you really think I’m depleted?”

Jonathan moved closer, but not in an imposing way. “I think,” he said gently, “you’ve been through more in the last week than most people survive in a year.”

You didn’t look away, but you felt the heat behind your eyes again.

He stopped just in front of you, lowering his voice. “You’re not weak. You’re exhausted... There’s a difference.”

He wasn't wrong.

Dropping your gaze, your voice was barely audible. “I didn’t know what to say to her.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said quietly.

And somehow that helped. That shouldn’t have helped, but it did. He gently gestured toward the couch.

“You don’t need to move right now. Not unless you want to.” Another pause, warmer now. “But if you do, let me take you to the gallery. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

You nodded slowly, but didn’t move. “Just a few minutes,” you murmured. “Then I’ll go.”

But it wasn’t the gallery that had you frozen in place. It was the fact that he would be the one taking you. He offered without being asked, without expectation. Like it was natural. Like it was his responsibility.

And maybe it was. You couldn’t go alone. Not after last night. The thought of walking into that ruined space made your chest feel tight. Lexi’s words still echoed somewhere behind your eyes, but Jonathan’s voice had stayed with you longer. 

I made the call last night not to let her walk into danger.

At the time, it had unsettled you how confidently he said it. But now? Now it felt like an anchor. 

He’s going to take me. He’s going to be there.

And for the first time since the texts, since the camera feed, since the break-in... that felt like enough.

He nodded. “Take your time.”

For the first time in days, you felt something close to stillness. Jonathan didn’t hover or push you. He just stepped away, quiet again, and let you feel whatever you needed to feel. Maybe that was what made it work.

She hadn’t looked at him like that before. Not even after the patient, not after Ares.

This time it was different. There had been fear, yes, but not of him. She'd given herself to dependence, but not desperation. Something shifted behind her eyes when she said thank you.

Relief. The most dangerous kind of loyalty, something given willingly. Standing by the window, he kept his hands behind his back. The early light spilled across her living room floor.

Lexi was gone, and she wouldn't be a problem now. Not after what he’d shown her. 

You don’t belong in her life anymore. And soon, she’ll realize that too.

Behind him, he heard her moving quietly. She hadn’t gone to her bedroom, or left him just yet. And that was enough. 

You needed someone to speak for you. You needed someone to protect you. Now you need someone to guide you. 

And I will.

Soon, he would get her out of this apartment. He'd get her away from all the people who kept pulling her back into a life that no longer fit. She’d outgrown it.

Or rather, he’d taken a scalpel to it until it no longer fit her anymore.

All that remained now was him.

And soon, she would see that too.

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 12

Series Masterlist

Words: 7.3k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Terrorist attack, references to bloody violence and torture, a little angst.

Tommy is working home until after the wedding. A good thing when the Italians send him a strong message two days before the wedding.

The house was quiet the next morning. Tommy sat in the parlor with a drink in hand, jacket off, collar open. Anyone who didn't know better would see a man at rest, but his tight grip on the glass betrayed him. He scanned the room, the windows, the shadows, every few minutes. It wasn’t conscious anymore, but muscle memory and instinct. And he'd earned it the hard way.

On top of usual business, he was planning a goddamn wedding, dealing with the fucking Italians, and trying to keep his family from imploding long enough to get through the vows. Every move he made felt like he was walking a minefield in polished shoes. He wasn’t going into the office until after the wedding. He just didn’t trust the world outside these walls at the moment. Not when almost everything that mattered was inside this house.

Tommy was working from home, if you could call it that. Calling in favors, coordinating security rotations, and laying quiet threats using back channels. Watching over the woman he was marrying, the mother of his child. 

Thinking of last night had him smiling. Upstairs, she was still asleep, peacefully, if he’d done his job right. The thought of that grounded him. Her in his bed, wrapped in blankets and quiet, recovering from his attentions the night before. He hadn’t meant to keep her up so late. But once he got his hands on her, once she start begging for him, the rest of the world could’ve burned. The softness of her skin, the way she had looked at him without fear, those were the only things soft enough to make him pause.

Leaning back in the chair, he exhaled, not realizing until then he’d been holding tension in his chest for hours. If he could just get her in front of the priest, get her through their wedding day then maybe he could fucking breathe for real. 

Polly entered without knocking. Her arms were crossed before she said the first word.

“You haven't been here an entire day yet, and you’re already barking at John for dancing with her. Want to tell me what that was about?” Polly didn’t wait for him to answer. “Dragging her out of the room like that? In front of everyone?”

Her brows rose, watching him like she already knew the truth and was giving him one chance to own it. 

Tommy didn’t look up from his drink. “Handled it.”

Polly snorted. “That wasn’t handling. That was claiming, like some dog with a bone.”

He still didn't meet her gaze. “You have a problem with that?”

“I have a problem with the fact she didn’t know what she’d done wrong,” Polly said.

Tommy grabbed his cigarette from the ashtray and took a slow drag from it, exhaled through his nose. “It wasn’t her.”

“Then who was it?”

He didn’t answer.

Polly gave a bitter little laugh. “Christ, you’re unbelievable. Your brothers were teaching her to dance, and then you punish her for enjoying it?”

He shot her a look. “I didn’t punish her.”

“No?” Polly stepped closer, voice sharp. “Because dragging her out of the room without a word sure didn’t look like affection, Thomas.”

He stared at the floor, took another drag. He knew he wasn't getting out of this lecture, just like he knew he wouldn't enjoy it.

Polly’s tone softened, but not by much. “She’s young, and doing her best not to step wrong in a house full of landmines. She was laughing, allowing herself to have a moment. And you made her feel like she broke something.”

He kept listening.

“Jesus,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You're so bloody afraid of losing her, you're scaring her instead.”

Tommy shot her a look. The kind of look that usually shut people down and dared them to say more.

But Polly wasn’t most people. And the problem was, she was right. And he hated that she was right because he was afraid. Not just of losing her, but of what that would do to him. It would prove that nothing he touched could be protected. That even love, even something good, couldn’t survive under his hand.

She made him feel things he didn’t know how to carry. Things he didn’t have tools for. And every time he got close, every time she let him in, those old instincts rose up. Pull tighter, control the variables, and lock down all the pieces before something slipped away.

But Polly saw it for what it was. She always did.

So he held her gaze, narrowing his eyes like he could will her to back off. But she didn’t. Polly had never been afraid of his silence. He knew she was afraid for him, and that made him feel exposed in a way nothing else could. 

Tommy looked away first, feeling Polly watching him closely.

“It wasn’t about John,” she said quietly. “It never was. You saw her laughing, and you panicked. Not because of John. Not even because of the Italians. You panicked because for a second, she looked happy... and it had nothing to do with you.”

Polly hit it exactly. He had panicked. It was her laughter, the unguarded ease of her entire being... and it hadn’t come from him. That’s what cut. He couldn’t explain it. Could barely even stand the thought of it. But in that moment, watching her from the doorway, he'd felt something twist in his chest. Jealousy, yes, but something else too. Something deeper.

Fear. Fear that she might start to build happiness without him. Fear that he was already too cold and sharp for her to love all the way. So he’d done what he always did, tightened the leash, took control, walked her out before anyone else could see the cracks forming.

And now Polly was sitting there, calling it for what it was. What could he say back?

“I get it,” Polly said, softer now. “You’re not used to anyone who isn’t afraid of you.” Polly stepped back and sat down across from him, keeping her tone level. “She’s not a soldier, Tommy. You can’t command her like one. You love her. That’s the whole point. And if you want her to still be smiling this time next year… you better learn how to let her breathe.”

Running a hand over his face, he stayed silent.

Polly reached for her cigarette case, pulled one out, lit it. She took a drag, then said it like it was an afterthought. “Also, your bride can’t dance. Thought you should know.”

Tommy's gaze shifted, slightly unfocused, as her words hit him. He hadn’t noticed. He’d been too wound up, too busy seeing red. Watching hands and smiles. Watching John.

But not her. Not the way she clung a little tighter when the steps picked up. Not the way she glanced down at her feet. The hesitation in her laugh, not to coax but as a way to deal with embarrassment. She’d been trying to learn for him, and he hadn’t seen it.

And now Polly had tossed it out there like a lit match. It sat with him for a moment longer than it should have.

Polly stood, smoothing her skirt. “You’ve still got time to fix that. If you don’t, she’s going to walk into your first dance like it’s a public execution.”

Then she left.

He sat there for a moment with the weight of everything pressing down on him. The wedding. The Italians. The war he was orchestrating in shadows. But none of it mattered right now. And in all his calculating, he hadn’t accounted for one simple truth. She needed him. Not as the man who’d dragged her from the room, but the man she said yes to. The man who was supposed to love her, not watch her flinch under his silence.

She couldn’t dance. And he'd barely paid attention.

He’d teach her the steps, put his hands on her waist with patience, not possession. And maybe, if he did it right, she’d smile again. Not for Finn or John, but him.

He was already reaching for his jacket when he heard a knock at the door. One of the maids answered quietly, and a familiar voice followed, light, cheerful, cutting right through the tension in the air.

"Good morning," she greeted. "Here to see my daughter."

Mary stepped into the sitting room, balancing a cloth bag over one arm, carrying two other bags, and her coat was dusted with a bit of morning dew and determination. Her eyes landed on Tommy as he rose to help her with everything she was carrying. Her smile didn’t falter, though her brow lifted slightly.

“Well, it’s not the daughter I expected to find, but I’ll take the son-in-law.”

Tommy gave the barest smile. “Someone decided to sleep in.”

Mary clicked her tongue but didn’t press.

Turning her attention to the bundle draped over her arm, she placed it gently on the couch. “These are the rest of her new dresses you asked for. I just finished them last night.”

Tommy stepped closer, opened the cloth with careful hands. Rich fabrics, soft colors. Pale blues, soft greens, a deep plum he remembered choosing without a second thought. She’d look good in all of them.

“Looks like you got it just right,” he said, lightly impressed. “Stitching’s damn near perfect.”

Mary gave a small, pleased shrug. “We know how to finish things properly.”

She began folding the empty cloth wrapping when she added, almost offhand, “And I put together that list of shoes you wanted commissioned for her. My new helper is better at sketching than me, fortunately. Bram Sullivan's daughter said they should be ready within the week.”

Tommy looked up, brow drawing slightly. “You didn’t go over there yourself, did you?”

Mary snorted. “No. I sent everything with Rory.”

Tommy eased slightly at that, nodding once. “Good.”

She set down another smaller parcel near the sewing machine in the corner. “Just some small mending pieces. Thought I’d leave them here for her.”

Tommy frowned. “That new girl I hired for you, she not working out?”

Mary smiled at that, but it was a quiet, knowing smile. “Oh no, Irene’s lovely. Very sweet, talented. Thank you again.”

“Then why are you still bringing work for your daughter?”

That earned him a look. Mary straightened up, hands on her hips, her eyes warm but firm. “Because she grew up working. Just like you did.” Mary folded the now-empty cloth bag with efficient hands. “She’s not used to sitting idle, and never had the opportunity to do so, especially after Malachy died.”

“I’m at a place in life,” Tommy said carefully, “where I can have a wife who doesn’t have to do anything except take care of me and our children.”

Mary looked at him for a moment, giving him that same half-smile her daughter wore sometimes, like she could see straight through him. “You can have that,” she said. “But whether she’ll sit still for it is another thing entirely.” She looked toward the sewing machine again. “If I don’t leave her something to do there, she’ll go poking around the garden. Or the pantry. Or reorganizing your entire bloody house. I’m trying to keep her from climbing the walls.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “That’s your idea of rest?”

She shrugged. “My idea of peace. She’s like me that way, we need something to do with our hands.”

He leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, something like respect in his expression. Christ, I know exactly what that’s like.

Mary turned to her final bag and pulled out something smaller, a muslin pouch with a few round shapes wrapped carefully inside. “Lemons,” she said. “I’ll leave them in the kitchen for her.”

Tommy glanced at it. “She hasn’t had morning sickness in weeks.”

Mary smiled, but there was something gentler behind it now. “She’s nervous today.”

That made him straighten a little. “Why?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Mary tilted her head. “Nadia’s coming tonight. Checking up on her. Says she’s going to tell us if the baby’s a boy or girl. Something about a ring or a charm.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, the edge of a smile playing at his mouth. “Nadia will use her engagement ring. Dangle it on a strand of her hair or a thread, hold it over her stomach.”

Mary looked intrigued.

He continued, “If it moves in a circle, it’s a girl. If it swings back and forth, it’s a boy.”

Mary smiled. “Well, I’ve never heard that one.”

“You’ve learned something new, then.”

She nodded, genuinely curious. “I know very little about the Romani. Just the basics.”

Tommy paused. His voice softened just slightly. “There’s gypsy blood in my family.”

Mary's expression was thoughtful. “I guessed as much. From the way Nadia speaks to you. It’s familiar.”

He studied her carefully. “Does it bother you?”

Mary waved it off without hesitation. “Why would it? The Romani are good people. Malachy’s grandmother had gypsy blood, if I remember right.”

Tommy didn’t show his surprise, but a part of him that had stayed braced, waiting for judgment, waiting for that subtle shift in tone people used when they learned about his gypsy blood. But Mary like her daughter was accepting.

She glanced toward the hallway. “I’ll try to come by again later tonight, see what Nadia says about this grandchild of mine.” She picked up her empty bag and headed for the door. "Giver her my love. I'd stay but Rory has men stomping all over our house doing the repairs." She laughed. "If they pull up any more floorboards without checking with me first, I'll be dragging them out by the ear."

And with that, she was gone like a spring storm, leaving behind lemons, dresses, and more for Tommy to think about than he was ready to admit.

Christ.

Mary didn’t waste time with pleasantries. But somehow, she’d walked in, upended his thoughts, and left again before he could find his footing. She was light, easy with her smiles. Unapologetic in her work ethic. And absolutely nothing got past her.

Two strong women, very different from each other, but the message was the same. His bride didn’t need protecting from the world half as much as she needed space to feel like herself inside of it. 

Tommy had been so focused on shielding her, on removing every possible threat, that he’d forgotten what it meant to let someone stand beside him, not behind him.

She grew up working. Just like you did. That was the part that stuck. He hadn't considered that, only seeing the softness, the sweetest parts of her he wanted to keep safe. But underneath all of that… she was strong and resourceful. 

And if he boxed her in too tightly, she’d wither. Just like he would.

It left him with much to consider.

You’d slept too long. By the time you stirred, the sun was already high, light pouring across the foot of the bed like it was mocking you. You blinked against it, stretched. There were sore points all over your body from what happened in his study, then in the bedroom. You smiled, sitting up slowly, still wrapped in the warmth of sleep and his scent on the pillow beside you. 

You scrambled into motion, washing up and slipping into one of your new dresses, tugging a brush through your hair with one hand while you washed your face with the other. You’d promised yourself you’d get an early start. There was mending to finish, things to tidy up, and Nadia was coming tonight, saying she could tell you if the baby was a boy or girl. You were excited and nervous, but you trusted her. But did you really want to know? Would she be right?

The sitting room was quiet when you passed it, so you skipped it entirely and headed straight for the kitchen. You needed something quick, just an apple to tide you over until dinner. You reached for a beautiful red apple in the bowl near the window, already mentally running through your to-do list, when a familiar voice caught you off guard.

“That all you’re eating?”

You turned, startled, the apple halfway to your mouth. Tommy was standing just inside the doorway.

“Tommy, I didn’t know you were home.”

He nodded, slow. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You smiled at him, surprised but happy. “Well, this is a nice surprise.”

He looked at you for a second longer than usual, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read something more than just your expression. Something about his stillness got your attention.

Was something wrong?

You lowered the apple slightly and stepped closer. “Why are you home?” you asked gently. “Did something happen?”

His gaze met yours, steady and quiet. “I wanted to be here.”

That caught you off guard.

He took a slow breath, voice low. “I didn’t want to be across town if something happened.”

You were surprised by his honesty, your heart tugging at the raw truth in his voice. He wasn’t here to check in, he was staying close to you.

Tommy's gaze dropped briefly to your hand, where your engagement ring caught the morning light. “Your mum said Nadia’s coming tonight,” he said. 

“Mum was already here?” You sighed. “I’m so sorry I woke up so late.”

Tommy shook his head, his gaze meeting yours. “Don’t be. You needed the rest.”

After everything last night, you certainly had needed your rest. 

You smiled, relaxing a little. “Nadia’s coming over to check on me. And… she’s going to tell us if it’s a boy or a girl.” You hesitated, then added, “If we want to know. Do you want to know?”

Tommy's gaze dropped to your hand resting on the counter, then to your stomach, and then back to your face. Something flickered behind his eyes, something softer than usual.

“If you want to.” Then, after a moment’s pause, he said, “But yes. I’d like to know.”

You nodded slowly, heart squeezing around the honesty in his voice. “Why?”

He gave a small breath of a smile, not quite looking at you. “Because the world’s already waiting for them. And I just… I want to picture it.”

That touched something deep inside you. You had no response to that.

Then he added, gently, “Your mum brought lemons for you this morning. Said you’ve been nervous about Nadia’s visit. When you get nervous, the sickness comes back?”

“It does.” You set the apple down. “I don’t know how Nadia can know that… if it’s a boy or girl. But she’s been right about everything so far.” Your fingers brushed the edge of the table. “What if she sees something else? What if she finds something wrong with him… or her?”

Tommy stepped closer, the space between you shrinking. “If she thought there was something wrong,” he said firmly, “she wouldn’t be agreeing to do this.”

That pulled the air back into your lungs. You nodded slowly. “That makes me feel better.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then asked, “Is that all you’re nervous about?”

You hesitated. "No.” You glanced down, your fingers twisting. “I suppose Polly told you I can’t dance.”

His expression didn’t shift.

You gave a soft, sheepish laugh. “Well… yes. I’m nervous about that too.” You looked up at him, guilt bubbling up as your eyes met his. “And I’m sorry I danced with John. And Finn... I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t do it again.”

Tommy moved a little closer. And softer than you expected, he said, "You didn’t upset me. Not for dancing.” Reaching for your hand, his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You don’t need to apologize for laughing. Or forgetting yourself for a moment.” His gaze locked on yours, steady now. “But I would like to be the one who teaches you.”

You stared at him, touched by how gentle his voice had become. The sharpness from the day before had been replaced by something… tender.

Your fingers curled around his, your voice small but sincere. “You can teach me?”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You dance?”

That made him huff a quiet laugh through his nose. “I’ve been to a few weddings in my time.” Tommy gave a slight tilt of his head. “I manage well enough not to embarrass myself.”

You bit your lip, smiling despite yourself, but the nerves still fluttered in your stomach. “I just don’t want to embarrass you.”

“You won’t.” His hand was still wrapped around yours, steady and warm. But then he pulled back slightly and gave you a look. “But you’ll need more than an apple in you first.”

Wait. “What?”

He gestured toward the apple in front you. “You’re not learning to dance on nothing but nerves and fruit. Sit down. Eat something real.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that an order, Mr. Shelby?”

He smirked. “It’s a request. But one I’d rather not have to repeat it.”

You laughed softly, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll eat.”

He nodded back, then turned toward the kitchen door. “I’ll be in the sitting room.” Then he paused, just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Don’t take too long.”

You watched him go, his footsteps fading down the hall. You reached for the apple again, smiling softly as you picked it up. 

You were still smiling when the maid came hurrying into the kitchen, red-faced and flustered. A delivery man followed her carrying what looked like a massive arrangement of white lilies and red roses in a deep-cut crystal vase. The delivery man was broad-shouldered and barely making eye contact with you.

“He insisted he had to bring it in personally, miss,” she explained breathlessly. “Said it was too heavy for me to carry alone.”

You just stared at the arrangement. It was elegant and dramatic, towering on the kitchen table now like it was meant for a ballroom and not your quiet morning.

“I… wasn’t expecting flowers,” you said slowly.

The man set it down without a word and quickly turned to leave, head ducked low. Odd.

You moved toward the vase, something about it suddenly feeling too grand… too much. And then, you heard a sound. It wasn't loud but you could definitely hear it, a faint mechanical clicking.

You froze, hearing some commotion outside. The maid looked as stunned as you were when Arthur barrelled in through the back door.

His eyes were sharp on you. “Is it fuckin’ ticking?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. You stepped back as Arthur lunged for the vase, already yelling, "Tommy!" 

From the hallway, boots slammed against the floor. Tommy burst into the kitchen, saw the flowers. Saw you. Watched Arthur halfway out the back door already hauling the arrangement in both arms.

“Don’t move!” Tommy snapped to you. “Stay right where you are!”

Then he was gone, after Arthur.

You stood there with the maid, breath stuck in your throat. The silence was deafening for a few seconds. And then, a not-too-distant booming sound. The windows trembled and the dishes rattled on their shelves. The maid screamed and covered her mouth. You stood frozen, heart hammering in your chest.

That was when you noticed something on the floor at your feet. 

A cream-colored envelope that was delicate and expensive. Your name written on the front in fine, sweeping cursive. With shaking hands, you bent to pick it up, the scent of fresh flowers still hanging in the air. You opened it carefully. Inside was a folded page containing a long, winding obsessive love poem. You didn’t get more than a few lines in, the cadence of something that wasn’t a poem so much as a claim. 

You were shaking so hard, you dropped it. The letter and envelope landed softly on the table, the fine paper brushing the wood like it didn't come from a bomb meant to kill you. 

Your didn't immediately realize your hand curved protectively over your baby. You were still lost in what just happened, absorbing the fear of what could have happened. The house was eerily silent as smoke and panic drifted in through the back door that was left slightly ajar. 

Then the door slammed open. Tommy stormed in, eyes sharp and wild, breath tight like he hadn’t exhaled since the explosion. His gaze found you standing there, shaking with your hand over your belly. And everything in him seemed to snap back into focus.

“Are you hurt?”

You shook your head.

He crossed the kitchen in three strides, hands on either side of your face, scanning you like he needed proof. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked again, lower now, almost hoarse.

“No.” Your voice was just a whisper. “I’m okay.”

He exhaled shakily, forehead resting briefly against yours.

Then he saw the envelope on the table, the poem next to it. The name written on the front. Your name.

Picking it up the paper, unfolding it to quickly scan the writing on it. His fingers tightened the longer he held it. His entire body tensed. "You read it?”

You nodded faintly. “Not all of it. Just… just enough.”

You dropped your hand from your stomach as he looked at the page, not opening it, just feeling the weight of it in his hand.

“He sent it to you.”

You swallowed hard. He didn't need to say the man's name. You knew. It was Angel Changretta, or sent on his behalf.

Then you felt something strange and unfamiliar, your hands flew back to your belly, palms pressing flat. 

Tommy’s head snapped up. “What is it?” He was on edge already, raw from adrenaline. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t speak at first, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your heart. "He moved.”

You grabbed his hand, fast, certain, guiding it to the spot just below your ribs, your fingers trembling as you held his there.

“Right here. Just... just wait.”

He stilled, mouth slightly parted, the silence between you tightening. But it came again. The faintest flutter like a whisper under the skin. 

Tommy's gaze flew to yours, stunned. He looked like he'd been punched in the chest by something holy. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Arthur burst through the door, breathless with dirt on his sleeves. “She alright?”

Behind him, Finn came skidding into the room, his hair a mess, trying to piece together what the hell had just happened.

Arthur froze when he saw you both, your hands together over your stomach, Tommy’s expression somewhere between disbelief and reverence.

You smiled through the tears you hadn’t realized were falling. Still shaking, but more alive than you’d felt in weeks.

“I felt the baby move,” you told Arthur.

Arthur gave a short, stunned laugh. “I’ll bet you fuckin’ did. A bomb just went off.”

Before you could reply, Polly came rushing in from her errands, eyes wide, looking you over first, then Tommy, then the kitchen.

“What the bloody hell is going on?"

Tommy turned to her, still visibly reeling, hand still resting on your belly like he wasn’t willing to let go.

The chaos roared around you, shouting, questions, footsteps, confusion. But for one more breath, you and Tommy stayed still. Connected and in awe.

Arthur was talking, swearing about the bomb, demanding answers, but it all blurred. Polly’s voice cut in, sharp as ever, slicing through the noise with her questions, but even that barely registered. Finn was hovering uselessly by the door, looking between Arthur’s smoke-streaked coat and his soon-to-be sister-in-law.

And she was calm now, somehow glowing, like the moment had knocked everything loose in the world except her. 

Tommy’s hand was still there, resting on her stomach. Where the tiny life they made had moved beneath his fingers. 

He should’ve been shouting orders. Calling for weapons. Demanding to know who the fuck let a courier walk a bomb into his home.

But all he could do was stare at her. She was alive and breathing, eyes shining with fear and relief and something impossibly soft. And their child had just reached out from inside her, if only for a second. I’m here.

Tommy’s throat was tight. He didn’t typically believe in signs, but that had been one. And for one strange, fleeting breath, he didn’t feel like a man balancing a kingdom on the edge of a knife. He felt like a father, and a lucky one.

You looked up at him like you could feel what he was feeling, and for a second, he nearly let it all crack open. 

Arthur swore again. Polly snapped something back. Finn was pacing like a stray in a thunderstorm. It was too much, and it needed to be dealt with. 

Time to move. He turned toward the others, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “I want the man who delivered it. Find him. Bring him to me alive.”

Arthur straightened instantly. “Already done. Liam was right on his heels.”

Tommy gave a short nod. Good.

He turned to Polly. “Get Nadia here. Now.”

Polly nodded. “Already on her way. Mary too.”

Tommy looked to Finn, who was still fidgeting like a nervous dog. “Go find Rory. We need to double the guards. Now. No one gets near this house unless they’re on my list. Not deliveries or guests. No one.”

Finn bolted off without a word.

Tommy’s chest rose and fell, slow. Turning back to her, his gaze dropped briefly to her stomach, then back to her eyes.

Quieter now, but not soft, he said, “Come with me.”

And when she nodded, he placed a hand gently at the small of her back, guiding her out of the kitchen, away from the wreckage and shouting. His other hand was still clenched tight, and he didn’t immediately realize it. The shouting dulled behind them. Arthur and Polly still barking at each other. The maid still crying into her apron.

But as soon as the sitting room door shut, it was like the silence had weight. Tommy turned toward her. She watched him, eyes wide but steady. He sat down slowly in the chair near the fire, pulling her onto his lap so he could hold her. The letter in his coat pocket felt heavier now, like it was dragging at the lining. Like it could burn a hole straight through to his ribs.

“Someone sent that to me,” she said quietly. “They wanted me to open the page and read it until...” 

His arms tightened around her. She wasn't wrong. 

“They wanted me to die.”

No. No, not just die or disappear.

“They wanted me to lose you,” His voice was barely above a whisper. "To lose my child."

And that was what finally cut through everything. All of his plans, none of it mattered. Not if she had been standing one step closer. Not if Arthur had been a second too late.

His mind had barely started to fill in the gaps, and already it felt like suffocating. She leaned into him for comfort, for protection for her and the child she carried. 

His child.

“They won’t get another chance,” he muttered. And he meant it. Every syllable pressed through gritted teeth like a vow carved in stone.

He knew who it was. The Italians. The way Vicente had spoken. The way the tension had shifted after the meeting in the betting shop.

They knew he was staying home, that he wasn’t across town in his office. They knew the flowers would be delivered to her, a harmless wedding gift. They’d timed it to the hour.

They wanted him to see. To hear the blast from another room. Find her body, their child, scattered across the floor before he ever made it down the stairs.

It wasn’t just an attack. It was a fucking message. A warning dressed up as grief waiting to happen. It wasn't about wanting her gone.

They wanted him broken.

But they’d miscalculated. Tommy hadn’t lost her or the baby. And now he’d make sure every last man tied to that delivery, every thread that led back to Angel, to Vicente, to the Changrettas was pulled until it bled. The rage was simmering now, low and cold. The kind that burned slowly and permanently. 

The sitting room door flew open. “Where is she?”

His girl rose on shaking legs when Rory stormed in like he was ready to fight the whole world with his bare hands. His hair was wind-tossed, boots still muddy, like he hadn’t even stopped to think before running. His eyes landed on her, still alive and whole.

“Jesus Christ,” Rory breathed. “I heard the blast... Someone said it came from the house...”

He crossed the room in seconds and pulled her into his arms before Tommy could say a word. Held her so tightly it looked like he didn’t trust the floor to hold her upright. 

Tommy didn’t interrupt, letting him have that moment. Rory needed to see for himself that his sister was still here. Still breathing.

Rory pulled back, hands on her shoulders, eyes scanning her face. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

She smiled at him. “I’m okay.”

He looked down at her belly. “The baby?”

Her voice softened. “I felt him move.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked toward her, but he didn’t say anything. It was the second time she’d said him. No it, and she said it with certainty.

That froze Rory in place. His face crumpled for just a second, before he blinked fast and cleared his throat. “Alright...  Alright, good.”

Tommy rose from the chair and took a step forward, his voice sharp again. “She’s safe.”

Rory turned, eyes flashing. “Tell me who sent it.”

“I already know,” Tommy said. “And I’ll deal with it.”

Rory didn’t move. “Then let me help.”

“No,” Tommy said firmly. “You go in swinging, they disappear too fast. I want them to feel this for what they tried to take from me. From you.”

Rory hesitated, breathing hard. But then he nodded. A soldier’s nod.

Tommy looked at him evenly. “Stay with her until Polly gets here. Then find me. I'll need you.”

Then to her, his voice dropping, softer. “Don’t leave this room until I return.”

He turned without another word, already thinking two steps ahead, already planning the first stone in the avalanche.

The study still smelled faintly of smoke from the fire, though it had long since burned down to glowing embers. Tommy had just finished washing the blood from his hands. He’d changed shirts. His cuffs were clean now. But the storm hadn’t passed. It had just gone quiet.

Arthur, John, and Rory were already in his study when he walked in, each of them tense, waiting. 

The delivery man had been delivered to him alive. Liam had caught him not far from the edge of the city, already trying to vanish into the sprawl.

He’d been brave. Tommy would give him that. But bravery had its limits.

The man now lay unconscious in the cellar, bleeding from the mouth, tied down and silent because Tommy had taken his tongue after receiving his confession. And before that, he’d taken everything else he needed.

Stepping into the room, he shut the door behind him. “It was Vicente Changretta.”

They already knew but he just wanted to say it. 

John crossed his arms. “Their people are saying that we disrespected him in the betting shop.”

“Tommy threatened him,” Rory muttered from the corner. "They should have listened."

Tommy moved behind the desk, his gaze shifting to the half-empty glass he hadn’t touched since midday. “Vincente wanted to make a statement.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said darkly. “So do we.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “After the wedding.” His words were cold and final. “We bury them.”

Those words lingered around them in the silence of the room. 

Rory’s gaze met Tommy's. “Tell me when.”

John cracked his knuckles, smirking. Arthur still seemed shaken from the bomb incident earlier. 

Tommy took a seat and leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. His rage had been fed, and his hands weren’t shaking anymore.

But he had one last thing to do tonight.

You were sitting in the parlor with your mother when the door opened gently and Polly stepped in. “She’s here,” Polly said, her voice softer than usual.

Nadia followed, her scarf slightly askew, her cheeks pink from the cold and exertion. “Apologies,” she said with a warm smile. “I was helping a girl that was too young with her first child. It took longer than expected.”

You smiled. “You’re not late.”

Your mother, still shaken from earlier, watched you like you could disappear any moment. Like she didn’t trust that the danger was over just yet.

Polly guided Nadia in as if she were royalty, though there was nothing grand about the way Nadia moved. She walked purposefully to you, brushing a hand along your shoulder briefly.

“You look very good,” she said kindly, not mentioning what had happened. No one did.

You gave her a grateful smile. “I felt him move.”

Her eyes lit with a knowing gleam. “Ah, so he’s already making his presence known. Typical Shelby.”

Polly smiled at that. 

“You said him,” your mother added quietly, trying not to smile but failing.

Nadia crouched in front of you and began her usual checks, measuring, feeling, asking how you’d been sleeping. When she pressed her ear to your belly, her earrings swayed gently, brushing your gown. 

You exhaled slowly, relaxing under the rhythm of it all. 

Nadia straightened, her hands still resting gently on your middle for a moment longer. Then she smiled, certain. “Everything is as it should be,” she said.

Your heart flew in your chest. “Really?”

She nodded. “The baby is healthy, getting stronger. It's position is where it should be.”

Your mother let out a breath beside you, one hand pressing to her heart like she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her own lungs hostage.

You smiled up at Nadia, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes now, the good kind. For the first time since the explosion, you believed it.

“Would you like to know?” she asked softly. “If it’s a boy or a girl?”

Before you could speak, a voice came from the doorway. “Yes.”

You turned your head. Tommy was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, expression unreadable but focused entirely on you.

You nodded. You hadn’t said it aloud until now, but if he believed in this, you could too. 

“Alright then,” Nadia said, standing.

She motioned gently for you to rise, then guided you over to the chaise lounge by the window, helping you settle back into the cushions.

“Recline just a bit,” she murmured. “Good. Hands here, relax your shoulders.”

You did as she said, nervous and excited now for an entirely different reason. 

Then, with that same calm grace, she looked toward the doorway.

“Mr. Shelby,” she said, her voice gentle but sure.“Come here.”

Tommy straightened slightly from where he’d been leaning, then crossed the room, and stopped beside you.

Nadia held out her hand. “The ring?”

You slipped your engagement ring from your finger, and it suddenly felt so light, so strange, not to have it there. Polly provided a long black thread from her coat pocket, of course she had one, and your mother cut it to length with the scissors she kept in her pocket.

Nadia tied it to the thread Polly had given her, her fingers moving with quiet precision.

Tommy remained close. Leaning over the back of the lounge, he took one of your hands in his as he watched. You felt his presence without having to look for him.

Nadia positioned herself at your side, the ring dangling above your belly.

And then... it began. Her hand, you noticed, was completely still. But the ring began to move. First barely. Just a quiver of motion. Then it grew more defined, not in circles, but in a clean, deliberate line, back and forth. Side to side.

You stared, lips parting. Her hand wasn’t moving. How could it be moving on its own?

Your breath caught. "What does it mean?"

"A boy," Tommy's voice was gente.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “I knew it.”

Your mother gasped softly beside you. Polly smiled.

Nadia nodded, calm and sure. “Yes,” she said. “You did.”

While Nadia worked at getting the thread off the ring, you sat up with Tommy's help. When your gaze found his, you saw something in his gaze that hadn’t been there all day. 

Peace.

Nadia packed up quietly, offering a parting smile as she slipped your ring back into your hand. “A strong boy,” she said again. “And a strong mother. I'll be by next week.”

You squeezed her hand gently in return, too happy to speak.

Your mother stood then, brushing a hand along your arm. “I should get home,” she said softly, though you could see in her eyes she didn’t want to go. She’d been more frightened than she let on, maybe even more than Rory. You hugged her tightly, whispered that you were alright. That everything was alright now.

Nadia and your mother left together, Polly seeing them to the door with a nod that promised she'd keep watch over the house for the rest of the night. But she didn’t come back.

And then it was just the two of you. The quiet settled in like a blanket. The tension that had held tight through every moment of the day slowly eased from your shoulders as you sat there on the chaise. Your hand drifted over your belly.

Tommy lowered himself to one knee beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you. His hand smoothed over your belly. 

“I’m glad you’re both alright,” he said finally, his voice rougher than it had been earlier. “You and our son.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache in the best way. There was a light in his eyes now, faint but real. And though you knew he was still making plans, still thinking about retribution and protection and all the weight that came with being Tommy Shelby… none of it was in his voice just now.

And you didn’t want to remind him.

Glancing toward the fire, then back at you with a faint smile, he said, “There’s just one more thing to do before bed.”

You smiled. “What?”

He stood, extended his hand. “I promised to teach you to dance.”

Your breath caught as he offered you his hand. And for just a second, you thought back to that first night when he'd led you away from Arthur. He'd offered you his hand and walked you over to the bed in the other apartment... Even then, you realized that something in you had trusted him.

And now? Now you trusted him with your life, the life of your son. 

You took his hand, and he led you gently to the center of the room.

“It’s just a step,” he said. “Then another. Follow me.”

You nodded, your heart fluttering in your chest.

He went over the steps with you slowly, patiently. You practiced the motions once, then again. He made it seem so simple.

Finally, he pulled you a little closer. One arm around your waist, one hand in yours. And then he began to hum. Soft and low, a tune you didn’t recognize but somehow felt like you’d always known. His breath was warm against your ear, you shivered. You loved the low timbre of his deep voice. 

But you didn’t trip or look at your feet. You were dancing with him.

And in that quiet room, no war at the windows, no shadows creeping under the door...

You were happy. You smiled up at him as you slowly moved together.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless @wantedby-larry @mariaenchanted @moonbeamott @thetamtam9 @ayeeeitsmiracle @atlas-of-a-human-soul

[Translated Comic] This is (not) our first 520

Original artist: 这回是真的了

Source ll Permission

❀ Please do not repost ❀

Write Rivals With Chemistry So Hot It Hurts

╰ Rivalry isn’t hate — it’s obsession True rivals aren't just like, “ugh, I dislike you.” They’re watching each other. Studying. Matching moves. Thinking about each other when they shouldn’t. Hating how much they notice the other person. Rivalry is two sides of the same coin: hatred’s messy little sibling is fascination.

╰ Let them know exactly where to hit—and hesitate The best rivals know exactly where to stick the knife. Childhood wounds. Secret fears. Insecurities no one else sees. But the most powerful moment isn't when they stab, it's when they hesitate. When they flinch. When the reader sees the care underneath the kill shot.

╰ Make every win personal Every victory between rivals should feel like flirting with a knife’s edge. They don't just beat each other; they get under each other's skin. "I outsmarted you" translates directly to "I'm the only one who really sees you." (And no, they're not ready to talk about why that makes them insane.)

╰ Layer the attraction under everything You don't have to write "he found her hot" every five seconds. (Please don't.) Just lace it into the friction. The way they notice each other’s hands. The way a sarcastic smile feels like a slap and a kiss at the same time. Let it be unspoken, which somehow makes it ten times louder.

╰ Give them one private, honest moment and then destroy them for it That one late-night conversation. That brush of honesty. That accidental partnership in a bar fight. That glimpse of trust that leaves them both raw and feral because now it’s personal. Now it hurts. And guess what? Neither of them is stable enough to handle it like adults.

╰ Let them wound each other in ways no one else can Rivals with chemistry are like: “I know your softest place. I know where you hurt. And maybe I’m the only one who could ever touch it.” Terrifying. Intimate. Sexy. Self-destructive. Delicious.

╰ Don’t make it easy to flip to love If they hook up too soon, it’s cheap. If they confess too soon, it’s fake. They have to fight it. They have to screw it up. They have to almost kiss and almost kill each other in the same breath. The reward is sweeter because it’s hard won.

╰ Make them jealous, but make it messy Not cutesy "oh no I'm jealous" moments. Ugly jealousy. Pride-shredding, shame-inducing jealousy. Watching their rival smile at someone else and feeling like they're drowning in acid and denial. Bonus points if they pretend they’re above it and then spiral anyway.

╰ Tension isn’t just in the fighting, it’s in the silences It’s the stare across the room that says “I hate you and I want you” with zero words. It’s the hand that lingers a second too long after pulling them out of danger. It's the unsent text. It's the "accidental" meeting. Sometimes not speaking burns hotter than the screaming matches.

╰ Remember, they don’t want to ruin each other, they want to matter At the core of a rival/chemistry dynamic is one truth: “I want to matter to you more than anyone else does.” And they’ll deny it. And fight it. And wreck themselves over it. (And we, as the readers, will eat it with a goddamn spoon.)

Under His Skin Masterlist

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Dr. Jonathan Crane begins his first day at Arkham Asylum, quietly observing Chief Administrator Dr. Ares Katsaros and his routines. He meets Ares’s fiancée--a woman who unsettles him with her calm composure and lack of fear. Fascinated, Crane begins planning Ares’s downfall while trying to deciding what to do with the woman attached to him.

Dark themes are ahead...

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

LOVE YOU WITH MY EYES CLOSED

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Part one Part two Part three

Summary: At a young age Y/N was given away for marriage, years later the dust began to settle and her life caught a rhythm she stopped fighting. Is Tommy, the man she once knew too well, ready to play along and let her go once again?

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: depression, heartache, mental and physical abuse

A/N: Slow introduction, next chapter will pick up on pace. Enjoy

Coming back to Birmingham ignited more mixed feelings than Y/N expected it ever would. Pushing through the difficult changes back in the day caused her to stomach so much pain and.. distress at the inability to make her own choices. She thought there was nothing in her to cause fear anymore.

A weird kind of fear it was, this time. Looking out the window as the train plummeted through the fields, shaking and groaning under the weight of people all heading to the city she couldn't shake off. Four years passed so quickly, in a pace she didn't understand when she looked back at the first months of constant struggle she endured. Leaving everything behind. Becoming nothing more than a tool to life of.. prosperity for her family.

She fought it for so long, back then. Much to her father's misunderstanding, her unbreakable spirit made everything so much more difficult.

Yet eventually everything must come to an end though, in a reality where her value was tightly connected with how pretty she was, and how aesthetically pleasing she looked, hanging on the arm of a man she barely knew.

It was much easier to ignore from the distance, but the closer she got to Birmingham, more wounds began reopening, hurting and itching despite her neutral expression and unmoving figure.

One of his hands rested on her thigh, the other one holding a newspaper. The lack of communication was nothing short of normal between them. After all, when nobody was around, they didn't have to pretend as much. Nickolas Winterbourne, a man coming from a life where nothing ever ran out, where pantries were never empty and clothes never dirty. He existed in a controlled environment snuggly clothed in money at every corner, shielding him from any difficulties life planned to throw his way - unaffected by the simple disdain of modern times they happened to live in.

For what it was worth, Y/N considered herself lucky. He was… polite, usually gentle which was way more than she could have ever asked for from people in his social class. His hands were smooth, untainted by physical labour that he never had to do. His disposition contradicted his father's, a man purely self-absorbed and cruel with one purpose – wealth.

Y/N was grateful for the person he was deep down, even though he was forcing her into situations they could avoid, yet rarely violating her physically or mentally.

Nickolas was… indifferent. His demeanour calm, collected and bordering on bored most of the time. His eyes looked at her with a never ending patience and neutrality she grew to appreciate, after watching the way many of his brothers treated their own wives. She was lucky.

The mindset she worked so hard to build, throwing away the values she dreamed of as a little girl, the warm dreams of having a loving marriage with several kids, conversations that would seem to go on forever sprinkled with tender kisses on the forehead and warm touches that would warm her up on cold nights. She exchanged those hopes for expensive dresses and a mansion much too big for any amount of wood to warm. There were continual expensive dinners and meaningless conversations with people she wouldn't care to see ever again with fake seemingly polite smiles. These people never stopped beckoning for their service, acting like the simple action of pouring themselves tea was too much to burden their minds with.

So she was grateful, playing along with the quick pace of life they had. Dressing up quickly, perfecting the empty smile she got used to wearing on a daily basis.

“Be grateful, because you could have had it much worse” she mentally repeated to herself.

A soft squeeze of his hand tore her out of her thoughts, his brown eyes watching her patiently. He witnessed the difficulties she struggled with back then. So her silence rang louder than ever.

”We will spend two days in Birmingham and be back on our way. Tomorrow is the day of the gala, and the day after you will spend on your own matters.” He spoke quietly, reading the troubling emotions in her eyes. He always saw through the mask of neutrality he taught her how to wear like her second skin: a mutual understanding.

Her eyes slowly followed along the lines of his face, finally settling on holding eye contact. Slowly nodding, she covered his hand with her own before forcing out a small smile.

”Thank you” She responded, straightening her back before the train started slowing down before coming to a full stop.

Patting her thigh for the last time, he pulled away.

”Come on. It's time to go”

~~

After getting out of the train, Y/N watched how after stepping out her boots immediately covered in mud.

Some things never changed, she thought with a smile as the scent of smoke filled her nostrils.

”Christ” Nickolas muttered, his face twisting in disgust. Birmingham was nothing like the London they were used to, first expression of the city obnoxiously underwhelming for Winterbourne.

Standing by the road sign they waited for a moment before the designated car pulled up, halting by their feet as the driver opened the door, offering to help in packing the luggage.

Y/N seemed distraught, looking around as she immediately recognized the streets despite small differences and the fact she didn't leave even remotely close back then. A city centre it was, fair distance from Small Heath. A place she used to call home.

”Come on, get in the car” Nickolas whispered, noticing her distracted gaze, grabbing her arm lightly and nudging her towards the vehicle, bringing her out of memories thick like smoke. Looking at him she nodded, obediently getting inside before the car took them to the hotel.

One she had never been in before. This whole situation felt suffocating in ways so weird, she was barely able to look him in the eyes. Even as they moved to the building, getting all the formalities done she couldn't help but let her mind wander towards the ghosts of her past.

Loud, obnoxious laugh filled her head bringing a little smile on her red lips. One that definitely belonged to John, his eyes glimmering with mischief like most of the time. Through the eyes of imagination she saw Ada's long, dark hair she constantly complained about, sighing dramatically in a way that never ceased to make Y/N roll her eyes. Suffering from success, she used to call it, teasing her friend with whom she grew up so close.

A sound came to her ears as lift brought them to the right level, she moved seemingly on an autopilot when her husband fumbled with keys, looking for the right one.

As the door swung open she let out a silent sigh as she remembered. The memory she worked on suppressing so long caught up randomly, big, blue eyes surrounded by thick, dark eyelashes. Colour so dynamic, swiftly changing with the feeling simmering beneath his tough exterior, yet always so bright and clear when he looked at her. She felt like she saw him for the first time, despite it being nothing but her exterior shell shattering at the unwanted memories flooding back in.

Suddenly, she felt out of breath and barely an hour after checking into the hotel, she was in bed facing away from Nickolas. The wall she put up between them nearing the height of one he tried to shatter after getting to know the girl. She seemed so small as she lay on her side, every inch of her body hidden under covers. Hair scattered on the pillow, keeping his gaze away from her features.

They just got here, and he was already losing, Nickolas thought, before remembering the small detail that could shatter his reality if ease if looked into.

”Goodnight” He whispered, pressing a kiss onto her shoulder before turning away and giving her space as the lights went out.

It was only so long he could bend reality to his will, he thought, before closing his eyes and allowing Morpheus' embrace to swallow him up.

In contrast to him, Y/N didn't fall asleep once. The unknown anticipation swirled around in her stomach, pushing her even further away from the man sleeping by her side. Something was coming, and she knew it.

~~

”Do you really trust what you're saying?” Her voice came to his ears, quieter, less confident than usually she'd speak to him.

Leaning forward on his arms, he let his head drop in defeat for a moment before lifting him up. Strong, unyielding gaze meeting her worried, slightly anxious eyes.

Her position in the family and in company made her learn how to deal with emotions on her own for years.. which was never an issue. Woman could only be so vulnerable after raising that many kids and protecting them from the disgusting reality with her fragile hands and soul on her shoulder. But she managed.

So the rare vulnerability she displayed that evening, looking in her nephew's eyes was nothing short of special. The string of responsibility connecting them in ways none of his siblings would understand.

Staring blankly for a moment, he ended up nodding.

”I know, Polly.” He spoke up, his voice heavy with exhaustion and the fear he tried to bury somewhere between his ribs, to never be seen again. But it was there, alive as ever, making his heart thump in an unnatural rhythm. Reminding him of one of survival. Desperate attempts to stick to life even when the dirty earth in the tunnels tried to swallow him alive.

”You need to trust me when I say things will go back to normal. I waited for long enough.” His voice came out sharper than he'd like it to. Blue eyes soothing the damage his voice has done and Polly understood.

Being a witness to the struggles he faced on daily, responsibilities piling on him like layers of clothing, giving no space to grieve the loss of someone who was never supposed to be gone.

…and so he didn't. Instead building an empire on his bitterness and pain, trusting that… whatever was up there would provide if it was meant to be.

That day for once in his life Thomas wanted to pray.

~~

“You need to pick up your pace, Y/N. We can't afford to be late to such an event.” Nickolas snapped, his usually calm and collected demeanour dishevelled with stress as he watched time ticking away on his watch.

She didn't sleep, almost at all. Putting on the mask was more difficult than usual, having to layer the makeup on her tired face, exhausted eyes. The years of struggles managed to catch up in the nine hours she spent on trying to fall asleep. Dreamless nights and loveless days connected with the anticipation in her stomach making it impossible to close her eyes.

”What will they think of us if we show up late, Y/N?” He shot once again watching her movements with his chin higher than he usually carried.

In moments of distress Y/N saw his father in him, usually perfectly hidden away lack of spine showing through the wounds of what the perfect life did to him. Minor inconvenience making him furious.

”Put on your jacket and smoke a cigarette, Nickolas. By the time you're done I will be waiting.” She responded in a neutral way, already taught to not feed into his bitterness in such situations. Not because he was right, but rather to avoid making him cranky as he would surely ruin her already difficult evening.

Watching her with contempt for a moment, he let out a heavy breath before stepping away.

”Five minutes or you will walk there. I'm not going to be late because of your irresponsibility.” His voice faded with the distance growing between them.

Y/N sighed looking at her reflection.

A man that was never supposed to be a husband.

All eyes were on them as soon as they arrived. Y/N smiled, nodding along to the people she saw for the first time as they spoke to Nickolas. She was to not speak unless spoken to, Mr. Winterbourne taught her four years ago. Smile, look pretty and watch your husband. Be attentive and elegant at all times.

Entering the event took them about fifteen minutes with all the pleasantries Nick kept giving away to his associates. Deep down she hated it. The constant need to pretend, not a single movement one of her own.

”Mr. Winterbourne!” A voice came from behind their back as they walked into the main room. An older man with jet-black hair approached quickly, his arm wrapped around the waist of his wife. Glancing at her, they exchanged a joyful look before standing right by Y/N. “Long time no see” His voice was low, but not threatening. Something about the tall and broad man was inviting, friendly.

”Indeed, it's been a long while.” Nick responded, straightening his back before greeting the older woman, getting a hold of her hand gently and kissing the temple. ”How is life treating you, Sir?” His tone mannered and calm, just like always whenever he was in a public eye. After getting a response, he began talking about the details of the gala before the woman suddenly interrupted him.

”...and who is this beautiful woman?” She spoke completely relaxed to which Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. If she interrupted her husband or any man he was currently talking to in such a manner, she'd get severely punished if not slapped at the spot. Nicholas raised his eyebrow but quickly put on a collected exterior again.

”This is my wife, Y/N” He introduced her, slightly embarrassed that he forgot to do so in the first place. What would they think of him? The older man reflected, kissing her temple with a smile and his wife took her hand in her own.

”Oh, I see” She said, looking at the ring on her finger. ”Absolutely beautiful, how about we get something to drink while men talk about the important matters?” She suggested light-heartedly, winking at her husband who chuckled, shaking his head before giving a simple nod.

”Great idea. I will find you in just a few moments, Precious.”

The way their interactions took place made Y/N truly shocked, she's never seen such behaviour among people in their class before. Were people of Birmingham different than them?

Waiting for his approval obediently Y/N only moved when he gave her a stern nod, clearly not pleased with his own performance, yet he would never admit it.

His behaviour was different this time, she could clearly see it. He was more emotional in the wrong way, every little detail making him visibly angry.

”I’m Meredith” The seemingly fourty year old woman stated, glancing at Y/N sideways. ”You seem to love these kind of events, don't you?” She joked, seeing the way Y/N’s smile dropped as soon as they turned away from their husbands. Internally she panicked hearing the elegant woman's remark, her eyes widening with fear. ”Oh, no worries. We're on the same page… besides. They serve really good drinks, so soon enough it will be bearable.” The tone of her voice was light and amusing as she gave Y/N a little shove. Her demeanor was relaxed and open, matching her husband's which was… refreshing.

”Better get to it then” She mustered a smile in response.

To be fair, time did start passing faster as they settled by the table, slowly sipping on tasteful drinks and talking in a way that allowed Y/N feel much less comfortable than she was at first. A breath of fresh air.

”We’re local. My husband, Christopher, is the owner of several businesses passed down through the family. That's how he knows Winterbournes.” She explained eventually before leaning in closer. ”He doesn't get along well with your father in law. Tradition and peace are the only things keeping them tied together.”

Y/N listened carefully, appreciating that after a couple drinks Meredith's tongue got a bit loose. Usually she'd never hear a single detail about her husband's business or family. She wasn't family by blood, so her access to information was very restricted.

Getting lost in her thoughts again she zoned out for a second before Nickolas’ voice came to her ear from close proximity.

”This is my wife, Y/N Winterbourne.” He introduced her and it took a second to stand up, smooth out her dress before her eyes met the guests.

…and just for a second, her heart stopped, mouth slightly parting as she met the blue gaze she dreamed of for so many years.

”May we dance, Mrs. Winterbourne?” Thomas Shelby asked, standing side to side with her husband. Slightly shorter yet visibly towering over him.

For once she forgot her manners, not able to tear her eyes away from him as she gave a quick nod and without another word, he grabbed her hand pulling her towards the dance floor among other couples. Completely stiff and frozen, her vocal chords were not cooperating as she was on the verge of a panic attack.

His hands grabbed her own, setting them on his shoulders as he pulled her closer.

”Breathe” He said quietly in a husky tone as his scent almost made her faint.

Like Hell You’d Tell Me No | PB fic

(tommyshelby x fem!reader – s2 era)

Summary: When Y/N gets sent to Birmingham for her own protection, the last thing she expects is to be dropped into the middle of Shelby territory, especially under the icy watch of one Thomas Shelby. But somehow, she keeps breaking his rules... and somehow, he lets her. Between unannounced office visits, drunken nights in his chair, and a new bestie in Ada Shelby, Y/N is stirring up more than just trouble. And when things start to heat up between her and Tommy, they might just find themselves caught in a moment that neither of them is quite ready for, yet.

A/N: okay so, I always write Harry (literally always), but while prepping for my internship I decided to finally watch Peaky Blinders... and now I’m unwell. Like, genuinely not okay. Tommy Shelby lives in my head rent-free and I can’t make him leave. 😭

So instead of lesson planning like a responsible adult, this little fic idea basically wrote itself at 1AM with Taylor Swift playing in the background lol. Not sure if I’ll continue this or if I’ll dabble in multiple fandoms, but I had fun writing it and wanted to share in case anyone else is also deep in their Peaky Blinders phase

Word Count: 4147

Warnings: 

Light drinking

Mentions of past threats/harassment (non-graphic)

Protective/possessive behavior (from Tommy, ofc)

Language (it’s Peaky Blinders, there’s swearing lol)

Slow-burn tension and emotional build-up

Mentions of minor violence (one punch, classic Tommy move)

Unresolved romantic tension (aka cliffhanger ending 😌)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Tommy just… stares.

The silence in the room stretched, thick as the smoke curling from his cigarette. Papers sat idle in front of him, ignored now. The man across the desk – some poor bastard talking percentages – had gone completely still, mouth half-open like he was about to continue his pitch until she appeared out of nowhere.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like she’d walked into a pub instead of the Shelby Company office. Young, maybe mid-twenties, wearing a travel-worn coat and scuffed boots. There was something in her look. Not arrogance. Just no fear. Like she'd met worse than a room full of Shelbys.

“Door was open,” she said again, tilting her head. “Didn’t think it was a problem.”

Arthur snorted behind her. “Bloody hell, she’s brave.”

Polly didn’t say a word, but the look on her face was a mix of amusement and caution. Always watching.

Tommy took a slow drag, tapped ash into the tray. “You must be Y/N.”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping in without being asked. “You must be Tommy, Thomas Shelby.”

“Bit early to be on first-name terms.”

“Bit late not to be,” she replied, dropping her bag by the wall like she belonged there. “You owe my brother a favor. I’m the favor.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. Not from her mouth. Not from anyone, really. But the message had come a few days ago, and he’d read it twice just to be sure. Michael Carter. They’d served together. Pulled him out of a trench once. Didn’t talk much after the war, but when a man like that writes and says his sister’s in trouble, you pay attention. You don’t say no.

“What kind of trouble?”

She shrugged. “The vague kind. London’s full of it. Wrong place, wrong time. Few names I shouldn’t have known, a few blokes who didn’t like me walking away.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair. “You running?”

“I’d call it more of a stroll,” she said. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring much baggage.”

He looked at her. Really looked. She was tired but not broken. Something restless behind her eyes. There was a fight in her, the kind that either got people killed or made them dangerous friends. He wasn’t sure which yet.

“You’ll stay above the shop,” he said after a pause. “Spare room. Polly’ll take you up.”

Y/N glanced toward Polly, who gave a small nod.

Tommy picked up his pen again, glancing at the man across from him who’d gone completely pale. “Now, if we’re done with the interruptions–”

“I’ll get out of your hair,” she said, already walking off.

“Don’t wander.”

She turned in the doorway, gave a small smirk. “No promises.”

Polly followed her out a moment later, her heels sharp on the floorboards.

Arthur leaned in with a low whistle. “She’s got some fire, that one.”

Tommy didn’t answer. He was staring at the spot she’d been standing in. His jaw clenched as he exhaled smoke through his nose.

“She gonna be trouble?” Arthur asked.

“She already is,” Tommy said quietly, then went back to pretending to listen to the pitch in front of him.

--

Upstairs, Y/N was already sizing up the space. The spare room was clean enough. Not warm, but not cold either. Polly stood by the door, watching.

“You’re lucky,” Polly said finally. “He doesn’t like people in his office. Doesn’t like people full stop.”

Y/N looked around, then dropped onto the bed with a soft thump. “I’ll keep out of his way.” Polly gave a dry smile. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Downstairs, Tommy stubbed out his cigarette, but his hand hovered near the tin for another. He didn’t light it. Just sat there, staring at the door where she’d come in like a storm in worn boots and sharp words.

A favor owed, he thought. Just a favor.

But he already knew better.

The days that followed proved it. She didn’t just stay in the spare room. She moved through the betting shop like she’d always been there. Tommy had told himself he’d figure out what to do with her once things settled, once he had time. But time didn’t slow for the Shelbys. And she didn’t wait for permission.

“You know there’s a kettle in the back, right?” she asked one morning, walking into his office without knocking. Again. She set a chipped mug down on the desk like it was hers to do so. “You don’t have to drink your weight in whisky before noon.”

Tommy looked up slowly. “You bring tea to every man who gives you a place to sleep?”

“Only the grumpy ones,” she said, hands in the pockets of her skirt. “Which is lucky for you.”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the steam curling from the cup.

She lingered a second longer, then turned to leave. “Try not to scowl into it too hard. Might go bitter.”

That was the third time that week she’d barged in. Polly had stopped bothering to intervene. Arthur found it funny. John asked if she had a death wish.

Tommy just drank the tea.

It wasn’t that she was rude. She just didn’t care about the little rules. Rules like knocking before you enter a room that belongs to Thomas Shelby. Rules like not sitting in the man’s chair while drunk at the end of a long day.

Which she did.

It was Friday, the shop was quiet, and she had found the whisky in the cabinet behind the front desk. Arthur had offered her a glass earlier. She’d declined then. Hours later, she helped herself.

Tommy walked in to find her kicked back in his chair, legs tucked under her, nursing a glass. Her boots were off and resting on the floor beside her. She looked comfortable. Dangerous thing to be in his space.

“You’re in my chair,” he said.

She turned her head lazily. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

He didn’t say anything. He looked at her for a moment, then walked to the other side of the room. Took off his coat, hung it up. Sat on the edge of the desk, lit a cigarette. The quiet filled the space between them.

“You always drink alone?” he asked finally.

“I wasn’t alone,” she said. “You came in.”

Arthur came by halfway through and nearly choked on his laughter. John followed, paused in the doorway, gave a long low whistle.

“She’s got some bloody nerve,” John said under his breath.

Tommy said nothing. Just exhaled a long stream of smoke and looked at the ceiling.

After a few minutes, she stood, wobbling just a bit, and set the glass down neatly on the desk.

“Thanks for not shouting,” she said. “It’s rare.”

He watched her as she walked out, barefoot, leaving the smell of whisky and some kind of sweet soap in her wake.

The door clicked shut.

Arthur leaned closer to Tommy after a beat. “You gonna let her get away with that?”

Tommy didn’t look at him. “She’s not doing any harm.”

John raised an eyebrow. “She was in your chair, brother.”

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette. “She’s not in it now.”

That was how it was. She floated in and out of the betting shop like smoke, slipping through the cracks no one else dared to touch. She was younger, yes. Full of jokes and sudden laughter. The kind that didn’t come from politeness but from deep inside, like she refused to let the world make her quiet.

He didn’t know what to make of her yet. But he noticed things. The way she talked to everyone. The way she read newspapers he hadn’t even opened yet. The way she knew how to patch a rip in her own coat with needle and thread without making a fuss. Like she’d done it a hundred times.

She didn’t belong here. Not really. But she was here. And the longer she stayed, the more it felt like a storm had rolled in and decided to settle.

He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with her. But he knew sending her away wasn’t an option anymore. That thought sat in the back of his mind the night Arthur burst through his office door, out of breath and sweating.

“She’s at the Garrison,” he said. “Alone. Some bloke’s not takin’ the hint.”

Tommy didn’t say anything. He stood, grabbed his coat, and walked past Arthur without a word. His pace was calm, but his steps were hard. Each one louder than the last on the wooden stairs.

The Garrison wasn’t far, but it felt like miles. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Inside, the music was low and the laughter was higher than usual. A Friday night crowd. Voices blurred together until one stood out.

“Come on, sweetheart,” a man was saying. “Don’t be so bloody cold.”

Tommy moved through the crowd like smoke. He didn’t shove. Didn’t speak. Just walked until the man came into view. Broad-shouldered, older, drunk. Y/N was backed against the wall near the end of the bar, her arms crossed tight and chin lifted. She wasn’t scared, but she wasn’t laughing either.

“I said no,” she repeated, voice firm.

“And I said I don’t care,” the man replied, hand brushing against her arm again.

Tommy didn’t stop walking. The man didn’t see him coming. One second he was smirking, the next he was on the ground, nose caved in and blood gushing. No warning. No words.

The room went quiet.

Tommy didn’t look down. He turned to Y/N, who hadn’t moved. Her face had gone pale.

“Come on,” he said.

She followed him out into the street without arguing. The cold hit her hard, cutting through the whisky in her blood. They walked in silence for a few blocks, her footsteps uneven beside his. She hadn’t even grabbed her coat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said finally.

He didn’t look at her. “Yes. I did.”

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I’m sure,” he said, voice flat. “But, he touched you.”

She stopped walking. He stopped too, turning to face her.

“I don’t need a fucking bodyguard, Tommy.”

“No,” he said. “You need someone to keep you alive. That’s me now.”

She stared at him, jaw tight, but her voice cracked when she spoke again. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

He looked at her. Really looked. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair wind-blown, and her eyes shining in that way they did when she was holding too much in. She was trying to be tough, but her hands were shaking.

He stepped closer, calm now. “You all right?”

She looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“It wasn’t the first time someone got too close.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t say what he wanted to say. That London was behind her, but its shadows were still clinging. That he should’ve never let her walk out alone. That the second he got word she was in danger, his heart had pounded like it hadn’t since France.

Instead, he took a breath and said, “Next time you go out, you take someone with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Arthur? Polly?”

“Me,” he said. “Preferably.”

The silence stretched between them, and something shifted in her face. Not fear. Not defiance. Just something quieter.

“Right,” she said. “Okay.”

He nodded once, then turned and kept walking. She followed.

The streets of Birmingham were dark, damp, full of half-spoken threats. But she walked beside him like it was the safest place she’d ever been.

The next morning, Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of the spare room, trying to make sense of the mess she called her belongings. Half-unpacked bags, a few folded letters, and a pair of boots still caked in city grime. She was tugging a comb through her hair when there was a knock on the door. “Mind if I come in?” came a voice.

Y/N turned to see a woman leaning in the doorway, lipstick perfect, hair pinned up tight like she meant business even on a quiet day. She looked familiar in that way all the Shelbys did.

“Ada, right?” Y/N said.

“That’s me. Figured it was about time we had a proper chat,” Ada replied, stepping in without waiting. “They’ve all been talking about you.”

“Yeah?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

Ada grinned. “Only if you hate compliments wrapped in irritation.”

She handed over two cups of something that smelled strong enough to kick. Y/N took one with a grateful nod.

“Whiskey in the coffee?” Y/N asked.

“Bit of both. It’s the Shelby way.”

They sat near the window, legs stretched out, warmth settling into the space.

“You’re not like them,” Ada said after a moment. “Not from here. Not stuck in it like the rest of us.”

Y/N gave a little shrug. “London’s not exactly better.”

“No, but you’ve still got light in your eyes,” Ada said. “Most people around here have it beaten out of them by twenty.”

Y/N looked out the window. “I don’t know about light. I just don’t see the point in pretending everything’s always awful.”

Ada sipped from her cup. “That’s what I mean. You’re a bloody breath of fresh air. Especially among all these grumpy bastards.”

Y/N laughed. “Speak for yourself. You’re just as sharp.”

“I get it from my mother. And years of watching Tommy scowl at paperwork.”

At the mention of his name, Y/N glanced away, but Ada noticed. Of course she did.

“He’s different with you,” Ada said.

Y/N frowned. “Different how?”

Ada leaned in, smug. “Less growling. More… I don’t know. Breathing.”

“You’re making things up.”

“I’m not.” She pointed her cup at Y/N. “You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, you know that?”

Y/N blinked, actually blinked, and then laughed into her drink. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Ada said. “He doesn’t even let me in his office unannounced.”

Y/N bit her lip. “Maybe he’s just tired of telling me off.”

“No. That’s not it.” Ada gave her a long look. “He trusts you.”

There was a weight in those words Y/N hadn’t expected. She didn’t answer right away. Trust wasn’t something she’d had a lot of lately. It felt strange to even think about.

“He walked me home last night,” Y/N said quietly. “After a man at the Garrison got pushy.”

Ada nodded. “I heard. Arthur said Tommy didn’t say a word. Just broke the bloke’s nose and left.”

Y/N stared down into her mug. “He didn’t even look angry. That’s what got me.”

Ada tilted her head. “That’s worse, you know. Means he meant it.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “I know it’s just a favor, what he’s doing. Letting me stay. Letting me be here.”

Ada stood and stretched. “It started out that way, but i believe it has turned into more. That’s why it matters.”

She walked toward the door, then turned. “You’re good for him. Whether he admits it or not.”

Y/N stayed by the window after she left. The coffee had gone cold, but she held it anyway, hands wrapped around something solid.

Out in the street, she caught sight of Tommy crossing to the shop, coat pulled close, face unreadable as ever.

She watched him for a second too long. Then she looked away, heart skipping in a way she pretended not to notice.

By the time evening came, the betting shop had been cleared out, lanterns strung up, and Polly’s birthday turned into one of those Shelby nights that started quiet and always ended with someone singing out of tune. Y/N wasn’t much of a drinker, but it was hard to say no when John poured heavy and Polly kept pressing glasses into her hand with a look that said she’d take offense otherwise.

She’d laughed too hard, danced once with Ada, twice with Arthur, and ended up slipping out when her head started to spin and the voices all blurred into one. The music still floated through the floorboards when she made her way up the stairs and pushed open the office door.

She didn’t even bother with the lights. The soft glow from the hallway was enough. She crossed the room like it was muscle memory now and dropped into the chair behind the desk. His chair. She tucked one leg under herself and took a slow sip from the bottle she’d brought up.

The first sip burned. The second didn’t.

She leaned back and closed her eyes for a second, listening to the muffled laughter below, the distant clink of glasses. The door creaked after a few minutes. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Told you I like your chair,” she said lazily.

Tommy stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “You’ve got a habit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else that’s quiet,” she replied.

He walked across the room and sat on the edge of the desk, facing her. No coat, sleeves rolled just enough to show the edge of his tattoo. His tie was loose. He looked like he’d stopped pretending to be the man everyone thought he had to be.

She glanced at him and smiled faintly. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the party?”

He shrugged. “They won’t miss me for a few minutes.”

She tilted the bottle toward him. “Want some?”

“I’ve had enough.”

“Then keep me company.”

So he did. They sat in the kind of silence that had weight but no pressure. She traced a line in the wood grain of the desk with her finger, then spoke, soft and unguarded.

“Do you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on her face.

“I used to think London was it,” she went on. “Then everything went to shit. I came here thinking it’d be worse. But now I just feel stuck in between.”

She looked down. “And I hate feeling like a guest. Like I’m just waiting for someone to tell me it’s time to go.”

“You’re not a guest,” Tommy said.

“Then what am I?”

He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t answer either.

She looked at him, really looked. The way his eyes softened in moments like this, when no one else was around to see. How still he went when he let his guard down. Like it scared him more than war ever had.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

“I say what needs saying.”

“Right.” She took another sip. “But you listen.”

Their eyes met. Her thumb brushed the side of the glass, and his fingers reached out absently to take it from her. Their hands touched – just a second – but it was enough to make her chest tighten.

He set the bottle down without breaking the gaze. Neither moved.

“Why are you always so calm?” she whispered.

“I’m not.”

His voice was low. Closer now. She hadn’t noticed how near he’d leaned until she could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of tobacco and something colder underneath.

Her fingers curled around the arm of the chair.

His hand was resting near hers on the desk. Not quite touching. But close.

Too close. Not close enough.

The silence pulled tight between them. She wasn’t sure who was holding it there, but it felt deliberate, like something balanced on the edge of a blade.

She didn’t move her hand.

Tommy shifted closer, the worn fabric of his sleeve brushing hers. Her breath caught. He didn’t look at her yet, not directly – his eyes stayed on the papers scattered across the desk like they meant something. Like any of this was still about business.

“Don’t smoke in here,” she said quietly, not looking at him either.

“I’m not.”

“You were earlier. Without me.”

He didn’t argue. Just leaned back the slightest bit, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile, but didn’t. His voice stayed low.

“You always this jumpy around men, or just me?”

She turned her head. Met his eyes. “You always this full of yourself, or just with women who talk back?”

There was a flicker in his expression, something like approval, maybe amusement. Maybe something sharper underneath.

“Maybe I like women who talk back.”

“Maybe you like trouble.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest second. “I’m in the business of it.”

That pull in her gut tightened. Her fingers curled harder around the arm of the chair, grounding herself. It wasn’t enough.

The room had gone quiet again, except for the tick of the clock on the mantel and the soft hum of music and voices seeping in from the hallway. The party still spun on without them, but here it felt like everything had narrowed to the space between their hands.

She turned slightly, just enough that her knee brushed his. She didn’t apologize. Neither did he.

“Thomas.”

He lifted his eyes again. That look he gave her made her forget what she was about to say. Or maybe she hadn’t planned to say anything at all.

He leaned in. Slowly, like he wanted her to see it coming. His breath was warm against her cheek, and there was that scent again – tobacco, sharp gin, and something colder. Something metallic, like the edge of a coin.

The air between them thickened. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her fingertips.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is this the part where you kiss me, or tell me I’ve crossed a line?”

Tommy’s eyes darkened, his focus slipping to her lips, then back up. A slow smirk curved his mouth, not the cruel one he used in business, not the charming one he pulled out for show. This one was quieter. Closer to real.

He leaned in just a little more.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps on the doorframe.

“You two decent?”

Ada’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.

Y/N jerked back in her chair, heat rushing to her face as if she’d been caught doing something she hadn’t even done.

Tommy straightened slowly, not looking away from her. The smirk was gone. What replaced it was something harder to name. Something held tight behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he called, not loud. “We’re decent.”

Ada poked her head in, grin wide, eyes darting between them. “Well, don’t let me interrupt whatever this was.”

“It was nothing,” Y/N said too quickly. She cleared her throat. “Just work.”

“Right.” Ada’s grin didn’t budge. “You’re missing the part where Finn tries to charm the Americans. It’s going about as well as you’d expect.”

Tommy gave a short nod. “We’ll be out soon.”

Ada raised a brow but didn’t push. “Suit yourselves.” She ducked out again.

The silence came back, heavier this time.

Y/N stood, smoothing her skirt like it might help her pretend nothing had happened. Nothing almost had.

Tommy watched her. Didn’t say anything at first.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

“I should–” she started.

“Go back to the party,” he said softly.

She looked at him then.

“We’ll finish this later.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

Eye of the Storm

SERIES SUMMARY: You always knew Tommy as the cheerful boy who took care of you. He always knew you as the smart girl that he visited by the docks. The daughter of a prostitute, the son of a deadbeat father; a soldier who protected his country; a whore who protected him; a gangster who controlled Brimingham; and now, a wife. War changes people, you just didn't realize that war could change you both. (angst, depictions of abuse, poverty, prostitution, canon-typical themes, death, war, time jumps)

Chapter summary: Everything unfolds and you were the eye of the storm.

PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3

PROTECTION SERIES TAGLIST | PROTECTION MASTERLIST navigation

LONDON, 1919

Something clicked in Simon after Johnny’s funeral. He restricted you more than he did before. He was more forceful sometimes. You knew, because you braced yourself to face it everyday. 1…2…3…4…5… You had to count to ten every time he got mad. How many seconds will it take for him to lay his hand on you again? 

“From now on, you can’t come to the garden without asking for my permission.” When he saw your mouth open to protest, he added, “Don’t push it. You’re lucky I’m still allowing you to go.”

“O-of course, Simon,” you tearfully obliged. “I— “

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.”

“Good. Now, come here, darling. You know I can’t stand when you’re mad at me,” he coos and you oblige, finding yourself perched on his lap. You hated this; hated how he was treating you. Hated how his arms immediately wrapped around you. “I know that you’re mad at me,” he starts. “Especially with everything that’s been going on but I’m only worried that Tommy Shelby’s gonna take you.” 

“He’s not…you don’t have to worry about him, Simon,” you whispered. “I didn’t know that he was alive,”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But do you know where that puts me? You’ve been his friend since before the war and I’m not anything like him. It’s not you I don’t trust…it’s him. He’s a Birmingham rat with no respect. I want you safe. I want you here. If you behave yourself, then I’d slowly give you everything back. Hm?” he asked. 

You nodded, the small smile on your face could never convey how cold you felt.

Simon knows that what he’s doing is wrong but what else can be done? Tommy Shelby was back and there was no way he’s giving you up to some Birmingham gangster. It was just impossible to do so. It would hurt him and his ego. He’s never been declined of something before as an only child of two rich parents. If he’d be declined of your love and affection, he will burn the world and everything in it. You were the only thing he truly wanted and if it came to you, he’d do everything to never let you out of his grasp.

When he first seeked you out, you were eighteen. He was already enamoured, watching you from afar. You laughed with the girls and stayed with Big Johnny most nights. You were innocent, a fragile little thing that he wanted—needed. You listened to him and even treated him as a friend. It was different from how the girls treated him there. The girls would ask for gifts, and he bought them but you…you dressed up immediately after every visit. You’d smile at him before leaving, going to Johnny for your nightly lessons. He sometimes went to visit you just to talk. You were the most intelligent girl there and he always looked forward to seeing you again. If you slip away from his grasp, he wouldn’t know what to do. It’s why he bought you that house; why he gave you jewellery even before you were married. He wanted you to be reminded of him everywhere you went. It was dangerous dealing with your past—he knew that; but danger was something he’d walk on if it came to having you.  

“Darling, I was thinking…it’s been a while since we last went on a holiday. Do you want to go somewhere?” he asked. Reports of Tommy Shelby in London reached him. There was no way he’d let you meet again.

“Hm,” you hummed. “Can we go to New York?” you asked. “I’ve been wanting to go to Manhattan this time of year.”

“Yeah?” he asked. The farther you were from Tommy, the better. “Then, I’ll have things arranged and I’ll let you know, okay?” he kisses your temple as he passes by.

“Of course,” you replied. Your face seems so unreadable these days, but it always was. Can Tommy Shelby decipher the emotions written on your face or does he have to guess too? He knows that you were still keeping things away from him…knows that you’re not being fully honest with how you feel and who Tommy Shelby was in your life. He was fine not knowing as long as you were his. 

Irrevocably and utterly his. 

BIRMINGHAM, 1910

“You know, Tommy,” you said. “When I was young, my mother told me that there were other lands outside England…outside Birmingham that isn’t London,” you said. Your savings could take you to London, but you could never seem to find the time. Simon has been visiting you more and the owner of the brothel ordered you to always be available for him because of how much he spends on you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I want to go to London at least once. Before I die, I want to go to London,” 

“I’ll take you to London,” he says, voice gruff from the cigarettes. “I’ll take you to London and I’ll take you to the whole world,” 

“You will?” you asked. You were always told by your customers that they’ll take you here and there…but with Tommy, you knew that what he was saying was true. He never liked to break his promises. “If you’ll take me there, I better save up money because there’s no way I’m letting you spend a fortune on me.”

“I’ll take you to New York, Paris, and all the major cities. We’ll see them for the first time together,” he promises.

“Together?”

“We’ll always be together, won’t we?”

“Of course, we will. Together,”

BIRMINGHAM, 1919

Grace has long been gone since Polly revealed the truth to her. Was it mad that Tommy didn’t feel any morsel of anything? He didn’t care if she betrayed him; didn’t care if she loved him…if anything, she was better off gone. It just…unsettled him. Was that the right word? He never liked Grace, but she was a good enough replacement for you in the meantime. She was good enough, but she wasn’t you, no matter how much Tommy forced himself to convince everyone that she was good enough. 

He didn’t even think of lighting a cigarette for her departure. These guns, Billy Kimber…his ambitions of wealth, power, and control were too consuming for him to think of anything else. Too consuming that he knew that all ambition all boiled down to you, that mansion, horses, and a garden. He looks at the toy horses you’ve given him as children. It’s been showing signs of wear; time has the power to tear the edges of something precious so easily. Tommy liked thumbing the wooden toy to keep him afloat sometimes. It reminded him of peace, of home, of you. 

“Tommy,” Polly called. Her conscience has been nagging her, steaming out of pores ever since Tommy showed her how much you meant to him. It was never easy remembering Tommy on the floor, so weak; so defeated. It was never easy to remember that she was the reason why Tommy was miserable. She took you away from him. She decided then, that she’d do everything in her power to help her grieving nephew. If your presence could show her any semblance of Tommy before the war, she’d take it. Maybe she should feel bad for burdening you with that weight on your shoulders, but she knew that you did it so naturally…so genuinely. She relieves herself of thinking that you and Tommy needed each other; so much so that the world she knows now will simply reintegrate. You were the glue that binds Tommy; the melted gold that holds the pieces back together. Without you, Tommy was broken—alone. She’d never want that for him. She’ll never want to see him like that again. 

NEW YORK, 1920

When you told Simon that you wanted to go to New York, you didn’t know that you’ll be staying there indefinitely. You just said that to appease him, really. He made sure that all of your belongings were kept and taken to America. What didn’t fit, you’d buy. He was more lenient here. He’d let you go, and he was back to the Simon you’ve always known. 

“You’ve been married for years,” his attorney’s wife recalls. “Where are the little Simons running around?”

“Oh-“ you looked at Simon to help you out, but he was too engrossed in his conversation with the lawyer to notice. “We’re still enjoying our marriage. Just the two of us,” you lied. “We like to travel and we’ll feel bad if we just…leave the child back home,”

“But you’re in New York,” she says, like it mattered. “Surely, you’ve been trying?”

“No, not really. Simon wants our child to be born in England.” you said.

“You’re not getting any younger, dear,” she says. “When I was around your age, I already had two children. I say, it’s better to start a family early,”

That night, when you were removing your jewellery, Simon laid his hand on your shoulder. He’s gentle in New York. Your shoulder used to feel heavy in London. He started kissing your neck and you allowed him.

“An heir wouldn’t be so bad,” he rasps, nibbling on your ear. “Maybe soon…I want to have you all to myself first. Don’t want you to love me any less because of a child,”

“I wouldn’t love you any less, Simon.” you smiled at him. You didn’t want to bear his heir but if he was convinced that you’ll love him less because of a child, you’ll string him along. 

“I know but then, you’d dote on him and be all…” he drones on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“It’s alright, I don’t need anyone else. It can just be the two of us forever.”

BIRMINGHAM, 1911

“Tommy!” you called, walking through the muddy soil of the stables that he worked in. He took care of horses sometimes, to earn some extra money. It paid well and he was surrounded with the calmness of the horses that he took care of. He vowed to have his own stables filled with his own horses in the future. Maybe it was pathetic but Tommy was envious seeing things that he wanted being taken advantage of. He knew how to take care of horses but he never owned them. His dreams were so close yet so far. He was brushing the coat of one of the horses when you came barrelling towards him.

“Tommy!” you called again. “I’m free now. Let’s go!”

“Wait, wait,” he laughs, making sure that the horse—he secretly named him Hayday because the horse had a coat in the color of hay. He only told you that though. “Alright, Hayday. Let’s get you back to your stable,” he tells the horse, petting its snout. You smiled at his softness, following them quietly. You let Tommy do his job maintaining Hayday for a while, smiling widely when you saw him coming towards you. He was rubbing his face with water to get rid of today. 

“I smell.” he frowned, looking through his ragged satchel for a towel or an extra shirt. “Let me just…” he says, taking the shirt from the bag and then giving the bag to you. He turns around to remove his dirty shirt, tucking it between his legs and then changing into the cleaner shirt. You watched the way his back muscles flexed—working as a mechanic and carrying whatever he does was paying off. The clean shirt clung onto his figure nicely…you looked away before he could catch you staring though. “Thanks for keeping my bag,” he says, taking his bag from you. He hangs it on his shoulder and then links his arm with yours. You couldn't see the smirk that played in his lips.  “Where are we going again?”

“Remember, I told you to come with me to the market to buy something?” you asked him. He nods, letting you lead the way to the market. “Well, I’m free now. Let’s go.”

Tommy tells you all about his day on the way to the market, not knowing anything of what you had planned. It was his birthday last month, but you weren’t able to save up enough money for his gift because of a repair in your home. You drag him all the way to where the more expensive shops were, Tommy’s brows furrowing. 

“Here,” you said, stopping at a jeweller. You take him inside and he lets you. 

“What are we doing here— “

“Look!” you said, pointing at the gold signet ring on display. You leave Tommy to go get the clerk. You’ve been paying for the ring for a year now; little by little until you were able to fully pay for it. It was a gift for Tommy’s 21st birthday. You were talking to the clerk for a pick up when Tommy walks to you. The clerk gives you the red velvet box and you turn to Tommy, a wide smile on your face. 

“Who is this for?” he asked, frowning. Was this for that Rich Bastard? “You know I can’t afford that,”

“But I can. It’s for you,” you told him softly. “Happy birthday. I’m sorry it was a month late,” You open the box for him. “Go on, wear it.”

“Y/N…love,”

“You have to accept it. I saved up for that, you know?” He takes the ring from the box and slides it on his ring finger. 

“Thank you…” he rasps, his throat closing up. “For this.”

“It’s okay, Tommy. I’d give you the world if I can but for now, a ring would suffice, don’t you think?”

-

You both settled at an empty grassland by the docks afterwards. Tommy couldn’t stop looking at his ring. 

“I still can’t believe you got me a ring,” he says, looking at you. “It must have cost you a fortune, eh?”

“It’s okay, Tommy. I want to give you something more for being a great friend to me.” you tell him. He nods at your words. Friends. Is that all he’ll ever be? 

“I got you this,” he says, showing you the simple, lone daisy that he picked on the way here. “I…” he says, tucking it behind your ear. I wish I could give you more. You stopped breathing, the proximity was too much to bear. You could see the blueness of his eyes, the freckles that kissed his nose and his cheeks. You could see every eyelash. It seemed like he didn’t mind it either. He was looking at you intently, trying to memorize every detail of your face. A face that could start a war, he was almost positive of it. You both unintentionally lean into each other, Tommy’s eyes flicking down to your lips, breath hitching. 

“Tommy!” you jump away from each other, looking away. Fuck. He sighs in annoyance, looking at one of the guys he knew from work. 

Maybe next time.

CAMDEN TOWN, 1921

“Put him down, Ollie!” he shouts. “Put him down, mate. He is only little.”

“You on your own?” He asked Tommy.

Tommy glances around. 

“Seems so,”

Alfie Solomons always liked to play the best games. He had wide shoulders that matched how dominant and domineering he seemed. He was unpredictable, abandoning all sorts of things just to make sure that in the end, he gets the best deal. Tommy wondered what kind of deal he could put up with the Jewish gangster to double cross Simon Coventry, his biggest payer.

“Well, you’re a brave lad, ain't you?” he asked. “Want to take a look around my bakery? We bake all sorts here, mate, yeah. Did you know we bake over 10,000 loaves a week? Can you believe it?” 

Tommy listens to him drone on about bread. He asked for brown bread and was served one. 

“Come look,” Alfie says, leading Tommy to his office. 

-

“Well, I’ve heard very bad, bad things about you Birmingham people. You’re gipsies, right? So what, do you live in a fucking tent or a caravan?”

“I came here to discuss business with you, Mr. Solomons.” Tommy coughs. 

“Well, rum is for fun and fucking. So, whiskey, now that is for business,” he says, putting his bottle of whiskey for Tommy Shelby.

“Let’s talk first, eh?” 

“Suit yourself,” Alfie shrugs. 

“Heard you were dealing with billionaires,” Tommy brought up, trying to gauge the situation. He was sitting right in front of Alfie’s desk, noticing the latter reach for the drawer in his right. 

“You heard correct. What about it?” he asked nonchalantly. 

“Simon Coventry.” Tommy said. “He pays well?”

“Very well, mate.” Alfie replied, sipping on his whiskey. “Seeked for our protection services, invested…paid to kill for him. Has a wife, you know? Have you heard about her?”

“No,” Tommy shrugged, his voice monotonous, eyes bored. Alfie licks his lips. 

“Never met her…lovely wife, they say, yeah. A very lovely wife…but this lovely wife of his needs to be guarded. Don’t believe in all that…I don’t do that to women, but this lovely wife of his is…huh, well, told me to kill anyone who comes near her, yeah? And guess what, mate? You’ve a big fucking bounty written on your fucking forehead,” Alfie revealed. “Now,” he pauses, leaning on the table. “What is this business you’re looking for?”

“We join forces,”

“Fuck off. No! Categorical. Fucking ridiculous,” he leans back, scoffing. Tommy leans forward, clasping his hand over the table. 

“Mr. Solomons. Your distillery provides one-tenth of your income. Protection is another ten percent and the rest; you make from the tracks.”

Alfie fumbles with the handle but Tommy speaks.

“I know you keep a gun in the drawer beside the whiskey. I know you offer a deal or death. I know what I’m saying makes you angry but I’m offering you a deal. People don’t trust your protection anymore. What makes you think that Simon Coventry will continue to trust you?” he asked. 

“Well, you shot Billy Kimber, right? You did, you fucking shot him. That’s you. You fucking betrayed him, mate. So, it’ll be appropriate to do what I’m thinking in my head to you right now.”

“I can offer you a hundred good men all with weapons and a new relationship with the police.” 

“Intelligence,” Alfie says. “Intelligence is a very valuable thing, ain’t it, my friend? And usually…it comes far too fucking late,” he reaches for the drawer on his left, pointing the gun at Tommy. He cocks the gun and Tommy sits there, unblinking. “Let’s say I shot you already, right? In the fucking face. And then the bullet goes bone, mush, bone, cabinet over there. Which is a shame.”

Tommy just sits there, his face devoid of any emotion. If he gets killed now, he doesn't care. He had no fear of death anymore.

“It’s fucking simple, mate,”

Blood trails down from Tommy’s nose and Alfie talks about some fucking cabinet behind him. He throws Tommy his handkerchief, but he doesn’t take it. Fucking cabinets and fucking asking him if Tommy wanted to go to Timbuktu. 

“I’m sorry, go on,” Alfie concedes after telling Tommy that he always thought he’d have a big gold ring on his finger. It was only a small signet ring that Tommy was unconsciously playing with under the table. “Tell us your plan.” 

NEW YORK, 1921

“I just got off the phone with the secretary. We’re invited to some Charity Gala in London that we have to go to,” Simon says. Simon says…seems like all you do is follow what Simon says. “You can stay here if you don’t want to go.”

“When is this?”

“In a week mostly,” he shrugged. “It would be great to have you there. It’s not grand or anything; it’s just a few of my partners having an event for some charity or foundation.”

“Oh,” you nodded. You wanted to be away from Simon, but you also wanted to go back to London. How were the Shelbys? How was Beth? “Yeah…yeah, I’ll go,”

“Perfect,” he says. “Your dress? You need a new one. I’ll arrange a trip for you with my assistant to help you look for what to wear. You have to be the most beautiful woman there. For reference, I prefer blue on you.”

“Okay, Simon. I’ll make sure to get a blue dress for you.” He smiles at you before turning the page on his newspaper. You were glad that things were back to how they were before Tommy arrived in Birmingham. You didn’t blame him—Tommy—Simon’s actions were your own fault. Who in the right mind would let their wife love another man? It’s not like Simon knew of your love but the fact that you hid who Tommy was from him still remains. Letting go of Tommy that night was…painful.

You couldn’t erase how crest-fallen he looked; that you were the cause for his anguish. He didn’t follow you; you told him not to. You didn’t want him to see you sit outside the Garrison with your head buried in your hands. You didn’t want him to see you howl in pain because you’ll never see him again. You didn’t want him to see how it hurt you to say goodbye to him.

You didn’t want him to see you but someone else did. 

BIRMINGHAM, 1919

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

You looked up from your cowering position, eyelashes clumped. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I just…I just left your brother,” you whispered, trying to even out the sob that threatens to get out of your body. Arthur frowns, crouching down in front of you.  He tries to remove your shaky hands only to be met with your bruising jaw. 

“Did Tommy— “

“No,” you shook your head. “He didn’t hit me.”

He nods. Arthur didn’t know who Tommy was these days. He’s closed off, aloof, cold, detached…he sometimes wonders if a time comes and he’ll just snap. Arthur’s coping mechanism was violence. He knows that he’s good…his hands or only bloody but Tommy…Tommy wasn’t good anymore. He felt conflicted; everyone seems to put all the burden on you to make Tommy come back…to make him good again. He heard Polly talk about it; how Tommy needed you…but if Tommy was the reason why you’re miserable, is he still worth coming back to?

“I told Tommy to never see me again,” you managed through your cries. “I feel…I feel so lost, Arthur. I didn’t want to do that—to say that to him when-when he’s here now but I have no other choice…he’ll get-he’ll—“

“What about you?” he asked, tracing big circles on your back.

“What do you mean?” you asked, hiccuping. 

“I mean…you talk about Tommy and-and making sure that we’re all doing great but what about you, eh?” There was a small frown on his face, it was so different from the ‘Mad Dog’ that people know him as. 

“I don’t need that,” you chuckled. “I’m married to-to—“

“Simon Coventry, I know. But who do you have other than him? I know you love Tommy—don’t even fucking deny it. It’s why you’re doing all these things, I know but Tommy has us; he has Birmingham, and you don’t,” he adds, tearing your heart into pieces. The realisation of isolation dawns on you and it is wicked; consuming your heart with grief because you had no one. Not Tommy. Not anymore. “You make sure that all of us are being taken care of…but no one’s taking care of you. This whole thing-this thing with Tommy, is it worth it if you can’t even come home to Simon because you’re fucking crying in front of The Garrison?”

“I don’t know what to do,” you shrugged. “I…I just can’t seem to stay away from you lot,”

“Oh, love,” he sighs. He’ll never tell anyone that he saw you crying in front of the Garrison. “Why did you marry him?”

“Because…I wasn’t sure if Tommy’s coming back,” you whispered softly. You wiped away the tears from your face, trying to regain composure. “I sent…sent letters but he never wrote back. When Simon proposed the idea of marriage and Tommy wasn’t-wasn’t writing to me, I just took the chance. It was a chance to get out of that fucking hellhole. Tommy hates me for it,” you whimpered. “I know he hates me for it because I always told him that I’ll wait but-but he didn’t write back. I didn’t wait for him.”

Arthur frowns, confused. 

“He wrote to you but you never wrote to him,” he said.

“What?” 

“He did, love. Wrote to you multiple times and-and he’d always be the first one to show up when there were letters from home. Always-always looking for your letter,” he reminisces. Deep in your heart, you knew that he was telling you the truth because there was some sort of empty longing that crossed his eyes. “He waited for your letters every day for four years.”

“Arthur…”

“I’m telling you the truth,” he says, looking at you more intently. “None of us knew you got married,” he added. 

“Arthur—“ You were heaving, this changes things. Your resentment towards Tommy was all in vain if he sent you letters but where were those letters? Where could they be? Seeing you in distress, Arthur flings his arm around your shoulder. “I hated him for it…I hated him for four years…” you weeped. “Arthur, how could I haveever hated him?” You felt like cold water was splashed on your face. Of course, Tommy would have never done that to you. But who did?

“It’s not your fault, love. It’s not your fault.”

-

LONDON, 1921

It’s been long since you last stepped foot in London. A year wasn’t a long time but a year teetering on the edge waiting for the next blow was a year too long. It’s not that you were expecting anything, but now that you’re in London…so close to Tommy, you know that everything will be different again. He’ll be forceful under the pretext of loving you, some bullshitt about it being for the better…you knew it was wrong. You knew that it wasn’t right. You hated your predicament, but you hated yourself more for never seeming to have the ability to hate him. 

You never questioned his love for you; you were sure about that but sometimes…you found yourself questioning if he loved you too much. You’ve never experienced love like that before. Too much love. Growing up, you always had just enough. What you couldn’t find from your mum, you found in Johnny. What you couldn’t find in your customers, you found in the Shelbys. What you couldn’t find from yourself, you found in Tommy. What you couldn’t find in Tommy, you tried to look for in Simon. 

Everything was just right. To have too much was too much. 

“You’ve been quiet since we got here, darling,” Simon says, his hand on your knee as you rode the Bentley back home. 

“Sorry,” you smiled up at him. “I just miss London. It’s different to be back home,”

“I know,” he says. “But we’re here now. Where do you prefer?”

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing with his fingers. You thumbed the rings on his fingers, your wedding band the most important one. 

“I’m asking…where do you want to build our family?” he asked. “I know I said that I didn’t want to have children yet but we aren’t getting any younger. We’d make the most beautiful children. They’ll get your beauty and intelligence. They’ll inherit whatever they want to inherit from me,”

Your fingers stilled. 

“Hmm,” you pretended to think, trying to playt the cards right. “I’d want our children to grow up in London.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his head falling on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I want them to grow up here but also experience different things from travelling. Maybe we could find a summer house in Italy?” you asked. He kisses your neck and you sit there cold, unmoving. 

“Yes, let’s buy a house in Italy…” he murmurs, drunk on your scent. “How many houses do you want, hm? Let’s buy whatever my wife wants…whatever she needs, hm?” 

“You spoil me too much, Simon,” you force out a giggle. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Only for the best. You’re going to be the mother of my children,” 

-

You arrived home and you heaved a sigh. You went inside your bedroom, ready to unpack some of the items you bought from New York when your eyes landed on the frame of pressed flowers that Tommy gave you on your birthday. Simon has been telling you to get rid of it—it was tacky, he said but you told him that the flowers were from a day of picnicking with your mother when you were a child. You felt your lips twitch at the memory of Tommy giving it to you sheepishly. If only you could have him back now. If only he’s there with you. 

You breathed deeply, trying to purge yourself of the sadness that lingered. It’s been two years since you’ve last seen him. He’s staying true to his word, you knew. He’s protecting you and you’re protecting him. You hated the situation you were in. Why did you need protection in the first place? You were the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the whole world. You could have everything you’ve ever wanted handed to you on a silver platter. You could have everything but why do you feel so alone? Why do you feel like there’s still something missing? Why do you feel like, no matter what you did—no matter how you tried, Tommy’s still the one you love? You reached for the pendant but you remembered that it wasn’t there.

Was it selfish to wish for him to never marry someone else? To never love anyone? Was it selfish to wish for him to finally love you the way you do all these years? 

Or was he only protecting you because he’s bound by his words and not the feeling of unbridled love that he has for you? 

Polly told you that you could have everything…you felt like you had nothing. 

You had more when you were working as a prostitute. 

Now, you just have Simon. 

-

Simon has been feeling your detachment ever since you arrived in New York. He knew that it was his fault; laying his hand on you like that but could anyone really blame him? You were his love; the object of all of his desires. You needed protecting, you needed safety and you needed him to give you the world. 

He was in his office, sorting through the files that he left for a year. He picks up the telephone and dials a number. He wanted you all for himself. He was hungry for you; hunger for your affection, your flesh, your gaze. He’ll do everything to preserve the attention that you were giving him but now that he feels you slipping away, he’s becoming more desperate. It was all Tommy Shelby’s fault and he needed to be dealt with. 

“I sent you the money for the murder of Johnny Wilson,” he speaks into the telephone. “I need you to do gsomething for me again.”

“Hm?” 

Simon speaks into the phone authoritatively. Details of his plan were spoken. He was meticulous and specific with what he wanted.

“Even…even the children?”

“Even the children,” he confirms. He senses the hesitation of the speaker from the other side. “If you do it in less than a year, I’ll add another twenty thousand to the total. I’ll make sure you never have to work a day in your fucking life. Call me when it’s done,” he spits, ending the call and looking at a photo of you on the table; not knowing that on the other side, an intruder was hearing everything that just transpired. 

Who was Simon Coventry? 

-

Cameras flashed as you enter the venue for the charity ball. You were dressed in a blue gown like promised. Simon’s hand was on your waist, smiling tightly at the cameras. He always hated the attention of the media and in your own way, you wanted to calm him down. You touch the hand that was on your waist to remind him that you were there. You smile at him softly and he smiles back. If only he was as soft as he presents himself to be in the media. 

He leads you into the venue without so much a glance offered to the media and you follow. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” you smiled up at him. 

“You can go ahead and sit,” he says. “I’ll just be greeting some of my partners.” You nod and you allow him to kiss you on the cheek before you part ways. You didn’t know why—but you felt like something was wrong. Something was going to happen tonight. 

A waiter comes to your table and offers you a drink. He was young—probably way younger than you.

“Champagne, please,” you told him. “You’re too young to be working,”

“I-I’m nineteen, ma’am,” he tells you while pouring you a glass.

“Ah, maybe not that young then,” you replied. “Is this your first day?”

“Yes, ma’am. My first day on the job,” he says. “I’m quite nervous to be surrounded by the rich but I need the money…”

“I’m sure you’ll do well,” you replied, offering him a friendly smile. “Here,” you said, opening your clutch and handing him a few pounds. “Think of it as a tip for serving me champagne and for talking to me.”

“This is too much, ma’am,” he refuses but you shove the notes in his hand. You remembered how tips from the brothel helped you so much; it allowed you to buy necessities. It allowed you to get Tommy the signet ring that you got him for his 21st birthday. You were busy talking to the young man that you didn’t notice your husband walking towards you with a scowl on his face. 

“Hey, you,” he sarcastically greets the server, snapping his fingers rudely.. “Refill my glass,”

“Simon— “

“Thank you,” he says, disregarding you completely. The boy turns to leave but Simon stops him. “No, stay. I need you to refill my fucking drink every time.”

“Simon—“

“You think my wife is beautiful?” he asked. The boy looks at you and you attempt to shake your head; telling him to walk away before anything else happens. “I’d be offended if you told me that she wasn’t.”

“Simon— “

He takes a swig of his drink before extending the same empty glass.

“What’s your name?” Simon asked, watching the boy shakily refill the champagne flute. “Don’t spill anything on my wife,” he threatens darkly. The boy swallows. 

“William, sir,”

“William…do you think my wife is pretty?” he asked again. You look around the room to see that everyone was trying to discreetly watch the commotion. You tried standing up but Simon pushed you back down.

“Y-yes, sir,”

Simon nods, pleased with William’s answer.

“You may go, William,” you calmly told him.

“You may not,” Simon says. William’s feet were stuck planted on the ground. He was shaking and you tried to plead with Simon, but he wasn’t looking at you. “Actually, let’s take this outside, hm? Everyone seems to be enjoying this fucking commotion. Come with us, Y/N,”

“Simon, please,”

“Come on, darling,” he says, pulling you away forcefully from the table. You stumble after him, heart racing wildly inside your chest. Fuck. Your shoulders were shaking as you tried to catch your breath. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The three of you arrive in the wine cellar, an empty room where you were sure no one heard you. 

“Stand there,” Simon says. “Y/N, stay beside me.”

William stands in front of Simon, his steps hesitant.

“I’ll give you a deal, William. Do you want a thousand pounds? You’ll never find that anywhere else,” he taunts. You shake your head discreetly, but William wasn't looking at you. He was pale, his breathing shallow. “I’ll give it to you right now. Cash,”

“Y-yes, sir,” he replies. 

“Say please,”

“Simon—“

“Shut up! Shut up!”

“Please, sir,”

“Kneel and beg.”

“Simon, it’s not right! Please, let’s just go home,” 

William kneels in front of Simon, and you could see the sinister smile that played on his lips. He fishes for something in his pocket—a gun. 

“S-sir,”

“You want a thousand pounds, yeah?” he asked, waving his gun in the air. 

“Simon—“

“I don’t want another word from you, Y/N. Or else, I swear, I will fucking shoot you.” he threatens. You were trying your best to stop being so hysterical but you couldn’t. You were sobbing, hands shaking when Simon pointed the gun at the poor boy. You tried to hold back the sobs that threatened to come out; tried to wonder what a monster Simon becamez

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” you choked, crouching down on the floor to comfort yourself. “I’m sorry, William…”

BANG! BANG!

The sounds of a gun going off rings inside the cellar and you flinch. Simon has just shot William twice; one on his stomach, one on his shoulder. It was sloppy; you knew he was aiming for his heart. William lays on the floor with a pool of his own blood, crying in pain. Simon just walks towards him, throwing him a thousand pounds and then spitting on William’s face. 

“Don’t ever look at my fucking wife again. Fix yourself Y/N. We’re going back to the party,”

“Simon, he’s just a kid! Get him to a fucking hospital!”

“I said, fix yourself!” he roared, and you closed your mouth. You stepped away from him, afraid of what he might do.

“Now you know what happens if you ever try to leave me. It’s time for me to show you what I will do to protect you, okay darling?” he asked, crouching down to your level and pulling you in an embrace. He kisses your temples to comfort you for the damage that he has done. “Don’t ever leave me,”

The two of you left William’s body and went back to the party. You were shaken, aloof the whole night. You couldn’t believe what just transpired. Simon’s cruelty—his disregard for himan life for a thousand pounds… You were trying to catch the attention of other servers but were ignored. You just wanted someone to check on William, that poor boy. You and your husband continued to sit beside each other acting like the happy couple, never noticing the pair of blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight into you. 

-

Simon killed Johnny. 

Your hands shook as you read the handwriting on the crumpled piece of paper over and over again. You found it in the clutch that you left in your seat when Simon shot William in the cellar. Turning the paper over, you sobbed; unable to control the emotions that begged for your attention—anger, fear, disgust, sadness…everything seemed to crash into you. You run towards the bathroom to vomit on the toilet. Your whole body tembled, and you cradled yourself on the bathroom floor. You didn’t care if the dress was wet and crumpled…how…why…what did you do in your past life to be punished like this? 

-

You haven’t been the same since you received that note. Simon found you in bed; unmoving and unresponsive. The shock must have been too much to bear but he had to show you—he had to put on a display of what he would do to keep you safe and away from the Shelbys. He didn’t regret anything except for the way your eyes glistened when he threatened to shoot you. That was a sin he’d pay for but for now, maybe silence is enough to soothe you. 

He lays in bed, an inch too far away from you and he couldn’t bear it. He could hear the way your sobs shook the bed; how hard you tried to keep yourself from being too loud. 

“Darling…” he coos but you only cried harder. 

“Not tonight, Simon. Please,” you whispered, desperation kicking in. “I’m…I’m— “

He nods to himself, a wounded puppy. 

“I have…I have to leave you tomorrow to meet with Alfie Solomons,” he tells you. “Use that time to go out or, or get out of this place. I wouldn’t mind if you went alone as long as you have at least one of Alfie’s men to guard you,” 

You wanted to laugh. He was holding your liberty as hostage; taunting you with it whenever he did something wrong but in reality, no matter how much freedom he grants you, his hand will always be on your neck to keep you from leaving. 

“I’m sorry for threatening you,”

“Not tonight, Simon,”

He nods but it actually angers him for you to refuse him so easily. He has given you anything and everything. Hell, he bought you that summer house in Italy already, but you still couldn’t give him the satisfaction of holding you for the night. Did Tommy Shelby hold you while you slept? Would you have let him?

-

You felt Simon kiss your head before he left. You couldn’t sleep last night, thinking of all the ways to tell Tommy or at least anyone about Simon’s plan. You weren’t sure if he was sincere when he told you that you can go out today but you were taking that chance. You knew that Arthur wanted you to protect yourself but maybe this could be the last time. Just this once and then, never again. 

You dressed up, the brown coat covering your figure and giving you shelter from the cruelty of the world that Simon built for the two of you. You ordered one of the servants to fetch you one of Solomons’ men that could drive. You needed to talk to Polly or anyone from Birmingham and the only way to do it was through the telephone. It was too dangerous at home; Simon had eyes and ears everywhere. 

“Mrs. Coventry,” the driver greets you, opening the door to let you in. You settle yourself inside, opening your clutch for a deal he couldn’t resist. 

“Other than driving me around, what else do you do?” you asked him. 

“I’m told to obey all of your orders as long as it complies with what Mr. Coventry asks us,” he replied. “Where are we going today, ma’am?” 

“Just…go to the city,” you replied. “Do you think…do you think you could do something for me? I’ll make sure you’re paid and that you won’t be blamed for anything that comes out of it,”

“Ma’am, I am under strict orders of Mr. Solomons to— “

“Five hundred pounds,” you interrupted, you needed him to understand the urgency of the situation. Your nail beds have bled through the night and were red and swollen. “I can give it to you in cash right now. Just tell me if you know where I could reach the Shelbys the fastest,” You sounded like Simon like now, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care anymore. 

“There…there are Blinders right outside a flat in London. Ada Shelby is rumoured to live there,” he says lowly. 

“Take me there. Make sure you’re discreet and make sure we’re not being followed. I’ll make sure that you’re safe,” you promised him. “Just…just go there as fast as you can,” 

It’s hard to be discreet when you’re driving one of the most expensive cars in the world, but he drove you to Ada Shelby’s house anyway. Five hundred pounds was more than what he could ever make working under Alfie Solomons. 

A storm was brewing, and you were at the centre of all of it. 

-

Ada lives in a building in the centre of London. On the way, your driver told you about how Tommy bought the whole building for her. You smiled softly; Tommy was finally realising his dreams, but he was realising them without you. 

You exited the car, covered from head to toe. You made sure no one recognized you; the lush, brown coat and your hat covered your face entirely. You told him to leave you alone and come back in three hours. He zoomed off, afraid to be seen by one of Simon’s men.

Your breathing was uneven and the steps that you took were shaky. You blamed it on the uneven ground. Knocking on the door, you prayed silently for Ada to hear you. The more time you spend outside, the higher the risk of being recognized. You waited with bated breath, but the door soon opened, revealing none other than the man who occupied every corner of your brain. You rushed inside before he could even speak and he let you, locking the door behind him as he followed you into the drawing room. He stands in front of you, removing the coat from your shoulders gently. You were shivering but not from the cold. How were you more beautiful than the last time he saw you?

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” you said over and over again, like you were making sure that he was there. Your resolve was dissolving, and you were near hysterical. He crouches down in front of you to take a good look for your face. He missed it; he missed your touch…he missed you. His fingers on your waist seem to snap you back to reality and you take a deep breath. “Simon killed Johnny. He’s going to—he’s going to kill all of you,”

-

A/N: Thank you very much for making this far! We’re getting closer to the end of this series but please don’t forget to reblog and comment if you liked it / loved it / hated this chapter, etc! I love discussing and replying to your comments and reblogs.

ALSO: A quick character study on Simon is that he is filty rich. The value of money is immaterial to him. In his eyes, money is a way for him to get anything and everything he wants. It’s what makes people kill and die for each other. If it benefits him, then he’d gladly throw money at whatever it is about.

TAGLIST:  @shelbydelrey @runnning-outof-time @duckybird101 @thenattitude @swordofawriter @litteltourtius​ @trixie23​ @everythingelseisextra​ @majesticcmey @liveat1am @dumb-wh @denabp16 @yvonna-chan @goldensunflowe-r @therosabel @hunnibearrr @dazecrea @daddyslittleattentionwhore @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @dang-shawty-okay @dasia21 @tsenthusiast1920 @aces-tattooartist @panda-luminary @ttaechi @spencerrxids @i-heart-food @fudge13 @affabletimelady @heartcereql @ce1iat @notalxx @1800-queen-trash @sweetwanderlust05 @globetrotter28 @thebestandworstdayofjune @reggxe-a @verreuckteli @vampireluck @zoexme

(I’ll be removing people from my taglist on the next chapter if conditions aren’t met! I’m sorry but that’s the rule….)

phainon x f!reader. sfw ⏜ .𖥔 ݁₊ the moment he realizes he loves you.

Nearly half of Amphoreus would say that Phainon’s love for you bloomed slowly. A tender type of fondness that gradually became something more like affection over time. The other half, unsurprisingly so, insists that he fell hard — and fast. More similar to a sudden and clumsy descent into love that he only fell deeper and deeper into.

And then, there’s someone who thinks it’s neither.

“You still haven’t left to tell her?” Mydei asks a few feet away from him, arms crossed and body gently resting against the wall. He almost looks surprised to see him, having already expected to see the chamber vacant by now.

“Hm? Tell her what?”

He stands up straighter hearing this. “That you’re safe. She’d be the one worrying herself sick over something like this, right?”

The realization settles in his eyes within a second. He’s knocking on your door the very next — and when your eyes widen, sputtering his name in disbelief once before you’re rushing to squeeze him in a tearful embrace — another realization strikes him.

Your hearts are beside each other when he first realizes he loves you. It’s not that his love for you bloomed slowly, or that it randomly struck him in an instant. Rather, Mydei thinks it’s been there this entire time, hidden beneath the guise of fondness, the same way the sun is still present even behind a thick cloud.

“Uh oh. You’re not crying, are you?” His arms move to hold you tighter against his front before he’s rubbing up and down your back (a third realization then hits him: that it feels awfully natural to embrace each other in this way, and that he also doesn’t really like the idea of making you cry).

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you murmur into him, “of course I’d be crying. I’ve been worried sick this whole time.”

Hello hello hello, I'm here to ask for like headcanons or an imagine (or whatever, idk, can you tell I've never requested a fic in my entire life) about Luka slowly realizing he actually has feelings for someone? Like genuine ones? I'm not super duper into Alien Stage but I imagine him being super fake (and manipulative lol) especially when it comes to dating. Like, I don't even think he would get into a relationship if he doesn't get something out of it, but what if he, y'know, slowly starts to realize he actually likes the person he's with? Like how would he deal with that and stuff 🫣

GOLDEN BOY, BROKEN GLASS, MAY THE SUN SHINE ON YOU !!

premise— it’s hard to know, to realize, that he has fallen in love, not when the genuine concept of it has been slowly eradicated and painted into something twisted and cruel by the hands of these aliens; alternatively, what he’s like slowly falling in love and coming to terms with it. content tags and warnings — pairing: luka (w/ gender-neutral reader) | kind of established relationship, not an alternative universe, slight angst with fluff, i fucking hate you heperu (heperu is luka’s guardian alien) | wc: 0.7k ; headcanons

"jellyfish"— i was listening to sad music so now this came out as sad

The ‘love’ LUKA had received from Heperu was the only love he had known and so, he views the world around him in the same lens, carving his heart out of the same rotten wood that was used to create his being. What can he do in the face of something so tender, so sharp, so gentle, like needles stabbing into his hands but caressing him sweetly all the same?

Was love meant to be as draining as this? Was it meant to tire and wear out his bones? Was it meant to make his heart clench, thorns ripping at his throat? Was it meant to make him reach his hand out for you, to let his touch linger across your skin, to always seek the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his? It’s a little strange, the odd ‘pain’ in his chest blurring into an unfamiliar feeling of comfort and warmth. He’s not one to run away at the face of such unusual feelings, but maybe he’ll turn away from it, to dismiss it as nothing (it’s not what Heperu taught him).

When did his eyes start to follow you everywhere you go? When did he begin to wish to chase the shooting stars, despite the constricting feeling on his throat, just so he could have the chance to see you, bare and flawed underneath the same skies that had forsaken him, that had abandoned you? He never had seen the problem of hurting others or being hurt as long as it is meant for him, for his own good, but when he sees twist in your expression, the hollow in your eyes, the tremble of your lips, he’s suddenly bitter and thorned. He tries to be kind, in ways that he knows of, in ways that he has seen, experienced, and learned.

To be seen as nothing but manipulative and cunning with his princely and charming demeanor, to be seen as a blank slate, to be seen only on the surface of his sweet smiles that never seem to reach his eyes. But it’s better to be misunderstood than to have you see the wretched and tangled strands that is sewn to create the fabric of his existence, to be viewed under the same limelight he is being put beneath than to have you notice the bleakness of color in his golden eyes that rivals the sun—except his light never exists, only when he gazes at you does it ever shine.

It’s hard to understand him either—not when he cannot understand himself also. He wishes to take away all of your pain, all of your problems and worries, to have you rely on him and only on him, to view the world in your eyes, to cup your cheeks in his hands and press his lips against yours (he has heard of the act of kissing, a strange way to convey and pour one’s desire, adoration, and love to another). He’ll lie down on the grass with you and watch the stars, he’ll listen to your songs and music, he’ll let you put those red flowers found in the Anakt Garden on his hair.

Maybe he does and say such things in the name of ‘control’, ‘possession’, ‘obsession’, or anything that can be used to label whatever reason he has just so he could see that pretty shade that adorns your cheeks, the smile that etches across your lips, the sound that bubbles out of your throat, the eyes that glimmer when you look at him. Maybe it’s just those feeble things that make him feel humane, that makes him break away from the shackles that binds him to the image of ‘Luka, the star’, that makes him realize that he does adore you.

(Whatever this fragile bond you share with him, built on weak foundations of the love he has known and the love you have shared, fragile and fleeting like glass teetering on the edge, he’ll seize it, he’ll shape it, and he’ll make it unbreakable—he’ll make it real, he’ll make it his.)

He likes to believe that he deserves the kind of love he has yet to know of, out of the clutches of Heperu and into the warmth of your own. To hold it into his hands, tightly, unrelenting, never letting go—contorting into control as long as it is his.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

phainon x gn!scholar reader, phainon is so in love and reader is oblivious

The Chrysos Heir is in love.

The moment Phainon’s eyes first met yours, there was a stutter in his heart, an indescribable feeling of reverence coupled with curiosity creeped into his being when he first met you.

Beautiful. That was the only word he knew at the time.

Your beauty was unparalleled, unmatched as you saunter into his view, mind not exactly present in the moment as your clothes swayed with your every hurried step. Your eyes were foggy, a testament to your dedication and work, evidenced by the tablet you held snug to your side.

He decides in that moment that he wants to know you, so he purposefully sets himself in your line of movement and waits for the moment when you bump into him, far too focused in a world that wasn’t the one you were presently in. Fate decided to be kind to him when you fall right into his schemes, allowing him to catch you with an arm secured around your waist, your tablet falling to the stone pavement with a dull smack.

“Oh my!” you exclaim. “My utmost apologies, I was not aware of where I was going-”

He smiles, for the last thing he was thinking of was your apology. Even your voice is beautiful, the words flowing into his ears like warm ichor.

“It’s alright,” he reassures with that smile of his, almost faltering when his heart skips another beat the moment your eyes flit to look at his. Phainon thinks he’s going to collapse to his knees if you glance away. “I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name.”

Unaware of his flirtatious intentions, you sound out the syllables of your name and he repeats it with much wonder. “What a lovely name. I’m Phainon, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The Chrysos Heir is in love.

It’s been two years since he first met you, and you are still just as enchanting.

He learns you are a widely renowned scholar and author, which explains the tablet you held that day. Of course, you were shocked the moment he uttered his name, for the titles of the Chrysos Heirs were well known, essentially common knowledge for those that flourished in the world of academia. Phainon still cherishes the memory of your expression, keeping it in the back of his mind and musing over it in private.

If you had known he was holding that over you, you would have thrown a slew of unpretty words at him with that pretty voice of yours, and he would have cherished them the same way he does with all of your works.

Whenever Phainon hears that your most recent novel has been released, he is one of the first to scour for it, reading it from start to finish within days. Even your publications from years before have a place on his shelves, there is no book of yours that he has not purchased and proceeded to read from front to back.

He insists on meeting you whenever he can, and while you answer a question he asked, he’s trying to keep his marvelling to a minimum, trying to keep these feelings from spilling all over you as he lets you know that his undivided attention is on you.

You’re skeptical of him. You wonder why he seeks your companionship specifically, what about you entertained him enough to invite you on market walks, buy your favourite drink from your favourite stall, and then sit on a marble bench in a quiet park underneath falling leaves.

As you’re busy pondering, he jolts whenever your thigh brushes against his.

The Chrysos Heir is in love.

His favourite time to admire you is when you’re deep in thought and unaware of the world around you, too focused on the wax tablet that sits on your desk.

Despite the practicality of papers, you tell him you like the sensation of writing on wax, how your pen glides along, all of your bursts of inspiration occur like this, so they hold a dear place in your heart. Soft chatter is exchanged, he tells you about his day, you share some idle musings about yours, then you let him know of the most recent developments of your work before he lets you write in peace.

Phainon tries not to stare too much, knows it’s unbecoming to do so, but he can’t help letting his eyes linger on you as your hand scrawls, occasionally taking a break here and there but never letting the train of thought end without it being recorded.

He could watch forever. He could be here forever, sitting in a comfortable chaise in the corner of your study, rendering himself invisible in your periphery as he just gets to exist with you.

The Chrysos Heir is in love.

It’s not widely known, perhaps less than a handful of people know, and it’s not because he has confessed it to them outright, but because they have caught on to the subtleties.

The company he surrounds himself with knows well enough about the scholar that has caught his heart, and how he refuses to run away. They give him teasing looks now and then whenever the prospect of romance and love is raised, and glance specifically at the light-haired when your name is mentioned in passing, not wanting to miss the softening of his bright gaze.

It’s even more entertaining because you are not aware of it.

You are not aware of Phainon’s awestruck eyes whenever he looks at you, how he leans closer whenever you speak, desperate to close the gap however he can. You are not aware of how he speaks your name so gently, as if wanting the wind to take the words away and to you so that no one else may hear. You are not aware of the little world Phainon lives in where it’s just you and him, existing together.

The rest of the Chrysos Heir hound after him relentlessly when they first discovered of your ignorance to his feelings, and now they make it their life mission to make fun of him for it, especially before you.

Phainon does not mind, well- tries not to, because he is in love.

As infuriating it is that you haven’t caught on, despite your immense intelligence, he waits patiently for the day you will.

Even though he yearns to declare it from the highest point of Amphoreus, that his very being has been seized by you, he is content with the quiet moments you share now, and he will happily take all that you give him, even if he wants more.

Phainon is in love.

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

his last unfulfilled wish.

— featuring. sunday x gn!reader

synopsis: before departure, sunday needed to bid you his farewell and make his silent amends, rather than leaving his emotions unsolved.

contains: 1k7 word vomit, 2.7 quest spoilers, angst (& fluff <<< clickbait), childhood bestfriend implication, messy emotions, minor character studies (if u squint), meeting you after he met robin first.

forenotes: sunday is such an overthinker and lana del rey coded to me. however i’m not content with how i write the siblings here so i’m sorry if it doesn’t sit right with you crowbie 😭😭

header img by 隐世樱yyy on weibo. kindest regards to my two pookies @akutasoda and @vxnuslogy for brainrotting with me and proof-reading this piece for me, i love yall so much!

🎼  — ( ding ding!! a message for crowbie @asundries / @rainswept the receiver! )

merry christmas my dear director crow :stares_at_you: are you surprised that i am your secret santa ? (somebody is definitely not ready for sunday angst as a christmas gift ngl.) BRO IT'S YOU HAHAH.

jokes aside for now... iko wants to say that she is very blessed to have such a wonderful friend like you to be around, she hopes your relationship will continue to thrive and maintain as you both step into 2025 ahead! with every kindest words and this piece dedicated to you, she is once again wishing you a merry christmas and a happy new year! xoxo.

“dear mr. sunday, you have now finally witnessed the sun, your wish has been fulfilled.”

in the seemingly deafening silence of the radiant orange-hued sky, sunday stood still.

“however, before you depart,” that indistinct voice was a light and gentle echo but felt dripped with sarcasm in his ears—he believed it was his heart that spoke. the wistful glint in his eyes betrayed the repetitive chant of his rational determination, sabotaging and leaving him slightly wavered about his predetermined decision.

“are you completely certain you would leave penacony behind without regrets?”

was a prime fugitive like him allowed the privilege of deciding such a personal matter? ironically, he wouldn’t want his answer to that question to be anything else.

“…no, i do not.”

not when he never got the chance to justify himself to you before the day he abruptly vanished. vividly, it haunted him—your sad smile haunted him, indicating that he once again had disappointed somebody, and it shocked him at how he never planned that ‘somebody’ to be you. (he never planned to disappointed anyone, really.) it was almost laughable at one’s stupidity, the one who refused to recognise that your reaction he observed this time was never akin to the momentary awkwardness in your voice caused by his usual polite and harmless nonchalance to your little silent declarations out of affection. he heard your love, yet he had never responded.

contrary to the cold and refreshing thin air it seemed, the tip of his tongue felt bitter. sunday knew it all too well. it was the guilt of turning you down and neglecting you for more significant matters that he grew tired of experiencing once more; typically, all of his doubts could only be dissipated as soon as the bright smile he adored written on your face not long later, you seemed to be unfazed quick enough—a truly admirable yet disheartening scene he witnessed; carefree and understanding, that was what you were. 

(sunday never admitted it but your radiant smile was the cause of the thumping heart in his chest, one that made his collected facade falter ever so slightly when looked at, and one suddenly brewing his stomach with guilt each time it didn’t match with your soulless gaze.)

sceptical, cunning man in the way he was, sunday was unsure if that was the very last time he ever saw you like that again after he had failed you so many times before…

you would come back, yes. that was what you’d always done, wasn’t it?

that was what you had always done.

not this time, though… you left him awaiting.

and when he was standing next to you in his cowardice disguise in the light but freezing-cold evening, admiring the way you blew out on your fingers gracefully, hot breaths turning into smoke, that breathtaking smile still, lips plumped red like roses in the white snow, the world stilled for a moment. (he wished it would last forever.) you looked happy and bright, he couldn’t search anywhere in your eyes for the adoration you once harboured, the one that used to be easily spotted every time your eyes met.

maybe you just didn’t know that the one you were conversing with wasn’t a mere dreamweaver.

maybe you still had feelings for him… maybe, it simply wasn't appropriate to discuss such private matters with a passerby, a fact he completely agrees.

but were you, though? after all this time? sunday felt his chest heavy. you were there, like a star within reach, but far enough to only be observed in the radiant sky. then suddenly and a little too late, it came to his perception that his heart had long been beating for you. and at the biggest loss of it all was he only realised, you and robin, were everything he had left. 

was he too late to make amends?

you were beautiful, he’d take that. not to mention the way your hand loosely clung onto the smooth material of your slightly worn-out scarf. a maroon colour that utterly complimented your skin tone, he recognised that scarf.

“you have an exquisite scarf… it suits you.” 

the dreamweaver couldn’t help the words that slipped “her” lips, “she” mentally cursed “herself” for saying such an odd thing, but your light laugh after the bewildered look you gave dissipated every quickened pulse of “hers”, completely drew all of “her” attention to your graceful demeanour, rather than what you were saying by the moment.

“xipe up above… please, hear my plea”

“it was a gift from an old friend, whom i really cherished.” the glowy tint of your lips arched into a thin smile, and, dear aeons… there it was, that same endearing look with so much stars swimming in your eyes. the look of love.

(two winters ago, your endearing shy look, heated cheeks as you reached out for the delicately box in his hands—a simple present for you for the first holiday ever spent together as adults, your fingers brushing against the comforting material as you opened it, eyes glimmered with joy. of course he remembered. that expression of yours imprinted in his mind, confused but amused at how his little gift has an effect on you, you were an adorable thing if he must admit.)

“forgive my desperation to sin just this one last time.”

“he went away for some reasons, i believed it was the same reason why my adoration was left unrequited,” you looked up at the sky, nostalgic. “it’s a little embarrassing to admit, don’t you think?”

at your simple and hearty laugh, sunday could only manage a silent shaky breath.

“please, xipe.”

“i do miss him, dearly,” you let out a light chuckle, nuzzling your face against the fuzzy fabric with the corner of your eyes crinkled. “do you think that i would be able to see him again?”

— “please for once, allow me to be deserving of them, to make amends for everything i’ve damaged”

with certainty, in his heart, that ‘everything’ was you. never one-sided, never unrequited.

sunday thought about you, ignoring the blooming feeling of overwhelmed emotions, his steps were restrained from approaching closer. but then your final question had the words die on his tongue, lingering like an illness that couldn’t be cure.

would your paths converge underneath the sun?

reality is different. having come this far, the boat that used to guide sunday here was burnt down, and there was no way of turning back.

“i miss you, too, dearly.” he wanted to say. 

“i like you” or “the feeling is mutual” even, and how he wanted to tug the strands of your hair behind your ears like he always did back then the moment he saw them fell out of place. but sunday was still a coward. he wondered if you hated him, that you couldn’t bear witness the person you love disappeared then reappear and just begging for forgiveness, it kicked at his dignity and insecurities. perhaps… this barrier between you both was comfortable alright.

“i think he misses you, too.” words emboldened by the sudden courage but soon deflated when “she” meet your observant gaze. yeah… how could a nobody be so sure about that?

“…my apologies, please forgive such an bold assumption.” “she” cleared “her” throat.

“it’s okay, i’m glad that you get comfortable when talking to me.” and sunday realised that he had lost count of how many times he was mesmerized by the melody of your laugh, your soft hum.

the small talk could last for an eternity, that was the greediest wish sunday allowed himself to yearn for. (he thanked xipe for that.)

“mr. sunday, are you ready to board the express?” and he peeked over his shoulder. welt yang, his companion by pure serendipity, stopping on his steps and looked at him with anticipation.

by now, the sun has dipped deeper and almost disappeared in the horizon, purple-blue hued vast sky sprinkling with faint streaks of stars, city lights awaken, leaving the man with the small void in his chest, half-filled. heart spoke otherwise but mind obliged to the better, but wasn’t “better” always hurt most? it was all over, it’s time to go.

you studied the way robin was blowing out smoke, panting softly as she ran over to you not long after the fellow dreamweaver left. the expression on her face was what you couldn’t decipher, a frown was written, her smile was filled with sorrows, and it made you fumbled.

“it seems like you have met her, too.” she sighed with a smile, adjusting her scarf, which was also a gift from her dearest brother. 

the dreamweaver did say an odd thing earlier before “she” departed, though. “she” claimed to only knew a thing or two about beliefs, but then you sensed the dejection in “her” tone before “she” clasped “her” hand together and seeming to close “her” eyes and wish despite the machinery face.

a mutter of sincerest apologies and best wishes for the person “she” wished to make amends to, followed by shaky chants of whispered please’s that sure was heart-warming. then “she” looked at you, “her” wistful and delighted expression was seen through somehow, how confusing, yet so beautiful and sympathetic. 

and when “she” changed her gaze elsewhere, speaking out her final words before silence settled in between the two of you again.

“they mesmerised me, i should’ve recognised that sooner” and you think that was heartening. that it was good for her.

“i’m glad” said robin.

“you’re… glad?” you blinked, didn’t hold a grasp on why she seemed happy about it.

the singer only chuckled brightly, she nodded.

“what a pity that the story of yours was incomplete…” she trailed off.

“…[name], your name has been prayed.” you didn’t miss the way her eyes softened, a glowing hint of wetness then she looked away. “for now, we must wait for THEM to cast an eye upon his unfulfilled wish.”

when sunday was down on his knees, you were how he prayed.

(lol u thought.)

© 2024 https-sourlimes. all rights reserved.

being married to duke!blade is a feat inconceivable to many.

overseeing the northern region where monster outbreaks are high and temperatures are low, he is feared by many for not only his undeniable battle prowess, but also his cold and dismissive demeanour. from all the stories and tumours passed down from those who battled alongside the duke, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say his mere presence alone is sufficient enough to take on an entire army.

but despite his infamous personality, the young duke had made rounds within high society when he first showed his face. he was handsome, having that rugged appearance expected of a blood-soaked warrior residing on the battlefied, yet beautiful with a haunting allure — those crimson-marigold eyes of his can simultaneously bewitch an unassuming victim and bring the most prideful of monarchs down to their knees.

and, as expected of someone with such descriptors, many of the nobility found themselves drawn to him in spite of the rumours which clung to his very being. noble ladies wished to be the first he ever danced with, while many families seeked to gain even a morsel of his power through arranged marriages. relentless as they were, none succeeded in swaying the stone-cold duke.

and stone-cold he was upon your first meeting, albeit in… less than fortunate circumstances.

having meandered around the foresty northern borders not too far from where your family estate is, you certainly were not expecting to stumble across a rotting corpse smack-dab in the middle of your path! okay, well, rotting may not be the most suitable term, but the slumped body, battered and bruised and bloodied, you accidentally kicked was very much a corpse.

you had contemplated leaving the body there but, upon seeing a bloodied insignia of an all-too familiar ducal household, you decided you wanted to live a little longer. of course, this led to you lugging a slumped, muscle-packed warrior of a man all the way to where your estate was, heaving and huffing with your body trembling under the weight.

(to say you were just about ready to collapse when the family knights spotted your emerging figure was no understatement!)

whisked away into a guest room near your own, your parents called for the family doctor immediately. when the blood was cleaned and his wounds were wrapped, the sight of his injuries mending themselves was sure to be a sight you would never be able to rid your mind of. it was a strange but intriguing phenomenon to see his skin stitched anew, that horrid sight of him collapsed in the forestry almost like that of a dream.

your father immediately sent word to the duke’s estate to notify them of the circumstances. in the meanwhile, the man of the hour was unconscious for three days. seeing as how you were the one to find him, you took it upon yourself to help look after his well-being. changing his bandages, regularly wiping the accumulating sweat with a freshly damp cloth, ensuring the room is well-ventilated — you did the lot!

(sometimes you would stare at his resting face, wondering just how much more handsome he would be with his eyes open; only to retract that sentiment when recalling the tales about how his eyes could burn a man alive. exaggerated or not, he is still a dangerous individual you would rather not further entagle yourself with.)

with his people having retrieved their master from your care, promises of hefty compensation for taking care of their lord ringing in your ears, you were ready to sweep the whole ordeal under the rug and never get yourself involved with a man like him again! after all, he is the fearful duke responsible for your region, while you’re just another noble within his domain.

so, naturally, when you first heard of your soon-to-be marriage, you thought your parents did something to offend him and were sending you as a sacrifice meant to appease his wrath.

because, well, why else would the very same duke infamous for having zero interest in romantic and political marriages be sending a letter for your hand in marriage of his own accord? being unconscious the entirety of the time made him unable to see you, let alone know your family, so of course that meant his staff had filled him in on what happened. but why would he initiate this proposal without even knowing who you are first???

(did you get a say in this? no. would you have refused? yes. did your parents care about you and your well-being? aside from their apologetic gazes at your slack-jawed reaction and somewhag rational reasoning of “his grace may have an infamous reputation, but he is not a cruel ruler nor man,” you would like to deny the parental affection they have given you thus far in favour of objecting the claim.)

well, no matter. there was little time to prepare for his arrival to your estate, as the letter stated he would be arriving to escort you himself.

after much fuss over your clothing and luggage, the day arrived; you were going to see him again, except this time, he would see you as well.

a regal carriage entered the estate’s gates. the door swung open. a black gloved hand was the first to appear, followed by a ducked head of long navy hair, a familiar figure donning a freshly pressed suit and black overcoat, and finally — finally — a pair of burning crimson-marigold met your own gaze.

you weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline of your fight or flight response kicking in or the butterflies which ruptured within you that caused your heart rate to increase, but you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

he stopped in front of you, the features you once saw up close felt more complete than ever with the addition of his eyes open.

and thus, with your palm settled atop his outstretched gloved one, your fate was sealed.

(man. was this the compensation the staff were saying to you as they left…?)

that was two years ago.

savage. cold-blooded. inhumane. brute. monster. these were some of the ways in which duke blade was described. the man who currently sits on the edge of the bed watching you dress his wounds, however, is much different than the public opinion.

ever since exchanging vows at the altar and slipping sacred rings of matrimony onto each other’s fingers, you have come to know many sides of blade you never thought possible.

and while he rarely spoke in the beginning, his actions spoke louder than any voice could ever hope to measure up to. and, eventually, he became more vocal in regards to his feelings for you, just as you have with yours upon witnessing firsthand his true character.

from his battle-haggard, near manic state when on the verge of succumbing to the curse before falling into your healing embrace, to his tender fleeting touches and ever-adoring affection repressed within his gaze when in the presence of others, you have seen it all.

the process of getting to know and understand the intricacies of his life is almost like unravelling layers upon layers of thin bandage wrapped tightly around a gaping wound, hoping to block out the vulnerabilities which could be exposed. it was rocky at first, you being in an unfamiliar environment while he had his own inner battles to deal with first and foremost, but time carved its path for the two of you to partake in talks lasting late into the night, a subtle fondness growing more pronounced as familiarity grew alongside it.

and, of course, the time he returned from a subjugation battle-worn and mind having been overriden with mania. it was the first you’d seen him in such a loss of control. knights were rushing to subdue him while the servants desperately tried to usher your bewildered form some place safe, as though this had been a common occurrence well before you came into the picture. that hadn’t gone as planned, however, as the moment blade’s heaving figure locked eyes with you, a state of chaos ensued the moment he broke through the wall of knights with ease and appeared in front of you. no time was wasted when he lunged, a panic chorus of cries following suit as you remained rooted in place.

while you would never forget the blown-out, near-animalistic look in his eyes as he drew closer at an impossible speed, the gentle — almost reverent — manner in which he embraced you then, rigid body instantly relaxing against you, would forever be the turning point of your relationship, as well as a long-cherished memory of his first true feelings.

a dull sensation poking the space between your brows snaps you out of your thoughts. “stop frowning. i’ll be fine like always.”

your hands pause in their ministrations, hovering over his bare torso where you finished tying up a bandage. a blink and a sigh, another swab of disinfectant is in your hands working at the wound on his bicep.

“but that doesn’t mean i like seeing you return to me wounded,” you mutter bitterly, blatantly ignoring his stare. “i know you can take care of yourself, what with that regenerative ability of yours, but i still worry over you. you can still feel the pain, after all, and not to mention that curse—”

a swift tug forward abruptly cuts you off, your words fizzling on the tip of your tongue as a familiar warmth encases you in its entirety. instinctively, your hands grip onto his shoulders, the coarse material of bandages not unfamiliar to your touch, while blade’s hands are splayed across the expanse of your back as he holds you against his seated form.

his nose nudges along the slope of your neck, the shape of your jaw, the contours of your face, a trail of soft kisses leaving searing imprints in its wake.

a deep breath, a ticklish sensation, a thrumming heartbeat.

and when he rests his forehead against your own, crimson-marigold eyes dyed with devotion and seeping ardour, you think the world will be okay.

(even if it were to burst into flames and be reduced to ash, if it means you would be by this man’s side for a little longer, you think it will be okay.)

jealous ratio because i really like him like that, fluff, reader is a menace

“who gave you those flowers?” 

ratio’s voice is demanding and snarky, eyes ablaze with a similar kind of disgust when you walk into your home with a bouquet in your arms. putting your keys on the counter, you greet him with your usual smile and prance over to place a kiss on his scowling expression.

which softens momentarily at the feel of your lips on his skin.

“hi, veritas,” you greet.

“welcome home, love,” he murmurs in return, smiling when looking at you, but the scowl returns when he makes eye contact with the flowers. “who gave you these?”

“aventurine did.”

the world freezes over with ratio’s silent rage and you’re the only one untouched despite being the catalyst. searching for a vase nearby, you’re more than content to let his possessiveness simmer, in fact, it’s something you are used to now.

when you manage to dig up an empty vase from a cabinet nearby, ratio’s footsteps scurry towards you.

“you’re keeping them?” he asks.

“why wouldn’t i? they’re a gift.”

“a gift? 

he’s fuming, absolutely fuming now as he watches you fret over the bouquet, trimming the ends, putting water in the bot, arranging them to look nice and lovely, all whilst your lover stared at you hawkishly. you pretend not to notice the way his eye twitches occasionally, allowing him to watch you work.

his mind must be working at a million thoughts per second, so you’ll just let him be until he can talk to you again.

“why did he give you flowers? there must be an occasion that i am unaware of.”

after finishing your final touches, you turn around with all the garbage in your hands and walk past the scholar. he follows. “to say thanks. he recently consulted me for one of his projects and the results were fruitful, so he bought me a bouquet in gratitude.” 

pink roses. last time ratio read, they were supposed to symbolise gratitude, the ideal choice to send to someone who has helped you. 

“well. if that’s the case then he owes me a planet’s worth of flowers.”

“lighten up, veritas, he was just being friendly.”

“friendly?” he all but snaps. 

“yes, friendly. is there an issue with that?” 

“that gambler being friendly implies to him being up to no good.” he attaches himself to your hip, hovering over you as you make a mug of coffee. “he is a menace, an undesirable anomaly, a type one error, i advise you keep your interactions with him limited. only one of us should need to deal with his antics so i suppose i’ll have to bite the bullet on this one, darling.”

“you are so brave, my hero. are you done? anymore talk about aventurine and i might just think you’re in love with him.” ratio splutters at your wild accusations, missing the way you smile under your breath. then, you throw your arms around the scholar and he doesn’t return the embrace, still dumbfounded. “i missed you and the first thing you do when i come home is talk about another man.”

he scoffs, lifting you up onto the kitchen counter. there, he rests his hands on either sides of the counter beside you. “your mouth is twice as foul as his.”

“and yet you still love me.”

“marginally.”

“you!”

tomorrow, you return home to a luxurious bouquet of red roses sitting on the kitchen island.

i'm writing this as a pregame to the diluc fic i have in the works.

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

SEASONS IN LOVE (PART II)

Sanemi x F!Reader (modern college AU)

Sanemi meets Y/N in January and isn't a fan. As the seasons pass by, their evolving relationship becomes defined by a handful snapshots from the various holidays throughout the year.

CW: modern college AU • 6.6k words • tooth-rotting fluff • college typical drinking and debauchery • some mildly suggestive content • Sanemi is a massive simp

PART ONE HERE

December 24th – Christmas Eve.

Sanemi was hunched over, back turned against the icy wind that threatened to shred through the layers of his coat and sweater, as he waited for someone to answer the door.

A few weeks ago, he would’ve said to anyone that he hadn’t minded the snow — after all, the snow is what led to Y/N smiling — at him, no less — for the first time since he’d met her, and that memory had been more that enough to keep him warm through the fall of every snowflake coating the earth.

He took it all back. Y/N’s smile was a damn pretty sight, but absolutely nothing could insulate him against the near sub-arctic winds that cut through him like a knife as he shifted impatiently from foot to foot on the Kanroji’s front porch.

“God dammit, Mitsuri,” he growled. He unwound a stiff arm from where it’d been tightly tucked against his chest, prepared to start pounding against the oak of her parents’ front door, when the pink party host threw it open, her smile bright and cheerful and warm in a way that Sanemi was not.

“It’s about time!” She chirped, standing aside to let her scowling friend through and into the front entryway of her home.

Mitsuri held her hand out as she waited for Sanemi to pass her his coat. “Everyone else is here already — help yourself to any snacks you want.” Mitsuri snatched the gift-wrapped package lodged under his arm before he could say anything. “I’ll take this,” she waved it, nose crinkling with amusement at Sanemi’s indignant glare. “And I’ll put it with the others!”

Before he could respond, his pink-haired friend traipsed away back to the open floor plan of her living room and kitchen, leaving Sanemi to brush the snowflakes that had gathered on his trousers and remove his boots and leave them with the others’ scattered by the closet of Mitsuri’s parents’ home.

Every year, the bubbly and exuberant pinkette hosted a Christmas Eve for her friends at her parents’ complete with an absurd array of holiday-themed snacks, games, and Secret Santa.

In years past, Sanemi only ever deigned to show up as a courtesy to his friend, eagerly awaiting the day when he could blame needing to take care of his siblings on Christmas Eve as an excuse not to go. After his family had been killed, however, Sanemi had begun spending the Christmas holidays with Kyojuro’s family, along with Tengen, and so, he’d been forced to continue the tradition, given the enthusiasm his flame-haired best friend had for the over-the-top celebration.

This year, however, was Y/N’s first time attending Mitsuri’s annual fete; and curiously, Sanemi found himself growing more and more excited as the time for the celebration drew nearer.

That excitement only bubbled in his gut as he padded towards the Kanroji’s packed living room, eyes scanning for the sight of the one he was most eager — and anxious — to see.

Y/N spotted him from her position on one of the overstuffed leather armrests by the fireplace and shot out of her seat, nearly toppling Shinobu in the process.

“You made it!” Her smile was blazing, a now permanent fixture on her face that Sanemi found himself sneaking furtive glances at throughout the day, afraid that he would miss it.

“Wait,” Y/N stopped an arm’s length from him as she ran her eyes over his form. “Are we matching?”

Sanemi looked down at the outfit he had thrown on (carefully selected) prior to leaving his apartment and back to the amused woman before him. She was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, tucked into a pair of belted, vintage, loose jeans that she had cuffed to show her festive Christmas socks.

“Just the turtleneck. I don’t do jeans.” Sanemi snorted, flicking her nose affectionately.

Y/N, however, looked better than he. Her hair was loosely secured with a clip at her neck, and she wore no accessories save for a pair of oversized gold framed glasses that she claimed were to help with blue light strains, but Sanemi was convinced she just liked wearing them for fun.

He tried very hard not to stare too long at her full lips — painted a bright, festive red that Sanemi found he really liked.

“I should’ve brought my lipstick along, then we could’ve really twinned,” Y/N’s eyes were alight with her mirth as she teased him.

Had Sanemi been a tad bolder, he would’ve cheekily suggested another way he could get her lipstick on his mouth, but he wasn’t, so all he could do was grumble, a faint red staining his cheeks.

Mitsuri clapped loudly over the chattering group. “Friends! Dearly beloveds! Snacks are over there,” she pointed to a long table packed heavy with various holiday goodies. “And the hot chocolate bar is open! Get a snack and get settled before secret Santa!”

“When you say ‘bar,’ ‘Suri,” Tengen prodded.

The pinkette nodded solemnly. “Yes, you can make spiked hot chocolate, Tengen.”

The flashy, silver-haired man let out a whoop for joy as he made a beeline for the hot chocolate bar carefully organized by their pink-haired host. Before long, Tengen had blessed each of their drinks with a healthy splash of Irish cream, though Sanemi suspected the loudmouth’s own mug was nothing but the festive liquor.

“Nope,” Sanemi fought to keep the grimace off his face as he took a swig of his hot chocolate, the bitter burn of alcohol making him pucker. “Giyuu, drink this — it’s plain.”

The quiet, raven-haired man gratefully accepted the steaming mug from his friend and took a hearty gulp of it, frowning slightly when he realized Sanemi had indeed given him his own spiked drink.

Sanemi pretended to look affronted at Giyuu’s accusatory stare. “What? I thought you’d need it — aren’t you going home to Kocho’s after this?”

Giyuu considered Sanemi’s words for a moment before tipping his head back and swallowing the remainder of the mug’s contents.

Y/N came prancing over from the kitchen, her own mug of hot chocolate cupped between her hands, to where Sanemi now sat on the large sofa, but before she could sit down, Gyomei plopped down, nearly crushing her in the process.

“Apologies, Y/N,” the gentle giant said upon hearing Y/N’s squeak. “I didn’t realize you wanted to sit beside Sanemi.”

If Sanemi hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn that was a blush spreading across her cheeks. “No worries!” She chirped, twisting around awkwardly to find a new spot.

Sanemi grimaced. He was about to tell her to sit on the arm rest of the sofa next to him, but Shinobu called her over first, the two girls squeezing into a single-person armchair, as Shinobu threw her legs over Y/N’s lap to make room.

Secret Santa proceeded without much fuss. Sanemi was happy to receive a box of high-quality matcha from his anonymous gift-giver, though Shinobu’s lack of a poker face gave away who’d gifted it. Sanemi winked at his tiny friend, clutching the tea box tightly to his chest.

Y/N was practically buzzing with excitement. Mitsuri had hardly discerned the name scrawled on the tag of her giftbox before she’d lunged forward, nearly toppling Shinobu out of her lap.

“My turn!” The expression on Y/N’s face was that of a greedy child’s as she wriggled her fingers demandingly at Mitsuri in anticipation of her present.

The pinkette dropped the heavy box into her friend’s eager hands, Y/N giving a small oomph! against the weight of the gift.

Sanemi watched his best friend tear into her present with vigor, similar to the way a hyena tore into its prey, tufts of wrapping paper floating down beside her as she beheld the grocery store box within.

“What the—?” Y/N’s eyebrows were drawn together as she turned the container over in her hands, eyes squinting as she read the label printed on the cardboard.

“No fucking way,” Her eyes blew wide as she held the box closer to her face in disbelief. “No fucking way!”

Y/N’s laugh bordered on maniacal as she clapped her hands, ripping into the cardboard as she produced one, fat candy bar, wrapped in unfamiliar purple foil.

“My chocolate!” She crowed, dumping the contents of the box out onto her lap. A dozen large, heavy candy bars thudded to the floor, the packaging on each bearing some foreign language and description. “I can’t believe my Secret Santa found them!”

Sanemi smirked quietly to himself. Sure, he’d rigged the Secret Santa pool to ensure that he magically drew Y/N’s name from the hat full of paper Mitsuri had passed around at their weekly dinner a few weeks prior, but he’d only done it because he’d already ordered Y/N’s Christmas gift from overseas.

For ages, she’d not shut up about a particular kind of chocolate that she’d had while abroad with her family one summer. Y/N had moaned to everyone that chocolate at home just didn’t taste the same, and she longed to have just one more taste of the candy she’d come to love while on holiday, though she hadn’t been able to track it down online.

But Sanemi had; he’d found a website that put him in contact with a local, who then used his bank information to clear out an entire grocery store’s supply of the confectionary. It was risky, but he was a man in love, so what else could he do but chance it?

“Over my dead fucking body —“ Y/N threatened, as Mitsuri tried to snatch a bar from her hand.

As Sanemi sat there, smugly sipping his non-spiked hot chocolate, he mused that the look of pure glee on Y/N’s face was well worth his account getting hacked not even a week after his order arrived.

—————————————————————————

The Christmas Eve party continued until the late afternoon, at which point the group of friends began to help their host clean up the discarded snacks and empty mugs of hot chocolate before each of them set off for their respective homes for the night.

Y/N was the only one in their group who had to take a train back to her parents’, her hometown being over three hours away from campus, and so, she was the first who had to leave the merry fete.

Sanemi had offered to drive Y/N the forty-minute trip to the train station so she wouldn’t be stuck paying for an Uber, and truthfully, he was glad to have nearly an hour of uninterrupted time with her before she went home for the week.

“Ready?” He asked her as he looped his wool scarf over his head, bracing himself to be smacked in the face by the icy wind that howled outside the warmth of the Kanroji house.

Y/N finished tugging on a pair of gloves before sliding into her emerald green wool coat. “One sec!”

Y/N darted back to the living room where their other friends exchanged goodbyes and flung her arms around her pink-haired best friend’s neck.

From where he stood near the Kanroji doorway, Sanemi could see the pinkette whisper a few words of encouragement into Y/N’s ear, her face uncharacteristically serious as she squeezed her best friend one more time. Sanemi knew that Mitsuri had been comforting Y/N leading up to her first holiday season at home since her brother died, and he felt a rush of gratitude for the girl as he saw Y/N’s shoulders visibly relax under the warmth of her words.

Y/N returned, her eyes sparkling with unshed emotion that she quickly tried to wipe with her gloved hands. “I’m ready!” She said thickly, plastering a smile on her face.

Sanemi sighed, but slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly into his side before releasing her. Y/N nodded in gratitude, sniffing once, before wrenching the front door of the Kanroji house open, allowing the icy winds beyond to whip across their faces.

The drive to the train station was uneventful, though Y/N had been sure to provide him with “entertainment” by singing loudly, off-key, to every Christmas song that crackled over the ancient speakers in Sanemi’s beat-up station wagon.

He wouldn’t have traded the smile emblazoned in her face, nor the sound of her raucous laughter, for the world however, not even for the sake of his ringing eardrums.

The duo parked and Sanemi heaved her suitcase out of his trunk. As they made their way towards the train platform, Sanemi fought the urge to take her hand in his, as the snowflakes swirled around them.

“So, how did you find it?” Y/N asked after a moment, her train turning the corner into the station right on time, slowing in the distance as it prepared to stop.

Her snowy-haired friend played dumb. “Find what, exactly?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Sanemi. You’re the only one who would’ve paid attention to me when I complained about some foreign chocolate that you can’t get anywhere but that country. Of course, it was you.”

Sanemi gave her a wry grin. “My credit card may’ve been hacked, but it was worth it. Got ya the whole store shelf, didn’t I?” He nudged her elbow playfully with his own and she giggled.

He would never tire of hearing that sound.

Y/N’s train slowed into the station terminal, and she sighed, parking her small suitcase next to her as she stepped forward and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Merry Christmas, Sanemi.” She whispered, squeezing him gently.

It would’ve been nice to say it back — to say anything at all, but Sanemi found himself unable to make a sound, a hand only able to come up and awkwardly pat her back just as she pulled away. Whether or not his awkwardness affected her, Y/N didn’t show, for she only gave him one more radiant smile before boarding her train home.

“See you at the cabin!” She said brightly, stepping through the double doors, suitcase in hand.

Sanemi was still standing on the platform in bemusement at his inability to say or do other than stare at her, as though his brain had become nothing but a smooth rock rattling around inside his skull.

Y/N turned to wave at him, the doors to the train still open for the last few stragglers to board, but her smile slid from her face as she beheld him, staring at her with a fiery intensity.

What’s wrong-“ she started.

“I’m in love with you.” He said breathlessly, and to his horror, she froze, her mouth parting and her eyes going wide.

“What?”

But Sanemi could not answer her; he could not even make his traitorous mouth work as the doors slid shut and the train began its slow pull out of the terminal.

Y/N stood there, just past the doors, staring at him with that same, stunned expression until the train car rounded a corner and pulled her from sight.

————————————————————————-

More than an hour later, Sanemi arrived at the Rengoku family home where he was to spend Christmas Eve and the following morning. He kicked his boots off inside the festively decorated entryway, greeted Kyojuro’s parents, and stomped downstairs to the furnished basement where he knew his two friends would be gathered.

Tengen and Kyojuro were sprawled across the plush L-shaped sofa, both silent as they huddled over former’s phone as they listened to whomever was on the other end.

Kyojuro saw Sanemi first and smacked Tengen on the shoulder, the latter looking up as both his friends went wide-eyed.

“Obanai — hold on, he just got here.” Tengen muttered.

“What?” Sanemi demanded, a heat creeping up the side of his neck as his friends stared at him, mouths open.

Tengen pointed at his phone. “Obanai’s on. Apparently Y/N has been talking the girls for the last hour and a half because someone —“ he narrowed his eyes at Sanemi. “Decided to tell her they were in love with her right as her train was leaving?”

Sanemi wondered, briefly, whether it was possible for one’s stomach to fall out of their ass.

“Are you stupid?” Tengen asked, and Sanemi resented the fact he’d almost sounded serious.

“Put Obanai on speaker,” Sanemi muttered, flinging himself down on the sofa next to Kyojuro.

Tengen rolled his eyes but did as Sanemi asked. In the background, Sanemi could hear a faint, shrill voice ranting, and he felt his gut clench. Mitsuri.

“-and now, it’s Christmas Eve and instead of spending it with our girlfriends, Giyuu and I are playing chess for the third fucking time, because that’s how long the girls have been on the phone with Y/N.” Obanai drawled. “Not that it hasn’t been entertaining — ‘Suri is convinced Y/N should’ve pushed you onto the tracks, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi grit his teeth. “What did Y/N say, Obanai?”

His friend muttered something under his breath that sounded like an insult, but Sanemi said nothing, waiting as he heard Obanai’s voice grow smaller as he left the phone in favor of approaching the girls.

Sanemi’s stomach dipped at the renewed sound of indignant screeching that crackled through the phone, Tengen and Kyojuro snickering.

“Fine, alright, okay, stop yelling,” Obanai’s reedy and exasperated voice grew louder as he neared the phone again, though Sanemi could still hear the muffled sounds of Mitsuri squawking in the background.

“Mitsuri said you’re gonna have to man up and talk to Y/N yourself,” Obanai relayed, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. “And Shinobu said she doesn’t care enough about you to break girl code.”

Sanemi groaned, throwing an arm over his face as he leaned back into the sofa cushions, wishing he’d saved Y/N the trouble, and jumped in front of her oncoming train himself.

“How do I unfuck this?” He intoned to no one in particular, lifting the arm over his eyes to squint at his two friends as they continued to suppress their shit-eating smirks.

“You could try texting her,” Kyojuro offered, though Tengen shook his head in disagreement.

“You can’t just send a text right after confessing your undying love for her as her train was leaving,” the flamboyant man chided, clicking his phone off and kicking his feet up on the coffee table before him. “That’s like begging her to curse your ass out.”

Sanemi grumbled but he knew Tengen was right; whatever conversation he would have with Y/N would have to be in-person. She deserved that much, at least.

Tengen leaned back against the sofa, twiddling the toothpick wedged between his teeth, eyes narrowed at Sanemi in contemplation. “I thought you two hooked up back over the summer?”

Sanemi snorted, shaking his head, as Kyojuro quipped, “You’re thinking of Obanai and Kanroji.”

Their silver-haired friend looked back to Sanemi, eyebrow raising in incredulity. “You’re telling me, all this time, you two’ve been making eyes at one another and you haven’t been fucking?”

“Watch it,” Sanemi bristled, and Tengen held his hands up in surrender.

“Jesus you move slow,” he mumbled, and Sanemi chucked one of the decorative pillows lying next to him at his head, Tengen effortlessly batting the projectile away. “Is she coming to the cabin next week?”

He was referring to the spacious cabin their group had rented up in the snowy mountains to celebrate New Year’s Eve together, wanting a place large enough to accommodate them all, yet secluded enough that they wouldn’t cause too much harm when one of them inevitably set a tree on fire while drunkenly trying to set off fireworks.

Sanemi nodded, and Tengen’s smile turned smug. “Then I guess you’ll have to wait ‘til then to find out what she thinks.”

—————————————————————————

December 31st – New Year’s Eve

Sanemi Shinazugawa had never experienced torture, but the seven-day stretch between Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve was about as close as he’d thought he’d ever get.

By the time he, Tengen, and Kyojuro had loaded up his station wagon with their duffel bags and enough booze to open their own traveling liquor store, Sanemi thought the anxious buzz in his blood would make him jump out of his skin.

He’d not spoken to Y/N since saying goodbye to her at the train station — not really. He’d responded to her Merry Christmas! text in their larger group chat with his own holiday well-wishes, and she’d simply reacted to the message. Otherwise, his phone had remained remarkably silent, without so much as a meme from the woman who held his heart.

He knew that he couldn’t assume her silence meant the worst, even as his brain tried to convince him it was all it meant. After all, Y/N was experiencing her first holiday season without her brother, and Sanemi knew the emotions of such a milestone were far more likely to hold her attention than his pitiful love confession.

He felt nearly sick by the time he pulled into the circular driveway of the enormous log cabin, seated up the hill and a way back from the main road, surrounded only by an endless stretch of snow-covered trees and forest. As he helped Kyojuro unload the cases of beer and bottles of champagne from his trunk, Sanemi spied Mitsuri’s pink Volkswagen parked at the other end of the driveway, next to Gyomei’s Hummer.

Sanemi’s stomach flipped as Tengen unlocked the back door of the cabin, loudly calling out to their friends in greeting in that booming voice of his. Giyuu and Mitsuri leaned over the bannister of the staircase leading to the second floor, waving as the remainder of the friend group straggled through the door, stomping shoes against the welcome mat to clear themselves of any lingering snow.

Sanemi’s eyes met Mitsuri’s and the pinkette’s narrowed, as she promptly turned away from him with a pointed harrumph.

Kyojuro snorted as Sanemi sighed, and they heaved the case of beer they’d brought into the kitchen and on the counter.

It was going to be a long day.

—————————————————————————

Y/N emerged from the room she was sharing with Shinobu and Mitsuri not long after he’d arrived, decked out in some sparkly get-up of Mitsuri’s that was more suited to wearing out at the club than it was for staying in, though Sanemi wasn’t about to complain.

She’d cheerfully greeted every one of their friends with hugs and her smiles until she came to him. Thankfully, Y/N was far less awkward than he, and she’d only hesitated for a moment before giving him a hug that Sanemi found did not last nearly long enough.

As the group settled in with their drinks and grazed at the smorgasbord of food and snacks laid out in the kitchen, Sanemi caught sight of Y/N watching him, eyes expectant. He tried to muster the courage to approach her, to ask her if they could talk in private, but Sanemi balked at the weight of both Tengen and Mitsuri’s knowing stares as they flicked back and forth between himself and Y/N.

He couldn’t do this with an audience; he could only hope that Y/N would understand.

Yet, Y/N looked slightly hurt at the way Sanemi turned and struck up a conversation with Obanai and Gyomei, and Sanemi could feel at least one pair of eyes hurling daggers into his back as he remained turned away, no doubt from Y/N’s pink, livid best friend.

This was going to be damn near impossible, and yet, it was entirely his fault to begin with, as he’d been the one to stupidly blurt out that he loved Y/N to her without properly preparing himself for the moment; and now, it was his situation to un-fuck.

Somehow.

And so, Sanemi merely opened another beer and took a hearty swig of its contents, hoping to gain the liquid courage he’d need to finally confront her head-on.

—————————————————————————

Sanemi had downed two flutes of champagne since the sun had set and he still found himself jittery and uneasy as he continued to dodge Y/N’s pleading looks.

He felt like an asshole, especially right then, as the year wound down to its last half hour. Sanemi was standing in the kitchen alone, turning over a bottle of champagne in his hands as he debated taking it along with him when he went to find Y/N, and work things out between them. Perhaps they could open it in celebration if it turned out that she returned his feelings; if not, he could always drown his sorrows in the bubbly.

“If you don’t grow a pair and talk to Y/N, I’m making out with her at midnight,” Shinobu threatened, brushing by Sanemi to grab another bottle of cheap champagne to uncork. “Right in front of you.”

Sanemi shot her a shit-eating smirk. “Don’t think your boyfriend would be a fan of that idea,” he challenged, grabbing the opened bottle from Shinobu’s hand and pouring himself another glass of sparkling wine.

“I support it,” Giyuu called out from the living room, much to his girlfriend’s satisfaction and Sanemi’s irritation.

Shinobu tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned sharply away from him on her heel. “I rest my case.”

At that, Shinobu departed with a shrill reminder for him to man up! and Sanemi was left alone in the kitchen once more. With a deep inhale, Sanemi lifted his champagne flute to his lips and tipped back its contents, swallowing his champagne in a single wet gulp, before setting the glass back in the counter, and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

He set out to find Y/N.

—————————————————————————

He found her outside, leaning up against the side of the cabin as she nursed her own flute of champagne, as she stared past the line of trees where their friends had begun assembling the various rockets and fireworks they’d gathered to mark the start of the new year.

Sanemi felt his tongue go thick at the sight of her, so pretty in the snow, though he didn’t know how she wasn’t shivering; she didn’t even have on a coat, and the only thing on her legs was a thin pair of nylons and her platform boots she insisted made her “nearly” as tall as him.

He joined her in leaning against the cabin on the opposite wall of her, though she did not acknowledge his presence past a small inclination of her head, her gaze instead falling to the glass clutched between her hands.

The silence stretched endlessly between them, making him shift his weight from leg to leg as he squirmed.

“Where’s that pretty smile o’ yours?” Sanemi finally broke, and Y/N looked up at him, a frown pulling her painted lips into an adorable pout.

He may have been a tad buzzed from the champagne, but his head felt clear, and his heart felt full as he looked towards his beautiful best friend, so very underdressed for the single-digit weather and snow in that sparkly two-piece Mitsuri had insisted she wear, even though it was just them at the cabin, celebrating.

“Back at the train station,” she mumbled after a moment, returning to her own champagne flute, swirling the liquid around.

Sanemi felt his gut sour, and he found his tongue incapable of forming any words, much to his embarrassment.

Neither said anything for a moment, the distant echoes of their friends cheering as they set up the fireworks magnified against the snowy backdrop of their mountain retreat.

“Why’re you avoiding me?” Y/N’s voice was so small, so unsure that Sanemi felt his heart ache because he hated that he’d been the cause of her doubt.

“I mean, how can you tell me that — what you said, a week ago, and now you can barely meet my eyes?”

“Y/N-“ Sanemi sighed, but Y/N cut him off once more.

“I understand if you didn’t mean it; I get it’s easy to get caught up in the moment, but just tell me that.” She pled.

Sanemi exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I was worried about your reaction,” he confessed after a moment, and Y/N’s frown deepened.

“I was also pissed at myself for doin’ it that way — I had a whole plan, I was gonna take you out somewhere nice, like you deserve, but, well,” Sanemi trailed off, awkwardly. “You just looked so happy at the Christmas party, and then you hugged me, and I guess I went a bit stupid.”

Y/N was silent, only staring at him with wide eyes, her champagne flute dangling precariously from her loose hand as she gaped at him.

“Y-you meant it? You really meant it?” She breathed.

Sanemi looked to her and rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he answered, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’ve been waiting…a long time, to hear you say that.” Y/N admitted, a tentative grin spreading across her face.

Sanemi met her smile with his own, and he began to advance slowly towards where she leaned against the cabin wall. “Sorry to make you wait, princess.”

Y/N responded with an airy laugh. “I expected I would have to break the ice,” her heart thundered against her sternum as Sanemi boxed her in against the logs with his arms. “I’ve been openly flirting with you since the snowball fight.”

Sanemi snorted. “And I’ve been putty in your hands since Halloween. Probably longer.” His hand rose to rest on the small, exposed sliver of her waist and Y/N shuddered at how warm his touch was.

“You sure know how to keep a girl waiting, then.” Y/N’s eyes narrowed in on the proximity of Sanemi’s lips to hers. Though felt the warmth of his breath caress her face, he maintained just enough distance between their lips to tease her.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Sanemi murmured, his thumb stroking the small patch of exposed skin above her hip.

Y/N smirked. “Then warm me up.”

Somewhere beyond the trees that dotted the property, Sanemi and Y/N’s friends began the countdown to midnight; but the two of them did not react to the impending new year, instead only holding one another’s gaze, steadily in the snow.

Their faces were titled towards one another, both still teasingly withholding the satisfaction of being the first to close the marginal distance between their lips from another. But in the distance, Sanemi vaguely heard his friends cry “ONE,” and so, right as the New Year arrived, he finally gave in, and he slanted his mouth over Y/N’s.

Later, Sanemi would muse over the fact that that had been the second time he’d missed a fireworks show with his friends, but he would not be able to care.

Because no display of colored sparks in the sky could compare to the feeling of Y/N’s lips moving fervently against his; could not compare to the way her fingers buried in his hair, or how she felt beneath his palms as he pressed her against the cabin wall and kissed her for all she was worth.

When they finally broke apart, the winter night had fallen silent once more, but it did not remain so; in an instant, their friends erupted into applause, with Tengen letting out a very loud Finally!

Y/N laughed and wrapped her hand around the collar of Sanemi’s jacket, hauling his mouth back to hers. As their friends made suggestive oohs, both Sanemi and Y/N stretched their hands out and simultaneously flipped the group off.

“It’s about damn time, you two,” Tengen drawled as the group made their way inside the warmth of the cabin.

“If you find a rocket in your bed tonight, Tengen, I want you to know it was me.” Sanemi replied smoothly, not taking his eyes off Y/N as she blushed under the hand he kept on her cheek.

—-———————————————————————

It was after two in the morning, and most of the revelers had finally drifted off to bed, drunk and happy and partied out. Only two couples remained awake, not quite yet ready to let the sparkling night fade to black.

One couple was seated on the ornate leather couch before the cabin’s lit Christmas tree, talking and giggling softly to themselves. Mitsuri stifled a sleepy yawn behind her hand, settling in against Obanai’s side as her eyelids drooped.

The ebony-haired man smiled to himself as Mitsuri’s breathing slowed, the beautiful girl finally nodding off against him as the excitement of the weekend lured her to sleep. Slowly, so as not to disturb his girlfriend’s peaceful rest, Obanai turned his head to watch the other couple still awake, though they were in the adjacent reading room.

There, standing before the large bay window of the cabin, Sanemi slow-danced with Y/N as the sound of some old holiday song crackled through the old record player of the cabin’s study. Y/N’s back was to Obanai, but her head was resting against his friend’s chest as Sanemi rocked them from side to side, his lips pressed against the girl’s hair. After a moment, Sanemi bent to murmur something in her ear, and Y/N drew back from his chest and nodded, causing his grin to spread wide across his face.

Obanai turned away from the sight of his friends, a small smile creeping onto his face, as Sanemi led his new girlfriend to his room.

—————————————————————————

Everyone was slow to rise later on New Year's Day, in no short part due to the previous night’s indulgences.

The last to rise, however, was the friend group’s newest couple, and it was with no small amount of delight that the friends saw Y/N emerge from Sanemi’s room, dressed in his sweater from the night before and a pair of men’s briefs. She padded into the kitchen, happy to accept the steaming mug of coffee that Shinobu handed her with a knowing smirk, while flipping off Tengen as he’d loudly asked her if she’d enjoyed her night.

When Sanemi finally entered the kitchen, a dark purple bruise seared into the side of his neck, the whole gang erupted into applause, much to the couple’s laughter and slight embarrassment.

Mitsuri sidled up to her best friend, nudging her with her shoulder. “Shinobu and I had a bet as to who would show up this morning with hickies. She owes me $5.”

Y/N’s returning smirk was naughty as she brought the steaming mug of coffee to her lips. “You just can’t see mine.”

Mitsuri giggled and Y/N couldn’t help but join her, feeling too warm and happy as her eyes met her now-boyfriend’s while he watched her from across the counter. As she’d swiped a donut from one of the several boxes scattered around the table, Y/N felt Sanemi’s fingers shyly brush against her own, and the pair exchanged small, sweet smiles before resuming conversation with their respective roommates.

Later, as the group loaded up cars with their luggage in a haphazard game of suitcase Tetris, Sanemi caught Y/N’s eye again and winked, prompting the latter to blush.

As they piled into their cars and drove away from the cabin, Sanemi realized he was the luckiest man in the world.

—————————————————————————

Epilogue — New Year’s Day, 2 years later

“He just texted me — they’re walking up,” Kyojuro whispered, and the group dissolved into renewed giggles and excitement as the snow drifted lazily outside.

“Shush!” Shinobu urged over the tittering group, as they all crouched in the dark, excitement buzzing among the friend group as they waited anxiously in Sanemi and Y/N’s apartment.

Mitsuri rocked on her heels beside Shinobu, squatting behind the couple’s sofa, her hands fluttering in glee. “They need to hurry up! I can hardly wait!”

“They’re almost — shut it!” Shinobu hissed at the unmistakable sound of a key entering a lock on the front door.

There was a wash of light from the apartment hallway as the door swung open, and Shinobu and the others burrowed deeper into their hiding spots. Only as the door clicked shut, and Sanemi flipped the light switch to their living room, did the group erupt.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Every one of them — Mitsuri, Obanai, Shinobu, Tengen, Gyomei, Kyojuro and even Giyuu sprung from their various crouching spaces behind furniture and closets as they greeted the newly engaged couple.

Y/N’s hands flew to her face in surprise and joy, her cheeks bright red as she laughed. On her left hand, a beautiful, emerald ring sparkled.

The blushing bride-to-be turned to her fiancé and smacked him lightly on the chest. “You ass! Is this why you’ve been so weird and secretive over the last few weeks?”

Sanemi caught his fiancé’s hand and brought it to his lips, prompting the young woman to flush even further. Before she could return the gesture, Y/N was nearly knocked over by the flurry of pink and green that hurtled toward her, locking her arms around her neck and sobbing with joy.

“He was afraid he was gonna blow it,” Tengen offered, though he flinched at the sharp glare the scarred man shot his way. “Okay fine — he thought we would blow it.”

“I can’t imagine why he’d be concerned,” Y/N shook her head in mock-solemnity over Mitsuri’s shoulder. “After all, Giyuu did spoil Gyomei’s 22nd birthday.”

Giyuu made some sound of indignation as the tips of his ears reddened. Kyojuro thumped Sanemi on the back in congratulations. “I still think it would have been much nicer to have us all there when you finally popped the question, Shinazugawa!”

Sanemi rolled his eyes. “Like hell was I gonna let you shitheads ruin a romantic moment.”

Mitsuri, who’d not yet unwound her arms from Y/N’s neck, leaned in close to her best friend’s ear. “Did he cry?” She whispered conspiratorially.

Y/N’s grin widened. “Like a baby. He got down on one knee and started blubbering.”

It might have been a slight exaggeration — though her snowy-haired lover had gone misty-eyed as he’d knelt before her in front of the large Christmas tree in the city square and poured his heart out. As he pulled her in tight against him after sliding the delicate ring on her finger, Y/N had felt the wet droplets of his joyous tears as he’d buried his face into the side of her neck.

But Y/N couldn’t resist the chance to make it known amongst their friends that Sanemi Shinazugawa had the softest heart out of any of them.

The pair of best friends dissolved into giggles, before Mitsuri pulled away and the two hummed and hah’ed over Y/N’s engagement ring, Shinobu joining in as they marveled over the way the emerald shone.

Beside them, both Obanai and Giyuu looked accusingly at their smug friend. “Neither of them are gonna shut up about the ring now. Thanks, Shinazugawa.” Obanai grumbled.

Sanemi locked an arm around his friend’s neck and ground his knuckles into the top of his head. “Please. Like you don’t have a Pinterest board titled ‘future wedding’ for when you decide to have the balls to ask ‘Suri to marry you.” He grinned. “I’ve seen your phone, dude.”

“Jackass,” Obanai mumbled, though any ire he felt towards the snowy-haired man was quick to dissipate, because he couldn’t remember the last time Sanemi had smiled as broadly as he did right then.

He was happy — really, and truly happy.

Because Sanemi Shinazugawa loved many things.

He loved Saturday mornings, when there was no alarm or no obligations, and he could just exist peacefully in his bed with his woman wrapped snug in his arms. He loved when his phone had zero notifications, because that meant he was being left the fuck alone, and in peace.

He loved his friends, that wonderful group of people whom he’d known for most of his life, who’d always supported him or provided a good kick in his ass whenever he needed it.

But most of all, Sanemi loved New Year’s Day, and the snow, because it had brought him Y/N — his fiancé, and the great love of his life, and all her smiles that he had to look forward to every day, for all the days to come.

post-argument fic, reader's still mad at wriothesley, the yearning and desperation from wriothesley is heavy in this one lul, established relationship, suggestive comments

brief biker!wriothesley thought.

disagreements don't happen often between you and wriothesley. you are both level-headed enough to maintain composure whilst talking through any issues, but in the scarce moments where it snowballs into something heated, it results in cold shoulders and uncomfortable silences born from residual anger.

wriothesley, who likes to be direct and to resolve things as they occur, lingers around you, hesitant to anger you more than he already has. he downright loathes how you walk on eggshells around him, unable to hold his gaze. in moments like these, he wants nothing more than just to pull you close and kiss you until you forgive him, bleeding apologies until you mend him with your forgiveness.

unfortunately for him, you had promised to go out for dinner with some of your mutual friends the night after your tense argument.

wriothesley's already there when you come straight from work, watching as you greet everyone with a big smile and wave, settling into the empty space next to him. all he gets is a tiny grin before your attention is swept away by furina, who sits directly in front of you.

he tries to act like it doesn't bug him when you turn to talk to clorinde, who sits on your left. tries to keep his desperation on the low when he asks for your attention, pointing to items on the menu that you'd like. tries to act like a kiss- a smile, even, isn't all he wants when he gives you the things you like from his plate.

if you don't look him in the eye for longer than five seconds, he might dissolve in his seat.

miraculously, wriothesley survives the torturous evening, and it's difficult to pretend like he isn't excited about going home and having you all to himself. he farewells everyone a little too enthusiastically, and drags you away with him before they can convince you to stay for drinks.

(though, if you wanted to, he would have complied and bitten back his complaints, but judging by the way you follow him without any reluctance, home was the right direction.)

since your shared car was dropped off for service, the only way of getting home was wriothesley's motorbike. he helps you on and you murmur a shy 'thank you' underneath your breath when he puts your helmet on for you, only getting on when you're safely secured and comfortable in your seat.

however, unlike usual when your arms would circle around his muscular torso tightly, your grip lingers awkwardly by his sides.

"doll, you need to hold on tight," he warns, starting the engine. you comply ever so slightly, ghosting your arms around him.

for wriothesley, who prioritises your safety more than anything else, it isn't good enough, so he gently pulls you forward, wrapping your arms around him himself. without another word, he drives off, catching you off guard. he hears a small yelp from behind him before your arms snake around him tightly.

wriothesley's sure he'll get a light scolding and a punch to the arm for scaring you like that, but as long as he gets to look you in the eye, he'll take whatever you throw at him.

bonus:

when you're back in the safety of your home, you lightly shove your helmet at his chest and begin scolding him for scaring you like that, but all he does is wolfishly smile at you.

"i warned you, gorgeous, that's what happens when you don't listen to me."

you huff, sliding off the leather seat, clutching your bag to your side, but wriothesley doesn't let you go far, pulling you back in to stand in between his legs.

"still mad at me?" his hands find purchase at your hips. you glance into his icy eyes before looking aside. "i'm sorry, i'll say it as many times as i need to. when are you gonna find it in your heart to forgive me?"

"when you apologise a thousand times."

he whistles. "a thousand? that's a lot."

"so get started."

"do you take other means of compensation?" his hands sneak under your shirt to rest on your waist and you immediately catch his wrists before he can go any further.

"are you even trying to apologise?"

he snickers. "i'm sorry."

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

don't mind me, i'm just fond of thinking about SESSHOMARU having a human s/o that ends up targeted by other humans, who judge her for being a youkai's wife / partner. i imagine them trying to kill her because of that,

and she ends up dying with an arrow on her forehead, while she tried to run away.

of course, SESSHOMARU didn't hesitate to return her to life with tenseiga. but the image of his s/o dead, dropped on the floor with void eyes, and an arrow stuck on her forehead as their pale face contrasts with the blood dropping from her wound...

... to the point where it becomes a habit of SESSHOMARU, to always kiss his s/o on that spot, where the arrow was. he does it almost to be sure that his s/o is alive, there with him, as if that death never happened and that arrow was never stuck on that forehead.

i like to imagine that despite tenseiga's healing, his s/o might have a tiny scar, or even something very light where the arrow penetrated her head.

this was a totally 4am thought. 💢

Favorite Muse (Model!Uzui Tengen x Photographer!Reader) Ko-fi Request

Sooo yes another request for kimetsu no yaiba with our flamboyant Tengen Uzui.Maybe an a/o/b fic (I like how you write them) or an modern au where Tengen is a model (instagram models?) And reader is sort of his personal photographer .I dont mind if you mix the two together.

I’m sorry this took so long, I hope this finds you with some good timing since season 2 is finally out and it is Uzui in all his glory. I’d like to write more stories and blurbs with a photographer/model relationship, this one was a fun one to write. thank you so much for the support! I hope you enjoy!!!

title: Favorite Muse

pairing: Uzui Tengen/Reader

rating: slight nsfw

- - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - -

I have a new shoot idea I want to try.

You glance at your phone, blinking in surprise over the top of your energy drink. You glance at the familiar contact name and look back to your current editing project—the wedding photos should be done by the end of the night if you keep on track. You’re scheduled for a few more shoots in the morning and had planned to kick back as a little reward to yourself.

You consider your options briefly. A new string of texts follow the first, and you know it’s just him trying to incite you even further for whatever crackpot idea he’s come up with this time. You know with how he is, he won’t let it drop if it’s an idea he’s especially fond of, even if it means a half-nude shoot in the middle of the god damn Antarctic because somehow—

The one and only elusive model Uzui Tengen’s photos—they always sell.

You can tell him no, suffer the consequences of having him barrage you for the next few days, suffer the even harder consequences of having one of the girls try to persuade you into doing it—you’re particularly weak to Hinatsuru’s advances—and also miss out on a chance to make some extra pocket change for what you get as Uzui Tengen’s one and only private contractor and photographer. But, what you do get in return is a peaceful, stress-free night to yourself, which is hopelessly and utterly rare and your body is rather beat and haggard after all these back-to-back shoots and especially that god damn rock climbing advertisement, you shouldn’t have done that one. 

Or, you could say yes; get paid handsomely because Tengen’s photos always sell well, get to eat Hinatsuru’s cooking because she’ll have heard you’ll be stopping by the studio and would make sure something’s ready, get to partake in the luxuries that surround the Uzui household, get Uzui off your back for about forty-eight hours max…

Your phone is still being spammed with texts. You ignore them, staring at the happy couple smearing cake onto each other’s faces. When Uzui and the girls finally get a proper wedding in place, you’d take those photos in a heartbeat. You know they’d be the kind for the record books.

Your phone lights up now with a phone call. You suddenly consider turning down the offer out of spite, nursing your energy drink with dull eyes. Your gaze does stray, however, to the pile of take-out containers sitting on your work desk. You frown at them, feeling your stomach churn at the thought of Hinatsuru’s warm porridge…

Your stomach wins. You swipe your phone, pressing it to your ear.

“Finally! What are you doing not picking up my calls at this hour?” you hear music blasting from Uzui’s side and suddenly wonder if you’ve made the wrong choice. “I know, are you getting off on my photos? You can just come and I’ll help you out. No need to play by yourself.”

“What’s this idea of yours?” you say, checking your schedule. If Uzui leaves you alone for the next two days, you can schedule a day-off after the male calendar shoot… yeah, this can work out! “If it’s the frosting idea in a different theme, I’m going to cut all ties with you—”

“You love taking my photos too much,” Uzui says, sounding bored. “I want to do something good for Valentine’s. A single theme, straight-forward, nothing crazy this time, actually.”

“The most flamboyant man on earth,” you say flatly. “And it’s nothing crazy?”

“It’ll be more than enough, baby,” Uzui says. You imagine him kicking his head back, lounging on some kind of leather couch tucked into a dazzling club somewhere or another. The man’s got too much energy, too much stamina, and you’re not really sure where he keeps it. “Less is more, you know?”

You do know. You always tell him those exact words. But for Uzui Tengen, it’s either go big or go home. That’s why his shoots always require you to clear out your schedule the day after because they’re far too arduous for you to do anything else.

“I don’t like how secretive you’re being with the whole thing,” you say, clicking to clean up another photo. “Give me something to mull over. I’ll be there after seven.”

“Six.”

“Seven.”

“Fine, but you’re staying until it’s done.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. You get the feeling he knows anyway though because he continues, “One word theme. Think about it however you’d like, sweetheart.”

You wait, tapping a finger idly against the minimizing key. You hear the music dull in the background, wondering if he’s moving away from the source of noise. His side quiets, and all you hear is the faint rustle of fabric, and then you imagine Uzui’s phone pressed against the side of his face, maybe held up in his hand, right by his mouth—

The husky, low alto of his voice nearly catches you off guard for a second. Uzui whispers it, sweet, like honey against your ears.

“Seduction.”

Keep reading

The pale elf has ruined my life

An Encore of Betrayal

Summary: The devil with no sin nor memory and he who has held them all for centuries.

Word Count: 21.8k (get cozy)

Tags: Neuvillette x Fem!Reader, Slow burn, Slow fic, SMUT, NSFW, Historical AU, Fantasy AU?, Reincarnation AU, cursed!neuvillette, dragon!neuvillette, reincarnated!Reader, human!reader, Fluff, a lot of fluff, Melusines doing their best to play cupid, ex-lovers to lovers, slight enemies to lovers? ANGST, he's trying his best, dragon x human dynamics, Monsterfucking (two... I have no defense), cunnilingus(long tongue), marking, size kink? breeding kink, heat, overstimulation, hate sex? kinda?, slightly unhealthy dynamics (past life), dubcon, trust issues, immortal x mortal, slightly possessive!neuvillette, slightly yandere!neuvillette, TW: mild mention of blood, TW: descriptions of drowning, sin, and sacrifice. TW: Trauma from betrayal, themes of resentment, Infertility.

Author's Note: Wanted to try out a historical fantasy from Neuvillette's pov. I struggle with fantastical settings, so overlook any world-building confusion. Mihoyo won't give me his real name, and it's eating away at my sanity. Enjoy!

Somewhere deep beneath the waves, away from the omnipotent watch of false divinity, lies a village. A bustling home carved into an outcast cove nestled under the cover of suppressive tides.

One littered with tiny houses surrounding an impressive estate modeled much like the ones seen in those novels abandoned from capsized ships. 

Would you believe that such a place exists? 

Decorated with curious trinkets which sunk beneath the surface which had forsaken them, kept in this cove for so long that it was challenging to remember the azure hues. 

Ornaments decorating the expanse of this once lonesome cave, almost enough to conceal its true origin: A prison.

A fool sentenced to this penitentiary masquerading as a home, now affectionately named ‘Merusea Village’. 

Within that attentively built estate, a looming figure stood in front of a wall lined with neatly organized novels, lilac eyes running along the titles printed along each spine. 

A collection saved from watery abandonment after falling overboard by the curious hands of Melusines. Amassed throughout the years until the shelves of this humble library were without vacancy. 

Stopping a finger on a spine, he decided on the novel to pass the ever-plenty time bestowed upon him. He’s aware that each book amongst these shelves has been thumbed through by him.

But with enough years, the recollection of the contents contained within each one tends to become foggy. 

It's fate that the novel selected in his hands just so happens to be a collection of tales.

Humans have many strange behaviors, one might even call them traditions. One particular tradition mortals seem to indulge in often is that of storytelling. 

Lilac eyes browse through the pages, refreshing himself on the tale held within its faded covers. 

----------

There once was a lovely kingdom amidst lush pastures and fertile lands where the townspeople sang and danced under the bright sunlight.

But one day the sun disappeared, concealed behind ashen clouds that cried a lonesome hymn, plaguing the unfortunate kingdom with rain.

The origin of the rain stemmed from the lonesomeness of a great dragon of water.

Thus, to stop the rain, the king sent out a princess to the dragon, declaring that the kingdom gates wouldn’t welcome her back if rain fell from the sky. She was sent off in a white gown. 

Down below a flooded loch, the princess was offered to the weeping dragon. Looking up the princess saw the sorrowful pools in the beast’s eyes. 

‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, why do you cry?’ She asked.

Intrigued by the bravery of the young princess, the dragon answered: ‘Because I am lonely, I have no brethren left.’

Feeling pity the princess responded: ‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, don’t cry. I will be lonely with you.’ 

So the princess befriended a lonesome dragon under the hymn of softening rain, with his loneliness soothed, the sun peeked back out from ashen clouds. But one day, pitiful tears fell from her eyes and the princess wept so bitterly. 

The dragon could not bear seeing those tears stain her cheeks. He offered her pearls, jewels, and gold. Yet those bitter tears still fell, tainting the pristine water. 

‘Beloved princess, why do you cry so bitterly?’ He implored. 

‘I long to go home, I miss my kingdom,’ she revealed. 

But she could not go home, for if she stepped foot away from the riverside the lonesome rain would start again. The colossal dragon could not leave the loch, but he could not bear seeing those bitter tears.

So he relented, telling the princess a secret. A secret all dragons buried deep within: His true name. 

‘If you speak my name, my true name, then I can grant you one wish. But be careful, for there can only be one wish.’ The dragon whispered. 

‘Do you wish to return to your kingdom, beloved princess?’ He asked. 

The princess was silent for a long while, weighing the choices in her hand. She longed to return home, but she also longed to be by the side of her kind dragon. 

Confident in her decision, she beckons the great dragon closer, until her lips could reach the side of his large head where his ear lay. After whispering his name, she tells the beast her wish. 

‘I wish for you to become my prince, so we can return to the kingdom together, that way you won’t ever be lonely again.’

A clever wish he grants with a nod. Scales and claws shedding away until a handsome prince stood in front of her. Thus, hand in hand they returned from the loch to the warm welcome of the kingdom. 

And they lived happily ever after. 

----------

Ah, so it was that tale. 

Judging from the age of the novel, he guesses it must be a rendition of a rendition.

Words and events twisted, embellished, and simplified. Until it became nothing more than a mere fable told to entertain the wandering minds of children. 

A beloved tale of a maiden who got a dragon to give up his grand authority, stopping the flood of vengeance from drowning Fontaine.

This is what the origin of his damnation has turned into. The tales of the heroine’s feats sung and written throughout the narrative of time, passing from one generation’s lips to another’s ears. 

However, he supposes this is expected of humans. It’s their tradition of storytelling, after all, mending a fallacy into a tale palatable to their conscious.

Or perhaps, these embellishments were added to compensate for the hollows caused by the frailty of mortal memory. 

Patching over the holes with flowery words to distract readers from inaccuracies that were only compounded upon from the last. 

Fontainians who came to believe in it, must not have known the dragon all that well, considering that they thought the proud dragon would bow to the whims of a meek human.

Placing a secret so simply in her hands at the mere sight of tears.

Did Fontainians not realize that the land they reside on once belonged solely to dragons? How preposterous it is that a sovereign couldn’t set foot upon his own land. Or did they forget why he couldn’t? 

What a naive ending, did mortals truly believe that blood and water could dwell together without consequences? That simply wishing the dragon to become a human could resolve all troubles?

To overwrite everything with a ‘happily ever after’ which never happened?

Regardless of his reservations toward such fables, the Melusines always seem eager to gather around for such stories. The towering figure lacked the conviction to deny such requests. 

From down the hall approaching closer came the pitter-patter of steps, he turned his tall frame toward the direction of the sound just as a few familiar faces revealed themselves from the library entrance. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette! Come quickly! A human! A human appeared!” A group of Melusines tugs on the fabric of his slacks while pointing toward the phenomenon. 

A mortal in this domain? A cavern hidden deep under the land and waters where the warmth of the sun couldn’t grace. How did such a being find their way into this sanctum?  It’d be best that he alleviates their worries. 

“Please lead the way.” Neuvillette closes the novel, returning it to the confines of its shelf. 

His swift movements in time with the melusines’ frantic patter as they made their way out from his estate.

Soon the tops of the Melusines’ cozy homes of Merusea Village came into view, as did the murmuring of a distraught crowd. 

“Excuse me.” His steps made their presence known, their heads perked up to look at him before parting a path for Neuvillette. 

Upon the maroon pasture of Merusea Village was a blanket of silk and woven lace, snowy fabric surrounding the still figure of a human.

Treading closer Neuvillette kneels down while reaching out a hand, weaving his fingers under the fabric which obscures the mortal’s face. 

“We found her while gathering offerings from the waters … Is she…” The anxious murmuring quiets to await his verdict. 

“She has a pulse,” he reveals, fingertips detecting wisps of warmth along cold skin. 

It was faint, but his attentive eyes caught onto the slow movement of her chest. The snowy fabric had greedily drunk up the essence of the sea. Cursing her to sink deeper below the tides. 

To leave a mortal in such a state would be too cruel of a fate. 

Neuvillette moves his hand to support her covered head as his other arm gathers the damp fabric under her legs.

Carefully, he stands back to his full height, cradling her limp body in his hold. An audience of fretful gazes follow his motions.

“Do not fret, she only requires some rest and a change of clothing, I’ll take her to my abode. Could you gather some cloth to dry down her body?” Neuvillette’s melodic voice just barely above a whisper, so as not to stir the figure in his arms.

His expression softens to offer the compassionate creatures some reassurance. With firm nods the Melusines scatter, determination alight in their bright irises as they sought the necessary items to care for their newfound guest. 

The dampness of the heavy fabric seeps into his own attire as Neuvillette turns the knob to grant him entry into his abode. 

Quietly ambling through the spacious halls, the master bedroom came into view. Neuvillette lays the limp form upon his sheets, ensuring that her head rests slowly upon the soft pillows. 

Just as her figure sinks into the mattress, a chorus of metallic clinks catches his attention. Glancing down her body his lilac eyes discover the origin.

A pair of silver shackles encased around her ankles, the unforgiving metal digging into defenseless flesh. 

Gingerly, he takes one ankle into his grasp to better observe the shackles.

This time he couldn’t fight against the deep frown as it debuted upon his lips. His eyes hone on how tightly those heavy chains were bound along the flesh. 

Soon the unforgiving metal crashes down to the floor, he soothes the freed skin with his thumb while checking for any other possible wounds. 

Lilac eyes travel up to her face for any sign of discomfort, only to be reminded that her face was concealed behind a shroud of lace. 

How uncomfortable it must be to have a cold piece of fabric to cover one’s face. Neuvillette places her ankle back onto the bed.

His large hands took hold of the damp veil to lift it from her resting frame, revealing to his draconic eyes for the first time their face. 

The veil stays suspended in the air as his hands cease all motion. Hardened gaze tracing over her features, the curve of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, and the structure of her face.

Repeated details he had long seared into his consciousness. 

Within those mortal tales, there’s a wide variety of beasts and fearsome creatures. Dragons were depicted as such omnipotent beasts. But there’s a monster all other beast falls secondary to, the devil. 

They didn’t possess the sharpest talons nor the largest fangs. No, what made them so horrifying is that they dawned the most enchanting faces. 

He’s staring at it right now. The face of the devil who deceived him. 

Those gods must be laughing at him right now. Those false idols, with their capricious fate and whims, who once must’ve shook hands with you to carry out their schemes all those years ago. 

The scheme which imprisons him here in this humiliating form of the mortal creatures those false idols loved so much. 

Yes, a devil, that must be what you are. For how did a meek mortal trick a dragon who once held the full authority of the tides?

His chest expands with a deep breath before a long exhale leaves him. Ah, yes that must be why this white gown has appeared before him again. He removes the senseless scrap of lace, checking once more for signs of discomfort before he turns his body away. 

Finding himself outside the threshold of his bedroom as he closes the door behind him. He should wait here for the Melusines to arrive with a change of clothes and towels. 

It’d buy him enough time to steadily return the tempestuous loch to a subdued ripple in a pond. His chest expands once more with a deep inhale. 

A second cruel rendition unfolding once more in the narrative of time.  

The crisp turn of a page resounds through the room. Lilac eyes glanced up from the text every so often to watch the steady rises and falls of your chest from his vantage point of a wooden chair pulled up to the bedside. 

Heavy lashes still shut just as they were the day your drenched figure was pulled from the tides by merciful hands. 

The journey to wisdom is lined with mistakes, mistakes providing teachings one must ingrain into their very being if they don’t wish to repeat such blunders again.

Just as how a burn seared into skin is a forever reminder that fire indeed burns indiscriminately. 

A scar ingrained deep within him cries out for Neuvillette to withdraw from the fire which scorned him so long ago. 

Alas, it’s duty which has sat him down beside your sleeping form. You’re the first guest this cove has seen in a long time, thus bringing you under the responsibility of the host, Neuvillette himself. 

A stir brings his stoic gaze back away from his thoughts. Your chest rises with a long inhale as leaden lashes flutter open.

The cadence of your breaths begins to rise as more of your senses return to you. Fatigue evident in each slow drag of breath. 

“Ah, I see you’ve awoken.” Neuvillette observes. 

Your muscles momentarily forget their fatigue as your head snaps toward the owner of the deep voice. Eyes now wide and alert. 

“My apologies, it wasn’t my intention to startle you.” He casts a glance toward the steaming bowl on the nightstand. 

He could feel the weight of your stare travels up his figure. Do you perhaps remember him? Can you recall his lush snowy locks streaked with azure? Irises that held an all too familiar hue, a multitude of lilac shades much like a field of lavenders.

Does this ‘you’ remember the dragon you fooled? 

“W-who are you?...” Your gaze was too cowardly to meet his.

Ah, have the cycle of death and rebirth washed those sins and memories?

The tonality of your trembling voice filled with puzzlement instead of recognition. He should’ve expected this much.

This you is nothing more than a stranger who shares the face of a devil. 

“Where am I?” Another question leaves those lips in the absence of a response. 

Just give him a moment, allow him to pacify the surging torrent within so their bitterness doesn’t seep into his words. 

“You’re in our village!” A cheery voice joins the conversation. 

Two pairs of eyes land upon a short figure with a pair of pastel horns. You blink once, then twice, then slowly thrice. Inquisitive eyes stared right back at you. 

“W-what… are you?” Instinct commanding your body to retract deeper into the sheets. 

A sharp cough halts your actions, drawing your attention back to the man as he lowers his hand down from his lips. 

“She’s a Melusine, they prefer to be addressed using she/her pronouns,” he elucidates, an ever so subtle chastise in his tone. 

“Oh…” You advert your gaze again, shame creeping onto your cheeks from your unintentional discourtesy. 

A few breaths of silence follow, he observes you studying everything but the two figures just beside the bed.

Your fingers soothing over the soft cotton nightgown against your skin, a change from that restrictive and ornate dress. 

“We, Melusines, helped you change out of that wet dress. Big sister Sedene said you’d get sick if we left you in that.” 

It looks like your diverted gaze wasn’t as subtle as you originally thought. Sheepishly you extend your gratitude. 

“Thank you…” Your words draw out, a brow quirked as your stare reminded on her short form. 

“Kiara!” She points to herself with a mitten hand. 

“Thank you, Kiara.” You finish. 

Her mittened hand then gestures to the towering man beside her. 

“This is Monsieur Neuvillette! He’s the one who carried you here,” she announces. 

“T-thank you, Monsieur Neuvillette.” You could only gather the courage to glance at the wall behind him. 

“Just Neuvillette is fine,” his tone melodic and calm. “Are you able to sit up?”

Nodding your head, you attempt to fight through the fatigue of your muscles. Neuvillette and Kirara offer their assistance, his firm hands guiding your body up as Kirara adjusts the pillows to support your back. 

Once you were situated, he reached for the bowl placed down earlier. A light clink sounds out from a spoon clattering about the porcelain dish. You glance at the contents, noting the clear amber broth. 

“This should be kind on your stomach while providing you with some much-needed hydration and nutrients.” He holds out the soup. 

A quivering hand attempts to reach up for the bowl, only for muscles to lose to fatigue as your arm limply falls back down to your side. Your strength has yet to return. 

Another clink from the spoon resounds in the room as it gets taken into the grasp of an attentive hand. He holds out a spoonful of the warm soup, but your lips remain shut as a skeptical gaze meets his. 

“Please forgive this inconvenience, but it’s best that you eat something to regain your strength.” The spoon remains unmoving in his hand. 

There’s a rumbling stir within him. A voice snarls into his ear, interrogating him as to why his hand is feeding the very devil who once bit it. 

“If you don’t eat you won’t get better.” Kiara’s eyes are riddled with concern as she observes your sealed lips. 

That was his rebuttal to that snarl.

The Melusines simply don’t wish to see a human in such a pitiful state. Blissful in their ignorance of events that conspired long before their birth. 

 Dignity overpowered by the guilt of seeing such pure eyes marred with worry. 

Soon your lips part, accepting the spoonful of broth delicately offered by him. After he observes you swallowing the first sip, Neuvillette holds out another spoonful. You part your lips again.

Neuvillette overrides the clamorous warnings of his instincts with the duty of being a ‘good host’, bringing another sip to your delicate lips.

With a regular diet of warm broth with servings of Bulle Fruit on the side, you were soon able to pick up the spoon yourself. The fatigue that plagued your bones finally leaves, allowing you to support your body off the mattress which had your shape imprinted into it. 

The Melusines, seemingly born infatuated with humanity, would often gather about your bed.

They were curious about you just as you were about them. To them, you’re the creature from those fairytales he’s read them. 

In exchange for your recollections of warm Summer days and descriptions of lush lilac fields swaying in a gentle breeze, they reveal more about this village.

About how the estate you were currently residing in was refurbished by their own-mittened hands, taking inspiration from the various books depicting what human abodes looked like. 

The beds, drapes, and even rugs are all arranged by them to create a lovely abode. A drastic change to the worn and rampaged shell it once was before their meddling.

Perhaps if he never filled their naive minds with those tales, they wouldn’t be enamored with you and humanity. 

Or maybe it’s the vibrance of your smile that drew their naive souls closer. A warmth like a flickering candlelight beckoning a moth closer.

What are the odds that the hands of fate stayed so faithful to the details of a heroine from so long ago? 

From your image to your bewitching mannerisms, and alluring voice, they’re all identical replicas. You and the ‘devil’ from that tale. 

Wisdom from a lesson learned long ago, he must not repeat the same mistake. He must not be enchanted by the same flame which scorned him. He must ensure a breadth between you and him, just as those tiresome voices call for. 

However, Neuvillette understands he has a responsibility as a host. Thus, he regularly checked on your condition, then when you were well enough to stretch your legs he accompanied you on strolls. Maintaining a respectable distance away. 

He guided you through the marble halls of the estate, showing the library and bath which were yours to access whenever you wanted.

Rooms illuminated with the muted glow of luminescence gems and pearls. Water sourced from a hidden freshwater spring. 

Impassive eyes observe yours as you look in awe at the facilities and commendations hidden deep under the tides. Were they comparable to the ones you’ve encountered back on the surface? 

This estate, these wide stone halls, those pearls and jewels once scattered about, were all made just to please the bitter tears of a mortal. Perhaps his first attempt was too subpar to quell the longing to return to the sunlight. 

But gauging from the glimmer reflecting off your eyes, it seems the Melusines attempt was satisfactory at least. 

Today’s stroll took you outside of the estate, Neuvillette accompanying you about a routine walk, watching from behind as your eyes scan the dim realm.

The lanterns lining the path of Melusine's home grace the maroon pastures and rocky walls in place of the faint wisps of sunlight offered by the depths of the sea. 

Very much expected for a village beneath the waves and earth. Were you reminiscing about the warm grace of the sun you felt up there?

It’s not fair to compare the vast sky of the surface to their cavern hidden away from the eyes of the mortals, perhaps even the divine themselves. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” You began today’s attempt at a conversation. 

“Yes?” He hums in acknowledgment. 

He keeps sentences brief, but informative. Counters to your attempts at conversation. 

“I’m aware this might sound strange, but is there a dragon down here?” Turning back to face him.

His strides stop as a lull of silence falls over the both of you. The weight of his unshaken gaze upon your shoulders caused them to tense up.

Your hands find each other for comfort under his oppressive stare as he awaits the reason behind this odd inquiry. 

“W-well you see, Fontaine has been having awful weather for years now. Saltwater running crops and persistent heavy rain, it’s because the Hydro Dragon is crying from his loneliness. I was selected and offered as his bride, to stop the rain, that’s what The Oratrice instructed,” you babble out. 

“So…do you know where he is?” Sheepishly you glance up. 

The lilac hues of his eyes connect with yours as his lips remain unmoving. Staring into your eyes as he contemplates what you have just revealed to him. Your hands fumble together as you await his response.

“So humans are still telling that local legend…” He sighs. 

He has to rein it back. The torrent which threatens to brew within him. Deep breaths to remind himself about the nature of mortals. 

Humans are fickle and meek creatures who constantly yearn for something divine to worship, a figurehead to guide them in the turbulence of life.

When faced with hardship and destitution, they believe such concepts to be punishment from above. 

Thus, they invent traditions to appease those false idols. Going to great lengths in attempts to pacify those unseen forces, even if it meant sacrificing one of their own. 

Perhaps this was the trait of mortals that made them so favored by the usurpers, their naive devotion feeding into the greed of selfish gods.

Maybe that’s why those false idols uprooted the land that belonged to dragons. 

“I wonder just how far that fable has spread by now,” he sighs again.

His lashes flutter shut in exasperation as a huff leaves him. It was a moment before they flutter back open to hone in on you. There’s no use in keeping his identity from you any longer. 

“Do I seem lonely in your eyes?” Baritone voice steady and low. 

No sounds fall from your agape lips as your eyes reexamine his features, this time shamelessly ogling the peculiar details you’ve brushed off previously.

Do you notice it now? How his ears were a bit too pointed, or those two particular cerulean strands of ‘hair’ poking out from his snowy locks. 

As you study the specifics of his eyes, do you now comprehend the sharp dark pupils that cut through the multitude of lilac shades? Much like a shadow cutting through a field of lavenders. 

“You’re the Hydro Dragon,” you deduce. 

He nods in confirmation. Only causing your eyes to scan over him again as your mind reels back from this revelation. 

In those stories you’ve read back on the surface, how did they depict him? As a towering scaled beast with fangs and claws? Are you wondering why he’s not matching that description? 

“I’m aware that my current shape might not convey such a presence, ” he answers your unspoken question. 

He fights for his lips to remain stoic, not allowing the weight of a frown to pull them down. You don’t know, you don’t need to know, he reminds himself. 

A detail excluded from the pages of that tale, the ‘princess’ would only ever look at him, would only ever smile at him when a dragon took on this shape. A form which mirrors humans. 

In fact, she was so fond of this human shell of his that she cursed him to dwell within it for the rest of eternity. 

Neuvillette takes another deep breath, quelling the stir once more. You look like you had more questions. 

“So… does that mean the need for a bride is fictitious?” You clutch your hands tighter. 

Some years ago, the Melusines were born from spilled blood. A new generation of successors of the brethren he once forsaken. Making this prison much less lonesome, voiding the accuracy of the sentence in that tale. 

If that was the case, then why did the waters still rage? Why did the pittering of rain drown out all bird songs and tumults of perplexed citizens? Is there a way he could simplify the details missed by storytellers for generations? 

After that ‘happily ever after’, a dragon cursed his devil just as she cursed him. 

No, such expositions would be an unfair burden upon your shoulders. 

“It’s not fictitious.” Turning to gaze out at the depths of the underground realm, he takes a breath before continuing. 

“The land which your nation, Fontaine, resides on is stolen land,” he reveals. “More accurately all of what you know as ‘Teyvat’ was stolen from the dragons, my fellow brethren.” 

The furrow in your brows deepens as you listen on. 

“My brethren were banished to the depths for the sake of humanity. A dragon’s rage isn’t something that can be easily quelled.” He glances back at you. 

“A union between a dragon and a human, a show of peace between the two species. Even if the origins of this ritual have been embellished heavily, it serves the same purpose to pacify the ancient dragon’s rage,” he concludes. 

Neuvillette wonders if this tale was enough to satisfy your inquiry, if his attempt at the human practice was enough to simplify the events muddled and twisted by time.

Impassive eyes scan over your expression, not missing the glimmer ever so bright within. 

“So… has the rain stopped?” Your hands almost clasped together in prayer. 

He nods, the shine growing ever so luminous in those blameless irises, one he couldn’t resist the enchantment of. That all too familiar look in your eyes. 

“That’s good.” A slow smile made its appearance upon plush lips.

Ah. He remembers what that look was called, voices of recollection pulling him away from the edge. Just before he fell into bewitchment once more.

That look wasn’t relief, nor was it salvation. It's duty. He takes a slow and deep inhale. 

Just as it was all those years ago, the narrative of this tale did not stray away from the plot. He must be more careful. 

There’s been a still lull engulfing the atmosphere down in a hidden cavern. So still in fact that walks amongst maroon patches of grass have stopped. Your body was well enough to explore the corners of the state without assistance. 

No reason for him to remain by your side throughout the day, and no reason for you to shadow him. 

Neuvillette and you keeping mostly to one’s self. It was just the natural progression of things. After all, the ritual had been completed and the tides had receded. You’ve served your duty once more. 

A foreign aroma was wafting through the estate, strange enough for Neuvillette to leave the library to investigate the origins of this aroma.

Steps slowing as the clacker of pots and pans becomes more distinct. The entrance of the estate kitchen comes into view, and he peers in to see a few familiar faces. 

“Oh? Monsieur!” Rhemia notices his presence. 

An assortment of vegetables, spices, and even some meats from fresh catches were spread about the table as a pan sizzling over a crackling fire.

Ingredients gathered from offering dropped down below the tides. The recent influx could be attributed to how the hymn of the rain has ceased. 

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Your smile greets him. 

Ah, he’s found the explanation behind the foreign aroma and why the variety spread of ingredients was being utilized in a kitchen that was once mainly created just to match those diagrams drawn in novels. 

“I hope you don’t mind my use of the kitchen, I wanted something other than…Consomme Purete.” Wiping your hands with a rag. 

Yes, Consomme Purete.

It was the dish served when you had first woken up, a light but nutritious soup that was kind on your stomach. It had the right amount of hydration balanced with nutrients to sustain oneself, a perfect dish.

The only dish cooked in this kitchen, that was until today. 

Removing a pan from the heat, you carefully transfer the contents onto a plate then place the pan back on the wood stove.

The rich aroma caused an audience of bright-eyed stares from the Melusines to center upon the steaming plate. Their tails make their excitement clear as they gaze upon a dish they’ve never seen before. 

Was this a new passion of this life?... Or was it just one he never got the chance to witness?

Was this the devil before the role of a bride was forced upon her? A devil he’s never known, for all he saw was her performance to stop the deafening rain all those years ago.

His attention was brought back as the chime of cutlery against porcelain was heard, cooked veggies stabbed between the teeth of a fork.

Cupping a hand under the fork, your body leans down to the Melusine’s height, feeding them a bite of the fragrant dish. The wags of their tails increase in cadence as they chew. 

“This is Tasses Ragout, tasty isn’t it?” The corners of your lips curl as you watch their little heads nod eagerly. 

The suspicion melts from his gaze as he observes to the delight in their expressions, a few mitten hands tugging at the skirt of your gown for a bite. A giggle bubbles from your throat.

A scene mirroring that of a mother trying to appease the appetites of her ravenous young. 

Soon your eyes connect and he straightens his posture. Brushing away the nonsensical musing, lilac hue advert away momentarily to recompose themselves before returning. 

“Would you like a taste?” A fork offered in his direction, beckoning closer to take a bite. 

There’s a myth he’s read about, of a forbidden apple held out by the tempter of all tempters, an apple so red and lustrous it made any mouth salivate. 

“Thank you for the offer, however, I’ve already had my lunch.” He refrains. 

A bite from that forbidden fruit was the genesis of disgrace and banishment. A betrayal of commandments once promised. Neuvillette won’t be deceived again. 

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

“Monsieur! Monsieur! Come look!” 

Mittened hands grasping upon his coat and gloved hands as a circle of Melusines guides him through the winding halls, anticipation amping their voices. 

There’s a chorus of giggles resounding through the halls, a joyous clamor of pattering steps against the marble floors.

The estate has been lively ever since your arrival in that white dress, a liveness which reaches his pointed ears even from behind closed doors. 

Regardless, he allows himself to be towed by their skipping steps. Leading him to a room he recognizes as a space where many fabrics and gowns were collected and stored.

Garments made with the intent to be sold to Fontainians, but their crates were capsized over by the ravenous tides. Saved from watery abandonment by curious hands. 

While this form of his could wear a few of those garments, the Melusines had statures much too short for pools of fabric to not drag along the ground. Thus, that collection of fabrics found themselves collecting dust. 

Their steps abruptly stop just at the threshold of the door, mittened hands pressed up against their lips signaling for him to remain silent.

Soon their sights glance into the room as he follows, lilac eyes opening ever so slightly wider as they process the scene in front of him. 

Evening gowns crafted by skilled tailors to be sold to Fontanian ladies, you had the right frame for those garments as well.

A trail of lustrous sapphire silk gathered behind your figure. The artistic stitching and pleating draping the silk around each curve of your body as if you were the only person meant to wear it. 

A few Melusines fussing about the silk train, ever so curious of humanity, they must’ve requested for you to dawn the gown.

Just as they often had requested for him to dawn those fickle suits and coats for their enjoyment.

It seems you bent to their childish whims just as he does. 

“How do you like it?” You ask your audience, twirling about in front of a mirror. 

It’s different from those hardier dresses for when you wandered about the village and estate, in comparison this dress was much less practical. 

“It’s beautiful, Madame!” Their round eyes were enamored.

“I’m glad, who knew you had such an aesthetic eye.” Your expression softens. 

Bending down to Carole’s height, you scooped her up. Cradling her as your forehead touches her horns gently.

“Thank you for such a lovely dress.” Placing tender pats along her head, careful to not disturb her horns and hair. 

Carole leans into your touch as your smile widens. Twirling once more with her in your arms, giggles ringing throughout the room.

Until your head peeked up, finally aware of the silent spectator just behind the door frame. 

“Oh, hello Neuvillette,” you greet him with a smile he doesn’t return.

A tense lull creeps in, and a chill begins to mix with the quiet atmosphere. Lilac eyes pass over your form as Carole remains sat in your arms.

“Monsieur! Isn’t Madame pretty? Look!” Cheery and oblivious voices chime returning the warmth to the air. 

Mitten hands release your skirt as they skitter toward his towering figure. Pride shines in their beaming smiles, awaiting validation of their handy work.

Steadfast eyes lowering themselves to the level of their short statures until the sharp edges gradually dissipate. 

“A fine effort indeed.” A gloved hand extends to rest atop their heads. 

Patting their heads tenderly as they closed their eyes in contentment 

A warmth in those lilac hues, endearment no word could ever encapsulate fully. 

“Are they your daughters?” Your head slants to the side.

His body stills, strictness reinstated in those violet irises just as they met yours. Studying that look within your polite smile, one which didn’t seem to reach your eyes. 

Gloved hand ceasing all movement, his concentration now elsewhere. That expression ghosting your face, what does it mean? 

“My apologies, was it too impudent of a question?” Your gaze adverts away, searching for reprieve in this heavy hush.

A deep breath as he formulates his response. 

“I don’t share blood with them if that’s what you’re inquiring. However, they are the successors of my brethren.” 

“Oh, I see,” you hum. 

 Neuvillette returns to patting their heads, while you readjust your hold on Carole. Subtly bouncing her, while turning back to face the standing mirror.

Casting a glance, he could discern the softness returning to that polite smile. Yet, the dragon has yet to unravel that luster in your irises. 

An audience of bright eyes switches between the Monsieur and Madame. 

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

“Bring these to her, you should greet the Madame!” Tiny hands push against Neuvillette’s back. 

The traitorous clicks of his shoes against marble expose his approach.

Your head peers up from the book resting upon your lap, in the midst of reading a tale aloud to an audience. 

Just in time to catch the tall figure of Neuvillette emerging into the library at the behest of the Melusines. 

Lilac eyes meet yours ever so briefly before his gaze averts elsewhere. Gloved hand adjusting a bundle hidden a broad back, brings the other hand up to clear his throat. 

“The Melusines found these when retrieving some offerings from the water, I believe you’ll enjoy them.” He presents their trinket. 

A simple collection of dainty petals clustered together, pastel hues contrast against vivid virescent leaves. A quaint ribbon tied around the stems holding the bunch together held out in front of your face.

The recipient stares in round-eyed astonishment at the fragrant blooms before a smile melts into your lips. 

“Thank you.” You accept the bouquet from his hand. 

Admiring the rustic arrangement and the saccharine aroma as the Melusines sat around you leaned in closer to catch a whiff too. 

“These are called Pluie Lotus up on the surface, they smell nice right?” Giggling lightly as you held the bouquet closer to their noses. 

Grin ever present upon your lips as your soft eyes watch their marvel of such simple weeds. A bloom foreign to this realm abandoned by the sunlight. 

There’s subtle slack in his posture, a budding smile just about to unfold just as your head peers back up. Every fiber in Neuvillette’s being tenses, goosebumps slithering up his nape. 

Frozen there only able to witness your eyes study back and forth the hues of his irises and the periwinkle color tinting the fragile petals.

He watches an epiphany light up in your widened eyes as the bouquet was lifted higher, turning back to face him. 

Don’t. Don’t say the words he knows are hanging off the tip of that honeyed tongue. 

“They are the same lovely color as your eyes, Neuvillette.” You beam at him, the corners of your eyes crinkling from the stretch of your lips. 

His posture returns to its rigid and upright state, a hand hidden from view balls up into a fist.

A sharpness threatening to break through leather confines and into his palm, as if they were attempting to grapple the surging torrent stirred up within himself. 

Why? Why was this line from a script being recited word for every damn word? All said with that saccharine smile plastered over those wicked lips? 

Indecipherable eyes narrow ever so slightly before he catches himself. Reining in the torrent just before it seethed out.

He clears his throat again to swallow back the bitterness. 

“Do excuse me, please return to your reading session,” he utters his parting. 

Promptly turning to return to his secludedness, stepping past the Melusines gathered by his side.

Swift strides through the empty halls leaving you to your peace and him to his peace, just as it should’ve been. Much to the pouts of a disappointed audience. 

However, he didn’t have the mind to contemplate their discontent. Not when these rabid bellows drown out every other thought in their rancor.

Like a sea starved for vengeance, ravenous to settle a debt against those vile gods and their beloved creations. 

A brass knob was abruptly twisted, hinges squealing in surprise as at the force as Neuvillette shuts it behind himself.

Ragged breathes resounding through the reprieve of his bedroom. Away from innocent bystanders and the devil who showed her face again after all these centuries for an encore.  

Has he not been humiliated enough? He tugs at his cravat, freeing himself from the fickle decoration constricted about his neck in this already imprisoning body.

A form which binded him no matter how violently talons and fangs clawed and chewed, unable to leave a singular dent upon this damn curse. 

This was humiliating enough, bound to this cove that separated him from the sea which cries for their sovereign.

He once believed this penitentiary was obscured away from the peeking eyes of capricious gods. Perhaps, he’s wrong. 

Why is this fantasy being played out right in front of his eyes now after all these years?

To have you by his side, to have you reside in the home he craved out and inlaid pearls into, to see you smile and cradle young against your bodice. It’s insulting. 

Because this was all he ever wanted. This was all he had ever wanted. 

The lonesome dragon only ever yearned for a maiden’s endearment. He once believed she adored him back just the same. 

Because while she lay within his arms under silken covers, her bare skin pressed against his mortal shape, her enchanting eyes always regarded him with such tenderness as her delicate hand stroked his cheek. 

A glimmer he once believed was love.  

The tale written along the parchment implied that the ‘princess’ loved the dragon. However, that was inaccurate. She never did. 

For if she loved him, then she wouldn’t have deceived him.

She wouldn’t have ever whispered his secret to the town’s folk. Those foul creatures who then used his secret, which was once reserved solely for ‘you’.

Why? That simple question taunted him for decades as he rotted in this mocking solitude.

Why did ‘you’ yearn for the sun more than him? Was his love not enough to replace the warmth of a star? Was the home he made not enough when compared to the extravagance of humanity? 

Or was it because blood and water, no matter how much they intertwine and mix, could never produce wine? 

If… if the Melusines had been born just a few centuries earlier, then would you have been satisfied by his side? An answer he could already discern.

 Because after his decades of solitude within these deridingly hushed walls, he finally accepted the truth. 

 She loved her people, they took up all the space of her heart, leaving no room for a prideful leviathan.

What a clever plan it all was, to distract a sovereign from his duty, cleansing stolen land with a flood of vengeance, by sending a maiden.

A woman so bewitching, so enchanting, and so lovely, that a proud dragon couldn’t resist bending to her whims. Spilling the secret hidden deep within him into her ear. 

Abandoning his true form to be confined in the shape she favored the most. Then lured up to the surface, suspicions obstructed by the dazzlement of a false welcome from the nation of Fontaine. 

Unaware until the scorching knife was already lodged in his back. Using the secret he had only ever told you, those meek creatures of the usurpers wished:

‘For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides’. 

What a clever ploy, a masterly crafted master plan. Did that Oratrice bestow it upon mortals? Or was it your own little scheme? A devil in human skin who must’ve been enlisted by the god themselves. 

 That day when he was chained by that loch, you didn’t even bother to grace him with your presence.

You cruel, cruel devil whose heart only had room for her fellow citizens of Fontaine, whose eyes only ever glimmered with duty. 

Neuvillette had finally comprehended the truth, he had made peace with the disgrace he brought upon himself. 

So why did those vile false gods dangle you back in his face? They had already taken fragments of his authority.

Was his torment entertaining to them? 

Lungs shaking with unsteady breaths, he could feel the pricks of scales dotted along his skin only for this body to swiftly reject it. A turmoil of draconic influence constrained by a mortal curse. 

Like a beast kept in a cage much too small for it. If Neuvillette wishes for this agitation to cease, he must cease the stirred emotions. 

 Emotions don’t settle quickly once agitated like sand attempting to settle at the bottom of violent tides. He paces his shuddery inhales, biding in the solitude of his room until the storm dissipates. 

To avoid the placid lake within him from thrashing violently to the woes from the throb of a wound which has yet to scar over, Neuvillette found it best to avoid your presence. 

The lanterns outside the Melusine’s homes had long gone out as they followed their routine bedtime.

The expanse of the cavern dimmed to near blackness, the small creatures all tucked away soundly in their beds. A hushed ambiance provides a suitable environment for reflection. 

His steps flatten the grass underneath as they accompany his strides with their rustling.

The absence of light had never bothered him, it’s within his nature to detest it. Any beast would withdraw away from the mere image of fire. 

The rustle of the grass halts, a wispy aroma of smoke wafts towards him. It doesn’t take long to identify the origin. Only a small flicker broke through the shadows, candlewick fostering only a weak flame.

But it was enough to fend the shadows away from your frame. 

The flame’s light caught on each subtle ripple of the pond you were kneeling over.

The seemingly unremarkable pool served as the sole entrance and exit to Merusea Village. Where the Melusines traveled through to gather food, fresh water, and trinkets swallowed up by the waves. 

Cold waters catch the bitter droplets of your pained eyes in the reflection of the ripples upon the surface, the distorted silhouette of a weeping devil. 

An unspoken gospel revealed to draconic pupils. 

Under the rich aromas wafting from the kitchen, behind the diligently tailored gowns, and hidden in the cadence of your voice as you read tales aloud, laid the yearning for the rays of a bright star. 

You’re human, a creature fleeting and meek by nature. Blood yearns to be with blood just as every drop of rain yearns to return to a cloud. 

A sharp rustle of grass under a heavy step jolts your hunched-over posture straight, head whipping around to face the uninvited audience.

Once those weeping eyes recognize the brooding figure in front of them, your face adverts away from his direction. Shame evident upon your expression. 

A concerned hand reaches out only to retract away, contrition marring his shut lips as Neuvillette diverts his eyes too.

Fire burns indiscriminately, even the dancing flame of a candle can sear its mark upon skin. Neuvillette knows this all too well, for the lesion he received from embracing that flame once still festers even after all these years.  

However, lilac eyes pan back towards the orange glow illuminating your melancholic face. Warm hues contrast against the wet trails down your cheeks. There’s an ache more agonizing than a festering wound. 

His steps advanced closer until he was knelt down by your slump frame. A benevolent touch lands upon your shoulder. Guiding you away from the taunting waters and into his arms, hiding your face in his broad shoulder. 

 Offering you a semblance of warmth in a coven shunned from the grace of gentle sunlight.

With your face away from his gaze, the cacophony of your sobs returns, digging your fingers into the folds of his dress shirt.

Echoed back mockingly by the cold cavern walls.

Perhaps a foolish dragon has yet to learn his lesson, still lured in that the brilliant light of a flame. 

A gentle hand traces up along your back, softly brushing your hair away to reveal the skin of your nape to his sharp pupils.

Honed in upon untainted skin, the courts of rebirth may have removed the proof of your damnation, but not the hex itself. 

Or maybe, a foolish dragon feels some responsibility for being the one to curse you to this fate. 

A mark once imprinted upon your nape by a lonesome dragon, a heavy oath sworn to you engrained into the very fabric of your soul amidst the first rendition.

One which then became the cursed chains that sunk you under the unforgiving waters.

It’s said that love is heavy, a weight greater than the density of water. A heaviness which could sink anything and everyone under salty tides. 

A heaviness originating from this accursed prison where a disgraced being resided.

Even as the earth above welcomed new generations as they said goodbye to bygone times. 

The solitude of a fool turning into ravenous waves which seeped into soil until its appetite was satiated by the return of its beloved treasure.

It’s his fault that the tides stole you from the sunlight. 

The courts of rebirth had already forgiven you of this burden, not a single memory remaining of that tale.

What right does he have to place it back upon you? There’s no point in punishing one for a sin that had been cleansed by the tides of time.

You didn’t deserve to be held away from the warmth of a benevolent sun.

To have been dragged down below to these depths. To have been stolen away from the warmth of the sun by the command of fickles gods and ancient grudges.

It’s much too severe of a sentence for you, someone who didn’t deserve to repent for a sin that wasn’t truly yours. 

Is it okay for his hands to wipe away your tears when this cursed dragon was the cause of your agony?

Even if it’s wrong, Neuvillette holds you closer. Even if he didn’t have the right, he pressed your face in his shoulder. Allowing the vehemence of your tears to scorch his skin as you buried your cries into him. 

Glancing at the pool you had been leaning over, he watches as the ripples of the surface taunt you and him the same.

Two beings whose bodies couldn’t embrace the tides. Two cursed beings who’ve been trapped in repeated play. 

“It seems you’re bound to this prison as well.” He scorns those gods and ancient grudges, but he scorns himself the most.

Confined behind a human face and a human body, a traitor who’s lost his birthright over the waters who couldn’t welcome him.

How can a cursed dragon quell those choking sobs of yours? How can he atone for his selfish sin?

Neuvillette takes a deep breath just your tears continue to soak his skin. Steeling his resolve, he meditates on the one resolution he can offer you. 

“Fontainians still tell a tale about a princess who wished a dragon to become a prince, yes?” He begins. 

After a pause filled with hiccups and shaky breaths, you nod your head as an answer. 

“It was when she spoke the dragon’s true name that he granted her one wish,” he recounts the tale, feeling the trembles of your shoulders. 

“That part of the story isn’t fictitious,” he reveals.

Voices from the depths of his rationality whisper for him to stop, to expand no more upon this secret of his brethren. Clamorous warnings to a traitor to not repeat his past transgressions. 

However, he obeys no edict from the heavens or origins. Not when an unjust punishment caused such heart-wrenching sobs. 

“Names hold great significance to dragons. So much so, to whoever learns their true name, a wish can be granted.” 

Slowly, your tear-stained face pulls away from his crinkled dress shirt. Finally meeting his lilac gaze. He notes the bewilderment which surrounds his reflection in your eyes. 

“Is… your name not ‘Neuvillette’?” You inquire. 

“It’s a surname bestowed upon me by the mortals of the land.” 

“Then… What is your name?” A glimmer of optimism ever so subtly debuts in your eyes. 

He could not tell you. No matter how beautifully that light shines, this was one ordinance he couldn’t ignore. All he could do was glance away as he shakes his head. Unable to bear the sight of that light extinguishing. 

“That is what you must find for yourself.” 

Perhaps this is his defiance of the plot which has been unraveling for so long. His attempt to step off that circular path, searching for a different end. 

The silent audience of fate watching on with bemusement to where this rendition will lead. 

“Oh?”

“Oh?”

What a peculiar occurrence, Neuvillette was just about to exit his study when he found himself just a breath’s width away from you. Instinctively, he takes a step back behind the threshold of the doorway.

Passive eyes studying your form, you must’ve been standing there for a while. A hand held up intending to knock on the oak door returns to your side as you stare at the floor. 

“Is there something you need assistance with?” He continues to study you. 

Lilac eyes observe as your fingers clasp together, a common habit of mortals when nervous, if he recalls the contents of a book correctly. Another minute passes before you take a deep breath. 

“Is your name Guillaume?” You peer up. 

Ah, so this is what you wished to inquire about.

The secret revealed to you that day beside an exit neither he nor you could cross. Guillaume, a name befitting of nobility. But unfortunately, not for a dragon. 

He responds with a shake of his head, expression stiffening as he watches the corners of your lips drop ever so slightly. 

“Oh…”

It seems his existence brings nothing but a frown upon those soft lips, Neuvillette felt it’s best to retreat from your sight. 

This attempt was evidence of your determination to return to the embrace of a warm star.

It wouldn’t be right for him to interfere, despite those vile voice whispers murmuring from the depth of his mind. It wouldn’t be fair to you. 

It’s best to maintain this distance between his hand and yours, for your sake and his. 

Which begs the question, why were you still standing here in front of him? 

“Is that all you wished to inquire?” Neuvillette hopes the Melusines will lift your spirits after he withdraws. 

“Actually…” You began. “I made some soup and if you haven’t had lunch yet, would you like to try some?” 

Although his stoic face might not reflect it, he’s positively baffled. Were ‘you’ always this enthusiastic about food?

The devil he knew before would view the freshest catches and clearest waters offered by a dragon with blasé reactions. 

You used to recoil away from the fishes and meats he held out to you, they were only ever touched once he charred them over a fire. 

Then again the kitchen back then was much more barren than the present, cabinets now decorated with bottles of fragrant spices and herbs. 

Was it just a difference in palate? To reject such an invitation would be to squander a precious opportunity for investigation. 

“The pleasure would be all mine.” He matches your strides as the two of you traverse toward the kitchen. 

Settling down in a chair at a wooden table, Neuvillette watches as you ladle some soup into a bowl. Following your form as you set the bowl down in front of him. A pleasant aroma accompanies the steam emitting from the bowl. 

“It’s Fontainian Onion Soup.” You hand a spoon over. 

“Thank you.” He takes the utensil and scoops a hearty serving of the rich soup.

A distinct flavor of caramelized onions and the creaminess of cheese. The broth had been thickened with a bit of flour and the cheese added to the heavy mouth feel. 

This dish certainly expresses the flavor preferences of humans… but could such a thick broth really be considered soup? 

“Do you like it?” Your head tilts to the side as he feels your inquisitiveness. 

Dabbing a napkin over his lips, he clears his throat. 

“A fine dish indeed. Although increasing the liquid content and reducing the amount of fat could improve it,” he advises. 

A hush falls over the kitchen, nothing but the occasional crackle of a fire filling the space. 

“Oh… I’ll keep that in mind.” Your voice was restraining something. 

As you turn away, Neuvillette catches the subtle shakes of your shoulders. 

Ah, has he caused offense? He recalls how cooking and food preferences amongst humans tend to be a sore spot for most, some books going as far as to claim critics as attacks on one’s pride. 

You had taken time out of your day to prepare a bowl for him, and he gave senseless comments in return. 

“Ah, but it’s delicious regardless, thank you.” He has to remedy this situation. 

The shakes of your shoulders increase, as a hand covers your lips. 

“Thank you, Monsieur.” Your lips seem to be trying to stifle something. 

After finishing your sentence, your lips pressed tighter together. He could see the corners twitching as they tried their best to remain neutral.

Before he could get another word in, you excused yourself. Leaving him in front of the warm soup. 

In that moment, Neuvillette vows to himself that even if you were to hand him a piece of charcoal he’ll swallow it without a single complaint. 

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

“Is your name Édouard?” 

Your voice causes him to turn his attention away from the pages of a book this quiet evening.

You stood just off to the side of the bookshelf where he was browsing, a candle illuminating the curiosity held in your eyes. Presenting a name likely discovered from those very same shelves.

Dirges ring from the corners of his mind, warning him not to allow the light to approach so close.

However, where is a shadow supposed to withdraw to when the light seeks him?

Just as how the tide couldn’t run away from the shore for long. Steadfast and constant attempts to unravel the secrets held by the ebbs and flows. 

Alas, he shakes his head again today, steeling his nerves as he catches the slight drop in your shoulders. Louis, Étienne, Théodore, and all those previous guesses, are names of heroes in Fontainian tales and epics. 

Popularized to the point many boys were named after them, but no parent would ever want to name their child after a dragon, a beast.

He doubts the pages of history have ever recorded his name. 

Your disheartened gaze couldn’t meet his, choosing to stare into the space beside him. He couldn’t fault you for that.

All your efforts of combing through old novels to search for obscured monikers just to be undone by a shake of a head.

He’s not sure how much longer he can endure being the origin of your melancholy.

“There’s a tear in your coat…” 

Your voice brings him out of his thoughts, he glances at the spot your eyes were honed on and spots the aforementioned tear. 

“Ah, I see. My apologies for being in such an unsightly state, ” he sighs. Lilac eyes ran along the jagged seams. 

He should go find a replacement from his wardrobe, but you still looked like you had something to say. 

“I can fix it if you’d like,” you offer. 

It’s just a garment, a piece of cloth that fell off some merchant’s ship and found itself in the walls of a cove. There were plenty of other garments that suffered the same fate, picked up by pairs of curious mittened hands. 

To replace this robe would be simple, but he notes the concealed eagerness in the fidget of your fingers. It must be rather dull for you down here for the past year, to the point you resorted to repairing old fabrics for enrichment. 

Regrettably, Neuvillette admits he’s not the best host. He’s got no talent for small talk nor does he know how to entertain you, thus he left it up to the Melusines. However, he could at least do this much as a host. 

“Thank you, I’d be grateful if you do.” 

His steps in time with yours through the halls as an old storage room comes into view. Still filled with collections of folded gowns and coats.

As he observes the room, you guide him to a pair of wooden chairs, a box filled with needles and threads beside one. You place the candle down on a nearby table.

“I’ll take your coat.” Holding out your hands. 

Following your request, he slips the robe off his shoulders, leaving him in a dress shirt and slacks.

Attentively you take the garment, settling down in a seat as your hand searches through the box. After your rummaging stopped, you glance back at him. 

“It won’t take long, please have a seat.” Gesturing toward the other chair. 

Lilac eyes scanned the aged seat, the door was just beyond it, it wouldn’t take much of an excuse for him to walk past the wooden threshold.

However, he pans back to your anticipatory gaze still awaiting. It wouldn’t be polite to deny such a simple gesture. 

Thus, he heeds your request, ambling toward the empty seat, he begins to settle down just as a rip resonates through the air.

His body halts all movement just as yours did, toward pairs of eyes trained on the sleeve that had been caught on the edge of a wooden table. 

The fibers of his shirt entangled with the jagged edges causing his sleeve to rip. Neuvillette truly has yet to acclimate to such fickle inconveniences. 

“Pfft!-” Quickly your hand covers your mouth. 

Lips pressed together as they tried their best to stifle the sounds threatening to leak out. Your shoulders shaking from the effort, just as they did that day in the kitchen.

Although his expression remains the same, he’s quite dumbfounded.

Unable to contain the sounds any longer, you erupt into a fit of giggles as he continues to stare. The bright chimes of your laughter fill the room, a melodic tune he had longed to hear for so long. 

“S-sorry, I just didn’t expect you to… be so clumsy.” Giggles fragment your sentence along with a brief pause to collect yourself. 

Clumsy. Yes, he remembers that word, an adjective you used to describe a dragon whenever he took on the shape you favored so much.

Of course, even a great beast like a dragon would totter and stumble when in such a foreign body. 

Although he has been in this body for many, many years now, yet, Neuvillette hasn’t acclimated to these fickle mortal attires.

If these garments weren’t pushed into his hands by the Melusines and their bright-eyed stares, he’d prefer to not dawn them. 

Neuvillette shuts his eyes. His lungs intake a deep breath, stifling the sway of these trivial inconveniences before they cause any ripples.

Once he’s certain there was no jagged edge to his stare, lilac hues peek back upon your figure. 

By now those fits of giggles had faded into a tranquil lull, your content face focused on the stitches. Body relaxed against the back of the chair, weaving the needle through the sides of the tear.

Subconsciously, his frame begins to mimic yours, rigid muscles melting against the wooden support. 

Lavender hues follow the disappearance of a sliver point, then catch its emergence from the fabric.

The torn and frayed edges draw closer and closer together by the coaxes of the thread, each stitch attentively placed by your graceful hands. 

“Neuvillette?” Your serene voice interlaces with the placid interlude. 

He hums an answer. 

“That night by the entrance… you said ‘You're bound to this cove as well’.” The pace of the needle slows. 

“Why did you say that?” You finish your question. 

Observant, a characteristic of yours he’s always deemed quite commendable. Ever so keen on the nuances of his sentences. 

The piercing stare of draconic eyes weighs on your shoulders, despite that the cadence of the needle didn’t falter. A ripple makes its appearance within a placid pool. 

“Do you really wish to know?” He warns. 

You hum resolutely. A bitter taste creeps its way up his tongue, the recollection of the string of words which damned him here. 

Instinct advises him to swallow them back, to conceal his shame from your awaiting ears. However, answering the call of your curiosity should be enough of a repayment for repairing a coat. 

“For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides. That is the curse set upon this body,” he reveals. 

The needle stops.

“A curse?…” you stammer out. 

Under your breath, Neuvillette hears you recount the disclosed secret. Repeating it to yourself as if to decipher the syntax, to find some answers to his condemnation.

The answer was sitting just in front of him. 

“…For the rest of one’s life… well, how long do dragons live?” 

To mortals, it’s time who is the reaper of their existence. From the moment a newborn sounds their first cry to the final draw of air on their deathbeds, it was the hands of a clock who ruled over them.

But such hands could not touch a being such as him. 

“The life of a dragon begins and ends in the Fontemer Sea, born from it, made from it, and shall return to it to be born again.” He wonders if mortals could grasp such a concept. 

“Oh…” Your tone grew more somber. 

Judging from your tonality, you must’ve pieced the allusions together.

To be contained within these stone walls with only a pool of seawater he could not touch as the opening, is to bestow upon him immortality he never asked for.

For the Hydro Dragon could not return to the Fontemer Sea. 

Even if dragons had long lives, it didn’t mean the humiliation of immortality. The true cruelty of this seemingly kind curse. 

“Why?” Your voice just barely above a whisper. 

Why was he cursed? Why is he in this sham of a mortal body? Why did he reveal the secrets of his brethren? All of this at the trifling sight of bitter tears. 

“Because the people of Fontaine found my name and they wished for it.” 

Why did he give you his name? And why did you then give it away? There are many questions left unanswered by that tale. 

Why did a proud dragon bow to the whims of a mere mortal in that fairytale?

A creature as potent as a dragon should never bow, not to the ordinances of false gods, not to the turbulence of fate, and not to a mere mortal. 

 Why did a maiden wish for a dragon to become a human like them? Water is an adaptable element, able to take on any shape it pleases. However, it yearns to always return to its natural shape. 

Perhaps, his ‘natural’ form appalled the devil too much. So much so, she used that one wish to confine him in the form she favored most.

More confoundingly, why did Neuvillette allow such a request? A creature favored by the usurpers dared to wish a dragon to abandon his heritage, to cross over the threshold of humanity just for their sake.

Why would a dragon ever bow to a mortal’s request?

The commandments of a false god and the howling thrashes of wind can’t make a proud dragon bow, but the weight of love might be enough for a prideful beast to lower his head towards a mortal. 

A traitor to his own fallen brethren is much too dignified of a title for Neuvillette. No, it’d be better to call him for what he is: A Fool. 

What a spectacle it was that day, even those fickle gods peered down just to watch. A fool who lost his form and authority was imprisoned beneath the tides.

A stir shakes that pool, whirling and writhing, the billows of bitterness mounting. 

“… could it be wished away?” Your voice beckons his thoughts to return to the present. 

Unlike how it was written in those tales, a curse can’t be ‘broken’. Not by a kiss, and not by clasping one’s hands together in prayer. 

“Not even a miracle could make a curse vanish, a curse only ever goes away once its clauses have been fulfilled.” 

Until the stars burn out, until the sky caves in on itself, or until the oceans of this uprooted world dry up, he shall remain here. The retribution a traitor deserves. 

He shall remain in this sham of a body, unable to become the form he desired the most in the next life he’ll never reach.

Not a human, not a dragon, just an atrocity somewhere in-between. This must be what humans call ‘purgatory’.  

“I see…” Your attention never leaves the half-stitched garment sprawled upon your lap. 

A heavy silence fills the space between you and him once more. To conclude a conversation on such a doleful note would be a disgrace. 

However, what is he to say? What words can salvage this situation? Neuvillette has no talent for small talk, he doesn’t have the same mortal heart as yours to provide you with any solstice. 

Amidst his contemplation, a soft hum resounds through the quietude, and the melodic rhythm of a lullaby begins. It seems that you took matters into your own hands, ending the doleful silence at your own discretion.

Once more his back reclines into the wooden chair, pointed ears indulge themselves in a nostalgic tune.

It’s strange, that rippling pool is swaying back to equilibrium. The surface returns to its placid rest as tension melts from his muscles. 

Unaware of the hushed pitter-patter of a curious audience, drawn in by the gentle song as their bright eyes peer ever from the cover of the door frame. 

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

“Madame! Look I got more Pluie Lotuses!” Kiara’s little steps rush across the marble floor. 

Getting up on the tips of her feet to show the bundle of fresh blooms, salty water still dripping from their petals, as her bangs stick flush to her face still damp from the sea. Her pink tail swaying behind her.

Your body turns in her direction just in time with Neuvillette. 

“Kiara…” A subtle layer of disapproval emerges from lilac hues.

“Remember to dry off before entering the estate, the floors can become quite dangerous when wet.” 

“But…” the flowers lower. “I wanted to show Madame the lotuses…” 

There’s a drop in her tail and horns and a sharp sting to his chest. Her sisters were gathered around in a circle, a story having just concluded, he could feel their stares upon him. Adding to the sharpness of guilt. 

“My apologies, Kiara, I only meant to warn you.” 

She nods her head silently, tail still dragging on the floor. Ah, just what should he do? A frown begins to weigh down his face. 

“Thank you, they’re wonderful, Kiara.” Your gentle chime breaks through the stalemate. 

You take the bouquet from her mittened hands, placing them atop a counter, in exchange you offer her a towel. 

“But Neuvillette is right, it’s not good to run through the halls right after you returned from the waters. It’s dangerous, okay?” Your voice as gentle as the towel rubbed over her hair and horns. 

A content smile returns to her round cheeks as she diligently nods, promising that she’ll be more careful next time. Tail lifting up from the floor as the fluffy towel wipes away the ocean droplets. 

Once fully dried, she joins her sisters. The Melusines cast shifting glances toward one another until one finally steps out from the crowd. 

“Madame…” Carole calls out softly, tugging a few times the hem of your long dress. 

“Hm?” Giving her your full attention, a towel set aside. 

“I overheard you inquiring about names with Monsieur in the library once, could you be…” Her eyes downcasted. 

Oh. This time it was Neuvillette and you who exchanged glances, eyes both reflecting the same dread.

They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to hear those slapdash guesses. 

He never meant for them to find out. Always careful to never discuss such matters in their earshot.

For how could he bear to tell them that their cozy village was actually a prison? 

His mind was unable to conjure up an excuse, tongue unwilling to speak it. They weren’t supposed to find out. Oh, what shall he do now? 

“Could you be expecting?” 

Huh?

Two pairs of eyes widened with bewilderment, mind stunned into silence and lips just as confused.

Somehow they’ve huddled even closer than before, encircling you and him with their bright eyes and tails swaying with anticipation. 

“Will there be a new addition to the village?” 

“How long do we have to wait?” 

“Are we getting a brother or sister?” 

Their chatter and probes homogenized into a jumbled symphony his flustered conscious just couldn’t distinguish. Trying to reel his senses back from this unexpected turn of events. Neuvillette clears his throat. 

“No,” he coughs out. 

A collective ‘aw’ resounds through the air, their tails and horns drooping down at the announcement. Guilt pierced its nail through his chest once more. However, he couldn’t lie to their bright eyes. 

“N-not, yet.” You add to his statement. 

A wave of inquisitive‘oh’ ripples through the crowd. Tails picked up from the ground as the glimmer in their eyes returned.

A sweet lie sprinkled over the truth neither of you dare tell, that blood and water can’t make wine. 

“Then, do you want a little prince or little princess?” Carole chirps. 

You remain silent, only gazing down at their faces as they stare back.

A lilac stare was also focused upon you, his curiosity awakening at this question as well. He watches you take a slow breath before leaning down. 

“I’d like to have a daughter, sweet and kind like all of you.” Your hand strokes her soft trestles. 

Her head nuzzles into your palm as giggles fill the air. Only draconic eyes study the small smile upon your lips, dipped in bittersweetness. 

Did you have a lover back on the surface in this life? Perhaps someone who was promised to you. A real prince this time. 

Did you have dreams of basking in the grace of the sun, cradling a bundle as a pair of tiny fingers encase around your own?

Was this the hard-earned happy ending you yearned for?

“Monsieur…” Mamaere tugs on his slacks. 

Neuvillette reigns his thoughts back from their escapade, he angles his head down. 

“Where does a baby come from?” 

The smile on your lips stiffen just as Neuvillette’s body does.

If there’s a god who’s peering into this cavern deep below the land and sea, must they send such dilemmas his way?

How does one navigate through this treacherous domain?

“Oh dear! I just remembered.” Your hands clap together.

“There’s a few ribbons and clips in the fabric room, do you girls mind getting them? So we can braid Monsieur’s hair?” 

At once the Melusines stand at attention, focus diverted over their excitement at the prospect of decorating snowy locks.

The patters of their little steps trample down the hall, allowing you and Neuvillette a well-deserved moment of reprieve. 

“Thank you.” His posture drops slightly as a hefty sigh leaves him, lids shut for a moment of rest.  

“Of course, Sébastien.” 

His eyes crack open, casting you a glance with a raised brow. The ghost of a grin barely contained by delicate lips. By this time, Neuvillette couldn’t recall all the past attempts. 

“Regrettably, that is not my name.” 

“Was it at least a decent attempt?” 

He could hear the pout in your voice, one that didn’t last long before a light-hearted laugh follows it.

Closing his eyes once more as he indulges in those chimes, he nods ever so slightly. It was a good attempt, for it brought out those sounds he enjoyed. 

His lashes flutter open at the sensation of his hair getting gathered in your tender hold. Passing the carved wooden teeth of a comb through his snowy locks.

Careful to not pull or tug on them as you coaxed the tangles out of their knots. The heaviness upon his shoulders leaves with a deep exhale which left his body, indulging in your attentive touches.

Subconsciously, his gaze trails up at the bundle of flowers resting along the wooden table. It wasn’t the periwinkle blush of the delicate petals that commanded his attention.

No, it was that salty, oceanic wisp mingled with the flora aroma. A fleeting essence of the sea.

“Do you miss the sea?” 

Ah, it seems that his stare wasn’t as subtle as he had hoped. Neuvillette turns away from the flowers as if he had been caught amidst a scheme.

Facing in front of him, your paused hands signal your wait for his response. 

“I suppose it’s only natural for me to long for it.” 

After all these years, Neuvillette believes he has finally grasped it, an answer to that void filled with ‘whys’. As if he had seized the reflection of a star from the bottom of a deep lake.

Neuvillette thinks he understands why you and the devil yearned for the sunlight. 

Perhaps the one similarity between proud dragons and arrogant humans. They both ache to return to where they came from.

One yearns for the sea. One yearns for land.

For there and only there, could their sins and grudges be purged. To gain the most restful sleep before the hands of fate shape them anew from the element.

“Hmm,” you hum in acknowledgment. 

Fingers gentle and slow as they brushed through his hair. You hum a lullaby to accompany each pass of the comb. Melodies that made his ears yearn for more, craving for more sounds to leave your plush lips. 

His hair had always been an inconvenience, capricious strands that were seemly curious of everything in his environment.

Snowy tresses find themselves gravitating towards door hinges, door knobs, and even the minuscule gaps in ornate furniture.

However, your patience hands untangled those unruly stands. 

When a knot proves to be particularly stubborn, you tend to lend closer to hone in on the troublesome tangle. 

It just so happens that a stubborn knot appeared, causing you to decrease the proximity between your bodies.

The heat radiating from your frame sends delightful pickles along his skin, a delicate warmth making his flesh grow feverish. 

A hunger deep within begins to grumble and wallow, a greed that wishes to dig past those frivolous fragrances to get to the true taste he craves.

An ugly gluttony pleading to delve into your soft flesh. Ah, he recognizes the cause of this turbulence now…

Neuvillette clears his throat. 

“I believe I’m beginning to feel unwell, so please refrain from venturing into the cellar for the next few weeks. I should quarantine myself.” Too ashamed to turn back and face you. 

“Oh?...” The comb stops.

At this distance, he was well aware of your scent. A fine fragrance no water or bloom could hope to imitate. Concealed under a layer of lavish soaps and oils dropped from the surface was an aroma that was wholly yours and yours alone. 

A gloved hand reaches up to cover his nostrils, seeking some barrier between that tantalizing whiff. 

“Please, excuse me…” He pulls away swiftly. 

The sudden action must’ve jostled his hair too much, for the sultry sensation of your fingertips was felt along azure ‘strands’. 

Just a minor touch against his horns, yet shudders rack up his nape. His teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip, sharper than they’re supposed to be, anchoring those ravenous voices at bay momentarily. 

He needs to leave now. For your sake. 

Rushed strides stow a distance between his body and that delectable warmth of yours. His back turned to you as he couldn’t bear to see the expression upon that saccharine face. 

Just what expression were you making as a dragon retreated?  

The cellar of this estate was always cold, its stones never having once touched the sunlight before, thus they only brood in their frigidity. A somberness fitting to quell a heat which yearned to burn. 

The fever has consumed his body wholly, each pant leaving trails of foggy wisps. Neuvillette burrows deeper into the hoard of sheets, pillows, and blankets. The brush of the soft fabrics prickles his skin. 

How strange it is that despite the fever of heat igniting each corner of his flesh, despite the numerous thick covers twisting and burying his bare form, he’s still shivering. 

A chill ingrained so deep it’s in his very bones, skin alight but bones frozen over, just what is this purgatory? 

Annually it happens, a period where primal instincts exude past the rigid confines of a mortal form. Making its influence in the resurgence of draconic features over the mortal flesh that traps him.

No matter how raw his true form claws to be released, the mortal prison doesn’t relent. A curse he’s brought upon himself.

Laceratations of gluttony and cardinal sin sink deeper with each provocation. The creeks of the floorboards above and the sweet voice which leaked through the woods, the morsels of you that stirred the waters of instinct. 

From the depths of the torrent, he’s so desperately suppressing came the unquenchable thirst to lure you in. Beckon you down to this shadowy cellar so that the ugly and primal waters could swallow you wholly. 

But he mustn’t. Those soft touches and smiles had just been bestowed upon him, the twine of trust still delicate. How could he ever squander such privileges? For those lovely eyes of yours to look at him filled with nothing but fear and disgust, he’d rather be chained down here for the rest of eternity. 

He must endure it for a bit longer, he knows it’ll be over soon. The gale which sweeps through him is slowly lessening its blows. 

Even if the waters of primitive instincts howled and stormed, Neuvillette refused to leave this tangle of blankets and pillows. An unwavering grip refusing to submit to those demands. Thus nature had to find its own way to subsist off a drought. 

The heat hazed over his mind, conjuring up fantasies to appease the ever-unsettled water from its vapid reality.

“Neuvillette?” A soft voice calls out.

Just like now. Desire fogs up his senses to create a delusion, mimicking the way your warm voice beckons him. It’s nothing but a figment of his depraved lust. 

“Neuvillette?” 

He buries his ears further into the down covers to block the alluring mirages. Tickling him to submit to the temptation. But he mustn’t. Nothing more than a manifestation of lust. 

 The phantom donning your sweet voice calls out for him, and gentle touches send shivers through his nerves. Ah, he must vanquish this mirage before the fraying line of his self-restraint splinters apart. 

Nothing but smoke and mirrors conjured by desire, a rigid arm expels out from the covers to dissipate the siren’s lure. 

However, it wraps around something warm, a heat which his fever wails for. Intrinsically his shivering body covets that warmth, to be buried flush against the source so that this chill may finally stop its torment. 

So like any greedy dragon, his claws enclose around temptation and drag it into his decrepit cave of blankets and sheets. 

A satisfied purr judders through his stalwart body, a warmth which could finally reach his very bones. Thus, he burrows his face deeper into the shoulder of this phantom, a lovely aroma beckoning him to pull their soft body closer. 

“Neuvillette?…” 

His eyes snap open, realization flooding through him just as the chill that had been ingrained into his bones. This wasn’t an illusion. You weren’t an illusion. 

He tears himself away, just as a moth does once they realize a hypnotic flame had set their wings alight. Trembly arms firmly planted on either side of your body, snowy locks falling onto your face. 

“Are you alright?...” The sapphire luminance of his elongated horns shines across those sinless eyes. 

The strap of a nightgown halfway down your shoulder from when he snatched you beneath his savage form. 

“You… you shouldn’t be here,” he breathes, voice unsteady and taut. 

“You’ve been away for an awfully long time… I-” Your eyes were blown wide and lips pressed together, aghast gaze not daring to glance down at the raging rigidness pressed against the silk of your nightgown. 

Frenzied shivers of pleasure jostles through his veins, tremors racking his body all the way to the tips of his horns. In desperation his rigidnesses pleaded to feel you, throbbing so painfully a hiss leaves his lips.

“You need to leave, quickly please.” Leave before he traps you again.

 Before this pathetic excuse of a sovereign loses against himself, before he makes a fool of himself. Neuvillette tries to pull away, against the weeping wishes of his erections. Face too ashamed to even look at you, but a pair of tender hands guides his cheeks back.

“...But I missed you…” You whisper. 

Why are your hands embracing his face in this unsightly state? Are they not appalled by the patches of scales littered across them? Like a flame reaching out towards a moth. 

“Leave, please.” Don’t tempt him like this. 

“... Don’t you miss me?...” Your hold doesn’t budge.

Why do you look at him like that? Irises filled with warmth as his image is reflected in the flickering candlelight. Gazing wholly up at him. A cerulean glow tinting your hair and supple body. 

“Don’t…” He reasons, the last of his sensibility crying a warning of a sinful fruit. 

“Please, Neuvillette… won’t you hold me for just a bit? I missed you so much….” The shift of your shoulder causes the nightgown to slip further off your shoulder. 

Don’t call out to him like that. No, not as your bewitching body was so close to his. The glow of a candle illuminating the curve of your cheeks, disheveled hair framing your wide eyes. 

Don’t show him such a sight, for he’ll salivate to devour you until his teeth rot.

“Please?...” Coaxing his head down so that his forehead rests against yours. 

Your warmth, your soft touches, and your delectable aroma, they parch his throat so much it pained him. Just as painful as attempting to swallow down sand from a hellish desert, it aches and lacerates his throat. 

And here you were offering a lustrous fruit, so juicy and filled of sin, in front of his famished eyes. A cruel, cruel mercy. 

“... May…May I?” It’s unbearable, this parchedness in his throat, would you be so kind to quench it? 

Your sweet hum grants him permission. Eyes closed just as you turn a blind eye to his ravenousness, still stroking his tender cheeks. Neuvillette couldn’t deny himself any more of the warmth he’s coveted for oh so long. 

Thus, he delves head-first into the glimmer of that enchanting flame. Burying his nose into the crook of your neck, so vulnerable and complacent, to hoard your bewitching fragrance all for himself. His skin flushed against yours as his bones delight in your heat. 

The reigns of self-respect slip out from his hands as they let go in favor of running along your curves and edges. Each feature, your shoulders, and hips, aligns with details he’s long ingrained into his memory.

His fervor touches pushing down the silk fabric which dare disturb his worship. Nevuillette cants his head up momentarily, puffs of smothering breaths clouding the frosty air. 

Lilac eyes drink up how the chilly air made your delectable breast perky, trailing down the goosebumps lining your torso, and landing on your exposed thighs.

A dryness itches in his throat as callused hands bite into the tender skin and he parts those placid legs away. 

Oh, how could one ever take their eyes off that shiny, succulent fruit held out so openly in the hands of the tempter of all tempters?

They reveal to him the oasis he’d been hallucinating these grueling weeks. The tip of a serpentine tongue slips across his parched lips.

Since you so brazenly offered your body up to him, you wouldn’t have any objects against him finally getting a taste, right? 

His foreboding figure traverses downwards until his delirious face is right between the cusp of his salvation and demise.

Dilated pupils peering up at you for approval, an invocation for clemency from this drought. A merciful hand graces his cheeks once more, granting him his salvation and demise. 

His tongue escapes past his parched lips, as lengthy as it was insatiable, it licks a slow and passionate strip up your slit. A taste he once would only recount in the depths of his recollections. 

Does this new body of yours still have the same weaknesses? Will you still writhe in madness if he sucks on that delectable little nub? Or how about those hidden points concealed deep within?

Could this tongue of his bring you past the brink of insanity in this life as well?

There was only one way for Neuvillette to grasp the answers he sought. A long tongue slips past the entrance of your satin walls, welcomed with a lewd squelch. 

Grip parting your legs from his path further. Those quivering calls of ‘Neuvillette’and the pawing of your small hands against his head beckon him deeper. 

Ah, redemption, it’s far too late for him now. For Nevillette has taken a bite out from that forbidden fruit, the evidence of it was dripping down his chin. 

Ah, these slick velvety walls, he missed them. They clamp down with such ferocity along this beastly tongue, extensive enough to reach the deepest cavern of you.

A divine nectar begins to pool, Neuvillette retracts his tongue just enough for the heavenly taste to slide down his throat. Your sweet musk sends his olfactory system into chaos, rampant tongue returning to ravish you.

Not one drop of restraint left within him. It’s beastly how he’s devouring you. His tongue craves more of the delicacy he’s denied himself these past years, a thirst no water could quench. Wet muscles sliding up the whole length of your slit in a meticulous long lap, his nose bumping into your clit. 

Your mewls and sobs echo off the walls when he flicks his tongue over that sensitive nub. Your body jolts violently as the length of his tongue ventures into the honeypot, toes curling in the air, but his iron-clad grip doesn’t allow any room for escape.

Delicate fingers now entangled into his tussled locks, grasping onto illuminated horns. You were likely trying to find something to ground your dissipating sanity, how unfortunate that your actions only flamed the fires. 

A guttural growl echoed. Tongue now plunging further, slithering back and forth along your walls. For being such a sweet sacrifice for him, he’ll give a reward. Slithering tongue making sure to drag against that spot he’s memorized.

Judging from how your feet were arching off the sheets, it seems this sinful detail of yours was repeated as well. 

Your body writhes, no longer docile under the white searing pleasure frying the ends of every nerve within your being. Unrelenting rhythm slipping in and out of your convulsing walls, your body twitching and flailing in reaction.

Trying to find some way to handle this surcharge of sensations. Legs instinctively wanting to shut together as if to cease this turbulent sensation, unfortunately, your pitiful strength gave no resistance against his rigid hold.

He could feel your muscles begin to seize up, slick walls clamping harder on his writhing tongue. Was this foreign sensation too much for you already?

His long tongue explores every last crevice, tastebuds lapping against those weak spots deep within as his nose bumps and grinds against that lewd clit. This unsightly side of you. 

There’s more fervor in the lashes of his tongue, slurping up the nectar trickling out your greed, mixing with his spit dripping down his chin.

Your legs trashing but unable to go anywhere in his unrelenting hold, only able to pull on his silky locks for dear life as sobs tumble out. A flood of arousal adds to the mess on his chin. One he gladly laps up. 

Oh’s and ah’s were the only choked sounds your lips could make as your eyes rolled to the back of your scrambled mind.

Neuvillette still relishing in the elixir he’s denied himself for too long, not even the purest water could compare. Reveling in the taste until every last drip ran down his parched throat. 

Pulling away, a trail connects his lips with your quivering folds.  Callous hands dig further into your legs, making room for his body. Watching as the movements of your chest slowed, his brute figure engulfed your frame.

The ache was unbearable now, each impatient throb reprimanding him for delaying their greed. Neuvillette couldn’t deny their request any longer.

Back sitting up straight, his cocks thrumming against his abdomen, precum exuding out from their swollen heads.  

The cool air did little to calm the throbs of his fervors, the girthy shaft standing tall as its engorged tip weeped precum, its twin weeping just the same.

They hover over the softness of your belly, sharp pupils trail up the shadow they cast, heralding to where they crave to be buried. 

The heat of his body was suffocating, the burn in his throat greater than ever before. But why? He had drank from that forbidden oasis, it’s dripping down his chin, yet why has his thirst grown greater than before? 

Neuvillette was so… so close. If he had only endured it for another day or two, the gale within him would’ve relented and retreated away in defeat. But oh how viciously it’s gloating in its victory. Getting a dragon to bow his head to its cardinal blows. 

“Do you… feel better now, Neuvillette?” Slow pants leave your curled lips as your hands reach up to caress his taut face. 

This brazenness, this shamelessness, this insolence. Ah, these characteristics have followed you through the grave and into this life as well. You weren’t skilled enough this time around to hide your desire glazed across your pupils. 

Did you do this in hopes of making him indebted to you? Offer your sweet body in return for stealing his name from his locked lips? Was this why you traversed down to this dark cellar so late in such flimsy silks?

That gleam in those deceptive eyes, the audacity to believe you could tame the sea with just a flick of your finger. You devious temptress. 

“Better?… you’ve only fanned the flames, you devious woman.” A snarl from the depths of him. 

Before another word could leave your lips one torrid hand pins your wrist to the sheets. Nails much too sharp to be human dig into those fickle and troublesome fabrics hiding your skin from his touch.

An all too satisfying rip resounding through the air along with your yelp. Scraps join the tangle of sheets. 

Did his mortal prison deceive you too much? Did his mild mannerisms trick you into believing that he’s a merciful soul? Or did you always ignore the warnings?

A monster with a human face is still a monster. To believe that one’s patience is endless, only a human could be this impertinent.

His other vascular hand slides down the curves of your body, settling on your hip as your legs hook behind his firm thighs. The ridges of his lower cock drag against your slick folds, wetting his girth from its leaking tip sliding down against your swollen clit. 

Precum mixes with the concoction as the glossiness spreads about his length. A pair of shaky breaths mingle as Neuvillette positions his engorged tip at your dripping entrance.

The sensation must’ve cleared the daze from your mind, your head cants downwards to stare at the two oddities. 

“A-are both of them going to…” Your grip tightens on the sheets, a subconscious search for comfort. 

Ah, now you remember danger. Now you realize your insolence to believe that a mere human could ever tame a proud dragon. 

“There won’t be any point in breaking you so quickly,” he snarls. Not missing the flutter of your hole as the weeping head dragged over it. It wouldn’t be good to break you so quickly. His sweet little sacrifice. 

Taking the erection which hung lower, he rubs its flushed tip along your slit. Each flinch and tremble sparked gratification through his veins.

The lashes of his tongue had aided in the preparation of these sinful walls, but the girth of his beastly tongue could not compare to the thickness pressed against these leaking folds.

The ghost of his breath flutters over your prickling skin. Neuvillette takes deeper breaths as the weight pressed against your core grew, the bulbous tip inching past the puckering entrance.

The stretch was maddening despite the restrained pace. Your walls fluctuate in a surging dance between clamping down and trying to remain relaxed.

As Neuvillette sinks his girth in bit by bit, its envious twin slithers against your aching clit. The sensitive bundle of nerves drags against each ridge and vein, sending jolts of searing pleasure through him and causing your satin walls to flutter. 

A velvety sack kisses against your slick folds, signaling that his length has reached its end. The fat tip of its twin resting just above your naval indicated just how deeply he was buried, trapped between your soft flesh and his sculpted body.

It’s crowded inside you, girth parting and stretching these satin walls while the length is pressed against the deepest most intimate part of you.

Forcing delectable little whimpers and gasps from your haughty lips. Quivering legs now locking ankles behind his back, like a pitiable attempt to hamper him. 

That arrogance disgraced to nothing but obscenity upon a wanton face. To see the devil so helpless and lewd under the manipulation of a dragon. What a wonderful sight. 

Surely your body remembers his. If not, then he’ll ensure it does now, he’ll engrain it into you for the next life. 

One cock slid against the satin ridges of your walls, the other indulging along your searing skin and grinding against your clit. He can’t deny how addictive your body always has been. 

Dragging as far back as your locked legs would allow him, the flushed head of one dick kisses your twitching clit, and he sinks back in.

Grunts and purrs reverberate through his throat, teeth clenching as your heat engulfs him again. Reaching deeper into your welcoming core as your lips fall open. 

His pace is methodical and controlled to his liking. Drawing out his cock inch by thick inch, sloppy trails of arousal caught on each ridge.

Each time making your core empty and yearning to clench around his girth. Just as a whine would leave your drooling lips, his hips would return to you what your core longed for. 

Pushing each tantalizing inch to stroke your starved walls until his skin claps against yours with a wet kiss. Back and forth, back and forth the resounding slaps echoed. Mingling with his low groans and your pitched gasps, creating a sacrilegious yet divine hymn.

Your hand rakes deeper into his toned back possessed by desperation.

A few snowy strands are trapped between your writhing fingers. Pulling him closer to your smoldering skin, causing your clit to grind intensely against his swollen cock, as its twin twitches within your velvety folds.

Those babbles falling from your fed lips, were they pleas for him to bestow upon you leniency or begging him to speed up? 

“Do you wish to climax?” A polite façade purrs into your ear. 

Lilac eyes were not ignorant to how a devil keens under his body, her gaze drunk off a feverish potion of lust and desire. He could feel it, these velvet walls aching for more, for his girth to jostle your core more, to extinguish this all-consuming ache within you. 

“That’s too bad.”

 His hips remain steady contrasting against the unevenness of your own pants, unaffected by your desperate mewls. You’ve been selfish enough, you’ve been greedy enough. If he were to grant you a taste of ecstasy, then it’ll be on his terms. 

He hasn’t gotten his fill yet, no, he wants to pound his shape forever into these lewd walls. The way they contract and squeeze around his girth with each drive of his hips, they’re practically begging him to.

Thus, he accelerates just a bit more, then a bit more, then a bit more again. Nearly folding you with how flushed he was against you. 

The heavy scent of lust, the smothering heat, his unrelenting and unshakable thrusts amalgamating into a spark. One which set the both of you ablaze. Your nails digging into his skin and eyes reaching the back of your head. Sobs and incoherent prattles resound through the room.

Your devious walls clamped around his length with maddening convulsions, gummy muscles suckling to guide his throbbing head to your deepest greed. It was too much.

Neuvillette was powerless as his body pressed yours deeper into the damp sheets, trying to grasp onto any fleeting wisps of control as euphoria overtook him. 

Sinking his ravenous teeth into the tangle of the sheets beside your neck, he stifles the admission of his defeat. 

A heftiness is spilled within your walls and paints the expanse of your skin in an all-consuming wave. Thick release coating every corner of your core, to finally quell that ravaging heat.

Each subsequent twitch pours more into your crowded cavity and stains your skin. The filthiness of it all seemingly prolongs your sinful depravity. 

Chest expanding with pants, pressing your erected nipples against his taut chest. Neuvillette remains buried against you, brutish arms holding your body flush against his.

As if to anchor you, to not allow the turbulent waves of madness to sweep you far from him, or him from you. Keeping your quiver body safe against his. 

In the darkness behind his shut lashes, he felt it. Your soft caresses his silky tresses and heaving body. Even as your body heaves and quivers in exhaustion, why must you touch him so tenderly?

Why must you be so cruel? If your hands keep caressing his clammy skin, stroking his peeking scales, he’ll misunderstand.

He’ll believe the delusion that you love him.

Him and not the swaying flower fields of the sunkissed surface. 

Whispers cut through the haze of lust and passion, warnings crying for Neuvillette to escape. So he pulls his face from the tangle of sheets, lungs huffing as his eyes find yours.

Exhaustion muddles the hues of your gaze, but not enough to completely smother that glimmer still present. Ah, he knows that that glimmer was. 

Even in his heat-induced daze, he’s not naive enough to believe the sincerity presented in your eyes was anything other than duty.

He doesn’t want to be reminded that those hands, which cup his face with such tenderness, are bound by a sense of duty.

A reminder that he’s merely just a stepping stone on the path of your true desire.

He doesn’t want to see it. 

The head of his cock parting with a deafening squelch. A darkened gaze follows the pool forming between your splayed legs. Disgruntlement muddles lilac hues. 

But such discontent couldn’t last long when the twitch of a neglected length protests. Its bulbous tip longed for its turn within those sticky walls. A primal ordinance he couldn’t resist.

What to call this sensation, to scorn yet desire you just as much. 

It wasn’t long before your hips were maneuvered up, your plush ass now up in the air as your quivering arms and face pressed into the sullied sheets.

As one hand supports your unsteady hips. Sharp eyes surveying the puffiness of your cunt, glistening with temptation and dripping with sin. 

Hooked fingers slides up the weeping slit, collecting the sacrilegious mixture. Earning an addictive whimper from you when his digits pulled away. Spreading them in front of his gaze, tracing over the stringy nectar stretched between them. 

How strange, those lying lips of yours whimper for ‘rest’ and a ‘moment to catch your breath’. Yet your body is still so eagerly exposing itself to his eyes, agape cunt so eagerly twitching and slick. 

You don’t even try to writhe yourself away from his hold, not even a single attempt to hide yourself from his hunger.

How skilled you are at fanning the flames, perhaps it's a talent inherent to devils like you. The tempter of all tempters. 

You’ve always been like this since the very first rendition. 

If only you weren’t so strong-willed. If only you weren’t so clever to trick him. If only you weren’t so enchanting. 

Then he wouldn’t have bent to your whims, the sea would’ve cleansed out the mortal filth from stolen land. Then he wouldn’t be trapped in this disgrace of a body. Then he wouldn’t be in love with you.

The betrayal, the disgrace, and this punishment would’ve never happened if only a fool didn’t surrender everything for a mere, fleeting creature.

Why must you make him repeat the same mistake again?

There it was again, that surging torrent within him making its voice known in the echoes of his mind. Whispering the hint on how a dragon would defeat the flame that had scorched him those years ago.

Smother the flame with the tides of depravity and vulgarity. Taint your arrogance with shame. 

There wasn’t an ounce of gentleness remaining within his eyes, a beastly hunger taking its place.

Yes, you must pay the debt of reducing him to such a humiliating state.

His neglected cock prods against that greedy cunt of yours. Unmerciful hands bruising the plushness of your hips. 

The sinful concoction from the previous sessions allowed his tormented length into your walls without resistance.

The neglected cock finally indulging in the spasms of your abused walls, it’s its turn to bully those weak spots with its thick head. 

Sobs sung in broken chokes leave your drooling lips. Trembling fingers enmeshed into the fabric as if to find some ground for your senses to land after their fall from euphoria.

He won’t allow you reprieve. No, not even for a moment. He’ll shatter your sanity and arrogance once and for all. 

Nothing interrupted the pistoning of his hips as he fucked you through overstimulation, heavy balls slamming against your swollen lips.

The previous twin cock was now experiencing the hard nub of your engorged clit running along its veins and ridges. 

There’s no room for an exchange of words. No, the two of you have long been pasted that point.

No sandy ground beneath as the two of you sank under the ravenous tides of primal instincts and pleasure.

Cacophonous growls, whimpers, and sobs filling the absence along with the thwacks of skin against skin echoed back from the cellar walls. 

You keen under the ram of his hips, jostled head writhing against the soiled sheets. The motion allows your hair to fall over your shoulders.

Exposing an untainted patch of skin. Sharp pupils watching how beads of sweat trailing down your nape reflect the azure glow of his body. 

An itch assailing his fangs even has his hips continue their barrage against your soft ass. Those lovely vulgar moans wane out from his hearing as his senses could only obsess over the untarnished expanse. 

Ah, what if there’s a way for him to pin you here until the stars themselves burn out? You were given to him as his bride.

An offering made to him.

So why can’t he forever confine you within his clutches? Just as you were the original sin which damned him to this cove.

Long tongue dragging along the fresh skin, feeling the jolts of your body. 

He’s done it once before, he’s cursed you before. Imprinting a curse upon your very soul, one which followed you through the hands of death and even when the hands of life reformed your body from the earth.

Why not renew it? 

Neuvillette pins your upper body further into the tangled bedding, one hand abandoning your hips in favor of raveling in the mess of fabric.

Your heated skin felt against his exhilarated fangs, hungry to sink into your nape. 

‘Till death do us part’, that’s not enough.

Such fleeting mortal oaths are much too meek for dragons.

No, those atrocious murmurs in his thoughts command him to curse you in the next life. And the next one, and the one after that as well. 

It’s not like your muddled head would understand, nothing but mindless prattles and mewls from the suffocating pleasure only he could ever give you.

But that’s fine, just drown nicely in lust and desire. He’ll always be waiting there at the bottom to drag you down deeper. 

Just as the tips of his pointed teeth broke through quivering skin, delicate fingers grasp upon burly a hand.

Intertwining their grasp together upon rumpled linen, a subconscious search for comfort.

An action that remits an iota of reason back to his foggy mind, hazy eyes moving toward the sight of your hand clutched around his. 

Even as he’s ravishing your weeping walls, flooding your body with his filthy essence which trickles down your thighs and ass, and chasing his own carnal needs… you still reach for him.

Shamelessly pulling his touch closer, even when the throes of rapture banished all thought from your jostled mind. 

A whisper resurfaces amidst the fog and clamor of instinct and rage.

However, it’s a whisper which made his incisors dare not budge another inch. The inkling of truth which he thought he had silenced within the depths of his heart. 

The accuracy that this wasn’t love. No, what his instincts craved was not love, it was obsession. 

For love was not this sadistic possession, not to curse you just to ease his own damnation.

No, love is supposed to be much like the warmth of your palm flushed against his knuckles. 

He remembers now, the lesson you taught him all those years ago. A demonstration witnessed with his own eyes.

Love was sacrifice, just as how you offered yourself to the tides, quelling the rage of a vengeful dragon. Because you loved your village too much to allow them to drown. 

Retreating away from the transgression almost committed, fangs repressed behind closed lips. Neuvillette presses a sweet kiss against the shallow wound.

 To love you isn’t to steal you away from the embrace of the star who’s forsaken him. It’s to hoist you up to that beloved sunlight. Just where you belonged. 

Oh, how could he not love you?

The bride offered to a dragon in a white dress who once dared to command the great beast to stand still as she braided flowers into his hair.

A brazenness contrasted with the gentleness of her smile. 

The voices of heart and cruelty rang out in vociferous battle in his mind, Neuvillette buries his face into your shoulder. Pursuing the savor of your skin, pinning you deeper into the tangle of bedding.

Providing more simulation for the pulsing cock wedged against your swollen clit and messy sheets. The neediness of his movements exposed just how close his undoing was. 

The hand on your abdomen pulled you impossibly close, adding pressure to the bulging outline of his cock.

Amplifying the ecstasy coursing through your veins, abused walls clamping down on each ridge and each vein of his heft girth. The shape engrained into your wanton core, marvelous sobs and mewls echoing off the empty walls. 

Soon those moans become shattered in your throat, eyes rolling back further with each heavy thrust and slap of his balls. Lungs cease all function as rapture unravels you wholly and exhilaration becomes your undoing. 

Sloppy contractions mix the repercussions of multitudinous ruination, dripping out your convulsing cunt. Just before a hot surge replenishes the brood that oozed out on the sullied sheets.

Grunts vibrate against your back reminding your body to breathe. 

Thick ropes paint your belly and sheets, making an absolute mess. Contracting walls trying but failing to contain the aftershocks from his cock buried deep within, already stretched to their limits, capacity long exceeded. Shudders rack your body and his the same. 

With hands still entangled, he coaxes your body around. Granting him a mesmerizing view of your debauched face.

The face he’s so enamored with that he bows his down closer, bodies still connected as he wishes to echt every last detail of you into his being. So that eternity may remember you. 

Softness resurfaces in his bones, a tender kiss pressed upon your fingers. Soothing those tremors as he guides your consciousness back to reality. 

He holds you, remaining inside as to contain his greed spilled deep inside. The heftiness of his cock prods against your shuddering walls. Every last fiber of your being overstimulated with pulsing pleasure. 

Yet, your hand refused to let go. Still holding him toward your exhausted figure in the dying light of the candle.

Whimpers and coos exchanging in a duet of devotion, a hymn so placate it quells the vapid torrents ever so slightly.

Placid fingers drawing circles into your sore back. A gentle lilac gaze keeping watch as your teary eyes retire behind heavy lashes. 

Blood and water no matter how much they’re mixed, won’t produce wine.

However, just for tonight in a realm heavy with lust, passion, and phantasm, they’ll craft a wine of delusion. One filled with nothing but wishful fantasy. 

However, this wine of delusion shall be enough to quench the thirst of lascivious compulsions and vengeance. 

The gentle caresses of steam ghost past your leaden lashes, lukewarm ripples lap against your skin. Your sore body propped up against the porcelain, as Neuvillette drags a dampened towel along your skin. 

A pang of guilt stung him each time the cloth passed over a discolored imprint. No amount of diligent rubs would purify your skin of those bruises in the shape of his fingers. 

A stir from muscle gradually awakening from slumber reflected in the wavelets of the bath. The sensation of a damp towel must’ve further jolted your senses back to alertness. 

A cerulean glow glistens off the polished surface as your vision finally centers on the figure rising warm water over your limp body.

Attentive eyes immediately connect with yours as he scans your expression for discomfort. 

“Are you hurting anywhere?” Neuvillette halts the towel. 

You respond with a slow shake, your throat must be too sore to answer. Despite how he tries to conceal them behind a robe, blotches of azure painted along his fair skin.

Proof that draconic influence was still in rebellion of his body. All the while he’s very much aware of your eye’s every move. What an appalling sight it must be for you. 

“If I make you uncomfortable I’ll leave promptly, this was just the only solution I could find to bathe-”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Voice hoarse as your frame melts closer to his, delicate fingers intertwining with between the spaces of his own scaly fingers.

Allowing your breaths to minge in tandem in the steam-damped tiles of the tranquil bathroom. 

“Does it hurt?” A warm thumb traces soft circles along the rough scales along his hand. 

Did you catch the subtle twitches and jolts of his muscles? A mortal body rejecting draconic influences, draconic influences revolting against a mortal cage. Still, he shakes his head. Lilac gaze watching your eyes trail between the scales and his eyes with skepticism. 

“I’m not quite sure as to why I’m still in this… state.” Neuvillette gives a preemptive answer to the question he assumes to be hanging off your tongue. 

“Do you… miss the sea?” However, it seems you had another inquiry hidden in your ever perplexing mind. 

A deep sigh resonates through the tranquil air. He stares at the tips of his fingers dipped into the warm water, a taunting substitute for the sea that called for him. 

“I suppose it’s natural that I yearn for it…”

A hum was your only response, eyes hidden behind closed lashes. Neuvillette just couldn’t decipher that smile of yours, curled lips reflected over the rippling surface of the steaming water. 

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

“Your body is still delicate, please let us return back to the estate-”

“I might actually grow roots into that bed if I’m to rest there any longer.” A pout was evident in your voice. 

Taking a few greater strides, your body pulls in front of Neuvillette’s pace. It was only momentary of course, for he swiftly rejoins your side.

Observant eyes not missing the subtle wobble in your steps along the pastures of the village.

“Please just don’t stray too far.” He relents, offering up his arm for support. 

With a gracious smile, your arm curls around his, interlocking your fingers with his as two pairs of steps ambled along the grass.

Soon a familiar pool of water came into view, enticing two pairs of eyes with its glimmering ripples.

What it strange sight those waters showed, a cursed dragon who yearned for his place and a cursed mortal who longed for the sun, two cursed beings holding hands in the reflection along the pristine surface. 

“I believe this is far enough. ” His arm pulls your frame closer, a subtle hesitance tainting his tone. 

However, your body didn’t budge. Resolute stance not moving even one bit watching your reflection warp and contort in the water. A deep breath echoes off the wall. 

“Neuvillette… do you miss the sea?” Your stare parts with the water, now peering straight into his lilac hues. 

‘Do you miss the sea?’ You’ve asked him this question many times. He's always given a composite response, but maybe his flowery words diluted the meaning too much to your ears. 

“Yes, I do miss the sea.” His candid yearning. 

There was a question his lips didn’t dare ask, ‘Do you miss the sun?’, Neuvillette wanted to riposte your questions with this question of his.

But he knew it would be pointless, for he already knew the answer. Wordlessly written all over your melancholic stare into the pond, the longing to return to the sun, to be with blood and not water. 

To love you, would be to hoist you up to where you longed to be, in the embrace of the warm sun. Neuvillette had thought he made up his resolve long ago.

However, would it be too selfish of him to wish to turn back?

To convince you to back into the tranquil estate where the Melusines await your return with those dishes you taught them how to cook.

Or maybe would at least try on those gowns still untouched? Could you wait until all those books in the library were read through by your sweet voice?

Would you be oh so kind enough to hold his hand just for a moment longer? At the very least, would you allow him to memorize your warmth? 

His grip on your hands tightens ever so briefly, a shaky breath trembles in his chest before he releases it along with the tension in his fingers.

No, it wouldn’t be fair to stall any longer, you deserve your happy ending. 

Calmly, the dragon bows his head closer to yours. Ignoring the aggrieved voices that cried for him to swallow back to secret just about to spill from his tongue.

The ending of this tale won’t ever change, for a dragon is just as foolish as he was before. 

“My true name is-!” His voice was stunned as a pair of soft lips silenced him. 

Your lips pressed against his own, forcing back the secret. His bewildered eyes hone in upon your face, but your lashes were shut as your hands pull his face closer. The resolve wanes from his bones as he sinks into your embrace. 

As your lips pull away, gasping for breath. He places his hands atop yours, searching your face for an answer. All he got was that indecipherable smile. 

Pulling his face down closer to yours again, your lips find themselves right next to his pointed ears. Under a faint breath which left your parted lips came the secret he kept locked away.

Since when? When did you find his name? Or… did you know this whole time? 

Neuvillette reels back in the embrace of your cruel hands. Lilac eyes stare deep into yours, peering through the cracks in that enchanting façade of yours. 

Ah, this whole time, did he not discover the false innocence in the irises of the deceptor of all deceptors? 

A foolish moth fell for the deception of a devil once again, flying to the flicker of a candle until his wings were charred off into ash.

Those sentences written upon parchment weren’t lies, all other monsters fall secondary to the devil. Even a dragon. 

“Why?” Was all he could muster, oh cruel devil why did you play him a fool once more?

“Because I wanted to see you again… but I knew you wouldn’t quite share the same sentiment since the moment I heard your voice… so I lied,” Those audacious eyes of yours never looked away. 

Ah, how could he forget how crafty and observant a devil is with her schemes? The charming enchantment as she performs her deceptions. Speaking shameless lies with those bewitching lips.

“If you wanted to see me… then that day at the loch… why weren’t you there?” The stir of the torrent within put a snarl into his throat.

Why must you keep lying to him? 

Ah, from the start, Neuvillette should’ve listened to the clamorous cries of his instincts. To withdraw away from the flame, to extinguish the hell fires before they left another lesson learned upon his skin.

Yet, he’s still within the embrace of your cruel hands. His body just wouldn’t pull away. 

Just what is this level of stupidity called? For a moth to still crave the warmth of the flame which charred its wings into ash. Just what is this lunacy called? 

“The nobles locked me away after those tyrants stole your name from my tongue, they locked me away.” Torment brewing in those irises which reflected him. 

A chill staggers the surge of the torrent, an icy sting which stupefied the rampaging currents.

For generations upon generations of scribes and poets never penned this detail down in any rendition of a classically beloved tale. 

“I begged them, I banged against the bars of the cell, even clawed at the stone walls until my fingers were raw, but they left me there to rot in the cold… I just wanted to see you one last time, just once more.” Those bitter pools formed in your penitent eyes spill over. 

This wasn’t how the tale was supposed to end. The maiden, who deceived a dragon for her people, was supposed to be hailed a hero. You were supposed to have a happy ending, so why didn't you get that? 

“All I ever wanted was for you and me to walk amongst humanity… look where that got us…” Tears descend from your cheeks and onto the grass below, a humorless chuckle. 

Was this another lie falling from those saccharine lips of yours? Sugar dusted on the shell of a vile trick? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore. 

“That foolish wish of mine… it must’ve been so painful. I’m so sorry.” Your thumb traces over the scales dotted over his cheek, evidence of a draconic rebellion against a mortal condemnation. 

Does your touch scorn or soothe him? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll say sorry one thousand times if you wish.” A tremor in your voice.

The surge within him couldn’t sustain itself, faltering and receding back to a placid, pathetic ripple. Perhaps… It's tired.

Tired of holding onto this futile grudge. Not when the bitter answers its tides were ravenous for had finally sunk in. 

He takes a deep breath, collecting his resolve. 

“...what… what do you wish for?” Just how will this rendition end? Neuvillette doesn’t know. 

But he knows his hands should hold onto yours, desperately etching the details of your tender touch into its memory. Rations to sustain him for the rest of a solitary eternity. 

He hears your slow inhale, preparing your throat to speak your selfish desires. 

“I wish for your curses to become mine alone to bear.” You reveal your selfish wish, pressing the voucher of freedom into his hands. 

He had that look on his face again. Disbelief stupefied each muscle of his dashing face, wide eyes peering into yours trying to find the hint of a jest. Your gaze doesn’t waiver as your finger tightens around his. 

“Grant me my wish… please.” Lips stretching with a reassuring smile.

His lips press into a thin line, face returning to its place between your warm hands, he takes a deep breath. Perhaps it’s just his sense of responsibility and fairness that compelled him to fulfill this wish. 

Or maybe, the dragon just couldn’t help but submit to the whims of his beloved, a statement that remained no matter what rendition of the tale it was.  

Releasing the breath he held, the shift in the air was palpable, a lightness in his chest. The pond off to the side billows momentarily, drawing focus toward its excited ripples.

Releasing his hold, feet leading him to the side of the saltwater before his mind could process his own actions. 

He could hear it again, the hymns of the water singing the end of his exile. Reaching out a hand, it sinks past the cool surface, the tides welcoming back their prince with mellow kisses. 

The ocean calls for him, so why is he still staring back at you? The one who’ll never embrace the sea again for the rest of her life, nor ever feel the sway of Summer days in a field full of Pluie Lotus. His eyes conveyed a question his lips couldn’t bear to ask. Thus, you give the answer he seeks. 

 “Think of it as my reparations to you, an overdue apology for my mistake, for making you to suffer so much.” That glimmer in your eyes, one he understands now. 

Moving the hex to a body whose true master was the mistress of time, a body blessed with mortality. If a miracle isn’t enough to make a curse break, then perhaps the tides of time could. 

Taking a piece of the curse with each tick of a clock, just like how the waves take with it grains of sand from warm beaches. 

Once a withered mortal body is called back to the earth, the clauses will be fulfilled after many centuries. Unsettled grudges eroded away like those sandy banks. 

Until the pull of the ground makes its visible influence on your skin. Until your locks come to resemble the snowy shade you’ve lovingly run your fingers through. Until the sweet earth hums for you to embrace it once more, you shall remain here. 

What a clever scheme it all is, a masterful plan which could only ever be conjured by you. You devil, oh so devious, devil. 

“You can hate me, I won't hold it against you,” you whisper. “May this tale end in your happiness, let me do this much for you.”

A bitter bile festers at those lies of yours. How could such lies fall from your lips so easily when they always left such a vile taste upon his tongue?

Gaze honed in upon your frame, watching the gentle smile hold back the slight quiver of your shoulders. He stands back up, slow strides returning him to your side. Taking your hands into his larger ones, placing your soft touch back along his cheeks. 

“Silence… I won’t hear such deceit.” Snowy locks brushing against your fingertips.

“But I wasn’t lying…” Confusion furrows your brow, but your hands remain cupping his face.

Moving away, he studies the rivulets of regret and anguish that leave bitter trails down your cheeks. He swallows back the objections clawing up his throat, such vile words don’t belong on your tongue. 

“How could I hate you?” he confesses. 

Neuvillette has finally come to a realization. All those renditions, all those differing retellings of a classic tale. He had read them all wrong, basis clouding his interpretation. 

For the princess did love her dragon. Just as he loved her, all this time. 

Together in the depths of a cave away from the prying eyes of the divine. Breaths in time with one another as they stand in the embrace of one another, until the dragon bows his head back down.

Touching his forehead to hers, so that maybe Neuvillette could get a glimpse into that ever mystical mind of yours. 

“How can I ever hate what I’ve coveted for so long?” He asks. 

That ever-stirring torrent, that spiteful surge, where did it go? Those clamorous voices with their vengeful snarls and cynical bellows, why weren’t they intrepid enough to direct those foul words toward you? 

Not you, never you. How could they ever hate you, the heroine of a Fontainian fairytale they’ve pitifully yearned for so long? 

“Am… am I loved then?” Your lashes were squeezed shut as if death was rapping upon them. Too cowardly to face the verdict. 

“Yes… yes, you devious devil…” Neuvillette couldn’t help but chuckle at such an endearing sight.

He feels your fingers tense around his skin, astonishment in the features of your face. It soon melts away into those welling pools as a smile pushes against the corners of your eyes. 

Pressing your forehead to his, a warm droplet rolls down your cheek and over the curve of your lips. He simply rests his head against yours.

Only now in the last sentence of this retelling of a tale which has been twisted, distorted, and embellished away from the initial narrative did an unwritten truth emerge. 

A clever maiden was just as foolish as a proud dragon. The weight of their foolishness was so great it dragged them beneath the waves and kept them in a cove deep away from the prying eyes of gods. 

However, if this idiotic dragon could intertwine his fingers with yours. If he could be by your side until the hands of time call you back to the earth in this final rendition. 

If he could be the happy ending you deserved, then he wouldn’t mind in the slightest. 

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

Let’s Look Over The Garden Wall

Summary: One wants an easy meal and one wants to play house. 

Word Count: 9.9k

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Smut, MDNI, Modern AU, Vampire AU, Contract Marriage, NSFW, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Unrequited love?, Vampire! Alhaitham, Dom! Alhaitham, Human! Reader, biting, pet name? (calls you good girl) TW: Blood & Blood drinking, TW: Death, Terminally ill! Reader, slight orgasm denial, slight corruption kink, wedding night, temperature play? He falls hard, slow fic, tragedy

Authors note: This whole fic was a challenge since I wanted to write it kinda from Alhaitham’s pov. I’m not really knowledgeable about vampires, so in this fic they’re just a type of monster and not undead, and vampire blood can turn humans into monsters. Enjoy!

Side note: Here is the other side, Finale

Keep reading

”no time will be better” - prompts for that first kiss <3

prompt list by @novelbear

"woah."

the first initial kiss being a simple peck, then they immediately go back in for a stronger, more passionate one.

"are you sure about this?"

the hands. on the waist. oh my god.

^ then they feel themselves being pulled closer ??

taller gently grasping the shorter's chin

"that was...." "yeah."

a certain song playing while they have their moment and it becomes their song.

"sorry, that was my first kiss." "i could tell." "...." "i'm kidding!"

an accidental first kiss

"are we about to kiss right now?" "you are not serious."

awkward giggles right after

"well i guess that answers my question."

a hand (or both) placed gently on their cheeks!!!

"i'm sorry, i had to."

the uncontrollable smile they break into either after or during the kiss itself

"don't you dare tell anyone about this." "wasn't planning on it."

that panic beforehand while trying to figure out if they're really leaning in for a kiss or not.

someone's hair ending up getting caught in the other's glasses/jewelry

maybe one is awkward enough to the point where they're like "what the hell do i do with my hands?!"

feeling each other instantly relax as they both quickly get comfortable

"can we do that again? my eyes were closed." "oh my god."

their hearts stopping when they hear someone's camera click (a friend catching them in the act ?)

"so does this mean you feel the same or..?"

✎ when you love someone. ft. lyney x fem!reader content: heavy angst, death/murder, fontaine archon quest spoilers, detail to injury, ooc lyney while i’m practising. not proofread. w.c. tba.

there's a melancholic harmony that comes with dating that infamous, ash blond magician who's name is uttered from every fontainian's mouth across the country. 'he's miraculous!' they exclaim, eyes glittering like stars as they leave the opera epiclese, grins wide on their faces. he truly is, you think to yourself as you follow the crowds out on some evenings after witnessing your boyfriend's abilities for the nth time. yet you also know better than this. the lies intertwined between soft kisses shared in the moonlight and the forced smiles he'll throw in anyone's direction.

lyney knows better too when he fumbles for his house key, a gloved hand fishing into his pockets to pull out the cold metal. a prospect he never thought he'd grasp when he devoted himself to the orphanage beside his sister, starved and defensive. there's almost a pained smile on his face when he calls out to you that he's home. at this hour of the night, the court of fontaine is a quiet city, especially in this quarter. the night life clings to the hotels that bustle with activity, drinks and other numerous acts that people indulge themselves in to drown their pains out - but he knows that the house he'd made a home with you was never this quiet.

it's a strange thought to him that you'd ever go to bed without waiting up for him first - that was your favourite routine, curled up on the couch with a plate of fresh conch madeleines you'd baked earlier in the day. a crocheted blanket would be draped over your bare legs, one of lyney's own white dress shirts hanging flimsily from your frame with the buttons done up. he would grin at the imagery if only it wasn't for the slow, tense anxiety creeping up his spine, leaving a trail of hairs standing on edge at the silence you'd left him with.

"ma chérie?" he calls out again, that sweet nickname rolls from his tongue like it has a thousand times before since you started dating. it's familiar, it tastes warm and like your homemade cooking you'll bring to him before his shows - a comfort he'll cherish no matter how much his acts crumble him.

you knew months into speaking with lyney that he worked for the fatui behind that whimsical act of a magician. you remember that tight feeling that choked your lungs for breath, you remember the vivid way the corners of your vision darkened and his words echoed in your head. he looked so pitiful, his brows knit together and a beautiful glitter to his lilac eyes when he's on the brink of tears from your lack of response.

growing up, you recall the stories your parents and elders had spat in distaste regarding the fatui - snezhnayan scum, good-for-nothings, troublemakers that cause nought but harm wherever they go. you truly believed that lyney was none of these, how could he be? he'd swooned you so lovingly after one of his shows on a starry night, having caught your eyes in his audience. he claims it was love at first sight, the cheesy phrase making you giggle whenever he'd reference it. he'd whispered sweet nothings in your ear the first night you'd shared a bed together, fingers dusting down your body in feather light touches like he considered you porcelain.

surely these were things that proved his innocence? that proved the truth in his words when he first mumbled 'i love you' against your soft lips midway through a kiss? you gave him his chance and lyney was determined to not let his affairs as a fatui member ruin what he had with you. things were perfect for the upcoming year, even if that smile he flashed to anyone who looked in his direction was so fake that you could almost grimace.

it is not lyney that anyone should have doubted the faithfulness of - the safety that his arms brought you. it is the fatui, the harbingers, the organisation that tears lives apart for their personal gains. it's the promises to protect their members' families and loved ones that fall on deaf ears yet feed their members' minds with relief and keeps that every faltering loyalty in check. they have them wrapped around gloved fingers that are ready to snap at any moment.

lyney kicks off his boots by the front door, twirling his hat as he hangs it next to your coat. in his younger years, he'd debated what the meaning of love was. he'd thought over the concept of a home - of four walls that were safe and permanent. every time something took a wrong turn in his life, he considered if he was capable of being loved, perhaps if he was even capable of loving too. if there was one thing he was certain from his time with you, it was that you'd proved him wrong.

his legs carry him tiredly up the staircase, his footsteps light as he steps over a particular floorboard he has memorised that creaks - just in case you'd truly gone to sleep without him tonight. the silence is deafening, he can't even hear the faint sounds of your breathing from your shared bedroom where the door is cracked open and the moonlight floods out like a liquid river. he glimpses red through the crack and his brow furrows in concern, picking up the pace of his steps.

the world you'd built with lyney crashes down the moment his hand - free of its glove - pushes the bedroom door further open and his eyes fall onto your body. you're limp on the floor, laid on the soft, fur rug you'd begged lyney to buy when you were furnishing your first home together. he still vividly remembers the beam you gave him when he caved and agreed. there's a pool of blood around you, drenching that cream fur and seeping into the floorboards beneath you. it's oxidising, darkening - how long had you been here like this?

lyney falls to his knees beside you, your blood soaking through his stockings and wetting his skin but he shrugs the uncomfortable feeling away when his hands push you onto your back, your head rolling to the side limply. your eyes are white, rolled back but there's a look of fear written across your face and lyney's eyes begin to sting with the idea that you'd been scared in your final moments; no, he refuses to accept that you're dead. you're simply injured, passed out - he'll get you to a doctor and he'll never let you out of his sight again.

but the waterfall of red that decorates your neck and stains his white shirt he knew you'd be wearing tell him otherwise. his hands clasp at your cheeks, cupping the cold skin as his thumbs desperately rub at you in hopes that you'll come to, smiling and reassuring him. he blinks the tears in his eyes away but all they do is fall down his pale cheeks in precious streams of emotion when he doesn't wake up. he doesn't open his eyes again to see sunlight streaming through the light fabric of your bedroom curtains. he doesn't hear his favourite laugh in the whole of teyvat when you notice he's woke up. the silent atmosphere is still very much present, tense and ready to be sliced with a knife.

the only sounds are lyney's jagged breaths, desperate as he starts to hyperventilate to get air into his lungs. he presses his ear to your chest, not caring if his blond locks fall into your blood as he frantically searches for your pulse, a sign of life. there is not even a shallow breath that falls from your chapped lips.

you had taught lyney many things in the time you'd devoted at his side, things that the fatui could never teach him. you taught him how it feels when you love someone but as he releases a pained cry into the night, you'd also taught him the anguish that comes from the decision of trusting the fatui the way he had before.

© https-heizou 2023.

in which: alhaitham resorts to lying on top of you in order to get you speaking to him again.

quick alhaitham thought i needed to get off my mind, making out at the end lol, potentially ooc

there were a lot of things you didn’t expect when entering a relationship with alhaitham. you didn't expect him to have kaveh as a roommate, you didn’t expect him to overthrow the government, and you didn’t expect him to resort to pettiness in order to end the silent treatment you were giving him.

it’s suffocating beneath him, squished into his soft mattress with his body weight, muscles wrapped around you like a python whilst one arm is extended outwards, balancing a book. you wonder if he’s actually reading it, but you can tell he’s enjoying himself regardless, evident through the way he often turns his head to place a kiss on your exposed collarbone, burying his face into your warmth from here to there. 

for the umpteenth time, you grunt, losing your mind just a little. his body warmth was getting too much, and you’ve been lying here for who knows how long, just staring at the ceiling of his bedroom.

you want to protest, berate him for flattening you before shoving him off, but that would mean surrendering, and this time, you want alhaitham to be the one to give up first. 

as if hearing your thoughts, your grey-haired lover then glances up at you, sleepy gaze filtered through messy strands of hair that have fallen in front of his eyes. you almost cave at the domesticity of it all, only just stopping yourself from brushing his bangs away. 

“still upset?” he murmurs, putting his book face-down to wrap his arms tighter around your torso. “fine. have it your way, i’m going to nap.”

“no-” he perks up at the sound of your voice, raising an eyebrow as a mask of smugness gleams over his face. you shut your mouth immediately, cursing at yourself to slip up so easily, but you really needed to stretch out your legs and the other discomforts of lying like an unmoving plank beneath alhaitham. 

“what was that?” challenges your boyfriend. you don’t answer him, merely staring him down as he sits back, grabbing your wrists. “oh come on, i know you want to say something, out with it.” 

shaking your head, he scoffs at your stubbornness as if his isn’t just as frustrating, and gently caresses your hand. his touch is tantalising, urging you to give in, and paired with that lidded look of his, it’s practically impossible not to.

not many people get to see alhaitham like this, you realise. most know him as an indifferent, closed off, and unapproachable scribe, turned grand sage, turned scribe, yet you get the honour of seeing him as this. “talk to me already,” he demands gently, not letting his grip waver even as you keep trying to pull your hands away, only slipping away so far before he’s holding you again.

there aren’t many battles you can win against him, you know that, and one of them was a battle of strength. as he holds your wrists tight to your sides, his face so close to yours, you feel his earlier playfulness melting into something sincere. 

“are you still mad?” asks alhaitham, furrowing his eyebrows slightly as a pout appears along his lips. the response you give him is a petulant turn of your head. he sighs through his nose. “i’m sorry, okay? i was out of line, i should have listened to you, alright?”

his tone is uncharacteristically kind and warm, warm enough for you to give in to his pleas.

“you mean it?” you tease, grinning widely at him. in the blink of an eye, the tension from alhaitham’s shoulder seeps away like sand, and he sighs with relief before agreeing, a solid ‘yes’ slipping through his mouth. “then i accept your apology.”

“you minx, enjoying the sight of me like this, aren't you-” he murmurs, and you swallow his brewing snide remarks with a kiss, closing the gap by firmly pressing your lips against his. alhaitham is not surprised by your sudden affection. rather, he welcomes it, melts into you wholly as a hand holds the back of your neck to keep you against him. you're warm and precious and everything he could ever desire, so he can't help but let his hands wander, searching for more.

as your mouths slot together, there’s a delicate exchange of apologies that words cannot express; ironic, since alhaitham knows of several ways to apologise in a multitude of languages. nevertheless, he thinks that this is the best method.

with the way you move in sync with him, he can tell that this is your favourite too. 

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ LUCKY — GOJO SATORU.

contents. baths + non sexual nudity, established relationships, tired toru :(, lots of kissies and praise for the babie :(, solid proof in the form of writing of how embarrassingly lovesick i am for this FOOL

it’s past midnight when satoru walks into your bathroom. he doesn’t even question why you’re in the bath so late—just gives you a lopsided grin tiredly as you smile.

“you’re home,” you brighten.

“look at you,” he coos, staring down at you with amused eyes, “waitin’ for me?”

satoru is tired—you can tell from the way the his shoulders are slouched and his blindfold is clutched in his hand. “i was,” you hum in agreement, “c’mere.”

it’s all it takes. he’s stripped down and waiting for you to move up so he can slide behind you in seconds, hand waving to motion you forward. but you’re stubborn—you shake your head as you hold an arm out for him.

“baby,” he whines, “c’mon i was out fighting big bad curses all day. jus’ lemme hold—”

“no. just come here, toru,” you insist.

there’s something about it—something about the way your voice is so gentle, so insistent, so knowing. it’s like you can read him more than he can, sometimes. satoru is tired, you can see it, you can feel it. you can’t carry his burdens, but you can hold him while he holds the weight of the world for a night.

maybe it’ll do for now—maybe it’ll even be enough and more.

“what? feelin’ like pampering me today?” he teases, “aren’t i a lucky guy,” he hums—but he climbs into the tub anyway, settling between your legs, leaning his back against your chest as his head falls back against your shoulder.

instantly, two gentle kisses plant themselves against his head, and his eyes flutter shut. he’s starting to feel the beginnings of a headache form—the gentle thump in his skull just barely there, but persistently present.

your thumbs rubs along the sides of his head, enough pressure to soothe the pain like you know it’s coming—he thinks you must.

“you are a lucky guy,” you giggle, “look at me. such a catch.”

he grins, chuckling that boyish chuckle of his freely in your arms as he relaxes. it’s been a while since he’s relaxed, you think—it’s half past midnight and he’ll be up with the sun in a bit to head back to the school, but it’s nice to know he’s relaxed. even just for this short, rare moment.

“oh yeah,” he nods, lips curled into a grin as he cracks an eye open and peers up at you, “s no catch like my pretty ‘lil baby. i’m living it up.”

“glad you know your privileges,” you murmur contently, shaking your head in amusement as you wrap your arms around his body. one hand rubs over his abs—he wants to tease you about feeling him up, wants to make a sly comment about missing his body more than him while he was gone. but there’s something about it, about the way it’s so slow and soothing and soft—it’s so painfully soft, satoru swallows.

finally, he lets his body go slack against yours, sliding down so his head rests against your chest and the water soaks more of his body. it’s warm. the water and your arms. it’s all so, so warm and forgiving.

“aren’t you gonna tell me how lucky you are too? i’ll listen, don’t worry. no interruptions.”

“yeah?” you chuckle, threading fingers through his hair and pulling a soft sigh from him, “wanna know how lucky i am?”

“course,” he murmurs, “well, i already know you’re lucky. it’s me after all—but i’m not opposed to hearing it.”

“how humble of you, satoru,” you snort.

he grins wider—he hasn’t had a chance to smile all day. not properly, at least.

“feel free to start any second,” he says with a wink. then his eyes flutter shut again as your thumb traces his cheek, ever so gently running along the soft angles of his face.

it’s pretty—everything about him is pretty. there are no ugly parts to satoru. just the parts painted from cruel hands. they’re beautiful too, you like to think, in their own, fragile little ways.

“okay,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his head, “i’m very lucky,” you murmur into his hair.

he hums, mumbling a quiet, “knew it.”

“lucky i have such a handsome face to greet,” you pepper kisses along his forehead and find his cheek, giving it an affectionate little bite that makes him huff out an amused chuckle. “and he’s so tall too,” you add, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“that all he is?” he pouts, “just a pretty face? you’re breaking my heart, baby.”

“no,” you say quietly, grabbing his hand and brushing a thumb over his knuckles, “he’s also kind. too kind, sometimes,” you say quietly, “he comes home a bit later than usual every once in a while because he took his students out to eat. he loves them a bit too much, i think.”

“no such thing as too much love,” he hums, squeezing your hand.

you smile, admiring him as he lays against you, small in your hold even with the larger than life weight he carries.

“and he’s strong,” you add, “really strong. it’s not fair sometimes,” you whisper, “he’s got so much on his plate.”

“he handles it fine,” he assures, “he always does.”

“and then he still makes time for little old me,” you say fondly, kissing his shoulder, “never lets me feel lonely. he’s too good to me.”

“there’s no such thing as too good for you,” he gasps offendedly, pouting like you’ve insulted him, “he’s definitely not—”

“and sometimes, he comes home tired. and he tries to act like he’s not because he’s a bit of a prick who doesn’t let me help, but i’m smart and i know him well so i’ve figured it out. and if i’m extra lucky, i might get to hold him for a bit like this and help him relax.”

you squeeze him gently for emphasis, holding him closer as you press your nose into his neck and breathe in his smell. it’s like cologne that’s rudely expensive and that sweet smell only satoru has—it’s all you want to breathe in for the rest of your days.

you hope he’ll allow you that much. something tells you he will.

satoru swallows thickly at that, rubs a thumb over your bare thigh as he rests his free hand over it, the other still in your grasp.

and then, quietly, “maybe he’s fine just coming home to you,” he shrugs, “who can stay tired with such a sweet face waiting at home?”

“i don’t know,” you say thoughtfully, “he’s got a lot to take care of. wonder how he does it.”

“he’s probably the strongest,” he shoots with an easy grin, “sounds like the strongest to me.”

“he is,” you nod, “he’s a lot more than that too. i’m lucky he’s mine.”

“oh yeah?” he drawls—there’s something a little shaky about his voice though.

you choose not to mention it, pressing soft, delicate kisses along his jaw as you murmur, “yeah. he makes me feel really, really lucky. love him so much.”

“love you too,” satoru breathes, “guess we’re both really, really lucky.”

don’t talk to me i don’t want to be perceived. that’s enough softness for a lifetime so the next time i write him he’s getting hit by a bus

𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝.

— time is merciless, especially when it comes to the love between an immortal and a short-life species.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

pairing. Dan Heng, Dan Feng x gn! reader (respectively) content. gender neutral! reader, reader is short-lived, angst, hurt/no comfort, hurt/comfort, reader dies, reader is reincarnated, 1.2 content is written from memory

word count – 8.6k

note: happy belated birthday, @particular-one! i was supposed to have this out ages ago but my cold had other plans… anyway! hope you enjoy it Carlyle!! i love you 💕

Birthdays are days of celebration; yet all you could do was mourn. Time passed by you like a stranger on a street, and yet it was no stranger, really. Your first encounter had been during your adolescent years, when your body began to morph into that which it would become for the duration of your adult life. And you knew these encounters, brief and fleeting, would continue until death would finally claim you. 

“Happy Birthday, [y/n]!” cheered your companions, illuminating the darkness of your reverie with their bright smiles. You blinked. Reality came blossoming back around you, blooming in iridescent hues as the present moment reformed into one picture that should be a fond memory in the making. 

Your brother Yingxing grinned at you, the aged-lines of his face creasing as he held out a cake for you. In cursive it read: HAPPY 25TH BRITHDAY, [Y/N]!! Baiheng clapped your shoulder, leaning over from behind you as she examined the cake intently. 

“Hey! Yingxing, you dolt! There’s a typo on the frosting!” Worry creased your brother’s brow and he examined the icing intently, clicking his tongue loudly upon seeing his mistake. His perfectionism of craft knew no bounds, for it even reached cake decorating as a look of deep dissatisfaction crossed his countenance. 

It was only when Jing Yuan burst into loud laughter that Yingxing’s displeasure abated, and he too joined the rest of the Quintet in laughing at his mistake. You forced a laugh, but it did not meet your eyes. 

“You only had one thing to do, Yingxing,” Jingliu chided, shaking her pale head with amusement. Yingxing raised a brow at his teacher, accepting her quip as a challenge. 

“Well, in my defence – I am not a baker by profession.”

“Oh, so you’re not a professional speller, either?” Jing Yuan retorted, his lips quirking into a smirk upon seeing Yingxing’s irritation. He had hardly reached manhood, yet Jing Yuan was already serving disrespect on a silver platter to all of the elder members of the High Cloud Quintet – much to their amused annoyance. Their bickering continued; without Jingliu’s inevitable intervention, it could last for hours unchecked. 

Upon watching this scene unfold before you, a profound sense of sadness filled you like a basin. Today should be a day brimming with happiness. It was your 25th birthday; you had just reached your prime, and you had plenty more fruitful years laying before you. In spite of that, a quarter of your life had already come and gone. You looked at your comrades wistfully. 

One hundred years. Such an inconsequential age to the Xianzhou natives. While reaching a century of age was normal for the species of the alliance, for a short lived being such as yourself living to one hundred would be the final milestone of your short life. One hundred years. It hung over your head like a noose, swinging tantalisingly in time’s passing. 

In the midst of this persistent exchange, Dan Feng stood wordlessly. The wind blew at his hair, causing it to undulate the same way as the water he controlled with cloud hymn. He regarded you intently with his viridian eyes, the only one not so jubilant in this moment of celebration. His lips thinned with concern; though the High Elder often claimed that he was hardly the expressive sort, you could read him like an open book. 

The five years you had spent together as companions may not have been long for one of his lifespan, but to you they lasted far more than that, with each year being its own little eternity. As such, Dan Feng had been studied by you continuously, the way an artist studies their muse. You knew every contour of his body, every thought that crossed his mind. 

And his troubles were perceptible – you just did not know what they were. 

The authoritative clearing of Dan Feng’s throat brought the other four members of the Quintet back to the room, reminding them of their purpose here, on this mild winter morning. 

“[y/n]’s cake…?” he asked in a low voice, his deadpan evident. He removed an arm from being tucked away in his long sleeves and indicated to the candles that were starting to topple over on the cake. They had been half consumed by the flame during their time teasing and bickering with the wax now melting onto the cake’s frosting. 

“Oh! Right,” Yingxing exclaimed. His cheeks heated, self-conscious at his own neglect and how easily Jing Yuan had baited him into yet another squabbling session. Behind him, Jing Yuan grinned and promptly received a light smack over the head from Jingliu. Despite his status as her student having ceased several years ago, old habits never fade.

Baiheng hummed, bringing all to a close. And the closest figures in your life banded together, singing a harmony celebrating your birthday. 

To you it felt more like a dirge, but you tried your best to smile along to their singing. Each ‘Happy Birthday’ only reminded you that another year had come and gone; though there was more to come, another leaf had fallen from the tree of your life. Soon, you would reach your middle years. Then the winter of your life. And finally, Dan Feng would be burying you. 

“Happy Birthday to you!

Happy Birthday to you!

Happy Birthday, dear [y/n],

Happy Birthday to you!” 

You smiled away the tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks as the basin containing your sadness overfilled, and continued listening to your companions’ singing. It was a disservice to their effort and love for you, thinking such morbid thoughts on a day that they had taken so much care in preparing. You hadn’t realised that the singing had stopped until you felt the piercing gaze of the five of them on your person. A bashful colouring of red dusted your complexion as the attention drew towards you magnetically. 

Noticing this, Yingxing quickly pushed your cake towards you, the expectant smile on his lips mirrored another four times by the other members of the Quintet. Inhaling quickly, you proceeded to blow out the candles of your cake all in one go. It was mere superstition in your culture that doing so would result in your wish coming true, but you made a wish nonetheless. I wish that I do not have to die, while the others live on together. 

They cheered loudly. Baiheng swiftly snatched the cake from Yingxing’s and ran over to one of the canopied tables in the garden to cut it, her actions accompanied by the loud growl emanating from her stomach. Jing Yuan followed quickly, seemingly eager to taste the cake that Yingxing had laboured over for so long – probably to find some flaw just to incite him further. The white haired swordmaster followed her student, leaving only yourself, Dan Feng and Yingxing beneath the stars. 

Dan Feng walked over towards you. Were it not for the strong aroma of lotus and sea-salt that followed the Vidyadhara, you would not have known of his approach; each footfall of his was lighter than a droplet of rain. His sinuous azure tail wound itself around your waist, securing you firmly in place. Your hand ran itself along the hard ridges of his scintillating tail and from beside you Dan Feng released a loud exhale. 

The High Elder’s desire to have you alone was palpable. Mumbling a quick ‘excuse me’, Yingxing departed as well. However, before he left, he glanced over his shoulder at you, an expression of melancholy understanding on his face. 

While it remained unspoken between the both of you, he felt it too; the tired lines around his eyes assured you of it. The quiet, looming dread that companies your ephemeral lifespan. You could see it on Yingxing’s countenance as well, the silent yearning for more time. Yet the greedy are never rewarded, and are forced to live with what little they have.

As Yingxing left, Dan Feng laced his fingers through yours. He tilted his head as he glanced over at you. Dan Feng tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, using it as an excuse to place a soft kiss against your temple. Beneath his frosty gaze, you felt ready to be swept away by the currents of his blue irises. 

“Are you all right, my love?” he murmured, lips warm against your skin. You did not look at him. Instead, your eyes were fixed on the rest of the Quintet, who were drinking and feasting under the night sky, their jovial laughter disrupting the night’s silence. 

“I’m fine, Dan Feng…” he raised a slender eyebrow dubiously “Really!” Raising your voice emphatically, you gave his side a playful nudge.

Even if Dan Feng knew you were lying he didn't press the matter – for now, at least. It was just the two of you, standing there in quiet bliss beneath the sea of stars. You leaned your body against his, resting your head on his shoulder like he was your own pillar. From the corner of your eye, Dan Feng’s thin lips curved into a smile at your action. Against yours, his body was cool, but gradually grew enveloped by the warmth emanated by your own body. 

Small moments like these, though seemingly insignificant, held the most weight. You had to make the most of such occasions when you had such little time to appreciate them. It remained unspoken between you two, save for the most intimate of moments shared between you, behind closed doors. Only then would a certain hunger arise, a deep famine for more time that would manifest through urgent kisses, a lack of words and breaths. 

During such moments, you had come to learn that contrary to the stoicism with which he carried himself, Dan Feng was a greedy man with an insatiable appetite. His visage of meticulously upheld composure fell through whenever the two of you were alone, in times like these. 

In a swift movement, his tail spun you around so that you collided with the wall of his chest. Despite his manhandling, Dan Feng’s arms held you tenderly, and he looked down at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, that he would cast aside everything for your sake entirely. The intensity of his regard caused your gaze to slip from his, down towards the dew littered grass that glittered in the moon’s light. For a moment, all was silent in your vicinity. That was, until Dan Feng’s deep chuckle reverberated through the chilly air. 

You felt his eyes piercing your form like the spear he carried into battle. Dan Feng grasped your chin lightly with a single hand, bringing your face close to his so that you had no choice but to look into the deep pools of his eyes. In the pallid moonlight his skin gleamed, almost opalescent. His lips shone as if he had drunk from the moon itself, and as he lowered them onto yours, you swore you caught a taste of the moon on his tongue. 

Each movement of his lips was slow and precise; kissing you had become an art that Dan Feng had striven to perfect. His kiss silenced the morbid thoughts accompanied by your birthday; as his tongue slid your mouth, the haunting idea of your death was exorcised. All of your thoughts and senses became consumed by one singular entity: Dan Feng. 

The kiss persisted, and slowly your stores of oxygen depleted. Lost in the moment, Dan Feng seemed not to notice this until you bit down on his lower lip. He groaned, roused from the hypnosis of your lips as he pulled away from you. A loud gasp escaped your lips following your divergence. Dan Feng smirked, only hastening the already frantic beating of your heart. 

You returned his smile, and something in him snapped. Dan Feng’s eyes widened a fraction, cold fire burning white-hot as he eyed your slightly puffy lips. He angled his head, about to dive back into devouring your lips when a loud exclamation drove a knife through the tension between you. 

Baiheng cupped her mouth, shouting, “[y/n]! Dan Feng! Come on already! Jing Yuan will have eaten all the cake by the time you come over here!” 

A shadow flickered over Dan Feng’s expression as the air around you chilled. This was short lived, though. Your giggle interrupted Dan Feng’s momentary annoyance, and he glanced over at you when you brushed your hand against his arm reassuringly. 

“There’s always later, my love. For now, let’s be with our friends, okay?” Dan Feng’s lips pursed and his tail coiled tighter around your waist. However, he exhaled, nodding as his hold on you relinquished. You did not miss the annoyed flick of his tail, though. 

He pulled away and kissed your forehead – the gentle branding of his lips against your skin a loving reminder that you were his until death claimed you. 

“Happy Birthday, [y/n]...” Dan Feng murmured, his voice low as if your love were a secret from the universe itself, so precious that not even the wind could hear the affection in his cold voice. With that, you departed from your little bubble hand-in-hand, promptly rejoining your friends for a long night of celebration. 

Time is a one way street. You can never move backwards, only forwards. And you were traversing it at a far more rapid pace than your long-living companions. You held onto Dan Feng tightly, an idealistic attempt to ground yourself in time’s swift currents. Perhaps if you held on tightly enough death would pardon you. Such thoughts circled your mind, forming a deep vortex of morbidity that inevitably pulled you back down to the pits despair. Indeed, they always plagued you at your highest moments, or at your calmest. 

You yearned for sleep, but whenever you closed your eyes you grappled with the fear that you might not open them again, only for them to droop shut with fatigue. This cycle had persisted for several hours, indicated by the movement of shadows across your bedroom walls. As the moon’s light travelled the room, they would herd themselves away from the pale light, festering in the darkest corners of your bedroom to resume their bleeding dances.  

Dan Feng hardly stirred beside you during this time. He was the deepest sleeper you had ever known, but you still shuffled in the bed with the utmost care as you sat up. Brushing aside the strands of hair sticking to his face, he seemed almost carved out of marble, his face the pinnacle of serenity. You envied it. If only the same could be said for you. Only at night, when truly alone with your thoughts, would the beast of your mortality plague you, fears of your eventual demise weighing down your heart, and imbuing it with a deep-set hopelessness. 

What would happen when you died? A quarter of your life had already passed, and for an immortal another three-quarters of a century was a laughable amount of time. Would he find someone new? No, another thought pestered your mind: would Dan Feng even stay with you throughout the duration of your life? When you grew old and inevitably ugly, what then? Your throat constricted and tears teased your eyes, welling into giant droplets that you fought back with all your willpower. You wanted to laugh, to cry, though no sound escaped you. None would. 

Dan Feng’s slow breaths were your only anchorage in these dark, nocturnal moments. You listened to his rhythmic inhale with the same fervour as one would a sermon, with his existence your entire creed. More than that; he was your entire world. So as to cleanse these macabre thoughts, you lightly brushed your lips against his. Only, you had not expected for your kiss to be reciprocated. 

Dan Feng held the back of your head, pushing your lips onto his even further so that your swirling tongues could become one. His lips were cool and firm, extinguishing the anguished fires blazing within you and igniting a rapid fluttering in your heart. Time’s trickling froze in that bedroom with that kiss. Your thoughts were drowned and all you heard was the mingling gasps of your intertwined breaths. 

The silent moon was the sole witness to your love, almost as if she were your officiator. 

He moved a hand to the small of your back, gently pulling him closer to you so that your chests pressed together. Dan Feng smiled against your lips as he felt your body instinctively relax against his; it was second nature, by this point. You fit together perfectly, exactly like corresponding pieces – was this, perhaps, what Baiheng had meant when she spoke of soulmates?

Much to your dismay, Dan Feng removed his lips from yours. A tiny blush dusted his cheeks and he looked up at you through sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. Dan Feng’s voice was heavy with drowsiness as he spoke. 

“Could you not sleep?” he whispered, sighing heavily as you peppered a trail of kisses down his jaw, sloping downwards to his neck. You moved away almost as fast as you had descended, looking down at your boyfriend before silencing him with a kiss. It was not met with your expected reception; Dan Feng pulled away from you, all that remained to connect you being a small strand of saliva tying you together like a string of fate. 

“Do we really have to talk…?” you replied, lowering your voice elusively. Slowly, you ran your hands through the long ebon strands of his hair, eliciting a low rumble from the High Elder’s throat. He cocked an eyebrow, then grabbed a hold of your wrist and used that momentum to spin you over so that he was leaning over you. There was nowhere to run. 

Clouds obscured the solitudinous moon outside, submerging the room in even more darkness so that all you could see was the soft, feline glow of Dan Feng’s eyes. Though you could hardly see him, he was all around you; his tail curled around your leg, his hair brushing against your cheeks, his breaths penetrating the gloomy silence of the night. 

“What’s on your mind, [y/n]? …Is it what bothered you earlier tonight?” Dan Feng murmured, his hot breath fanning your lips like a caress. The options diverged before you like a river. Be truthful. Or lie.

 You sighed, both being as bad as the other. Eventually you settled for the honest approach. Dan Feng’s crystalline gaze was sharply perceptive, and you did not want to upset him by lying. Already, from the narrowing of his eyes he seemed to be clearly aware of this inner-debate of yours and patiently awaiting the verdict. 

Your mouth opened and you inhaled deeply. Trepidation weighed down on you like a boulder, but the burden felt instantly lightened as you began to speak quietly. 

“Yingxing had his first white hair today… Did he tell you? I can’t stop thinking about it…” The sheets rustled as Dan Feng sat up, propping himself up with his elbow. His eyes were lucent amongst the shadows, alert and attentive of your words. “I know, it probably sounds silly…” Dan Feng placed a finger against your lips. 

“Don’t say that, [y/n]. I’ll gladly listen to anything you have to say. To answer your question: no, he didn’t tell me. Why, do you think he’ll look bad with white hair?” In another instance you would have laughed at the High Elder’s jab at your brother. But today was your 25th birthday, so naturally you were grieving. You laughed nonetheless, shakily and brimming with ill-contained emotion, the dam that contained it for so long growing dangerously close to bursting. Dan Feng sensed your unease and sat up further, taking you in completely as if you were a painting to study. Your voice was hoarse, the fragment of a whisper. 

“Will you love me even then? When my hair is white and my skin is wrinkled like parchment? Dan Feng… My love… I don’t think you understand how ugly I’ll become! There are plenty of long-lived individuals who would be much better suited to be your companion…! I-I’m sorry… I don’t deserve you…” The words just spilled out of your mouth, as did the tears from your eyes. Shamefully you hid your face in your hands, palms growing wet with your streaming, glistening tears. You were too scared to look at Dan Feng, lest you saw his facial expression; his silence already spoke volumes enough. 

His hands pried away those covering your face and the clouds parted, bathing Dan Feng in the lunar light that poured through the windows. Your breath hitched; he looked beautiful, even when his countenance was sharp with severity, as it was now. His thumbs wiped away your trickling tears, expression softening marginally as he did so. Dan Feng held your face between his hands and he ran his slender fingers along your damp cheeks slowly, comfortingly. Your hand found his, your face leaning into his gentle touch. 

“You have nothing to apologise for, [y/n]...” Dan Feng consoled softly as his brow furrowed, “I often find myself thinking of such things too… Just as I had no choice in being the Imbibitor Lunae, you had no choice in being born as a short life species. I… We just have to make the most of the time we have, my love,” you were promptly silenced by Dan Feng when you opened your mouth to reply, as he continued, 

“Our love cannot be contained by death. I will find you in your next life, dear [y/n].” Dan Feng spoke with utter conviction; you understood why he was so revered as the Vidyadhara High Elder, other than for his majestic power. From his authoritarian tone, cool collection – you could do nothing other than trust in his words; they were soothing, like fresh water to smouldering skin. You wanted to believe, and your hands found his. He interlaced his fingers with yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips and kissing them softly. The sealing of a promise. 

“[y/n]... I can see this has been bothering a lot. Honestly, I had wanted to wait for a more appropriate occasion, but I realised now there is none. All moments with you are as special as any other, so…” He relinquished you from his grip and reached over to his bedside table, from which he procured a small, ornately carved box. Cupping it in his palms, he extended it out towards you like an offering; his wagging tail belied his eagerness for you to open it, which you swiftly did. 

Your voice shook, “...Dan Feng…?” Turning your head, you looked at him through wide eyes, then back at the two jade pieces nestled within the velvet-lined box. They gleamed in the moonlight, highlighting each detail carved of such a quality that spoke of how much Dan Feng must have spent on the marriage items. You gaped like a fish, prompting Dan Feng to chuckle. 

“How about it, [y/n]...?” he asked tentatively. Joyful tears pearled in your eyes. You nodded vigorously, leaning forward to kiss him once more. 

Dan Feng gladly met your kiss, laughing quietly against your lips as you tangled your hands in his hair. Cupping his cheeks, you kissed him again and again, to make up for the years’ of kisses you would miss. Both of your faces grew moist from your coalescing tears; your joy was palpable, and the moon’s light brightened, almost as if celebratory of your union. His tail wrapped itself around you; coupled with his arms, it brought you into a tight embrace that you gladly welcomed. 

His body may have been cold against yours, but his heart blazed like a hearth. You propped your chin on his shoulder, closing your eyes as the final tear fell. 

“We will transcend lifetimes, my love,” he mumbled against your ear, giving the lobe a quick, possessive nip before burying his head in the crook of your neck. He pulled you back down onto the bed, his movements growing more and more lethargic as sleep drew its curtain about him. 

Dan Feng exhaled freely, settling back down beside you in a deep slumber. Tail curling around your waist, he pulled you close and securing you in place by draping an arm across your torso. 

“I will find you in your next life.”

Those words played themselves back in your head when you closed your eyes; the promise of eternal love soothing all of your doubts, for the time being. You clung to each syllable like it were some incantation that would secure your immortality – blasphemy be damned. A smile formed on your lips. Eventually, finally, you plunged into a dreamless sleep. 

As the saying goes: when it rains, it pours. That was certainly the case today. 

Lowering your head, you stormed out of the room leaving behind lit candles and faltering smiles. Above you, the skies were a sombre shade of grey, lowering themselves over the world like a funeral pall. The incoming downpour was a welcome sight; each droplet of rain disguised your weeping. 

Instinctively your finger-pads found the cool jade piece and you ran your hands across the carved accessory that marked you forever as Dan Feng’s from the day he gave it to you, a year ago. You funnelled as much comfort from that action as possible, though today it was infinitesimal. 

What had they not understood about you not wanting to celebrate your birthday this year? Not even Yingxing – someone who should have understood your reluctance to mark another year off your mortal lifespan. Dan Feng had just invited you for afternoon tea as he claimed that the Preceptors had given him a day’s respite for your sake. You were looking forward to a quiet afternoon with your spouse. Not streamers, beaming smiles and presents. 

Your heart lurched in your chest. Before you could speak or comprehend anything, you had already turned tail and ran. 

“[y/n]! Wait!” Dan Feng called after you. His voice shattered the damp silence provided by the afternoon mist, by the gentle fall of rain. It went unheard by you; if anything, his words only served to spur on your hasteful exit. The calm broke and the storm descended. 

Lightning forked across the sky, violently illuminating the meticulously curated gardens of your home. The rain poured, crashing down onto the world viciously. A roll of thunder deafened everything beneath the sky; in that time, Dan Feng, swift as a torrent of water, stood behind you. Your body conceivably stiffened and you drew in a deep breath. 

Two hands placed themselves firmly on your shoulders, spinning you round so that you were face to face with your husband. Dan Feng’s eyes blazed with cold fury, behind which lay only a deep, cavernous sorrow. 

“You’re really being a brat, you know that? Why can’t you just make do with what little time we have together?!” he demanded, his grip on your shoulders tightening. His face twisted with despairing desperation and from his expression it was evident that he had tormented himself just as much over such thoughts as you. He huffed loudly, his exhale forming like dragon’s smoke in the glacial air. 

“I love you so much, Dan Feng… But I hate my birthday! Each one is a morbid reminder that I can’t be with you forever, that my time is running out! Of course you wouldn’t understand that, since you have what, at least another five centuries ahead of you!” you exclaimed, responding with equal fervour, balling your fists as you did so. It was like talking to a wall, an impenetrable fortress; Dan Feng was stubborn to a fault, and your words only caused his expression to darken like the clouds above.

Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled. 

“How. Dare. You.” Dan Feng’s tail swished warningly, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. Never before had you seen his anger directed at you; were you not equally as upset, you would have been terrified by the sight of the High Elder like this – but your anger was your shield, and you returned his narrow-eyed glare. 

“Do you think this is easy on me either, watching time erode at you? Knowing that I will have to bury the love of my life, while I have to persist, alone in this aeon-forsaken world?” And there it was. Dan Feng’s smile had always faltered upon the mention of his position as the Vidyadhara High Elder, a slight rigidity entering his frame; you had not known such sentiments ran so deeply that they intertwined themselves with that of your relationship. 

“This is about you… Isn’t it? You don’t want to be the High Elder anymore,” you said quietly, looking up at him through rain-dusted lashes. Dan Feng recoiled, as if struck by an invisible blow that was the truth of your words. Dan Feng’s lip trembled and he averted his gaze. The downpour lightened, with the rain now only gently falling on you rather than lashing you. By now your clothes were almost soaked through, but you did not mind. 

“I would rather live a short life with you than a solitary long one. That is what it is, being a Vidyadhara,” his voice had lost its previous edge; it was filled with centuries’ worth of pain, so much so that it was almost incomprehensible to you. Dan Feng’s tail and ears drooped, and he appeared almost dejected. 

You reached forward and ran a hand over his jade piece with such care that it could have been taken for his heart. Dan Feng looked down at you, lips parted slightly in surprise. The smile you gave him was sad, yes, but filled with so much love that it could fill all the vacant space in the universe. 

“I know our situation isn’t ideal… But we just have to make the most of it, right?” Dan Feng pursed his lips, but slowly inclined his head in agreement. A small smile had settled on his lips too and he brought you in for a tight embrace, one you happily returned. The two of you stood there, in the rain, holding onto each other so securely you were like shipwrecked souls clinging to a spar. 

Placing a light kiss on your head, Dan Feng rested his chin against it. You felt the deep, soothing vibrations of his voice against you as he spoke.

“[y/n]... I’m sorry for losing my temper around you. It should never have happened in the first place, but I can assure you it never will happen again…” he sighed deeply, “I just wanted to see you happy today… I suppose if I had listened to you and not lied that would have been the case.”

“I know you only had good intentions, Dan Feng… It’s okay. But you should know that simply being with you makes me happy,” you responded softly. And it was true. No amount of material gain, or anything else of the sort could compare to the happiness Dan Feng imbued you with. He was not the sun, but rather the moon of your life: gentle, thoughtful, calm and beautiful. You needed little else in your short life. 

Though the clouds still lingered in a dense cluster, lucent rays of sunlight streamed through. The light bathed the world a honey-like gold, causing the remaining rainwater to glow, its droplets like yellow topazes. Birdsong ensued, a melodic declaration that the worst had passed. 

Dan Feng tilted his head upwards, eyes glued upon the heavens. Then, his placid gaze returned to you and he took your hand. 

“How about we have tea tomorrow afternoon? Just the two of us,” Dan Feng suggested hopefully. Your expression immediately brightened upon hearing this, and your smile broadened. 

“Really? I’d love that! But I promised Yingxing I’d join him on an excursion tomorrow, so it will have to be later. I hope that’s okay.” Dan Feng kissed your cheek, then your lips. 

“Of course it’s okay,” he whispered, face barely inches apart from yours. Dan Feng then glanced back at where your party was being held, mischievousness glimmering in his eyes like his scintillating scales. “They probably don’t miss us… How about we ditch them?” 

You mock-gasped, covering your mouth theatrically. 

“And leave our friends behind?” Dan Feng smirked. He secured an arm around your waist and hoisted you up, so that he was carrying you bridal-style. 

“They’ll understand,” Dan Feng said as if it were the simplest fact in the world. In a way, it was. Your love transcended every other aspect of life, even death. 

The tea had been sitting there for some time. By now, the steam that arose from it was little more than a wisp, and when Dan Feng checked the temperature, the tea had almost gone cold. It was a brew best served hot, and the souring of its aroma indicated its prime drinking time had passed; Dan Feng would have to brew another cup for you, once you returned. 

An afternoon haze had settled upon the Luofu, granting it an almost dream-like quality as a cool breeze wafted through the half-open window. 

Ordinarily, Dan Feng would enjoy times like these; slow afternoons were his favourites if you were by his side, your head on his lap while he buried himself in a good book, or when the two of you would walk, hand in hand, through the gardens of your shared abode. But today, it was overrun by concern – just where were you? 

He rose from his seat, dusting his robes off before he approached the window. By the sun’s position in the sky several hours had passed since the agreed upon time for your meeting. Tardiness was uncharacteristic of you; Jing Yuan liked to joke that he had found his soulmate in you, for when Dan Feng liked to arrive five minutes early, you would arrive ten. He drummed his fingers against the window-sill and took a long inhale. Surely everything was okay… right? 

Outside, the zephyric wind rustled the trees, the blades of grass, and the small set of wind-chimes scattered around your garden. Dan Feng still recalled the day you had brought them home: a gift from Yingxing. As expected of the smith’s impressive skill, the objects sounded less like wind-chimes than a tiny orchestra playing at the whim of the breeze. Dan Feng closed his eyes, grounding his racing thoughts on each twinkling chime. The opening of the door roused him from his meditations. Dan Feng’s eyes snapped open, accompanied by the soaring hopes of your arrival. He turned, tail swishing and the smile forming upon his lips faltered. 

Yingxing’s face was pale and his cheeks hollow; dark circles shadowed his eyes, which were lined with fatigue. By the grim set of his mouth and pained eyes, Dan Feng’s heart plummeted. He left his spot by the window swiftly, going to greet his friend, though, based on his expression, a greeting wouldn’t be the only thing Dan Feng would receive from the smith. 

“Where’s [y/n]?” he asked slowly. Yingxing’s eyes were glassy, a near vacant expression about him. Dan Feng’s words caused light to re-enter his eyes, in which tears pooled. He opened his mouth to speak. No words came out. Panic surged within Dan Feng and he clasped Yingxing’s shoulder, his nails digging into his brother-in-law’s skin. 

“Where. Is. [y/n],” he repeated, employing all of his meditative training from the Preceptors to keep his voice level. Yinxging’s lip quivered, his brow creasing with profound guilt. His voice wobbled with ill-contained emotion. 

“We were… ambushed.” Yingxing’s words struck a lethal blow to Dan Feng, who was now already fearing the worst. He took a deep, calming breath. Hopefully, you were already in the hands of the Alchemy Commission, being treated for whatever wounds you had sustained. Hopefully. Dan Feng could only hope. 

“[y/n]... Didn’t make it back.” Dan Feng wasn’t sure where the sound came from – was it the breaking of his heart, or the shattering of his hope? His shoulders slumped, the first time the High Elder’s composure had collapsed in front of closed doors, not behind. The world grew quiet save for the frantic pounding of his heart. His sweet [y/n]... How could this have happened? 

He was completely oblivious to his grief, to its manifestation is pearlescent tears. Dan Feng’s body grew cold, almost glacial – far more so than his regular cold-blooded body heat. Waves of numbness caressed at his being, which he gladly welcomed. Anything to not feel. The tsunami of emotions licked at the back of his mind with its forked tongue, thankfully suppressed by his blank state. 

“We were able to recover their body, though,” Yingxing mumbled. Dan Feng’s eyes snapped back up to Yingxing, recovering from their momentary daze. The smith’s face was wet with tears; he had always worn his heart on his sleeve, and now blood trickled down instead. 

Your body was carted slowly into the room by his Vidyadhara attendants, who openly wept at the loss of you. Wherever you walked, kindness had followed; you had been loved by all, and now mourned by all. The way they clustered about your sheet-covered body, it appeared almost like a funeral procession. Upon witnessing this the final threads of Dan Feng’s composure snapped. 

“Everyone get out, now!” he barked, tail swishing warningly from side to side in jerky movements. The servants bowed, quickly scurrying out of the room after having deposited your body. Yingxing recoiled from the harshness of Dan Feng’s words, bracing himself by squaring his shoulders. Eventually, he lowered his head, nodding and turned to exit the room. Before he left, Yinxing stopped in his tracks. 

“I’m sorry.” The sincerity of his voice shook Dan Feng. Contempt boiled within him, rising like a sweltering geyser.  

“You should have taken their place,” Dan Feng hissed. Yinxging laughed mirthlessly. 

“I know. I’m not a very good brother, am I?” With those words left in the air, he left quietly, muffling his bawling. And Dan Feng was all alone with your corpse. 

Only then did the first sob escape him, an utterly foreign sound it was almost incomprehensible to Dan Feng. The tears slid down his cheeks like all the moments he had lost with you. His shoulders shook as he wept. Dan Feng wept, and wept. Vidyadhara tears were coveted for their beauty and rarity, yet there was nothing beautiful about this. You were dead, far before your time; and he was all alone. 

The sun was beginning its descent to the horizon, and Dan Feng’s heart ached, as did his eyes. With his sleeve, he wiped at the final droplets that weighed down on his lashes. His eyes were dry; there were no more tears left to cry. 

Dan Feng looked down at the table, at the tepid tea that you would never drink. Finally, he braced himself and looked over to the litter upon which you were stretched out. He got up. Each step he took towards it sealed your fate a little more, that you were in fact dead. Tentatively, he removed the muslin sheet covering you. 

Tears welled in his eyes once more, renewed grief crashing like waves on rocks. He thought he had been ready… But upon seeing your ashen face, eyes closed peacefully as if dormant, Dan Feng realised how gravely mistaken he was. With a shaking hand, he brushed a strand of hair away from your cold face. The final intimate gesture Dan Feng could give you, one so simple yet inherently painful that Dan Feng’s throat constricted, oxygen growing in short supply. 

As the High Elder, Dan Feng had been prepared from everything. From his hatching, he had endured gruelling training, with so much information drilled into him so as to ready him for any situation that may come to pass. And yet, the Preceptors had failed to teach him how to deal with a broken heart. Or the death of a loved one. 

Before you, Dan Feng had accepted the solitudinous life that accompanied being the Imbibitor Lunae. He would walk life’s street alone, and he was okay with that. Until you. Like the sun behind parted clouds, you had shown him unimaginable happiness, such that he thought unattainable in combination with his duties to the Luofu and the Vidyadhara. With you, he came to realise how empty his life has been; he had not been a man, merely a hollowed out puppet destined to carry out the will of the Elders and never his own. Until you. 

He stared down at you, clenching his fist so hard that his nails dug into his palms. Your serenity in death juxtaposed his own unrest; Dan Feng clenched his fist, a string of silent curses passing through his bereaved mind. 

Your death was a testament to time’s impatience. Sometimes, in its cruelty, it would take someone before their time – time was a greedy, merciless, being, gaining happiness from snatching such fleeting moments from its victims. 

Dan Feng cradled your body close to him, letting loose another series of sobs as he broke down into a million little pieces. Any semblance of composure had dissipated, leaving Dan Feng in this tangled mess of tears and emotions.  “Aeons… It wasn’t supposed to be you…!” He hollered, falling to his knees as if praying for your revival. 

 With the fire of his life extinguished, there was little else there to support him. Nothing, nobody, could ever come close to you. An irretrievable piece of himself had been lost that day, and his following collapse was little short of spectacular. 

Inevitably, you would come to learn of Dan Feng’s unravelling following your death, except not in this life.

You blinked, and the present moment blossomed. Time slowed. But it was too late. 

And thus, Blade’s cracked sword impaled itself within Dan Heng’s chest. He staggered backwards, spear falling from his grasp with a loud clatter. As his vision blurred his eyes sought yours once more. Your eyes met, and the shock on Dan Heng’s face receded, morphing into tranquillity. 

A scream rose up your throat and, forgoing everything, you ran towards Dan Heng. Only, Blade’s arm barred you and he roughly pushed you backwards. The crazed zeal in his bloody eyes blazed like a pyre when a bright light pierced the cloudy skies of Scalegorge Waterscape, subduing your protests against the Stellaron Hunter. 

There had been no time for tears; fear had been left behind on the Express when you had agreed to follow Dan Heng onto the Luofu. Before you, he changed, blooming into something wholly new, and no less beautiful. Though, as you beheld Dan Heng, your breath hitched; he was nothing short of ethereal. 

His onyx hair cascaded down his back, iridescent cerulean horns sprouting, resting upon his head like a crown. For Dan Heng was regal, and as you saw his sinuous tail, you gaped. Memories of another life plunged you into arctic waters, striking at your head with such force your knees sagged. Clutching your temple you squeezed your eyes shut, the splitting pain almost growing too much to bear. 

You felt Blade’s spiteful gaze land upon you, its intensity adding to the crushing weight that this sight of Dan Heng had provided you with. As you squinted through half-opened eyes and beheld Dan Heng’s Vidyadhara form, all you could see was Dan Feng. Except… 

The subtle differences awoke you from the memories’ clutches. This was not the Vidyadhara who walked in the gallery of your memories, like a faded canvas. Though they originated from the same muse, there was no longer the arrogant arch to his brow, nor the playfully defiant curve of his lips. 

No matter what Blade had insinuated earlier, this was not Dan Feng. This was Dan Heng, blazing like a vengeful sun. Your Dan Heng. You recalled the promise of the man in your dreams, now fulfilled. A single tear dripped down your cheek, like a fallen star. 

Slowly, Dan Heng lowered back down to the ground. Shoving past Blade, you sprinted towards him, tackling him into a hug. Dan Heng flinched, taken by surprise from your actions, but his body eased against yours as he enveloped his arms around you. He smelled of seawater and fresh lotus flowers, though the undertones of the papery scent from all the books he consumed still lingered. 

Your reunion was brief, though, much like the fleeting caress between a shooting star and the moon. A youthful voice penetrated the stillness, breaking the calm lingering before the storm. Regretfully, you pulled away and beheld Yanqing, the young Lieutenant of the Cloud Knights.

From the way in which his amber eyes pierced daggers at Blade, it was evident he had been in hounding pursuit of the Stellaron Hunter. His eyebrows raised, mouth parting a little; clearly he had not expected to see Dan Heng here, in this form. You supposed he saw another in place of the guard of the Express, for his eyes narrowed dangerously. 

His momentary lapse subsided, and determined focus descended over his young face.

“You…” you were not sure to whom his words were directed at specifically, but both Blade and Dan Heng raised their chins in acknowledgement of his address.  “Two wanted criminals of the Luofu, all in one place!” he exclaimed. To your surprise, the lieutenant drew his sword, extending it in challenge to the three of you. 

You glanced over at Dan Heng. His face hardened, bracing for an incoming battle; Yanqing would not let you pass otherwise, and you had to reconvene with your Express crewmates. As such, there seemed to be no other alternative other than using force. You drew your sword, and the three of you plunged into battle. 

There was a blur beside you. Blade descended into the battle. The three of you fought side by side against the lieutenant, and a flash of the past flickered before you. Except, in place of Blade’s dark mane of hair, there was white; in place of Dan Heng, there was Dan Feng, the High Elder of the Luofu and the Imbibitor Lunae. You couldn’t restrain the smile playing on your lips. 

It was exactly like the old days, oh so long ago. Though in different forms, with time having twisted fate’s weave over you, the three of you fought, united once again. 

The battle persisted. For such a young man, he fought surprisingly well, standing his own against the three of you. Blood rushed through your body, hasty breaths allocating the much needed oxygen to propel you onwards. You ducked, you dived, fighting with all your strength. Though, you were hesitant to injure the young boy. 

Beside you, Dan Heng fought with unparalleled grace. Each movement, each stroke of cloud hymn was executed with the utmost precision. If battle were an art, Dan Heng was creating a masterpiece. His flowing limbs were more like the undulations of water, contrasted to the harsh, vicious movements of Blade. 

It was ironic how in this battle, you felt your safest. Beside them you knew you would come out victorious. 

Your focus greatened, your periphery shrinking so that you could only see what stood before you: your opponent. His hair slipped from his ponytail and his clothes were slightly dishevelled. Yet he persisted, determined to detain the two criminals of the Luofu. For Dan Heng’s sake, you could not let that happen. 

You would not allow yourselves to be parted in this life.

Your cheeks reddened as a chill descended upon the air, coagulating in the form of several glacial swords around Yanqing. Blade halted, a question forming on his lips. You knew it before he even spoke – where had he learned such a technique from? 

Yanqing ignored the question, his resolve unfaltering. His intentions were as clear as the ice of his swords, and you knew that this would not end well. You reconvened with Dan Heng; unlike you, he appeared completely unscathed, looking more pristine than ever. 

“Are you all right?” you asked breathlessly. He responded with a curt nod. 

Your body moved before you could reply. As Yanqing launched a barrage of crystalline ice shards towards Dan Heng, you barrelled into him, shoving him out of the way. An apology formed in your mind; you hoped that he would forgive you, and your lovesick stupidity. Yanqing’s attack struck, but not at its intended target. 

Your vision was blanketed with darkness, and a pair of strong arms grasped you. Was it death’s embrace? Had it missed you so much that it had come to collect you early, once again? Everything was soon answered. 

Light flickered behind your eyelids and you blinked tiredly. Dan Heng looked down at you, eyes wide with concern. At their reddened corners sat several fat tears, though he refused to let them fall. You smiled. Time had been merciful, this time. 

Reaching upwards, and stirring him from his panicked reverie, you wiped away the tears from Dan Heng’s eyes. The relief that washed over him was palpable; his body sagged, the tension cleansed. 

“Oh thank the aeons,” Dan Heng breathed, bringing your bruised body close into his chest. You wished to hug him back. Though when you attempted to move your arms, pain shot up your arms like vines. 

“Please don’t move, [y/n]... You’re hurt,” he said softly. You only nodded, trying your best to lean into your lover’s embrace. The two of you remained like that for several minutes, both silently thanking the aeons, or whatever the cosmic forces were that had granted you more time. 

You looked up at Dan Heng, absorbing every detail of his face. His lucent, azure eyes, his long lashes, the sharp planes of his face that held a certain softness when viewed from a specific angle and his oh so kissable lips. Of course, there were new features as well laced over the old such as the slight angulation to his eyes, the lightening of his irises and most evidently: his ears, horns and tail. 

He was both Dan Feng and yet not, a paradox that your recent memories of your past life struggled to discern. Here stood Dan Heng: the guard of the Astral Express, and your stoic and endearing boyfriend. However, the question still lingered. Without addressing it, you would forever remain in a state of uncertainty. So, you asked, 

“Do you… Remember?” Speaking was an effort, from the way your chest erupted in pain as you spoke, you were certain several ribs had been broken. Your question came out as more of a wheeze, but Dan Heng answered nonetheless. His jaw was set, his countenance contemplative. 

“Only fragments. How he felt, more than anything. When I close my eyes, I can see your smile, though – from back then.” Dan Heng was not Dan Feng, but the former High Elder was still an inextricable part of the latter’s life. The tiniest imprints remained of Imbibitor Lunae, like the diminishing echoes of one’s footsteps in a gallery. He could never fully escape his shadow, for without it he would have never found you again. 

In spite of your painful chest, you inhaled sharply. 

“So… You know what happened.” Dan Heng’s lips thinned in grim affirmation. 

“Yes,” he replied softly, “I’m never letting go of you again, [y/n]. That’s a promise.” His grip around you tightened a fraction, a reflection of his conviction. As Dan Heng nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, cradling you gently, he smiled, reaching an understanding with his former self. 

Although Dan Feng’s experiences, much like those of your past self, were a series of blurred motions overruled by the emotions evoked at the time, he could recall the warm embrace of someone dear to the former High Elder. And that same comfort could be found in yours. 

note: i won my 50/50 for Dan Heng so this ended happily :)

© bladesmuse 2023 - do not copy, repost or translate my writing

taglist: @c0metes , @catzpawn , @elf-osamu , @lunaescient , @yanqingisim

— 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋.

ending #1 to heart to heart and a branch from do you love me?

SUMMARY. holding on hurts, letting go hurts. regrets just seem to trail after you like a shadow but ultimately, you have made your decision — this is it. (right?) (3.2k+ words)

CHARACTERS. zhongli, ganyu (briefly), guizhong (implied/mentioned).

GENRE. angst, bittersweet breakup, lovers to exes (but it’s so obvi you still love each other).

CW. one use of a pet name, a breakup scene, repeated apologies, reader experiences a headache. + read the alt text on zhongli’s header for an extra summary!

THOUGHTS. this was long overdue, but thanks to those who waited! this was such a ride… 3,000+ words just to write a breakup scene?? indeed, that might be a sign to buckle up (maybe).

✰ main masterlist. // series masterlist.

Cold, so cold.

The night breeze was already nipping at your skin moments before but as you mustered the courage to hesitantly face your lover, it felt as if the goosebumps on your arms had all turned into thorns that began to prick at you slowly.

But you just couldn’t bring yourself to meet ZHONGLI’s gaze, not yet.

Keep reading

After Hours

Synopsis: Alhaitham has multiple, very good reasons for not liking to stay after office hours. You're one of them. Word Count: 4.8k Tags: Female reader x Husband!Alhaitham, Spoilers for the archon quests, Fluff, Domesticity, Slight angst, Pregnancy, Morning sickness (pretty heavy on the morning sickness but nothing graphic, just mentions of puking + inability to keep food down), Pregnancy woes, Established relationship, kind of hidden pregnancy, Alhaitham is 27 in my head and so is the reader A/N: listen. LISTEN. I don't normally write pregnancy but I had this idea and HAD to let it out. There is nothing hotter to me than a smart, dependable man with a stable, cushy job that's utterly in love with you. I'm a gojo writer, but damn. Alhaitham has me feeling some sort of way.

"Given the recent developments, there are many researchers wondering about what will happen to their funding. Acting Grand Sage, do you have any-"

"I'll be taking my leave now."

"H-Huh?"

Alhaitham clears his throat and stands, his chair dragging against the floor. From high-profile staff at the Akademiya, to esteemed researchers searching for an answer, Alhaitham casually shrugs off the bewildered, confused stares they give him.

"It's 5PM," he says nonchalantly. "You can find me at my desk tomorrow morning at 9."

"B-But we're not done with the meeting-"

"Goodbye."

"Wait-"

"My work for the day is done," Alhaitham hums, effectively cutting off whatever it was that was about to be said. Silence befalls the room, tension growing in its stead. "Haven't I already made my stance on this very clear?"

For all that is said and done, at least they knew how to stop talking when he displays his displeasure. Maybe being the Acting Grand Sage wasn't that bad after all. There were very few that would dare challenge his authority.

"But Sir, our meeting just started..."

Maybe not.

"Well, you should have started it earlier." Alhaitham doesn't miss a beat, neatly gathering his documents into a pile for his assigned assistant to take away. There's a tiny smile on his assistant's face, the young, interning scholar finding the entire exchange amusing.

Alhaitham fails to see what could be soooo amusing about working past official office hours.

5:01. Alhaitham clicks his tongue.

"Acting Grand Sage," a scandalised voice begins, but the person he's referring to is in a rush. Alhaitham should be out of the Akademiya by now. He can't risk being late. "It is imperative that you give us the necessary instructions so that Sumeru can still function as per usual..."

He tunes the voice out. It's past 5. He doesn't have to listen.

If they could handle themselves under Azar's so-called leadership, they can handle themselves under no supervision for the next sixteen hours. Sure, years worth of rampant corruption was difficult to erode without work, but it wasn't as if staying past 5 would magically fix everything overnight.

Alhaitham would tell them to go home and leave it for tomorrow... But it's now 5:02 and he's running behind on time. Simply being within the House of Daena was a pleasantry he was not willing to give for even a second longer.

"A-Alhaitham!"

He walks past the old man, past Cyno, and he's out of the door, out of the Akademiya, in mere moments.

The passing scholars greet him, all up to date with the change of hands after the atrocities of the previous Sages had gone public. Various pairs of eyes linger on him. Seemingly overnight, he had become known to the public as one of the core few that had freed Sumeru's Archon and foiled Azar's plan.

A mighty accomplishment in the eyes of the people, indeed.

It doesn't take long to get to the Bazar, where his task at hand was. He's done this tons of times before, but with every passing day, he only seems to get pickier with the produce before him.

Yoghurt, Tomatoes, Ginger, Butter...

"Oh, honey..."

He looks away from a ripe tomato and into the eyes of an older auntie who stood next to him with a fond look on her face.

"You're going to stare a hole into that poor tomato at that rate."

Alhaitham has no idea who she is. Silently, he returns his gaze to the tomato pile and narrows down the select few that had passed his earlier inspection. He'd grab them, pay, and leave.

"Ah ah!" The lady laughs, interrupting his process. "Come, dear. Have these tomatoes instead," she says, offering him her basket of tomatoes. "It's the least I could do for the Grand Sage."

"Acting Grand Sage," he can't help but correct.

"Yes, yes, the Acting Grand Sage. Honestly, what does it matter! Come! Have these. I have a good eye for tomatoes, you know?"

Alhaitham can't help but agree. The tomatoes are perfect. If his departure hadn't been halted, even for those few minutes, he would have gotten to them first. Ripe, juicy, no blemishes whatsoever, fresh... They're good. Declining is the first thought that comes into mind. He has no need to owe anyone any favours. But how can he when he remembers who was waiting for him back home?

"Ahhh, don't be shy!" The auntie shoves them into his own basket, where a few ginger roots sat alongside some cloves of garlic and some extra spices. "You've done so much for Sumeru! This is the least we could do."

She doesn't seem malicious. Or looking for anything in return.

"...Thank you, then."

And that special phrase unleashes hell on earth. The moment the tomatoes make a touchdown in his basket, he gets swamped by the aunties and uncles at the bazar.

"Here! Have some fish!"

"Oh! Oh! Here's some preserved vegetables! Take these, too!"

"Acting Grand Sage! My mama told me to give this to you!" "Me too! Here! Here!"

It's comes and goes as abruptly as a tidal wave. There's not even a chance to reply to anyone, or reject anything. Before Alhaitham knows it, he's decorated with new groceries. Everyone who had gifted him something was long gone, walking away like nothing had happened.

For the first time in a long while, Alhaitham feels awkward standing alone in the Bazar.

"I'll take these..." Alhaitham says, sliding his personal basket to Housein. It's a little difficult to get his mora pouch out while holding so many items, but he manages. It's not like he can just abandon everything at the side of the pavement. There were too many prying eyes.

"Oh, they'll be on the house, Mr Alhaitham!" Housein grins, declining the mora. The produce seller looks pleased with himself. "The Bazar technically owes you for helping to oust Azar! Now the theatre can continue their performances!"

"I insist-"

"Really, it's alright!"

"No, I-"

"Alhaitham! Oh, my sweet boy!" Someone grabs his arm, whisking him away before he could get Housein to accept his mora. Greying hair frames the old lady's face, and Alhaitham recognises her in an instant.

"Auntie?"

"Yes, yes. Come," she ushers him, giddy with excitement. "I have some things that you'll appreciate."

"I don't think that's necessary," he sighs, nodding at the bags he was already carrying. He had fish and chicken slung over his shoulder. Not to mention the countless fresh produce in each bag... "Can it not wait until our next visit?"

"Nonsense," she swats his arm. "You will like what I have!"

Rationality and knowledge cannot override the cultural traditions and norms ingrained in each Sumeru citizen from a young age. Alhaitham follows the former Amurta researcher up to the hospital she now worked at during her retirement.

Dutifully, the Scribe stands in wait, ignoring the stares and awed whispers of the people as the old lady rounds the corner of the reception desk to dig through her stock. Save for a couple of patients and their attending physicians, the Bimarstan is quiet today.

"Here," she hums proudly, brandishing a bundle of pouches. They're beautifully embroidered, with patterns that he could easily identify to be from some of the Seven nations. "I got some supplements for your wife."

The mere mention of you has the tips of Alhaitham's ears warming. The lady might be old, but her eyes are still sharp as ever. She chuckles, patting his arm appreciatively, and some of the staff familiar with you and he smile to themselves, knowing something many did not.

"You two are so adorable," she sighs wistfully. "Come, I'll explain each one to you."

"Thank you."

The old pharmacist explains each supplement in great detail. There's a whole assortment available, from powders, to tea bags, to roots, and to pills and potions from each nation. All of high quality.

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it," Alhaitham says, setting down his groceries to pull out his mora pouch. Once again, he's declined.

"If you really want to repay me, then go take better care of your wife," she tuts. The old lady always had a soft spot for you. "It's not healthy to make her worry so much."

The reminder brings forth a surge of emotions that he gingerly represses for now.

"Of course," he bows deeply, "I will. Thank you."

"Ah, I shan't hold you up anymore. Off you go!"

Neatly packing his spoils for the day, Alhaitham bids his farewell and walks off in the direction of his home. Though, unfortunately, it's not fast enough to escape the various food stall owners...

Returning home is no easy feat, not when you're lugging home months worth of groceries. Still, as with anything thrown his way, Alhaitham manages. He's careful with his keys, making sure they don't make too much noise lest you wake from your slumber or worse, run to greet him. And - Oh.

"Habibti," he says, greeting you out of habit even if he can clearly see that you're asleep on the couch.

As quietly as possible, Alhaitham shuffles his way into his house along with all the groceries. It's almost feels like he's a thief in his own house.

The groceries are set on the floor, in a neat pile that he'll sort out later. The citizens were well-meaning, but he needed to do another check to make sure nothing was tainted. He braces himself when the bags crinkle against each other, but you don't wake. Good, he thinks. You needed the rest.

Shoes off, his hands washed, any fatigue laced into his muscles dissipates the moment he comes to stand in front of you. Alhaitham leans down to brush aside stray strands of your hair away from your forehead. His fingers ghost over your soft skin. You looked glowing.

"Good evening," he greets softly, lips pressed against your forehead. You stir, but he soothes you back into dreamland. His palm smooths back and forth between your waist and where your bellybutton was, and he smiles himself when he sees the corner of your lips curl up.

Gently, he plucks your hands from the knitting needles Kaveh had gotten you. The half-done blanket resting on the swell of your belly is removed, set neatly on the coffee table with the rest of your colourful balls of yarn. Alhaitham easily carries you, slipping his an arm under your back and the other under your knees.

Though he wants to tuck you back in bed, he knows you well enough to place you into the comfy armchair he had gotten instead. He leaves, only to return from your shared bedroom with a fluffy blanket to keep you warm. Tucking you in is an terribly short affair. Parting from you takes a lot of willpower.

In the time you're asleep, Alhaitham busies himself around the house. The groceries get checked, washed, and put away, and he takes a much needed shower. He's halfway through sweating the minced garlic and shallots when you finally wake, your tiny, sleepy voice making its way to him.

"Haitham...?"

The fire goes out.

"Yes, habibti?" He pulls his apron off, walking out of the kitchen. Warmth pools in his chest when he takes you in; how your blanket slides off your shoulders; how your eyes blearily search him out.

"Welcome home," you say dazedly, arms open and raised up to beckon him in for a hug. Alhaitham closes the distance in less than a second, pulling you in.

"Mm," he hugs you tight, mindful of your baby bump. His hand splays out protectively over your tummy, and a light giggle erupts from you as you bask in his warmth.

Getting down on one knee, level with the evidence of his, and your, love, he looks up at you and asks, "How was your day, habibti?"

"I was working on the baby blanket," you tell him, gesturing at the knitwork on the table. "I was thinking of making a few."

"It's going well?"

You nod, happily engaging him in conversation before he carefully nudges open a new door of conversation. One that you understood, but didn't like. High on pregnancy hormones (and on stress), he distinctly remembers you crying to him in the middle of the night, telling him that it felt like you were being interrogated whenever he wouldn't let up on the questions.

You had subsequently thrown up dinner.

And promptly fell back asleep on him.

Thus, the small talk.

"Did our baby give you any trouble today?" He asks gently, a hand gently circling your wrist. One finger traces unintelligible symbols against your skin as the other pressed against your pulse.

You shake your head slowly as he counts in his. "Just some nausea."

"And lunch?" He asks, switching hands. "How was lunch? What did you have?"

You shake your head sadly. "Couldn't keep much of it down. Baby bird didn't agree with it."

"They didn't?" Alhaitham frowns, a contemplative look on his face. "I see. Did you drink-"

"Did I drink the tea you made?" You raise a brow, completing the question for him.

"...Yes."

You were catching on. And fast. Silently, he pulls your hand towards his face to kiss the back of your palm, hoping that it would throw you off.

"Did it help?"

"It did," you tell him. The suspicious look you had softens. "It was very good. Helped with the nausea for a bit."

"I see. And did you-"

"Haitham," You admonish gently. "Stop being such a worrywart. I've been taking care of myself. These things happen. It's normal."

"Yes, habibti, I'm aware, but you're already in your second trimester. I just want to check if-"

Accustomed to this, you cut him off with words he can't ignore.

"I'm hungry."

"You're hungry?" He pauses. He supposes that you're bound to be, considering what you had just reported about lunch. "I just started cooking, but the people at the Bazar gave us a lot of food."

"Really? That's nice of them. Why?"

"As thanks," he says vaguely, squeezing your side. "There's a lot of it. Tandoori chicken, Curry, Kebabs, Wraps... Is there anything to your fancy?"

"Mm, I guess," you half-heartedly answer. "Then why are you still cooking?"

"You said you wanted Butter Chicken this morning."

The name of the dish makes your mouth water, the reminder perking you up. The baby nestled deep in your womb agrees.

"Grab something light," he says, recognising that expression of yours. You looked pleased to smell his cooking wafting through the air, only just realising it after the grip of sleep had loosened its hold on you. "I only just started."

"Okay-"

"Sit down. I'll grab it for you. What do you want?" Your husband urges you back into the chair. It begins, once more.

"I don't know," you roll your eyes at him, "I have to get up and see what there is, don't I?"

"I already told you what there is. If it helps, there's Samosas and-"

"I want to look for myself," you interrupt. "I'm pregnant. Not incapable."

"The doctor said you need to be careful."

"The doctor said that I can move around. That I should move around."

"Within reason," he adds, grumbling, just because. Helping you stand after your complaints, you hold him, hugging his arm tightly, and Alhaitham watches you waddle towards the kitchen with him in tow.

He never expected the pregnant waddle to happen so soon. Archons, he hadn't expected you to look so cute, either. You were partway through your second trimester and he can't imagine how it'd be like in your third.

"Oooh," you coo, and he gets dragged back into reality. "There's Baklava?"

"And Panipuri." He says, hovering over you. If he thinks about it, he's almost like a little fly... Even his colours matched. With the way you're looking at him, you must have thought of the same thing. "And Custard. And Cakes. And-"

"Oh! Pudding!" You excitedly nab the Padisarah Pudding out of the cooler, clapping. Alhaitham lets out a low chuckle at your delight, reaching over to grab you a teaspoon so you could enjoy your desert.

"Now sit," he tells you, guiding you to the kitchen island, where there was a chair. He had gotten Kaveh to design and make one for you as part of his rental agreement. "You can watch me cook."

"You're not letting me help again?"

He shakes his head. From temporarily stepping down from your work as a researcher, to repeating dreams, and to Alhaitham having to go away for a mission, you had been stressed out from all the back-to-back changes. Only recently had you been discharged from bed rest after the news that he had gone insane from consuming forbidden knowledge and was exiled had caused you to faint in the middle of Treasure Street.

Alhaitham prides himself on his rational decision making skills, but keeping you in the dark to the happenings in Sumeru's political sphere had been by far the worst decision he had ever made.

You had fallen sick, carrying a fever for five days and five nights as the doctors at the Bimarstan worked around the clock to keep you stable. Luck had been on your side for you to have been found by one of the physicians. He had almost...

Alhaitham shakes his head, focusing instead on the metal band around his finger. Cooking was the least he could do for you after everything you had to handle.

Ignoring the pang in his chest, he resumes cooking. The wok sizzles, and you're happily munching away on your pudding, offering him a spoonful here and there as his ingredients go in in a methodological order. He tosses in peeled and boiled tomatoes, spices, and marinated chicken cubes from last night.

"It smells so good..."

"I know."

"But why aren't you making more?" You ask, leaning over so he could feed you a test bite of the creamy dish. "Is Kaveh not coming home for dinner?"

"It's none of our business, habibti," Alhaitham hums. "Kaveh can freeload food elsewhere."

"Haitham," you giggle. "That's not very kind."

"What? Letting him stay here rent-free is kind enough. I don't have to feed him, too."

"You're making him build our nursery," you remind him. "And baby-proof the house."

"It's part of the rental agreement."

"Still," you huff, watching your husband roll up his sleeves before portioning the dough for your naan. "At least leave him some food."

"He can have whatever we can't finish. Can we agree?" He says, rolling the dough out into flat circles. "We have too much food from the people, anyway. He can have those. The Butter Chicken is yours. You don't have to share."

You're swayed.

"...Fine."

He graduated from the Haravatat. To put it loosely, he's a linguist. A knack for words comes with the job.

"Good," he hums, handing you a bowl of melted butter so you wouldn't feel left out. You stir it with a clean spoon, mixing in garlic paste and chopped coriander.

It's peaceful. Serene. The sizzling in the background is nothing but homey, nothing but comfort. Alhaitham loves it when you sing to him while he cooks, but today he settles for a spritely summary of one of the books he's gotten you.

"Thank you, Haitham."

"Of course," he leans over to peck your temple. After serving you a hearty plate, Alhaitham finally sits with you to eat. "Anything you need."

"What would people say if they knew I had the Acting Grand Sage at home like this?"

"They'd praise me," he deadpans. His own plate lightly clinks against the table. "Especially if they knew the main reason why I helped."

"Show-off."

Wanting to keep his cushy job at the Akademiya may have been what had spurred him to take on a core role in the planning of rescuing Lesser Lord Kusanali, but apart from that, he was not about to leave a year's worth of fully-paid, fully covered paternity leave in the hands of some old man that woke up and decided that he wanted to play god.

Even now, it still sounded ridiculous in his head.

Alhaitham and you were only aware that the Grand Sage had something sinister cooking up, but nothing had been concrete. Investigating further was on the top of your priority list until you were faced with the possibility, and eventual confirmation, of your pregnancy.

Being so unexpected, the news had hit the both of you hard and fast. After both of your priorities needed a complete upheaval, it was a scramble to decide the next course of action.

Having you step down from your work as a result of the rough start to your pregnancy had been hard to hide from the prying eyes of Azar, his minions, and gossiping researchers. The walls of the Akademiya had ears. The barest wisps of whatever Azar was planning that had gotten back to you gave you the impression that they had wanted you to join in on the later stages of their scheme.

Recuperation may have been the main motivator, but the likelihood that a blunt rejection would spur on heavy retaliation had been a major reason why you were urged, and convinced, to take a medical leave of absence as early in as possible. As quietly as possible. Your weakened constitution had only spurred the advance of this plan.

Your sudden request for long medical leave had formed the basis of a well-known rumour that you were adamant on not acknowledging, not when you had suspected Alhaitham to be on Azar's hit list. Few knew of your marriage to him, only that you were in a relationship with the Scribe. He can only imagine what types of words were said behind closed doors.

Those days had been tense. Your act—though it wasn't really an act at all—was convincing, but the Sages seemed adamant on having you stay on. They had even questioned Alhaitham about your supposed illness. Half-truths made the best lie, and when Alhaitham only had the truth to tell them, they had no choice but to turn to other avenues.

Thankfully, the rumours had all died out when Tighnari was invited by the Sages to check on you.

Your long-standing friend had done you a favour that day. Under the watchful eye of the sages, the three of you had shared a look that Tighnari easily interpreted. A strongly worded letter of recommendation for medical leave had been issued, and you were immediately granted long leave. The rumours were put out in an instant. On account for your contributions to the Akademiya and to academia itself, your leave had been fully paid for as well.

Alhaitham makes a mental note to send the forest ranger some gifts again after everything dies down. He's been thinking of taking you on a short trip to Pardis Dhyai so you could visit some old classmates and colleagues. Maybe some crates of wine for him and his subordinates would suffice...

"If you revealed everything, I think they'd have a heart attack first," you muse, picking up your spoon. Looking at you now, it's almost as though your pregnancy had been nothing but smooth sailing. You looked so peaceful. Happy and content and glowing.

"I love your cooking," you sigh between bites, taking meaningful chomps out of your meal. Eyes falling shut to savour the taste, Alhaitham can't help but chuckle at the blissed out expression you made.

It's not rare for Alhaitham to cook for you, especially after finding out that you were expecting, but the way your eyes always light up, glimmering with stars? It makes him wonder just how good his food is to you for you to always react like this.

"Good?"

"Mhm!" You nod happily, shoveling the Butter Chicken coated garlic naan into your mouth. The flatbread was cooked to perfection, just the way you liked it. Too busy with your food, you don't even bother with a conversation.

Alhaitham sits back, watching you eat, making sure that his unborn child enjoys his food, too. It was early on in your pregnancy that he realises just how picky his child was. Coupled with morning sickness, any food that wasn't made by him, your body would reject. He had been tense those weeks, pouring over countless texts in the library trying to find a solution that would guarantee both you and your child's safety.

He had tracked your food intake, just to see if there was any sort of pattern that would emerge. To his surprise, one did. The only meals you could hold down were either those made by you, made by those close to you, or his. The latter worked the best. Alhaitham still has that nutrition table in his office, updated to this day.

Really, it's a wonder how people hadn't realised that you were pregnant. After Sumeru's political situation began to calm, he hadn't bothered hiding it. What did people think he ordered maternity dresses for? Even now, the number of people who knew of your pregnancy was few and far between. Cyno, surprisingly, was one of them.

Oh, well.

After seeing that you showed no sign of nausea, he finally picks up his spoon.

"Shall we go for a walk later tonight?" He asks after swallowing a bite of his food. "The weather is nice today."

Before getting swamped by the citizens, he had been thinking that it would be good to bring you out. So far, the only interactions you've had were either with him, the doctors, the stray cats that would visit, or with Kaveh. Although you hadn't complained, he knew that you were getting lonely.

"Really?" You ask excitedly, biting into your coated naan. "Where to?

"Anywhere you want," he says, pouring another ladel full of butter chicken onto your plate. "But we'll take it slow, okay? You haven't been out in some time. I don't want you to overexert yourself."

You chew slowly.

"I'm not weak."

"I never said that."

"You're implying it."

"I did not."

After a bit of back and forth, in which he could tell you were thoroughly enjoying, he remembers something that Housein had told him earlier in the day.

"I believe Miss Nilou is performing tonight. Would you like to watch?"

"Really? I'd love to!" Compared to him, you had always had a deep appreciation for the Arts. It's been some time since you've seen a live performance. Eyes shimmering, you ask, "Can we go get some sweets at the Bazar, too? The baby's been craving it."

You didn't have to pull the cravings card to get it. Alhaitham would have gotten them for you regardless.

"If you'd like," he agrees. "I was thinking that we could get some more books, as well."

"What," you snicker, "the library you have isn't enough for you?"

"It's good to broaden your horizons. And I mean to get books for our child."

"Hm? Why?"

"Aren't you the Amurta scholar?" He quips. Then his voice grows softer. More gentle. "...I read that our child can start hearing in the second trimester."

The look of confusion on your face turns into a fond smile. "I'm not that far along enough, Haitham. That only happens later."

"Better now than never, don't you think?"

"Are you going to be reading to them, then?" You ask, resting your chin on your palm, a smile on your face as you tease him. "Are we going to have bedtime stories now?"

"Of course."

His bluntness takes you off guard, but Alhaitham fails to see how shocking this revelation can be. Why wouldn't he be reading to his child?

"Oh," you say dumbly. "I... Yeah. That's a good idea—Ah!"

Alhaitham's spoon clatters to the table at the sound of your punctured gasp. He's by your side in an instant, looking over you once, twice, thrice, as you hold onto your stomach, eyes blown wide open, pupils dilated.

"W-What?" Adrenaline rushes through his veins. "What's wrong, albi? What's the matter? Are you alright? What hurts? Stay here, I'll call for someone right now-"

"No," you whisper, grabbing his hand to stop him from running off. They tremble in your hold, and he swallows tightly past the lump in his throat. You stare silently at your belly, and Alhaitham, at you.

"Albi," he insists. "My love. Don't scare me. C'mon, we need to... go..."

Palm covering his, you guide his hand to your belly.

Alhaitham, the Scribe of Sumeru, the star of the Haravatat, for the first time in forever, is at a loss for words. Every letter and every syllable he's come to learn dissipates on the tip of his tongue, his mind blanking out into nothingness. Within him, synapses fire off rapidly, capturing everything about this moment. Everything refocuses onto what rests below his palm.

There's a tiny flutter. One that grows more insistent.

"Haitham... I think our baby is trying to say hi."

Bimarstan: Hospital in Sumeru Habibti: Term of endearment meaning Darling Albi: Term of endearment meaning My love

A/N: bc of this fic i'll have to make a new masterlist and update my pinned aaaaaaa okay goodbye it's time for me to return to my studies (and to gojo) [i say this but tell me why i wanna write about the time cyno found alhaitham at the bimarstan with reader...]

©shiinleaf Do not plagiarise, use, translate and/or share my content outside of Tumblr in any way, shape, or form. Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated if you enjoyed!

— MARRY ME.

-> information. il dan heng x gn! reader. established relationship. fluff.

-> word count. 348.

“you want to what?” 

“i want to marry you.” 

silence. 

you couldn’t muster a single word. instead, you opted to stare at your lover with wide eyes, disbelief written all over your face. you weren’t even sure how or what made dan heng blurted out such things.

dan heng, who is able to remain calm even in the direst situations. dan heng, who is the one to hold everyone together. dan heng, who is someone you came to accept after he revealed his tragic past to you. 

dan heng blinked. his expression was unreadable to you as he stared at you; teal eyes boring holes into your soul. “i said, i want to ma-” 

he got cut off when you slapped a hand over his mouth. he furrowed his eyebrows, unsure why you did that. but with you closing the distance, dan heng can now detect the faint blush dusted on your cheeks.

he can tell how you weren’t looking at him. and oh, you were embarrassed. it does something to him. a surge of pride coursed through his veins, knowing his mere words can emit such a reaction from you. 

dan heng’s tail moved to coil itself around your waist, tugging you closer until your chests were touching. you yelped, struggling to free yourself but it was futile. the grip tightened in response and you surrendered, leaving you at his mercy. 

you briefly wondered if it was a crime for him to look this gorgeous. no matter how long you stared at him, you could never get enough of how majestic he looked, with his long black hair and how confidence oozed from him. 

dan heng moved your hand away from his mouth. he smoothly intertwined your fingers together, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. your face turned as red as a tomato at the sudden display of affection.

he chuckled, leaning in to brush his lips against yours; testing and tempting you. both of you knew it was a battle you will lose, no matter how hard you resist. 

“so, do you want to marry me?” 

note: wanted to write something so uh, here you go :3

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