#and the faintest traces of humour

[lit-in-thy-heart]

bitter is the antidote

Rating: Teen+

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Relationships: Gwaine & Lancelot & Merlin, Gwaine & Merlin, Gwaine & Lancelot, Lancelot & Merlin, Lancelot & Percival

Characters: Gwaine, Lancelot, Merlin, Percival

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jealous Gwaine, watch gwaine come to so many wrong conclusions in real time, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Gwaine Knows About Merlin's Magic, casual touches, well in theory but they're all useless with the casual part, Pre-Slash, eating an apple with a knife, Insecure Gwaine, Protective Lancelot, gwaine gets to be a bit of a bitch, Self-Esteem Issues, Loneliness, shockingly no dick jokes, Hurt Merlin, Angst, Self-Hatred, but largely mild, Episode: s03e10 Queen of Hearts, Canon Era, Good Friend Lancelot, POV Merlin, POV Lancelot, POV Gwaine, Injury, Burns, it's not graphic but there is a description of the appearance, Supportive Lancelot, man literally meets gwaine and is like well if merlin likes him then i'm sure he's great, Percival's family, sharing food, Existential Crisis, Sort Of, there will be a follow-up landing relatively soon, hopefully, Ambiguous/Open Ending

Words: 21,947

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: ‘I heard you using magic! I won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me,’ added the voice.

The tone was familiar, in the same way that the sea and the sky was, even as the tides changed and the clouds burned in pyres that transformed their hue every night. It eddied through Merlin’s memory in plumes of drunken laughter and soft words spoken by firelight and, before he could stop himself, his mouth was opening. ‘Gwaine?’

The first hiccup in Merlin's plan to save Gwen from the flames by aging himself was not being able to undo it as easily. The second hiccup was Gaius not showing up with the potion to do it for him. This third consequence feels less like a hiccup and more like a soul-crushing revelation. Well, fourth. Ending up on a lit pyre is a rather significant consequence.

Opening:

Merlin had been expecting Gaius to be waiting by the doorway to the courtyard. He had been expecting the potion to be bundled into his hands, with some false curse bestowed upon him for such wickedness, and for him to be able to breathe a little more freely again. But, as Merlin was escorted towards the pyre by Camelot’s guards and Arthur, Gaius was nowhere to be seen – not on the fringes of the crowd, at least. He nearly walked into the back of Arthur as the latter suddenly stopped, so preoccupied was he with trying to spot Gaius. The timbre of the voice that carried out across the courtyard was familiar and, when Merlin glanced up, it was issuing from Uther’s mouth, but the words mingled with the wind clawing at the clothes of the crowd and blew past Merlin’s ears. Merlin forced his body to remain still even as his eyes furtively leapt from face to face around him, searching for any indication that Gaius was there and would be able to save him. ‘...destroy Camelot.’ Uther’s final two words cut through Merlin’s desperation as he was recalled to reality by a tight grip on both of his arms. Even with the blood draining from his face as he was pulled closer to the pyre, Merlin couldn’t help but feel a little incredulity. Planting a poultice to make Arthur and a commoner fall in love, as Uther believed he had done, was hardly torching the citadel. Though apparently it warranted torching him. Merlin understood – well, strictly speaking, he didn’t really understand, more he was aware – that any indication of magic had Uther digging out the flint, but the whole thing did seem a little excessive. He hadn’t tried to kill anyone. Well. Not for a while, anyway, and it hadn’t been anyone that hadn’t tried to kill him first.

Written for the Merlin Bingo prompt 'canon divergence'

Read on ao3

[arabella0001]

my scenarios at night be like

breaking tradition with Kakashi Hatake

genre: soft romance | wedding fluff | gentle humour

You tugged at the stubborn sash, frustration bubbling as the delicate fabric twisted the wrong way for the third time.

“Why is this so complicated?” you muttered, yanking at the knot with little success.

A quiet tap echoed from the door.

“Can I come in?” Kakashi’s familiar voice slipped through the thin paper door.

“You’re not supposed to see me before the ceremony,” you shot back, still wrestling the attire.

A pause. Then—slide.

Kakashi stepped inside, his calm gaze immediately finding the tangle of fabric in your hands.

“I’m pretty sure that’s just a superstition,” he said, leaning casually against the frame.

You huffed, tugging at the knot harder. “It’s about tradition, Kakashi.”

He crossed the room in a few steps, brushing your hands aside with gentle confidence. “Here. Let me.”

Words formed on your tongue, but you swallowed them, letting his fingers work through the mess. His touch was deliberate, unhurried, until the sash finally fell into place.

“You’re overthinking it,” he murmured, smoothing the sleeves over your shoulders.

“I just… want everything to be perfect,” you admitted, your teeth grazed the inside of your cheek.

Kakashi’s eye softened, his head tilting slightly. “It already is. You’re marrying me, after all.”

You laughed, swatting at his arm. “A little full of yourself, aren’t you?”

He leaned in just a touch closer, his voice warm and low. “Confident.”

Heat prickled at your ears as his hand lingered at your waist.

“I should kick you out now,” you mumbled.

“Mm. Or…” His lips brushed against your temple through the mask, his breath soft against your skin. “You could let me stay a little longer.”

You shook your head but didn’t step away.

Maybe tradition could wait.

Kakashi’s heart thudded beneath his composed exterior.

For someone who lived most of his life in shadows, standing here felt unreal.

He something think he didn’t deserve this—not after everything. Yet here you were, flustered and radiant, fighting with wedding attire like it was an unruly enemy. You make sure this wasn’t the case.

His fingers stayed at your waist, adjusting the fabric with more care than necessary. If he was honest, he didn’t want to let go.

You shifted, brushing at the sleeve nervously. “You’re staring.”

Kakashi blinked, his hand still resting against you.

“I was just thinking…” His voice lowered as his hand trailed lightly down your arm. “You look beautiful. I’m not sure how I convinced you to marry me, but I’m not about to question it.”

Air snagged in your throat, eyes lifting to meet his. “Kakashi—”

He smirked beneath his mask. “What? I can’t compliment my bride?”

Your cheeks warmed as you tried to step away, but his grip tightened just enough to keep you there.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”

You glanced away, the sincerity in his voice making it hard to hold his gaze.

“Stop that,” you mumbled. “I’m going to mess up my makeup.”

Kakashi chuckled, pressing his masked lips lightly to your temple. “I’ll fix it for you if you do.”

Flustered, you shoved him gently toward the door. “Go, or I really will kick you out.”

His touch stayed, leaving behind the faintest trace of his warmth.

Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Kakashi had faced S-ranked missions and rogue ninjas, but standing at the altar made his palms sweat beneath his gloves.

Calm down.

Across the courtyard, you stood calm and radiant, while he felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs.

How did I even get here?

The ceremony was simple—quaint, Kakashi had called it. Close friends, familiar faces, and a soft breeze that carried your vows through the quiet air.

The reception? A different story.

Naruto stood front and center, already halfway through an impromptu speech, cup raised high.

“Honestly, Kakashi-sensei, I didn’t think this day would ever come!” Naruto grinned, scratching his head. “I figured you’d just keep reading those weird books forever.”

The crowd chuckled, and you shot Kakashi a glance. His shoulders stiffened slightly, but his hand slipped over yours beneath the table—a silent plea for patience.

Naruto wasn’t done. “But, you know… I guess if anyone deserves someone like (Y/N), it’s you. You’ve been through a lot. And—uh—yeah.” He laughed awkwardly. “I’m not great at this, but I’m happy for you, Kakashi-sensei. Really.”

Kakashi exhaled, the corner of his eye crinkling in quiet gratitude.

Then Gai stood.

“AH, KAKASHI!” he bellowed, tears already streaming down his face as Lee patted him on the back. “My eternal rival has found love at last! We’ve waited for this day for so long!”

Kakashi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gai, please—”

“But to see you embrace the flames of love! Our rivalry will transcend into new heights—marriage challenges! Couples’ retreats!”

“Gai,” Kakashi groaned, though the hand beneath the table remained steady in yours.

The laughter didn’t end there.

Tsunade swirled the sake in her cup, her cheeks tinged pink.

“I always thought you’d marry your job,” she mused, smirking. “Turns out (Y/N)’s the only one stubborn enough to put up with you.”

The room erupted again, and Kakashi chuckled softly beside you.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he murmured just for you.

His eye met yours, the world around him fading into a blur.

This wasn’t just love—it was peace.

As the ceremony began, Kakashi’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing gently over yours. You squeezed back, grounding him.

When the moment arrived, Kakashi stood before you, his hands at your waist, his mask just inches away.

You smiled up at him, fingertips brushing over the fabric.

“They’re waiting,” you whispered.

With an exaggerated sigh, Kakashi tugged the mask down, letting it pool around his chin.

The courtyard fell silent.

Naruto’s cup slipped from his hand.

Kakashi kissed you, staying just long enough to bask in the quiet shock.

When he pulled back—mask firmly in place—he glanced at the stunned crowd.

“Got you.” he replied as you smile at him.

[ofcrowsanddragons]

The ALT POV of the Wigmaker Job from the WIP folder 🙏

WIP Folder Game

Dialogue by Courtney Woods, based on “The Wigmaker Job” by Courtney Woods, in Tevinter Nights.

Illario’s cousin never changed. He took job after job after job, rarely stopping for a rest. Their grandmother’s orders rang constantly through Lucanis’s mind, and Illario could barely predict the few times that Lucanis would choose his little rebellions against the First Talon. The only guarantee was that it would be inconvenient for Illario.

Said cousin had planned this job: an attack on a prominent Venatori at an event that was the highlight of Vyrantium's social season. Of course, Lucanis had rented the top floor of a terrible inn, from which Illario could hear terrible music rising from the floorboards above the terrible tavern. Lucanis now sat on a hard wooden block with his weapons arranged on the bed in front of him, adding to the screeching strings of the music below with the sound of sharpening stone against steel.

On the bright side, it was clean enough that pests getting into Illario’s luggage were only moderately likely. His favourite piece was also likely to have blood on it by the end of the evening, but for now he admired the craftsmanship in the Minrathous-inspired collar and the surrounding details. The stamped navy velvet was accented with black silk, and the fine gold embroidery tumbled across his shoulders in an explosion and faded into delicate stars that fell across his midsection. The layer below the main tunic was a shimmering gold that peeked from between vents in the fabric as he walked.

Lucanis wore black.

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” asked Illario, resigned. The leather coat over a black suit may have been inconspicuous at any other event, but even then it would make him look like a servant.

Illario hated having options closed to him during a job.

“At least I don’t look like a tourist,” said the other assassin, with the faintest trace of humour in his voice.

“No, you look like you’re attending a funeral.”

“Very funny,” said Lucanis, all traces of humour gone, returning to the state of natural killing machine that Illario could tell had been killing him for years. “It’s a job. Not a party.”

“Actually,” Illario corrected, carefully checking his rogueish facial hair had the desired effect. “It’s a job at a party. Might as well look our best.”

“Any excuse to primp.”

Illario snapped his straight razor shut, hating how Lucanis sometimes sounded like their grandmother. He knew what he was good at, he completed his contracts, and they both looked down on him for that. “I’m only here because of you,” he pointed out. “We should be halfway home by now. Only ‘the Great Lucanis Dellamorte’ could delay a summons from the First Talon herself.”

Shuffling from the other side of the room, visible in the mirror. “Catarina can hardly complain,” said Lucanis, oblivious to how anyone else would suffer for saying so. “She’s the one who beat me into my commitment to my contracts.”

And here they stood, the next generation. From the cradle to the grave in Catarina’s shadow.

“All that effort and training grooming us,” he mused, “And the old woman still won’t step aside.”

“Your time will come.”

Lucanis said it like it was fact. Lucanis had been saying it for years. Lucanis had been convincing, for the longest time.

“Will it?” Illario asked, meeting Lucanis’s eyes in the mirror and willing him to understand. “People talk. You’ve always been her favourite.” You’re the only one who can tell her no.

“My talents lie elsewhere,” Lucanis said, holding up a hand and turning it over to indicate the sword and half dozen-odd daggers, now newly-sharpened. “You’re the one with the silver tongue.”

Illario didn’t want to know.

Illario needed to know.

“So, if she named you heir to House Dellamorte,” asked Illario, “You’d refuse?”

Lucanis went still, and Illario felt a flash of anger at the delay. All Lucanis knew how to do was delay, and this wasn’t a topic they could cover at home.

“Lucanis?” he pressed.

Before Lucanis moved, Illario had already realized that this was the wrong kind of stillness. His cousin had moved into the wire-taut sensory mode of a predator that meant that somebody was about to die.

His own blood rose in response, and as Lucanis reached for his sword, Illario pulled a knife from his sleeve. Illario heard a creak from the hallway and Lucanis motioned to him.

Illario said something about the quality of the hotel and the food, and Lucanis quipped back, “You ordered an Antivan dish in Tevinter. What did you expect?” He’d barely grumbled something back by the time Lucanis silently reached the wall of their room and plunged his entire sword through it—and through the Venatori eavesdropping on the other side.

Well, Illario considered, Now that sword might actually need sharpening.

[tinydefector]

Hello! I'm the one that requested the ovulation request (cyclonus) and I'm so so sorry for making the s/o a female, I didn't notice it in your rules.

But I love how it turned out!!! If you can, can you please make a part two about the ovulation, maybe s/o will get pregnant or not?? 👀👀

MINE 2

Cyclonus x human

Word count 1k

Warnings: mention of pregnancy.

I had alot of fun making this piece too so I hope you enjoy it. I didn't make this one Nsfw but I enjoyed the fluffy sweetness between them.

1

Cyclonus masterlist

Masterlist

___________

Cyclonus realises something was off, the scent of his loves skin had changed, the slight static lingers on their skin, but Cyclonus had to make sure it wasn't just his processor glitching. The Field felt like that of a sparkling. They lay curled against Cyclonus form on the berth. Blankets wrapped around them.

He inhales deeply the thick scent of lover's flesh now bore subtle hints of charged particulate, mingling heady musk in a way stirring coding of sparklings' new-made frames. But within flesh? Impossible - yet undeniable potential realisation shocked him to his core.

Rumbling low in awe, Cyclonus peeled away layers to peer down their form, digits running across their stomach mapping the subtly shifted electromagnetic signature pulsing within. His field flickered out in calling hoping that it wasn't a glitched system.

A small giggle comes from them as he presses his face closer to their stomach inhaling again. “Cy what are you doing?” They ask out with chipper laughter as he presses his face into their soft warm skin. There, the faintest flicker beneath flesh responds, the call of the tiniest spark echoes back to him. Awed ventilations burst from tanks as Cyclonus gathered them close in cradling arms, fields mingling in exultation beyond all dreams. "You carry a sparkling," he states in awe against flesh, voice raw with ancient worship.

They slowly meet Cyclonus' optics. "Pardon?" They ask softly. "You are with a tiny spark, it is calling out to me" he rumbled, servos tracing protective paths over still-flat flesh harbouring divine mystery. His fields pulsed adoration and protection.

Cyclonus leaned down to kiss their lips, His sensory net detected the imperceptible spark's strongest flicker directly beneath palm, drawing a reverent rumble. They had somehow forged what none thought possible. "You are carrying a sparkling. Beloved"

His grasp tightened, They lean into Cyclonus' touch. "How is that possible?" They ask again, moving to rest on their elbow. Eyes flicking down to his servo pressed against their stomach. Cyclonus rumbled deep in intakes at their awe, optics overflowing adoration for miracles blessed to them. " Its a divine mystery and blessing" he replied, digits tracing the subtle field fluctuations beneath flesh.

fingers running along Cyclonus' plating as they lay there. "Christ, so you gonna explain to me how you know I'm pregnant?" They ask with a teasing smile. Cyclonus' engine rumbled low in pure contentment. “ I can smell it on your skin, the change in your hormones and taste the static in the air” he begins to explain while pressing his face into their shoulder peppering kisses across their skin.

They let out a groan. "Is everyone else going to be able to smell that I'm pregnant? " they asked in embarrassment. Cyclonus rumbled proudly at the thought of all beholding proof of miracles. " Would I save you embarrassment if I say no?," he intoned, nuzzling them as if he were a cat. The humour in his voice isn't lost on them as they flick his helm.

They cuddle up against Cyclonus' warm form. "Cy, how am I even pregnant, I'm a human, i didn't think we were compatible like that" they state softly as his servo continues tracing patterns against their stomach. “I don't know Sweetspark, perhaps we shall visit the medic's later, but for now you should rest”

They gasp as Cyclonus rolls them to lay across his chassis. They slowly sit up as the blankets pile around their waist. He slowly presses his servo to their stomach tracing his digits along the soft skin where the sparkling would slowly swell their stomach over time. They shutter at the cool touch but relax into it.

Cyclonus vented a throaty croon as their frame settled atop his chassiplate, Slowly, gently he traced delicate spirals along their spine up their shoulders as he captured their lips in a soft kiss.

Optics aglow, "My blessed carrier," he uttered against their flushed temple, he pressed his helm to their forehead holding them close, he had forged his family in the most unlikely of places. “My perfect Light and Spark” he rumbles lowly.

They gasp his servo, leaning into the one cupping their face. "What do you think they will look like?" They ask softly to Cyclonus, not knowing how a human Cybertronian pregnancy would go. They don't even know if they would be able to carry it to full term but they were happy enough just existing with the idea that nothing would go wrong.

"Do you think they will be a seeker like you?" they continue while His thumb rubs against their cheek.

Cyclonus rumbled pensive contemplation, digits tracing gentle patterns promising protection upon stretched plate sheltering gifts beyond comprehension. ''Impossible to predict specifics on time, Cybertronians normally carry up to a century.''

"Have faith,” he chuckles softly pressing another kiss to their lips, “Tomorrow we will see the medics, I'm sure they will have a lot for questions but also answers” he sounded rather cryptic mainly because he himself didn't know what to expect, he had next thought of settling down with a family, nor ever with a human. They hum again taking in his words before finally asking. "What would you name them?”

Cyclonus vented deeply at the question, holding their body against his own. Massive servos cradled them, he lets out a deep rumble as if thinking. "Fulmina or genesis" he states before he continues “Fulmina the Sparkling of lightning to honour the sky's. Or Genesis for they are the origin of a new generation” he explains gently. A small flicker of their spark makes Cyclonus perk up at the names. “It seems they are rather content with that idea”. They look at him with pure affection. “What do they sound like?” They whisper to him.

He lets out a deep chuckle as he presses his audial against his lover's chest. “I can hear both your heart and their spark dancing together, it sounds Euphoric, their spark feels powerful and mighty, I'm sure they will grow strong” he rumbled against their. Holding them close.

_____________

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[mostly-marvel-musings]

Typical Stark - Chapter 8

Typical Stark Masterlist

A/N: Remember this series? I’d planned on finishing it earlier but my writer’s block got from bad to worse. These two are FINALLY sleeping together y’all.. enjoy!

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warnings: 18+ finally some smut, fluff.

Word count: 1.8k

.

The moving in part seemed to have gone rather smoothly, given that you weren’t too fussy about most things & there was minimum heavy furniture that needed shifting, minus your favourite chair and a few other things.

You sat cross legged on the bedroom floor that Saturday morning, surrounded by your own clothes while Tony made you his famous smoothie.

“Here you go, roomie.” He chirped, traipsing in carrying two glasses before handing you one and taking a seat on the floor next to you.

“Whoa is that a G-string?” Tony reached between the piles of clothes and pulled out your pretty pink panties and smirked as you snatched it away, rolling your eyes.

Every now and then he’d poke you to ask about some item of clothing, mostly lingerie and how he’d like you to wear it on a daily basis.

You went to put a pile of your clothes inside your side of the wardrobe when Tony found your bag of private things which included more of your toys.

“Oh! What do we have here?”

Turning around to find the bag open in Tony’s hand, you ran towards him, eyes wide in horror attempting to grab it from him but he held it out of your reach.

“Tony give it back right now! I swear to God I’ll—”

“Hey I’m not judging! Well, I am, naughty girl.” He laughed heartily at your jumping to get a hold of your not-so-private stuff.

“Alright I’ll give it back on one condition.”

Huffing you crossed your arms and glared at the man.

“What?”

“You let me use it on you...now.”

His eyes darkened; humour replaced with something else now that the idea had been planted in his head. You thought about it for a bit, sure you’d had a lot of fun with Tony before this but you still hadn’t officially slept together yet, surprising as that was.

“Fine! Have at it Stark.”

Raising your hands in surrender, you walked backwards, till the back of your legs found the bed, Tony following you closing the distance before looming over your figure.

He threw the bag and it landed on the bed before pulling you flush against his chest and dipping his head to capture your lips.

The kiss switched from soft to needy in a matter of seconds.

Tony’s fingers tugged on your hair before laying you on the bed and settling between your legs. Eyes taking in your face after you broke apart momentarily, grabbing a vibrator out of the bag before pausing.

“Do you have a favourite toy, Miss Y/L/N?” Tony’s voice was soft yet teasing, that signature smirk matched yours.

“Yep. You.”

Plopping his head on your chest, he chuckled, giving you time to card your fingers through his hair. Something about that carefree laugh made your heart flutter.

“Oh, you’re more than welcome to use me like one.” Tony’s voice came out muffled as he spoke, humming in delight as your ministrations continued. The offer made a thousand scenarios run through your mind.

“I’ll take you up on that, Stark.”

“I go first.” He whispered before letting his hands reach the waistband of your pants, sliding them down slowly before you lifted your hips to aid him.

Tony’s lips found yours again as he resumed the kiss, slow and gentle this time, as if he had all the time in the world. Teasing and tasting you languidly, his lips moulded against yours perfectly, he groaned softly as your fingers found purchase in hair once more.

There was a faintest of smiles on those soft lips that you felt as your tongue peeked out to trace them, prodding them open. When he did, your tongue was pushed down by his own dominatingly while he grabbed your wrists and held them above your head, the grip gentle but tight enough. Your tongues battled against one another, challenging the other to behave but neither of you backed down, the urgency to feel every inch of him overpowered everything else.

Tony’s kisses moved southward as his lips brushed over the side of your face, down your neck where he bared his teeth, grazing them against your skin lightly before sucking on it. A needy whine escaped you as his groin brushed over yours purposely, repeating the action just barely enough for your core to meet his clothed erection.

“What a fucking tease you are…” you breathed; your voice laced with desperation which you poorly covered with annoyance.

“Honey, I’ve barely begun.”

If you could, you’d punch that smug grin off his face but you were at his mercy, mentally cursing yourself for falling prey to those doe eyes. While you were excited to finally be doing this with the man you had fallen hopelessly in love with, there was a part of you that was nervous merely owing to the reputation the guy had.

Though so far, he had been nothing like that alleged playboy image that was projected, so your obsessive thoughts had been silenced by the same doe eyes that more often than not drove you absolutely crazy for all kinds of reasons.

A dull buzzing of the vibrator brought your attention back to where you were, a giggle left your lips when Tony pressed it against your side, rolling it down your thigh before gently nudging your legs open.

“Keep them open for me.” he whispered before slanting his mouth over yours, bruising your lips while your toy inched closer and closer to your core.

Strategically, he placed it over your clit hood, grinning against your mouth while you gasped. The vibrations were mild but persistent at first; as if Tony knew precisely how much to tease it around your outer lips, inching his way over to the bundle of nerves that lay waiting.

The dull buzzing sound of your toy combined with your soft moans filled the room, your hips rising up in accord as the sensations made arousal pool between your legs.

Your eyes fell shut as Tony’s lips trailed down your body, kissing the inside of your thighs while your core was being prepped. He moved the toy away momentarily, caressing your thighs softly.

“Can I have a taste, Y/N?” he asked, ever so polite, though his brown orbs had darkened significantly, mouth inching towards the place you needed him the most. All you could manage was a nod as you watched him hold you legs apart, greedily eyeing what was already his. Reaching down, your fingers found purchase in his soft hair, guiding him where you wanted him.

Your head fell back against the pillows as he made contact with your core, deliberately teasing at first, almost shy before your hips moved to gain more contact, giving him permission for more.

You wanted more, and it had already been enough, the dilemma sent your head spinning as Tony’s mouth closed over you, nose teasing and coaxing your clit while his tongue ran along your slit, relishing the very taste of you as your toy now lay on the side, forgotten. If it wasn’t for Tony’s iron grip, your legs would’ve fallen shut as the sensations took over, desire igniting deep within your belly as he took care of you, coaxing you open for him, relishing in the way your body reacted to him.

“Tony…” you begged, fingers gripping his hair like vice as your orgasm built inside, threatening to spill over. Getting the hint, Tony moved his kisses back up your body, leaving you whining at the loss of contact, much to his glee.

You didn’t waste any time in undressing the man, wanting nothing more than him inside you and that smirk wiped off of his devilishly handsome face.

Lining up against your entrance, Tony gently nudged your nose with his; breaths mingling into each other.

“Look at me, Y/N.” he whispered, his big brown eyes swimming with love and lust in equal measure as your eyes fluttered open.

You felt his cock slowly push in, your slick entrance welcoming the delicious stretch and sting as he filled you, stopping once he was buried to the hilt.

That was it.

The very moment you realised how real it was, and just how badly you’d fallen. You were meant to be. Nothing felt more right than this. You and Tony.

“I love you, Anthony Edward Stark.” You whispered, bringing your hand up to caress his stubbled cheek, watching him lean into your touch with a loving smile on his face.

He dipped his head down to capture your lips in a searing kiss as his hips began moving at a steady pace, making sure you felt each and every thrust as he drove in and out.

Fingers tugging on his hair as he placed open-mouthed kisses against your neck, your walls clenched around his length, causing him to grunt.

“Are you on birth control?” His hot breath against your ear, his thrusts becoming more urgent while his hand snaked between your bodies to rub your bundle of nerves, sending you spiralling towards your orgasm.

All you could do was nod at his question, gripping onto his back for dear life as you came around his cock, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Tony followed soon after his hips stuttered, spilling into you with a breathy moan, holding you close while you returned from your highs.

“So that’s what it takes..” he murmured, still a little out of breath, a lazy smile obvious on his face as he placed small kisses against your collarbone.

“What?”

“Great sex and orgasms to get you to say you love me?” He chuckled, carefully pulling out of you and helping you clean up.

“How do you know I’m not faking it?” You smirked, knowing fully well he knew you were lying.

“Contrary to popular belief, I know you better than you think I do, my sweet.” Tony gave you a self-assured grin, pulling a blanket over your bodies before pulling you close.

You stayed in his embrace, a perpetual smile that somehow refused to leave your face, and a feeling of contentment and happiness that had settled so comfortably.

“We still have a lot to unpack you know..” you murmured, closing your eyes and snuggling close to the man.

“I know. A nap won’t hurt though. I’ll wake you up and put you to work, don’t you worry.”

Tony laughed heartily as you hit him against his chest, mumbling ‘typical Stark’ before grinning yourself, letting sleep take over.

…

Ugh. I love these two.

[junosswans]

Entry to RoyEd Week 2023 August 2nd Day 2 - Soulmate AU

(Edited: Long fic ahead! Also I posted this on ao3 too :> thank you everyone for all the wonderful comments!! I am all giddy over them)

It was already late when they arrived at the Rockbell’s house, where villagers said they could find the Elric brothers if they were not home. The cottage was dim inside, only allowing the faintest trace of dusk to put shape to the helpless boy in the wheelchair, and the enormous suit of armour towering over him.

In the literal blink of an eye, Roy Mustang’s life was turned upside down.

Despite the darkness, Roy saw the boy in foreign vividness that he had never witnessed; colours exploded in front of his eyes like fireworks, rendering him speechless. The boy’s shade was accentuated by a distinct warmth— Roy would later learn the name of the colour that was gold, a pigment that he would come to associate with justice, passion, and everything that was pure and magnificent.

Before arriving at Resembool, Roy had rehearsed his recruitment speech for five different situations, but none of which took the current one into account. For the first time in a long while, he had no idea what to say.

At that moment, assaulted by colours he had yet to know, he only knew one thing— that destiny had cursed this little boy to be attached to him, Roy Mustang. A man who had far more enemies than allies, more nightmares than sleep— more dead than alive.

The boy did not give any visible reaction to Roy’s loud entry into the house, and his aimless eyes had already betrayed his state to Roy.

He could not afford to have a soulmate. Not when his soulmate sat defencelessly like this, deaf to the entire world. Being his soulmate meant putting a target on their back, meant always sleeping with an eye open, meant never finding peace till the day of his death.

He could not, in good conscience— with what little he had remained of it— put his soulmate through what his life entailed. Anyone sane enough would be able to see him from a distance and turn around immediately. Nobody deserved to be Roy’s soulmate to experience what he would inevitably put them through. No one would be tough and yet foolish enough to stay.

Ignoring the nausea this revelation has caused him, Roy bit his tongue and demanded an explanation for the situation instead. He listened, in slowly freezing horror, to the younger brother of the Elrics– Alphonse Elric– explaining how they ended up in their current bodies.

Roy looked at Edward Elric who was missing two limbs, and reminded himself that this young boy in front of him had committed the greatest taboo in alchemy and survived. Then, as if it was not enough, did it again to bargain his brother’s soul back. An improbable, stupid, and lethal decision—yet it was undeniable that he had done the unthinkable and survived the consequences. At such a young age nonetheless, when most alchemists' apprentices were still struggling with the most basic of elements.

Perhaps given time, this boy could grow into someone beyond Roy’s imagination. Perhaps given time, Roy could grow into someone strong enough to shield his soulmate from harm.

And so Roy told him, in an earnestness that surprised even himself, that when he was ready, he could find Roy in East City and Roy would provide him with resources that could put him back on his feet. That it would be a road filled with thorns and danger, but the rewards were worth the risk.

Against his better judgement, Roy had provided his soulmate a choice. Edward could choose to run after him into the shower of bullets and webs of lies, or he could choose to stay in the quiet countryside and never let their paths cross again.

Secretly, Roy wished that his soulmate would choose the latter, wiser option. But he also knew acutely that the world had a morbid sense of humour, and whoever that was tied with him could never have any good sense in them. If fate had decided that they were meant to be, then his soulmate must have been as much of a stubborn fool as him, if not more.

Roy bid the family goodbye, and walked out of the dark shadows of the cottage. He was greeted with an entirely new world, now coloured in radiant hues he could not put words to.

He examined his palm under the flickering street light. He could see his veins faintly under his skin, pumping blood into every corner of his body. It was purple and flesh and red and human. It was warm and colourful and alive.

Remember it, remember what I’ve said, and catch up to me. Roy thought. Those who cannot keep up with me cannot be my soulmate.

I’m putting my faith in you that, no matter which way you end up choosing, our paths will converge, and we shall meet again at a time when you and I are wiser and stronger and unmovable in the face of danger. I’m putting my faith in you that, regardless of the dangers on my journey, you will find me and stay beside me and not be frightened.

I’m choosing to believe, if fate has decided that I’m still worthy of a soulmate despite my sins, then there must still be something redeemable in me, and you must be someone with enough love to love me for the monster I am.

Please find me soon.

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

And then Ed surprised him after a year when Roy expected to wait at least 5 more years lmfao

I wanted to play on the idea of “you only begin to see colour once you’ve met your soulmate” and thought VERY hard about how to visualise it without turning it into a long comic. My very stupid, no good brain came up with the idea of putting a colour wheel in the background :> in hindsight it’s very cringe but at that point it was already too late to give up or change it lmaooooo

I also put paint and paint brushes around as decoration which i think is kind of cute ^^ and special thanks to my sister who helped me fix the colouring because my usual way of doing it just… lacks the vibrancy this prompt asks for. She’s a goddess and 192729% better at this drawing business than me.

@royedweek2023

[feisty4ferret]

Wrapped in You

Rating: Explicit Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Mistletoe, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Christmas Eve, Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, Hermione was wronged before, Draco has been in love with her forever, Secret Santa, Everybody Knows They Like Each Other, Pining Draco Malfoy, Pining Hermione Granger, POV Hermione Granger, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net

Summary: Haunted by past heartbreak, Hermione struggles to trust the growing connection between her and Draco. Amid holiday magic and quiet confessions, she’s torn between guarding her heart and embracing a love that feels undeniable. Can she overcome her doubts, or will fear keep her from taking the chance?

Chapter 1 teaser:

She blinked, managing a small smile in return, her heart suddenly beating faster than she’d like. Hermione Granger was not one to be easily rattled, especially not by someone like Draco Malfoy. And yet, here she was, feeling the faintest of blushes rise as he made his way toward her, his gaze never breaking from hers.

With each step he took, she felt her confidence waver, an unspoken tension weaving through the air between them. The distance closed, and she could feel her guard slipping, just a fraction, as he drew near. She steadied herself, readying her polite, professional smile.

“Granger,” he greeted, his voice a rich murmur as he looked down at her, his smile tilted just slightly, almost as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her composure. She glanced up, a mix of defiance and curiosity sparking in her gaze.

“Malfoy,” she replied, doing her best to sound composed, though the flutter in her chest betrayed her. She allowed herself a small, polite smile, hoping it masked the sudden flush in her cheeks.

He stepped closer, his eyes flickering over her with a barely concealed appreciation. “You look—” he paused, his smirk widening just slightly, “like you’re ready to take on the world.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes to deflect the heat rising to her face. “I’m just here to make an appearance, like everyone else,” she replied, trying to downplay the effect his words had on her. But his gaze lingered, holding her in place, making her feel oddly exposed in a way that was both unsettling and thrilling.

“And doing a damn fine job of it, I might add,” he said, his tone laced with that unmistakable dry humour. His eyes traced over her once more, lingering just a moment too long, enough for her to feel it—a subtle heat that felt all the more intense under his scrutiny. “Though I can’t say I ever pictured you… so festive.”

📚Read the whole chapter on AO3

[stanislawkowalski]

DRAFTS:: VIOLENCE PART 2

The flickering light from a single, weary bulb cast shadows across his pale, angular face. His fingers moved idly, tracing the delicate rim of his glass, the liquid inside gleaming with a dark amber hue. Around him, his men sat stiffly, trapped in the lull of his gentle tone, as if his words held them suspended in the quiet tension before a storm.

"I want this deal finished by the end of the week," he murmured, his voice soft, too soft, like a lullaby whispering over an abyss. His gaze swept across the room, a predator’s calm assessing its prey. "I trust there won’t be any complications."

And then—hesitation. The faintest ripple in the air as one of his younger men fumbled, his hands trembling ever so slightly. A fleeting moment, a glance downward, an unspoken question in the space between.

Then, the storm.

Nastka moved without warning, the fragile silence shattered as he hurled his glass across the room. It sailed through the air like a shot through fog, exploding against the wall in a burst of crystal and liquid. A violent symphony in an otherwise perfect quiet. Shards of glass scattered like stars falling from the sky, and the room held its breath.

"You were saying?" His voice was steady, unruffled, as though the chaos he had just unleashed was nothing but a fleeting breeze. The young man, face drained of colour, stammered, but Nastka’s attention had already drifted. He leaned back, the quiet settling once more, the air thick with unspoken fear. A warning that lingered like the bitter aftertaste of his drink.

***

Another scene, another day. The warehouse echoed with the soft, deliberate sound of his boots tapping against the concrete floor, each step a promise. Across from him stood Maksim, bold in his defiance, though his arrogance trembled beneath the weight of Nastka’s gaze. The air between them vibrated with a tension that hummed like a distant storm, too far to see but close enough to feel.

"You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Maksim?" Nastka’s words flowed like water over stone, calm and cold, with a faint trace of amusement, as though he found humour in the other man's insolence. "Skimming off the top, cutting into our shipments. You’ve insulted me."

Maksim, emboldened by Nastka’s quiet, took a step closer. His voice, harsh and misplaced, broke the fragile stillness. "It’s business. Don’t take it so personally."

Time seemed to stretch in the silence that followed. The stillness was heavy, suffocating, like the thick air before a thunderstorm breaks. Nastka’s dark eyes met Maksim’s with an unblinking intensity, a predator locking onto its prey. Then, the world tilted.

In a blur, Nastka’s hand shot forward, his grip like iron as he slammed Maksim against the cold, unyielding pillar. The crack of bone against concrete echoed in the vast space, sharp as a whip, cutting through the tension with brutal finality. Maksim gasped, the arrogance draining from his face as Nastka’s breath ghosted against his ear, his words barely a whisper, a death sentence wrapped in velvet.

"THIS is fucking business...but don't take it personally"

And with that, Nastka let him fall to the ground, crumpled and gasping for breath, while the air returned to its heavy stillness, as though the violence had never happened.

***

A bar, dimly lit and cloaked in smoke, the faint clink of glasses and the murmur of low voices filling the space. Nastka sat at the counter, a glass in his hand, discussing plans with Piotr, his voice as calm and measured as ever. The atmosphere, deceptively relaxed, lulled the men into a false comfort. The storm lay dormant—for now.

From the corner of the bar, a drunken laugh sliced through the air, too loud, too careless. The man, a fool dulled by liquor, dared to inject himself into the conversation, his words a crude and clumsy attempt at humour. It was the kind of joke that did not belong in Nastka’s world, the kind that grated like nails on glass.

Nastka’s head turned slowly, his expression unreadable, a mask of eerie tranquility. For a moment, it seemed as if he would let it slide. The tension hung there, fragile and taut, suspended in time.

And then, the violence struck like lightning.

Nastka’s hand flew across the bar, the crack of flesh against flesh echoing through the room with the weight of thunder. The man’s head snapped to the side, his cheek blooming red, his eyes wide in stunned silence. The entire bar seemed to freeze, the air heavy with fear as every man in the room held his breath, waiting, wondering if they would be next. "Now, that's what I call amusing... funny, isn't it? A joke that you are... let's laugh together."

[jefarawol]

Ah, Jefara, there is something I would fain discuss.  I must ask you to recall the events which unfolded at the peace conference, though I daresay you would sooner forget them. Not that which occured after, but what we all bore witness too.

In what way?

My mind returns again and again to the moment when Nidhogg appeared before the crowd in the guise of Estinien. It was a sight to chill the soul─but one which gave me reason to hope that our friend might not be beyond salvation. When you described his fateful transformation at Azys Lla, I feared him lost forever, but the mere fact that some semblance of his former self endures must surely count for something. Alas, I have no evidence to support this impression... Thus did I turn to Y'shtola and Krile for a more empirical appraisal─and full glad am I that I did, for it would seem they have some observations of their own to share.

The ladies have saved us a table at the Forgotten Knight. Shall we go?

Excellent. Let us not keep our honored colleagues waiting.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·  

We have kept you waiting overlong, I fear...

Not to worry, Alphinaud. We had some rather fine mulled wine to keep us company. Truth be told, you could have delayed your arrival a few moments more...

Gibrillont got the spicing just right this time. His latest batch is not only delicious and warming, but soothing to the humours!

Indeed. But 'twas not to soothe our humours that we gathered here.

Ah, no─quite right. The matter of that poor dragoon...

You have discovered something─a means to save him?

Let us not jump to conclusions, shall we? Assess the facts presented, then make an educated analysis, as you were taught.

Pray cast your mind back to the moment of Estinien's transformation. Do you recall how you described it to us?

Yes...

You spoke of the sudden pangs which racked his body when he took up both of Nidhogg's eyes─and of how his form was twisted thereafter into a shadowy semblance of the great wyrm.

I felt them myself.

When he appeared at Falcon's Nest, the wyrm's eyes were fused to his mail.

Would that only his armor had been corrupted... Snaking forth from the eyes, I descried dark tendrils which entangled his very being. His aether has been all but smothered.

Then he is lost to us forever?

What did I just say about jumping to conclusions!? Y'shtola clearly stated “all but smothered.” As I later discovered, her impression matched my own. Though Nidhogg's presence filled my mind's eye, beneath his seething aura, I sensed the merest hint of something else. And after listening to Y'shtola's observations, I became more certain of my suspicion: that the “something else” I had sensed was, in fact, the trace of a different will, submerged in the sea of Nidhogg's rage.

You mean...

Yes. 'Tis like that Estinien's spirit yet lingers.

It is... Nidhogg... For a brief moment... Let him speak to me...

You heard him? You heard Estinien?

Only because Nidhogg let him through. He snuffed him out like he was nothing... But he was there... He was weak...

Can we not wrest him from Nidhogg's grasp, then!? Tear the eyes from the armor!?

We know not if that would serve to separate wyrm's soul from man's. None have ever attempted such a feat.

Should it offer even the faintest hope of success, then by the gods, I shall be the first to try

Alphinaud... By all means, hold fast to your hope. But be mindful of the dangers. Even should you succeed in excising the eyes from the dragoon's mail, we have no way of knowing if your friend's soul would survive so violent a separation. And that is to say nothing of the possibility that his would-be savior might become Nidhogg's next host.

But what other choice remains to us? Should the opportunity present itself, I will tear those foul orbs from Estinien's armor and trust in the resilience of his soul─even at the risk of mine own!

[rhubingle]

Euphemisms Won't Keep You Warm At Night

The animal is impulsive, thinking little about the consequences of feeding the TAB machine to ensure it is full and satiated, while at home the animal's mate is alone and oblivious.

The animal raises a toast with its enablers. Oh, such merriment. Oh, the witty quips they make to normalise their financial cancers. The phrase "the brickie's laptop" is utilised until triteness, but still the creatures laugh as they stare down into their beers, knowing deep down any humour surrounding their compulsion to lose money was gone years ago.

A 'watering hole' is such an appropriate moniker for a pub, for not only is it where people can quench themselves, it also seems to turn otherwise 'functioning' humans into animals - resigning themselves entirely to instinct and impulse. There is no looking to the future, only the present exists and when even the faintest trace of dopamine appears before them, they chase it like a cheetah until complete exhaustion.

As would a lion returning to its pride without a kill, the animal mopes home now. Its dopamine has dropped completely, it feels as if it has nothing left to lose, until it sees its mate stare back at it, completely unaware of what it has done. It tucks its tail between its legs, it is only a beast after all. It cannot control its reactions, it doesn't think, it just does, but it is the mark of a weak animal to never exercise autonomy.

[daceystvrk]

dacey's gaze lingered on brandon, as though she were afraid if she looked away, he might fall into the snow once more. his self-deprecating humour might have worked to ease her worries in any other moment, but not then - not when she had seen the way he had swayed so precariously, not when she could still hear the strain in his voice as he tried to brush off what had just happened. it was as though she were looking at him through fresh eyes. she had not been blind to the fact he had been touched by grief and stress, but it was only now she noted just how heavy that burden seemed to be for him.

"it is care freely given," her voice remained as quiet as it had been, but with a resoluteness that was not common in dacey. she did not know if her persistence would be accepted, or if he would bristle at it. it was no small thing for a man who was the very picture of strength and stability to be caught in a moment of weakness. "even the strongest of trees can be toppled by a storm."

he seemed to be returning to himself, and that was a relief, and yet, she still moved to crouch slightly before him, until her gaze was level with his. she did not need to bend far. even seated, the height of him was obvious. "you're far from an old nan. there's life in you yet, lord karstark." the faintest semblance of a smile crossed her face, something that was both reassuring and that brushed away any lingering traces of her concern.

it was not the true north, but the mention of alysanne that had her finally pulling her gaze from him, eyes turning downward to look at the snow on the ground. it was rare to hear her name anymore, as though their lives had knitted over the space she had left, but she could still see where the threads didn't quite fit with the rest of the tapestry. she felt it - her absence, and what brandon had told her that she had done, even if she had still spoken it to nobody else.

"it's too much for any to carry alone. just one of those things would be enough." she hesitated, before perching on the spare space on the mounting block beside him. "if you do feel yourself faltering again, though, try and warn me first? i'm not sure my reflexes will be quick enough a second time. the first was pure luck." there was enough levity to her voice to make it sound like a joke, but under it all, she had no desire to see brandon karstark fall.

♞

brandon karstark felt the world tilt beneath him, a momentary dizziness that threatened to sweep his legs out from under him like the harsh winds of the wolfswood. his large, rough hand gripped the rough stone of the wall as though it might anchor him against the sudden betrayal of his body. the cold bit at his fingers through his gloves, but the sharp sting was grounding. he wasn’t sure what had come over him—a rush of blood, the cold, or the weight of all the whispers they’d spoken of. he’d been a fortress his whole life, and now, his knees trembled like a green boy’s after his first fight.

trembled the way they had the night his knees submitted to the snow, and he watched as the skies danced green above him.

then he felt her hand—small compared to his, steady and firm despite its lightness. dacey stark had moved to his side, her touch grounding him in a way his pride refused to acknowledge. her other hand hovered close, ready to catch him should he falter further. he cast her a sidelong glance, his lips opening into a faint, self-deprecating sigh. “princess, ye shouldn’t be wasting your care on me,” he rumbled, knowing that there would be nothing he could do to stop her. regardless of how brash he may have sounded, not in this moment. the warmth of her concern made him pause; for the briefest of moments.

“you’ve a steady hand, princess,” he murmured, his gruff voice softening just a touch. “might’ve toppled like a blasted pine without you.”

“bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and rasping, an edge of frustration creeping into his tone. he swayed again, and his hand pressed harder against the wall, fingers curling against the icy stone for purchase. there was a nervous, dismissive chuckle that came from his lips, as though he were trying to move passed what had just occurred. “damned frailed body, i’ve stood through worse and now i'm out 'ere shakin' like an old nan in robes.”

his hand remained braced on his knee, the other gripping the edge of the block as though he still didn’t trust himself to stay upright. he chuckled then, a rough, bark-like laugh that seemed more to dismiss his embarrassment than to find true humor. “what a sight, eh? a karstark felled by nothin’ more than a spin of the head. gods be good.” still, the worry in her eyes lingered, and something about her steady presence made him relent. "maybe it’s all this talk of the true north," he admitted, his voice heavy. "or alysanne. what she was dabblin’ in… it’s the kind o’ thing that turns men’s stomachs and sets their thoughts adrift."

[wisteriashouse]

steamy.

pairing: kamado tanjirou x sumiyuri hayami (oc)

genre: fluff, humour

word count: 9271

a/n: wow look at me rising from the dead for 11/11 as usual a commission from @hinokami-s​ i’m sorry it took me so long to finish and that i turned the main character into a third wheel 😩👌

Tanjirou hasn’t seen a thing other than darkness for the past three hours.

At least, he thinks it’s been three hours. It’s a little hard to tell the passage of time accurately when you’ve been blindfolded and had earplugs stuffed in your ears. As if that hadn’t been enough, the kakushi had even taken the precaution to stuff his nostrils with two wads of cloth to ensure that the location of the Swordsmith’s Village stayed secret. Sure, he might have a keener sense of smell than others, but the level of caution surrounding the village itself is like nothing he’s ever seen before.

Which is why, Tanjirou supposes, he’s being carried around on the back of a kakushi — the third one he’s been passed to since his journey began. He can’t hear anything due to the ear plugs, but he can feel the uniform shirt of the man growing damp with sweat. Now that he thinks about it, the kakushi is carrying the weight of two — both of him and Nezuko. He’ll have to thank the man somehow once they get to the Swordsmith’s Village.

All of a sudden, he feels the kakushi’s gait slowing gradually before he comes to a complete stop. A little confused at the sudden change of pace, Tanjirou slides off the man’s back, expecting that he’s about to be transferred to yet another kakushi to continue the next leg of the journey, but then his blindfold is removed, and he can see once more.

“We’re here,” the kakushi announces between short, breathless pants — Tanjirou pulls out his water gourd and offers it to the man, who takes it after a moment of hesitation — before he gestures behind him. “I’ll take you to meet the chief in a moment. Just… give me a second to catch my breath.”

“No problem,” Tanjirou says brightly, glancing around at his surroundings. The light is a little too bright, colours a bit too saturated after so long in the dark — he has to take a moment for his sight to readjust itself. The swordsmith’s village seems to be a pleasant place at a glance, with neatly arranged rows of three floored abodes and wisteria trees blooming along the perimeter. The purple boughs add a softer touch to the straight, orderly lines, and the ever blooming flowers lend a gentle aroma to the scent of iron and burning charcoal in the air. Underneath all those layers, however, his nose picks up the faintest trace of a familiar fragrance. Fresh laundry and lavender. He can’t help but glance around for some clue of its owner’s presence, and finds himself inevitably disappointed when he sees none of it.

“I’ll be bringing you to the Chief now.” Just wishful thinking, Tanjirou thinks to himself as he turns to follow after the kakushi. There’s no reason why she would be here, especially after her promotion to the rank of a hashira — he’s probably the only one out of the entirety of the demon slayer corps who’s destroyed his nichirin blades enough times to warrant a personal visit to the swordsmith village itself.

He lights a candle for his future self in his heart. The last time he’d broken his sword, Haganezuka-san had nearly skewered him through with a vegetable knife. This time, the swordsmith hadn’t bothered to come in person, but he had sent a delightful letter with words threatening extreme violence covering every inch of the page. He wonders if he should confess that he’d thrown the sword. Tanjirou prays to the gods that his demise will be painless, at the very least.

The chief of the swordsmith’s village, Tecchin Tecchikahawara, is a small, eccentric man with the dramatic flair of a mischievous elder even with most of his face hidden behind a mask. He tells him that while Haganezuka-san is missing from his abode at the moment, he already has villagers looking for ‘young Hotaru’ and seems far less worried over his swordsmith’s disappearance than Tanjirou feels he should be. Still, it’s not like Tanjirou has any idea where to look for Haganezuka-san in the first place, so he obediently thanks them for their offer to let him use their hot springs and leaves with a box of karinto and mochi tucked under his arm. He’s still standing outside the chief’s abode, wondering what he’s supposed to do with all the snacks they’ve piled him with when the same scent from earlier tugs at his senses once more, demanding his attention.

“Tanjirou!” This time, it’s accompanied by a voice, so familiar it’s sweet to his ears. Tanjirou lets out a sigh and pinches his nose, slightly embarrassed. It’s one thing to have a crush on someone, and another to be acting so… so shamefully in regards to someone he respects both as a fellow slayer and a friend. It reminds him of Zenitsu’s behaviour towards the women they come across on their travels. Tanjirou does not want to be like Zenitsu.

“Tanjirou!”

The voice is closer now, a little louder, more insistent. Strange. He detects a faint hint of annoyance in it, accompanied by the rhythm of a pair of footsteps, one familiar and the other foreign. It’s almost as though she really is here—

He turns around in the direction of the voice just in time for someone to crash into him with the force of a small cannon ball. Gasping as all the air is knocked out of his lungs, Tanjirou glances down to see what he’s holding in his arms when the fragrance of lavender washes over him, too sweet and dizzying to be just his imagination. After his little revelation, he’s too acutely aware of the warmth in his arms, and when the person he’s holding beams up at him, it’s as though the air is being stolen from his lungs all over again.

“Hayami,” is all he manages to get out before she’s trapping him in another rib crushing hug. Hayami laughs at the breathless quality of his voice before she has mercy and eases her hold on him. She still hasn’t released him completely and some stray strands of her hair are ticklish against his nose, but Tanjirou can’t find it in him to bring that up.

“I called you so many times and you didn’t respond to me at all,” Hayami complains, but there’s a twinkle in her eye that tells him that she isn’t actually mad. It really hasn’t been that long, but Tanjirou feels like far too much time has passed since they bid each other farewell the last time. “Did you secretly change your name in the time we were apart? What were you spacing out for?”

“Oh, I just—” thought that I was imagining your voice and your scent, like I’ve been doing ever since I realised that I’ve been crushing on you after that fight with Giichi. Right. Because saying that would go over wonderfully. “I was just wondering where the hot springs are located, since the village chief said I could drop by for a soak before dinner. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I dropped by because my swordsmith said he had some improvements he wanted to make on my heel blades and needed my measurements.” Hayami smiles warmly at him, and Tanjirou has to force himself to take calming, steady breaths as his heart tries its best to implode in his chest. “And if you don’t know where the hot springs are, I can show you the way—

She doesn’t even manage to finish his sentence when an arm reaches out of nowhere to tug Hayami out of his grasp.

“Darling, don’t walk so fast.” Tanjirou blinks, taken by surprise for a moment by the abrupt interruption. Indignation catches up a second later, and he glances at the newcomer with furrowed brows. For a moment, Tanjirou wonders if he’s another slayer, before he catches sight of the bright red tengu mask pulled to the side to reveal sharp, coal dark eyes. A swordsmith of the village, perhaps. At first glance, he appears playful, but a second, more careful look reveals the calculating, iron-like glint in that gaze. “Come on, you know that my poor legs can’t take this sort of stress, Haya-chan.”

What he’d called Hayami finally processes, and Tanjirou’s eyes widen. “This is…?” he turns to Hayami, trying not to appear as dismayed as he feels. It does not work.

“Oh, right, I forgot the two of you haven’t met before.” Hayami swats at the stranger’s arms half-heartedly, but eventually gives up and lets him leave one arm slung over her shoulder. “Tanjirou, meet Sato Ginjiro. He might look young, but he’s my—”

“—secret husband,” Sato Ginjiro fills in cheerfully. For a moment, there is silence. Tanjirou stares. He understands the word ‘husband’ and he’s familiar with the word ‘secret’. Neither of those words seem to be making sense in this context. “Clandestine relationship and all, we’re a little young to be married right now, and Hayami darling here is just so shy about expressing our love that we—”

Hayami elbows him sharply in the stomach, and it’s to Ginjiro’s credit that his face only goes slightly pale when he bends over. “Babe, I know you like it rough, but let’s keep that in the bedroom, yeah?”

“Stop spouting nonsense,” Hayami scolds flatly, before turning back to Tanjirou with a smile. “Ignore this monkey, he’s an idiot. His only talent aside from swordsmithing is saying phenomenally ridiculous things and finding his way into the females’ side of the bath.” She punctuates this sentence with another jab to Ginjiro’s stomach. “To make things clear, we are not in a relationship. Ginjiro, tell him.”

The swordsmith sighs dramatically, throwing up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, you know I’ll go along with whatever story you feel like you need to cook up, darling.” Hayami gives him an unimpressed look, and is about to open her mouth when Ginjiro continues. “I’m not her secret husband.”

“That’s… good to know…” Tanjirou says slowly, still not quite sure what to believe, when Ginjiro pipes up again.

“I’m her future husband.”

“Alright, that’s quite enough from you.” Before Ginjiro can say another word, Hayami plucks a piece of mochi from the box in Tanjirou’s hands and shoves the whole thing into his mouth. “Not another word out of you, or so help me when I finally end up throttling you, you little piece of shit.”

“Mmm, keep going with the dirty talk, I like that.” Another piece of mochi joins the first, more rudely this time. “Mmah ngahh mhmm…”

“We really aren’t in a relationship, he’s just my swordsmith.” Hayami reiterates very clearly, taking advantage of Ginjiro’s momentary inability to speak. “Really.” There’s something insistent in her tone, as if there’s a second meaning behind her words, but Tanjirou is woefully unable to pinpoint what exactly it is. He nods slowly.

“You’re not in a relationship,” he repeats, obedient, and at the very least, Hayami looks relieved before she pulls away. “Ginjiro, this is Kamado Tanjirou, a close friend of mine. I’ve mentioned him in some of my letters before, I think.”

Tanjirou’s cheeks warm at her words. The way that she introduced him as a close friend and the thought that she brings him up in conversations with others is a slightly embarrassing one, but that awkwardness is quickly strong armed aside by the delight he feels. Only good things, he hopes. That pleasantness is quickly dashed when Ginjiro shrugs a shoulder, dismissive. “If you did, I don’t remember any of it.”

At that, Tanjirou finally frowns, eyes narrowing. He can understand being playfully audacious, but there’s a scent of open hostility that hangs around the swordsmith like a thick cloud of smog, mixed with a tinge of possessiveness. Irrational irritation spikes through Tanjirou for a moment, but he quickly tamps it down before it can show on his face. If what Hayami said was true, then Ginjiro has no right to act so possessive over her and make her uncomfortable like that — it’s plain rude. “It’s no worry, Hayami hasn’t mentioned you in any of her letters to me either, so I had no idea who you are.” Oh, that sounds petty. Is he being petty? Why is he even… Suddenly ashamed at his own behaviour, Tanjirou forces a polite smile onto his face before he bows slightly in greeting. “Apologies, I must be tired from the long journey. It’s nice to meet you, Ginjiro-san.”

“Can’t say the same,” Ginjiro says coolly, and before Hayami can scold him again, he’s already tugging at the sleeve of her yukata. “Come on, we really should get going. I still have to take your measurements, and if we don’t hurry the sun will go down before I can finish up. Besides, you promised me dinner afterwards, am I right?”

Hayami purses her lips together at Ginjiro’s words, brow furrowing. “I did, yes, but surely we have enough time to show Tanjirou to the hot springs,” she begins to say, but Ginjiro shakes his head almost immediately.

“It’s a lot of measurements,” he says emphatically. Hayami frowns and opens her mouth, but Ginjiro continues. “A lot of very difficult, complex measurements.”

The swordsmith is laying the dramatics on a bit thick, but Hayami only lets out a sigh and turns to give Tanjirou an apologetic look. He stops her before she can say sorry.

“It’s no problem, really.” Tanjirou is quick to reassure her with a soft smile, playing the diplomat role as usual, as unwilling as he may be. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he catches Sato Ginjiro making a face, but Tanjirou decides to ignore it. “The village isn’t very big, I’m sure I can find my way to the hot springs myself. I just hope that…” his voice softens to something a little more shy, bashful, “you’ll have a meal with me tomorrow? It’s been a while since we’ve met, and I... really wanted to spend some time with you.”

It feels a bit off-putting, to be speaking so honestly in front of a stranger, but the words can’t help spilling out of his mouth. He almost regrets it for a moment when Hayami blinks at him, seemingly surprised by his candidness, before all thoughts of regret are blown away when her lips curve up into a pretty smile.

“Sure! I’d like that!” she says brightly. Ginjiro’s face looks as though he’s swallowed a particularly acidic lemon whole, rind and all. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”

With that agreement made, even when Ginjiro pulls Hayami along the path with him (all while shooting Tanjirou fierce looks), Tanjirou can’t find it in himself to feel too upset about it. Smiling to himself, he turns and sets off in the direction of the hot springs, a spring in his step.

Recently, Hayami is, for a lack of better words to describe the way she is feeling, utterly bemused.

Her trip to the swordsmith’s village had been a decision made on the spur of the moment — as reluctantly fond as she is of her swordsmith, she usually tries not to indulge Ginjiro’s wheedling too much. In the latest letter he’d sent via kasugai crow, though, he’d mentioned that he’d constructed a few new prototypes for her heel blades, and if she could just please drop by the village if she was free so that he could get her measurements and start on the construction.

There was also a lot of whining in the letter about how long it’d been since he’d last seen her face to face and how he was missing his dearest ‘wifey’, but ridiculous flirting aside, Hayami knows that Ginjiro is fiercely devoted to ensuring that she stays alive. And he isn’t wrong either, she has missed him since she so rarely breaks her blades now. So, eventually, she’d caved to his requests, contacting the kakushi and arranging for her to be brought to the secretive swordsmith village.

And the first couple of days here have been nice. Great, actually, if she leaves out Ginjiro’s latest attempts to peep at her while she was relaxing in the female side of the hot springs. Her fellow hashira Mitsuri happened to be at the swordsmith village as well, and had taken Hayami around for a cat petting marathon around the village. That coupled with soaking in the hot springs for the past two days had done wonders to make her relax… until she’d seen a familiar green and black checkered haori outside the village chief’s abode. It’s not that she’s unhappy to see Tanjirou, it couldn’t be further from that, actually! It’s just that the boy’s presence is… significantly detrimental to her heart rate and ‘relaxation’.

Still, she had been trying to look less excitedly pleased than she actually felt while greeting Tanjirou enthusiastically — she needs to maintain some form of composure, she is a hashira now, after all — when Ginjiro had just decided to… not click with her friend.

“Secret husband,” he’d called himself, with that familiar shit eating grin on his face. “Future husband.” If it’d just been the two of them, Hayami would have clobbered him over the head with his own mask. She knows that she’s mentioned Tanjirou in her letters to Ginjiro, multiple times, in fact. Why her swordsmith is suddenly adopting this petty attitude is beyond her, and she tells him so.

All she gets in response is a shrug and what looks like the beginnings of a pout as Taiki, Ginjiro’s pet shiba inu, attempts to bite off one of his owner’s fingers. “I just don’t like that guy,” he says mildly, as though it’s perfectly normal to dislike people upon first meeting. Then, after a pause, he adds on, “his face looks ugly”, like that explains anything.

Tanjirou is not ugly, excuse you! Hayami happens to like that face very much!

“That’s not a good reason to dislike someone,” Hayami says instead, folding her arms over her chest as she follows Ginjiro into his forge. Her swordsmith is about to open his mouth to say something when Taiki leaps up and chomps down hard on Ginjiro’s ass. The measuring string and papers he’s holding go all over the floor.

“Ow!”

Hayami clicks her tongue in disapproval, but it’s too half-hearted for it to have any real bite — she can’t help the soft spot she has for the tiny dog. “Taiki, that’s rude,” she scolds, holding her arms out. At the sight, the little shiba inu immediately forgets all about Ginjiro’s rear and goes bouncing into her arms like an overly affectionate cannonball. “There, there. Ginjiro, you’re making a ugly expression right now, you know that?”

Ginjiro holds up a hand. “No expression can possibly make this handsome face look ugly,” he says, disgustingly sincere. Hayami considers setting Taiki on him again, but sighs instead, depositing Taiki outside the door before turning back to Ginjiro, who’s busying himself with the heap of drafts and diagrams littered across his table and back very firmly turned to her.

Oh, he’s sulking. He’s definitely sulking. Right, it has been months since she’s been to visit, and Ginjiro had been excitedly telling her all about the things he wanted to see and do with her the second she’d arrived. Tanjirou’s appearance had been a pleasant surprise for her, sure, but for Ginjiro...

“I’m not asking you to like Tanjirou,” she says softly, trying to sound as reasonable as possible, and Ginjiro turns around to look at her, coal eyes reflecting the flickering flames in the furnace. “But he’s a really nice guy, and I honestly think that the two of you would get along really well if you weren’t so insistent on disliking him—” Ginjiro tugs irritably at the red tassel hanging from his ear, and Hayami instantly changes tune. “The two of you are my close friends,” she gentles her voice, “so I’d be really, really happy if the two of you got along. You don’t need to, but please just try, alright?”

Ginjiro makes that face again, but at least he looks like he’s only swallowed half a lemon this time. “I can… try,” he answers grudgingly, as though Hayami has just asked him to pull out his own teeth. Hayami beams at him and reaches over to pat him on the head.

“Thank you. Now let’s finish up the measurements so that we can grab dinner, I’m starving.”

Ginjiro only sighs loudly.

Ginjiro… tries to get along with Tanjirou, over the course of the next few days. Or at least, Hayami thinks he’s trying. That’s the reason he keeps showing up unannounced whenever she’s with Tanjirou… right?

(She knows it isn’t, but if she doesn’t at least try to delude herself, she’s actually going to go insane.)

“Darling!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tanjirou’s face twist a little at that now familiar voice and has to hold back yet another sigh. She’s starting to sound like an old biddy in her eighties instead of the young hashira in her prime that she is.

“You’ve been very... free recently?” Hayami says, lowering her sword from where it’s held against Tanjirou’s neck in a demonstration of moves. It comes out more of a question than the statement it’s meant to be. Ginjiro is sauntering onto the middle of the training field, a good-for-nothing grin on his handsome face as usual. In stark contrast, Tanjirou’s expression is gloomy, as though a thundercloud has settled over a perfectly sunny afternoon. “Didn’t you say that you were in a rush to finish the blades? You seem to have been slacking off lately.”

You’ve been appearing practically everywhere as of late. Oh wait, maybe you’ve been appearing every time Tanjirou and I are together would be more accurate. Tanjirou is her friend too, she can spend some time with him if she wants to!

“Hayami-chan, you know I’d never do that when it comes to your blades. Cross my heart and everything,” Ginjiro laughs with an easy smile as he steps very smoothly between her and Tanjirou, holding up a nicely packed bento box before she can say anything. “Look, I worked hard and made a bento box for you all on my own! Won’t you reward me with a kiss?”

“Who asked you to make me a bento box,” Hayami mutters under her breath, but she takes it carefully from him, her irritation placated slightly. Ginjiro is a good cook, and though he rarely finds himself in the mood to step into the kitchen, his desserts are still to die for. Ah, but Hayami will never admit that to him unless she’s on her deathbed — inflate his ego too much and he’ll probably float off into the sky like an actual hot air balloon.

“Good to see you too, Ginjiro-san,” Tanjirou mutters under his breath. It’s only because it’s ‘angel given human form’ Tanjirou saying it that his words don’t sound totally sarcastic, and even then Hayami still has to bite back a wince.

“Ah, sorry, I forgot about you,” Ginjiro says breezily, not sounding the least bit sorry at all. From the look on Tanjirou’s face, he probably doesn’t believe the swordsmith either. “You’ll have to get your own lunch from somewhere else, ah?”

The two of them then proceed to stare at each other, Tanjirou with seemingly forced neutrality while Ginjiro shamelessly grins like he’s trying to get his face punched without warning. Hayami stands awkwardly between the two of them, wondering just what on earth she’s supposed to do to pacify them. Gods, it’s like taking care of two toddlers.

“Ah... no worries, I can always share with Tanjirou,” Hayami begins to say, slowly unwrapping the cloth around the bento. Both boys whip their heads around to stare at her so quickly she can almost hear the sound of the bones in their necks snapping.

“No, darling, that’s for you, and you only!”

Tanjirou is a little more polite about it. “I can cook as well, it’s no problem for me.” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he turns to Hayami with a slight smile. There’s a slight pink dusting over his cheeks, large chestnut eyes suddenly shy, and Hayami has to glance to the side for a moment before she has a heart attack or something fatal like that. “You liked the sakura mochi I made last time, didn’t you?”

Ahh, right. The first time Tanjirou had invited her out on a picnic under the sakura trees, to see the blooming flowers in the spring. Hayami had spent entire days leading up to that picnic just trying to figure out what Tanjirou had meant by that invitation (surely he had to know that seeing the cherry blossoms alone together was some sort of romantic proposition), but the boy had just pulled out a picnic basket, sat under the tree with her and offered her some new sweets that Senjurou had taught him how to make.

It was only later that she found out from Zenitsu (of all people) that yes, Tanjirou had no idea of those customs having lived in the mountains all his life . Hayami had tried to convince herself that she wasn’t too disappointed.

But that’s all besides the point. “Mm, the best I’ve ever tasted,” she answers with a smile of her own. Hayami isn’t lying or doing anything to make Tanjirou feel better — though Senjurou’s has undeniably better texture and technique, no other sakura mochi has managed to taste quite as sweet as the ones that he made her that day.

It’s a simple, honest statement, but Tanjirou’s face lights up almost immediately. “I’ll make some for you soon,” he promises. Hayami’s halfway to beaming when she catches sight of the mutinous look on Ginjiro’s face. Oh, right. The bento.

“I can learn to make sakura mochi too,” Ginjiro declares out of nowhere, not even bothering to hide the way he’s glaring at Tanjirou now. Tanjirou’s smile becomes strained. Hayami really just wants to eat her bento in peace.

“I could teach you, if you wanted,” Tanjirou offers slowly, because he’s Tanjirou. For a moment, Ginjiro’s arrogant expression crumples as he gapes openly at Tanjirou, before it’s schooled back in an instant.

“Who needs your help? I can learn it just fine by myself!”

“I was just offering to help, you don’t have to accept it if you don’t want to…”

Hayami takes a step back from the two arguing boys. “I’m… gonna go eat the bento now.” Neither of them seem to hear her.

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you? You’re thinking that I can’t learn how to make such a simple dessert on my own?”

“You’re being ridiculous. I didn’t learn it by myself, anyway, I picked it up from a friend! Why would I make fun of you for something like that? It doesn’t make sense in the least!”

“I’m going to go now,” Hayami repeats again, to no one in particular. “Itadakimasu.”

“That’s because you…”

She flees the scene before the argument can devolve into absolute madness, rolling her eyes as she goes.

Men.

“I’m sorry for being late,” is what Hayami greets Tanjirou with when she slides open the door to his room.

It’s only early evening, but the room is lit completely by candlelight, dark squares of thick fabric tacked over the only window to ensure no sunlight touches the interior of the room. In the corner, Hayami sees the form of a little girl wrapped in a familiar pink kimono, eyes almost luminous in the dim light. Hayami instantly holds out her arms in delight.

“Nezuko!”

The demon girl is in her embrace less than a second later, arms wrapped around her waist as she squeezes. Hayami treats and dotes on Nezuko like she’s the younger sister she’s never had (how can she not when Neuzko is just so adorable), and it’s been so long since she’s seen Nezuko that she can’t help but scoop her up and twirl her around the room in excitement.

Behind her bamboo muzzle, Nezuko lets out a series of happy noises.

“She’s been scratching at her box all day. I think she was impatient to see you,” Tanjirou says from where he’s sitting next to a low table, two bento boxes stacked on its surface. Hayami coos at that, reaching out to pinch Nezuko’s steamed bun cheeks in delight when Tanjirou adds on, a little quieter now. “I was, too.”

“Oh,” Hayami responds absentmindedly as she takes a seat, still playing with Nezuko’s hair when Tanjirou’s words finally sink in. It’s not a good thing that she kept him waiting, of course, but still… she can’t help the slight heat warming her cheeks. “I, uh, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, the food must have gotten cold. Ginjiro said he wanted to make some modifications to the heel blades after the testing, so I left the forges a little late.”

Even in the flickering light of the candles, she can see the way Tanjirou’s face instantly goes weary at the mention of Ginjiro’s name before he manages to cover it up. It’s the same look he wears when Zenitsu is being particularly trying, or when Inosuke is simply, well, being too much of himself. She can’t really blame him for feeling that way, not with how… difficult Ginjiro has been acting over the past week. Barging into their time together, appearing seemingly at random… even now, Hayami is subconsciously watching the sliding door out of the corner of her eye, convinced that Ginjiro will come barreling into the room any second now.

“About Ginjiro,” she begins to say as Nezuko climbs into her lap like a cat seeking warmth, but Tanjirou only shakes his head with a slightly rueful smile and hands her a box of food along with a pair of chopsticks. Hayami takes them gratefully.

“There’s no need to apologise for his behaviour. That’s his problem, not yours,” he reassures her gently, and Hayami nods. She’s letting her fingers curl through Nezuko’s hair absentmindedly when Tanjirou inhales deeply and suddenly adds on. “Besides, he’s not… entirely bad. Yesterday afternoon, he came to me and asked how to make sakura mochi.”

“Mm, that’s nice,” Hayami answers on reflex as she begins digging into her bento. One mouth of steamed rice later, she pauses, stares down at her bento box in shock, and apparently forgets how to eat, because the food goes down the wrong pipe and Sumiyuri Hayami, seasoned demon slayer and Swan hashira who’s killed an upper ranked demon, is going to end up dying from a mouthful of carbohydrate.

“Hayami!” Tanjirou cries out in a panic and rushes to her side immediately to smack her back. Fortunately, Hayami manages to swallow that cursed mouth of rice properly before staring at Tanjirou with wide, teary eyes. “Who?”

Tanjirou shrugs, looking just as baffled as she feels. “Ginjiro-san, of course,” he answers, and Hayami wonders if she’s died of asphyxiation and has moved on to some strange variation of the afterlife. “I know, I was just as surprised as you are. He spent the whole afternoon practicing. Turns out he wanted to learn my recipe so that he can make better tasting sakura mochi than me.”

Hayami is stunned for a moment. With how Ginjiro has been acting, she never would have thought that he would approach Tanjirou for anything… no, wait, that’s… quite like Ginjiro, actually. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

“I hope he didn’t cause too much trouble,” she says. Nezuko whines and nudges at her hand, where it’s fallen still on her lap. She resumes combing through the soft strands. “I know that Ginjiro can be… difficult, but I assure you, he’s really a nice person deep down. He’s just… possessive with his friends, since there aren’t many swordsmiths of his age in the village.”

Tanjirou’s skepticism is thinly veiled, but he shrugs, before turning back to his own bento to shovel food into his own mouth. “I’m not surprised that he’s so needy with your attention and time,” he admits between bites of his dinner. “All the time he was making the sakura mochi, he just kept mentioning how he wouldn’t give up until you admit that his cooking is better than mine. He’s got a terrible way of showing it, but… I think he genuinely likes you.”

Hayami blinks, startled by Tanjirou’s abrupt statement. Playful, devil-may-care Ginjiro? Liking her? When she glances over at him, however, Tanjirou is very determinedly chewing on his rice, eyes fixed on the floor. “N-nah,” she rushes to clarify, her laughter stilted and painfully awkward as she loops a lock of hair around her finger. “We’re… uh, we’re just close friends, you know? Besides, as good of a friend he is...” Hayami swallows, the words hanging from the tip of her tongue. “I… don’t think he’s my type. Romantically, if you get what I mean.”

The two of them eat together in awkward silence for a while, but Hayami’s heart is beating so loudly in her chest she swears that Tanjirou can hear it.

“...mm.” A soft breath, a pause. Then a slow, steady exhale. “Then, Hayami, what sort of person is your type?”

Hayami almost chokes again, but manages to catch herself this time. Tanjirou! The person that’s her type is sitting right in front of her, looking at her with very wide, genuinely curious eyes and asking her that very question! But there’s no way she can say that, so instead, she simply takes a sip from her cup of sencha before answering carefully.

“Well, someone who’s honest, first of all.” Tanjirou’s sweet candidness is one of the first things that had made her take notice of him. After her childhood, and after Atsujirou… her lips press into a thin line at the unpleasant memories flooding through her mind. “I want someone who’s genuine and kind. Someone who I know I can rely on to have my back. A person who’s hard working, positive…” she trails off when she realises that she’s basically been describing Tanjirou the whole time, “and most of all… someone who I can trust with my life… and with my heart.”

Tanjirou is silent, and for a moment Hayami wonders if she sounds too idealistic, or if her standards are too high. Embarrassment twists in her stomach, and she’s just about to break the silence with a joke or a laugh when Tanjirou suddenly speaks up.

“That sounds like a very wonderful person,” Tanjirou turns to her with a small smile. His chestnut eyes are warm and open in the candlelight, and for a moment, Hayami finds herself unable to look away, like a moth entranced by a flame. “If anyone deserves such a person, it’s you, Hayami.”

Pause, pause, pause. Since when did Tanjirou get so smooth? Who was teaching him to speak like this? Shinobu? Zenitsu? Surely not Inosuke. Hayami can barely handle an awkward, shy Tanjirou. She definitely doesn’t know what to do with this quietly confident and smooth variation.

“Thanks,” she manages to get out. Tanjirou just beams in response, like a sun personified, before his cheeks colour a little and he glances down at the bowl of rice in his hands.

“I also just wanted to ask…” he adds on slowly, seemingly more hesitant this time, “what do you think about me—”

“Hayami darling!” Tanjirou and Hayami both whip around in shock to see Ginjiro throw the sliding door open behind them, a pink furoshiki in hand. “I brought—” His words cut off abruptly when he catches sight of Nezuko’s head pillowed on Hayami’s thigh, the big pink eyes that glow slightly in the dim light, sharp claws adorning the end of each finger. Next to her, Hayami can feel Tanjirou tense, subconsciously shifting into a slightly more protective position, before Hayami realises that this is the first time Ginjiro is seeing Nezuko face to face.

Right, the members of the demon slayer corps might have been informed about Nezuko and Tanjirou’s situation, but it didn’t mean that they had to like it or even agree with it. While oyakata’s sanction does prevent any members of the corps from outright hurting either of the Kamado siblings, it can’t possibly stop others from looking down at them.

Still, Hayami thinks she knows Ginjiro, after so many years of friendship, and Ginjiro isn’t the sort of person who would discriminate against demons without reason. Or at least she hopes that he isn’t.

Ginjiro stares at the little demon girl. Nezuko stares back, like she’s studying a particularly interesting insect on the wall.

Hayami clears her throat lightly to divert Ginjiro’s attention to her. “I don’t believe the two of you have met,” she says, resting her hand on the crown of Nezuko’s head as she looks up at her friend. “Ginjiro, this is Nezuko, Tanjirou’s sister. Nezuko, this is Sato Ginjiro, a friend of onee-chan’s.” Ginjiro continues to stare, brows even more furrowed this time, and Hayami bites her lower lip. “Ginjiro, I know this is your first time seeing her, but why on earth are you making that face—”

Dark eyes narrowed, Ginjiro strides right over to where Hayami is sitting so that he looms over her and Nezuko, arms crossed over his chest now. Tanjirou is just beginning to rise to his feet when Ginjiro lunges.

“That’s my lap, demon kid!” Ginjiro protests, marching right over to Nezuko and tickling her sides relentlessly in the manner only an experienced older sibling can possess after years of training. Nezuko’s pink eyes go wide before she makes adorable, aborted little noises around her bamboo gag that sound suspiciously like helpless laughter. Halfway off the ground, Tanjirou stares at the sight before him with no small measure of surprise. “Get off! Find your own lap pillow! Hayami’s lap is mine!”

“My lap belongs to me,” Hayami snaps back, swatting Ginjiro’s arms away from the young demon girl in her lap. Right… Ginjiro has a younger sister about Nezuko’s age as well. Sulking, Ginjiro casts one more look at her lap before holding out the pink furoshiki to her.

“Here!” he says brightly, dark eyes gleaming with no small measure of satisfaction. “I heard you were having dinner and decided to make you some dessert! Ah, none for you, though,” he tosses over his shoulder at Tanjirou, who looks like it’s taking the effort of the Sun Breathing style to keep the smile on his face. “I learnt it all in a day! I’m pretty amazing, right?”

A little exasperated by Ginjiro’s seemingly chronic inability to leave her and Tanjirou alone but also unable to deny the sweets he’s offering, Hayami has no choice but to open up the little furoshiki to reveal a box lined with…

“Sakura mochi?” she asks, bewildered. Yes, Tanjirou had mentioned that Ginjiro had sought him out yesterday to learn how to make these traditional wagashi, but to master them so quickly… The pretty pink treats are lined up in uniform, neat rows, tops dusted with powdered sugar. “But why?”

“Try them,” Ginjiro insists, picking one up from the box and holding it up to her lips. Frowning but finding her hands full of a certain demon child, Hayami has no choice but to open her mouth and take a quick bite. The cherry blossom leaf is salty, but the taste is instantly balanced out by the soft chewiness of the mochi and the sweetness of the red bean filling. She can’t help licking the corner of her lips, and Ginjiro catches on to that, immediately looking far too pleased with himself. “It’s good, isn’t it?” He holds out another piece to her.

Hayami grumbles, adjusting Nezuko in her lap so that she can take the sweets herself. As if she’s just going to sit here and let Ginjiro shamelessly feed her. “If you already know that then why bother asking me—”

Another mouth appears out of nowhere and takes a bite out of the sakura mochi between Ginjiro’s fingers. For a moment, Hayami finds herself unable to do anything but stare in mute horror while Ginjiro’s eyes are so wide he resembles a bug. As if completely unperturbed by both their expressions, Tanjirou simply continues to chew thoughtfully before swallowing — the only indication that there is something out of place the red staining the tips of his ears.

“Ah, Ginjiro-san, I hope you won’t mind that I helped myself to a bite,” Tanjirou says, voice tinged with the slightest bit of annoyance, but Hayami is still just staring because she has no idea what just happened. “The red bean paste is a little bit too sweet, but you’ve done well for someone who’s just learned how to make them yesterday.”

At his words, Ginjiro makes an offended noise as though someone has stepped on his foot, his expression growing indignant. “I made those for my wife.”

“And I’m sure she’ll be happy to receive them when you do get one in the future,” Tanjirou answers beatifically, without batting an eyelash. Ginjiro’s eye twitches before he sputters in outrage.

“I’m marrying Hayami in the future!”

The apparent bride-to-be only makes a face. “Don’t push your delusions onto me, Ginjiro…” she mutters, but the swordsmith doesn’t seem to hear a word she’s saying. Letting out a sigh, she leans down to cover Nezuko’s ears with her hands. “Don’t listen to the bad talk, Nezuko-chan.” The demon snuggles against her thigh, completely disinterested.

“Hayami prefers my sweets! I made them sweeter than the recipe for her, according to her tastes!” Ginjiro is saying, his arms waving around wildly. Tanjirou sets his bowl to the side, folding his arms over his chest.

“I already adjusted my original recipe to suit Hayami’s preferences, so yours is just overly sweet now,” Tanjirou retorts. They’re glaring at each other so closely now that Hayami finds herself briefly wondering if they’re going to kiss. Ginjiro had been the one to barge in, but she’s the one who’s feeling like a third wheel now. Wow. She’s packing up the box of sakura mochi as inconspicuously as she can, intending to make a run for it before it devolves into a total shitshow, when Ginjiro and Tanjirou both turn to her simultaneously with an unnerving intensity in their eyes.

Hayami inches back, hands raising up in the universal sign of surrender. “Uhm, guys…”

“Hayami!”

“Babe!”

The two eye each other again before turning to her. “Whose sakura mochi tastes better?”

Hayami feels like a mother trapped between two clingy children. Honestly, she had come to the swordsmith’s village to relax, not play babysitter to her two fully grown friends. And she’s at the end of her patience for today.

“Enough!” she barks out, remembering to keep her hands pressed firmly over Nezuko’s innocent ears. “The two of you are being absolutely ridiculous today. I came here to have a nice, peaceful meal, and if that is not what I am getting, then I am leaving.” She levels both of them with a glare, the one aimed at Ginjiro’s significantly more terrifying. He’s the one who crashed their meal, after all. Tanjirou already looks sufficiently contrite. “Now, I’ll leave the two of you to your little… lovers’ quarrel while I go run some errands. Don’t follow me,” she adds, as an afterthought.

With that, she pats Nezuko on the head and rises to her feet before leaving the room.

A long soak in the hot springs ought to do her blood pressure some good.

With that, Ginjiro and Tanjirou are left alone in the room, neither of them making deliberate eye contact with each other. The awkwardness in the room is stifling.

Completely unaware of the mood, Nezuko only hums around her muzzle, making her way back to the box where she curls up against the wall. Tanjirou lets out an exhale, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Hayami was… not wrong, especially about the way Tanjirou and GInjiro have both been acting. You’re more cool-headed than this, Tanjirou, he scolds himself with a frown. Stealing the sakura mochi was a bit out of character, he admits, but Tanjirou has also had quite enough of Ginjiro ruining his private time with Hayami. Still…

“Do you think she’s actually mad—” he begins to say, and is taken by surprise when Ginjiro suddenly darts off at full speed, a big grin on his face and not at all like someone who’s just been glared at by their crush.

This, of course, is instantly suspicious. So he chases after the swordsmith.

“Ginjiro-san, what on earth are you doing?” he questions sharply once he catches up with Ginjiro, who’s long left most of the village itself behind and is heading up the rocky path to… the hot springs? “Going for a soak now> Really?”

“You don’t get it, man,” Ginjiro answers, not paying him any mind at all as he continues up the path with barely concealed excitement. “You don’t know what Hayami means when she says she’s running an errand, do you?”

No, he doesn’t, but that’s beside the point. Tanjirou tries to feel less irritated than he actually is at the thought that Ginjiro knows Hayami better than he does. “No, I don’t. What do you mean?”

Ginjiro turns around to give him a shit eating grin, like the cat who’s just got the canary. “It means she’s going to the hot springs, man.”

Tanjirou blinks. That’s… perfectly ordinary? Plenty of people at the swordsmith’s village go to the hot spring every day. “And…?”

Ginjiro rolls his eyes. “You can drop the innocent act now. It’s not like Hayami’s around to see it.” With that, he picks up the pace as he strides towards the hot springs… the female side of the hot springs.

It clicks.

“No!” Tanjirou yelps, diving at Ginjiro to tackle him to the ground. His own face feels hot with mortification even though he’s not the one who wants to do such… disgraceful acts. “What are you doing? You can’t just peep at her while she’s naked! What about her honour?”

“Come on, bro, it’s just... admiration! Just one look! Admiration of her physicality… for more accurate measurements!” Ginjiro struggles against him. The scent of bullshit has never been so strong.

“That’s a lie and you know it! You’re just a pervert—” Tanjirou is definitely superior in strength as a demon slayer, but Ginjiro isn’t weak either, with all the work he does in the forge. And somehow, in their little struggle, Ginjiro manages to slip free and goes barreling towards the hot springs, the scent of excitement coming off him in waves.

Tanjirou throws himself at Ginjiro, and the two of them go crashing into the bamboo screen separating the male and female sides of the bath. The two of them go rolling one over the other on the wet rock, both yelling incoherently the entire time, before they come to a stop right next to the edge of a pool.

Right next to Hayami. A very shocked, furious, and naked Hayami.

“We are getting out of here right now!” Tanjirou yells in a panic as he averts his eyes, whether to Hayami or to Ginjiro, he doesn’t know, but he does end up slapping a hand over Ginjiro’s eyes before he can see anything that’s not meant to be seen. “Ginjiro, let’s go!”

“Kamado, bro, just one look, I swear I’ll sell you my left kidney—”

“Who wants your kidney!”

“Sato Ginjiro!” Though the hot springs are warm, neither of them can stop the chill going down their spines at the sound of Hayami’s snarl. During the time the two of them had been fighting, Hayami had found the time to grab a towel and wrap it around her, much to Tanjirou’s relief and Ginjiro’s very abject disappointment. “Explain yourself!”

“I’m so, so sorry, Hayami, I’ll get him out right away,” Tanjirou apologises over and over again as he drags Ginjiro back, trying his very best to avoid looking at anything remotely Hayami at all. His heart is racing so hard its beat seems to have blended into a buzz in his ears. Ginjiro, the slimey little snake he is, somehow manages to slip out of Tanjirou’s grip, yanking Tanjirou��s hands off and desperately looking in Hayami’s direction…

… only to get a towel in the face.

The wet cloth hits him with a painful smack and Ginjiro yelps, stumbling backwards. He’s barely pulled the towel off his head when Hayami is on him with a flurry of smacks and a wet towel substituting as a whip. Tanjirou winces, but can’t really bring himself to feel sympathetic — he deserves it.

“Ow, ow, have mercy!” Ginjiro squawks as Hayami gives him a severe beatdown. “I wasn’t trying to do anything!”

“You disgraceful bastard!” Hayami lands a kick on his rear and the boy goes scrambling to his feet, still looking completely unrepentant. “Do you want me to break your finger one more time? Or should I gouge your eyes out this time so you can never do this again?”

At the mention of his broken finger, Ginjiro pales impressively before he’s running out of the hot springs as fast as his feet can take him. Hayami glares at his retreating back, wondering if she should give chase and teach him a lesson that he’ll never forget, before she remembers that Tanjirou is still here. Turning around, she sees Tanjirou still standing next to the pool, hands tightly clasped over his eyes.

“Sorry, Hayami, I really, really tried to stop him once I found out what he was doing,” Tanjirou apologises so quickly that his face is rapidly turning red. “I swear, I’m not here to peep on you! I know it looks like I came here with him, but that’s really not—!”

Hayami grabs him by the shoulders in an attempt to stop his little mental breakdown. “Hey, hey. Calm down, I know it wasn’t you. You’re not like that.” Tanjirou presses his hands more firmly over his eyes, trying not to let out a whimper. She leans in to give him a small hug. “I promise I’m not mad, okay?”

It’s only when Tanjirou goes deathly still in her hold does she realise, oh right, she’s still half naked.

She just grabbed Tanjirou while wrapped only in a towel. Hayami had been calling Ginjiro a pervert before turning around and doing the exact same thing. Flustered, she gently shoves Tanjirou a few steps back before practically throwing herself into hot springs. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of Tanjirou’s face having gone pure crimson.

“I-I,” her voice sounds terrible, so she clears her throat and tries again. “I’ll just be… here.” That’s lame.

“R-right,” Tanjirou’s voice sounds painfully shy. “I’ll… be off then.”

It’s only after she hears his footsteps completely fade into the distance that she dunks her face into the spring water and lets out a soundless scream.

There’s a knock at Tanjirou’s room late at night.

He swallows, the scent of lavender and slight awkwardness lingering outside the door. Carefully, he makes his way over to the door and slides it open to reveal Hayami standing behind it. She looks far more composed than she did this evening in the hot springs (bad Tanjirou, we don’t think about things like that!), although there’s still a hint of red on her cheeks. “Can I come in?”

“R-right,” he steps aside to let her in, and the two of them make their way to the adjoining veranda where Nezuko is already playing with a few origami animals that Tanjirou had been making for her. The moon is full and round in the sky. “I let Nezuko out for a bit since she’s been a bit restless being stuck inside for a while.”

“That’s ah, nice.” Hayami wants to cry at how eloquent she’s being. One of her hands reaches up to tug restlessly at the end of her ponytail. “About earlier, I’m, uh…”

Sorry? Sorry for yelling? Sorry for grabbing you while half naked? Sorry for kind of… enjoying it? Some part of her dignity had drowned in those hot springs. It doesn’t seem like it’s making a reappearance anytime soon.

“No need to apologise,” Tanjirou speaks up before she can find a way to finish her sentence. He looks equally embarrassed, if anything, red staining his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I know you were just trying to reassure me.”

Hayami is still mortified, but there’s two of them now, so it doesn’t feel… as bad. In a bid to change the topic to more lighthearted things, she sighs and shakes her head. “Ginjiro, though… I really need to have some stern words with him. Or really break his arm this time.”

The topic change tactic works, because Tanjirou whips around to stare at her, eyes wide. “This time? He… he’s done this before?”

Hayami makes a face. “The first time I met my assigned swordsmith was through a peeping hole in the hot springs,” she recalls, remembering the look on Ginjiro’s face when she’d tossed the wooden basin she’d been using at his head after spotting him. “Then I broke his finger. The next time we saw each other was in the village hall, and he was being presented as my swordsmith.”

Tanjirou lets out an exasperated snort of amusement. “He hasn’t changed, then?”

“Not in the least.”

The two of them sit there for a moment in companionable silence, Hayami reaching out to fold an origami lily when Nezuko offers her a square of green paper. When it’s done, she turns around and hands it to Tanjirou. “Here,” she offers, a sheepish smile on her face. Tanjirou blinks at her. “As an apology for how everything’s been going this week.”

“I already told you, you don’t need to apologise.”

She smiles. “Then, just as a gift to a friend?” Tanjirou looks at her for a moment, before his eyes drop to the paper flower in her hands. He takes it, and her heart lifts. “Green really is your colour—” Her breath catches in her throat.

Because Tanjirou is leaning over, the slightly roughened pads of his fingertips brushing the shell of her ear. When he pulls away, the origami lily she’d just folded is tucked behind her ear. “Very pretty,” he says quietly, a small smile on his face, and Hayami has to take deep breaths before she spontaneously erupts into flames. He’s talking about the flower, she tells herself sternly. The flower, the flower, the flower!

“Oh, right,” she says suddenly, trying to distract herself from the heat in her cheeks. “Earlier during dinner, before Ginjiro came… you were asking me a question?”

At that, Tanjirou stills and then turns away abruptly, but not before she sees the faint pink on his face.

“Ahh, that…” he looks awkward for a moment, but then he smiles. “I’ll tell you another time.”

Hayami snorts. “What’s with the mysterious attitude?” She shifts to nudge Tanjirou in the side. “Tell me!”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Above them, the stars twinkle in the night sky, and when Hayami returns to her own rooms for the night, the faintest light of dawn has started to touch the tops of mountains in the distance.

And the origami lily still tucked in her hair.

[writefightandflightclub]

Return to Sender: (Richard Alonso Muñoz x GN reader)

What is this? This is 4/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. I’m not gonna share the prompt as it’s spoilery, but it was requested by @sergeantkane​ who is a genius for picking this combo! It’s a prompt about LOVE LETTERS! Omg! And thus, it matches perfectly with Richard (trust me, I had NOT made that connection when I made the prompt list :P). Thank you so much for requesting, Clarke, and I hope you enjoy it. I’m excited about this one!

If you’d like to read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Oh, I really quite like this one. Hope it makes you feel as soft as I did for Richard while writing it! Also- it’s my first bash at writing him, so let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who helped with film details too: those not already tagged in the post- @prurientpuddlejumper​ @witchyavenger​ @veuliee2​ @waatermelon-sugaar​ @pascal-isaac​

Word count: 4.5 k. So not a blurb, then? :P

Rating: Mature, for light steam (not explicit, but 18+ or out, please!)

Warnings: mentions of food/eating. Mild angst (but it ends well), Steamy. Kissing, brief non-explicit mention of erection. Implied coitus (cut scene). Richard works in a “correctional facility”. Small mention of attempted break-in. If I missed any let me know.

Tagging: @anetteaneta​ @isvvc-pvscvl​ @nowritingonthewall​ @supernovafeather​ (ONLY READ IF 18+)

GIF by @nathan-bateman​

“Have you ever received a love letter?” Richard wonders shyly, without looking up from his crossword puzzle, his long eyelashes fanned out as his gaze dances over the monochrome squares.

Meanwhile, your eyes snap up immediately from your magazine, which you are idly leafing through, a breath catching in your chest.

You bristle at the question, and yet Richard seems either entirely oblivious, or entirely determined not to look-up at you. Perhaps both. So, instead of looking, he simply slurps the dregs of his milkshake, and pushes his plate of waffle remnants further toward the far end of the diner booth.

When he finally raises his gaze – a gentle prompt for you to answer him- his eyes are large and shining under the fluorescent lights as he peers at you over his glass, dabbing at his thick moustache with a paper napkin shortly after.

“No, never,” you state sadly, heeding his prompt with a small smile and a shake of your head. Not even a love e-mail.

“I’m surprised,” he flatters with a cautious smile. And, if you’re not mistaken, his eyes light-up with the faintest trace of desire. The barest undercurrent of passion, which is enough to have your heart beating like a drum. You notice it sometimes; this dull heat emanating off of him. It is a spark which never ignites, however - to your endless disappointment; you would fan that flame if only you knew how.

You swallow. He’s surprised? He can’t be that surprised, you think, a stone sinking through your stomach as you dwell too long on the topic of love letters, and meanwhile, Richard’s attention seamlessly diverts back to 3 across.

“You deserve one,” he says, still looking at the page, but a smile animating his wiry moustache. “A letter.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, a spiralling sadness catching hold of you. Does he not understand what this is doing to you? This painful reminder? “Can we drop it, Richard?” you say tensely, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are even more soft and cautious than usual, causing you to admonish yourself for the bite in your tone.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course,” he smiles thinly, apologetically.

It’s simply the new job, you think. Director of Communications. The man has letters on the brain. Richard is so considerate, that you realise he must not intend to hurt you in dredging up the past; he would never. In a way though, you think, it’s even worse that he brings it up so… casually. You can only conclude he has forgotten that you sent your letter to him at all. Had your heartfelt words, declaring your love, had so little impact on him?

Maybe that’s it. After all, they seemed to have so little impact upon him at the time. What could you expect years later? On the other hand, you -apparently- remain rather sore about the topic, all this time later. It’s natural to be sensitive though, isn’t it? You’d written him a love letter and he didn’t write you back. He didn’t say it back. Didn’t feel it back.

And, perhaps it still stings so much, even all these years later, because you never did stop loving him, even if he never started loving you.

Feeling a sudden, overwhelming haste to leave, you thumb through the pages of your magazine so furiously that the next table turn their heads to look at you, until you find what you were searching for.

“Here, Richard. The article I mentioned. Dramatherapy for people who are incarcerated.”

You fold the magazine back on itself, fobbing it off on him with an unprecedented urgency, hurriedly signalling to the waitress that you’d like the check. The roomy diner booth suddenly feels suffocating, and you want to get out. Meanwhile, oblivious, Richard chuckles at the title of the article -some kind of pun, you recall- as you try to push down the unpleasant emotions surfacing within you.

“Thank you for this,” he smiles, looking up at you earnestly. Looking concerned as he reads the expression on your face. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes fix on the table, where his fingertips inch hesitantly across the surface, hovering moments from yours as he debates whether to extend comfort. You make the decision for him, snatching your hand back from his reach.

“Yes. I’m Fine,” you say, unconvincingly. “Can we please go? I need some fresh air.”

“Alright,” Richard agrees gently. He looks a little flustered, but, now sensing your urgency, he begins to sweep up his papers and to shrug on his jacket. He pulls out a small comb to fix his neat curls in place, and offers you a soft smile. “Maybe we can go to the park next?” he suggests.  

As much as you want to run, you nod, some of your agitation dissipating now that the prior topic seems to be forgotten. “Okay. Yeah. That would be nice.” You school your expression into something calm, and you offer him a reassuring smile as his soulful eyes dance over you, a lingering but unobtrusive concern there.

As you split the check, you tell yourself for the millionth time that being his friend is enough; but even after the millionth time, you can’t quite believe it.

Still, today -Sunday- is your one day with him this week. And, no matter what you can’t have; you’ll take anything you can get.

He’s too dear to you to settle for anything less.

************

One month later:

You crouch in amongst the boxes on Richard’s front lawn. He is having a clear-out, setting out some items for goodwill, and some for a neighbourhood yard sale happening next weekend.

You are having fun assisting him in sifting through various items, occasionally bursting into a fit of laughter when he reveals yet another ill-informed, late night shopping channel “bargain” – usually some new-fangled, scarcely-used exercise contraption, which he proceeds to demonstrate in good-humour, making you fold over clutching your stomach in mirth. Occasionally, as you rifle through the boxes, you’ll be overcome by a pang of sentimentality when he uncovers an item with a memory attached; and -no matter how useless- he usually sneaks said item into his ever-growing “to-keep” pile.

“But this is the picnic hamper we took to Bound Beach Island! For your birthday, remember?”  

“Yeah, Richard, but it’s battered! It has holes! It needs to go.”

“It was a beautiful day. The light and the dunes were beautiful… and… and y-“

“-Oh my goodness, what is this?! Please for the love of God tell me you never actually wore this!”

You work through the midday sun until you come to a tired, dead halt on the grass, finally parking your ass down and wiping your brow. Richard looks warm too, a “v” of sweat soaking his old, oversized “Save the Turtles” t-shirt. No - he really doesn’t throw anything away. You smile fondly, though, remembering his sea turtle phase. Of course, he’d read some article. He always was looking for a cause.

“I’ll make us some iced tea,” Richard announces with a tired puff of breath, looking more spent than he probably wants to admit after shuttling the various boxes. Still, the way his grizzled curls have fallen away from his harsh side-part appeals to you, sitting disobedient and undone on his forehead.

Thinking of him undone, you hear a faint beating of drums sound in your chest.

You ignore the music though, like always, instead smiling gratefully as he heads inside, and you take a second to collect yourself before dragging the nearest box towards you, deciding you may as well continue. This next box is taped securely shut, and you chuckle quietly to yourself when you notice it’s labelled “workout-gear”.

You peel the packing tape away and open it up, scooping out the pile of miscellaneous papers sitting right on top. Beginning to leaf through, you surmise it’s mainly unopened junk mail; mainly garishly printed promotional flyers - from a pizzeria which closed down years ago, you recognise. Probably hastily stuffed in before his last move and never dealt with. Absent-mindedly, you begin to bundle it up for the recycling pile, when a smaller, more humble envelope drops out on to your lap, a hand-scrawled address on the front. The stationary is resoundingly familiar.

In fact, everything about it is familiar.

Your heart hammers in your chest as it immediately dawns on you.

It’s your letter.

The letter you sent him, all those years ago. You’d needed to be apart from him- needed to go away to take care of family, and you simply couldn’t go without letting him know. Letting him know you were in love with him.

The memory is like a slow knife sinking into your chest as you idly turn it over in your hands.

But… It can’t be…?

It’s… unopened.

All the air leaves you lungs.

No. No. It doesn’t make a shred of sense.

You’d spoken to him right afterward, on the phone. The first time he’d called after you left town he’d almost pleaded with you, giving you an unequivocally clear, and endlessly painful answer that he didn’t want what you wanted. What you’d written about. He’d made it abundantly obvious that he simply wanted to be friends. “I- I don’t want anything to change. I want everything to stay exactly like it is between us – please? Can we still talk every day?”

But if he didn’t read it…?

You heart pounds so hard that you hear blood rushing in your ears.

He doesn’t know.

His words didn’t mean what you…

Oh my god. All this time.  

You shoot abruptly to standing when you see him approach, as if you’ve been caught red-handed, guiltily stuffing the letter into your back pocket before he can ask you what it is, an abundance of thoughts screaming in your head.

He hands you the glass of tea, ice tinkling gently, and you take it from him, the coolness shocking your palms.

Assessing what you’ve been up to in his absence, and noting the carcass of another box, Richard glances down at the pile of papers strewn at your feet. He looks suddenly worried for a moment, as if you might have found an old porn stash or something – and he looks just as suddenly relieved when he sees they are more innocent papers, scooping them up from the grass.

“Richard?” you say, your eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, and the letter burning a hole in your pocket as he drops the items into the recycling. He hums for you to go on. “Do you... You know when I moved away...?” your voice is strained, and you gulp hard. “Just before, do you remember getting any unusual letters or... weird post from me?”

“Like what kind of thing?” he asks curiously, turning back to you.

“I don’t know exactly,” you lie, nervously. “I have a feeling I sent you something? A sappy goodbye thing?”

You see him mull it over, combing his impressive moustache with his fingers. “I don’t remember, sorry. But apparently I was drowning in junk mail at that apartment. Maybe it got lost, or returned to sender?”

Despite everything, you exhale a small laugh. In a roundabout way, you suppose it had been returned to sender after all. You look at the ground.

“Was it important?” he asks, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as he looks at you.

Biding time, you take a sip of your tea while you search for an answer. It’s refreshing.

“It… Uh. It was a long, long time ago. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose,” you muse, masking your sadness, and he nods, looking at least half-satisfied with your answer.

Except, it does matter. It matters more than anything. And, with a sudden, overwhelming need to grab on to the past, you track to the “to go” box, rescuing the battered picnic basket from the pile of junk.

“You shouldn’t get rid of this,” you state, your back to Richard, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your voice falters. You tense as you feel him settle by your side, his hand hovering tentatively at the small of your back but never quite touching. “It was a beautiful day.”

“No,” he insists. “You’re right. I shouldn’t hang on to it.”

His words are like a punch in the gut. You turn your head to your side, where Richard is, your eyes and heart almost overflowing.

Noting your sadness, and connecting it to the picnic basket, he does everything he can to smooth things over, like always. “We can get a new one,” he says, his brown eyes sweet and hopeful and bright.

You love him. You love him still and you can’t help but turn towards him and reach out your arms, dragging him in for a hug.

“No! No, I’m sweaty,” he protests self-consciously, but you don’t care. You just need to hold him, even only for a moment – and, for a moment he stills as you loop around him, never quite clutching you back.

When you pull away though, you could swear that dim spark of passion is present in his eyes again. That spark that never catches, no matter how much or how often or how hard you wish it would. Oh, how you wish.

“Don’t ever change, Richard,” you say sincerely, your voice imbued with fondness. “Okay? You’re a sweet, wonderful man.”

His eyes are immediately soft and bashful again, the colour of his cheeks deepening a little, a crimson undertone blooming under his brown skin.

“Yes. Okay,” he offers, with a nod, his eyes creasing at the corners, and his posture even bolstered by the compliment, you could swear, his chest puffing out proudly.

For the rest of the afternoon, you ignore the unread words in the back of your pocket; but for the life of you, you can’t ignore those drums.

************

One month later:

You bundle the yapping, happy little white dog into your arms, relieved that she’s okay as her little tail happily beats against your arm.

“Are you okay, Lady?” you coo as she nuzzles her snoot into your face, eagerly lapping little kisses on to your cheek. “Thanks goodness, sweet little floof,” you baby-talk as your eyes quickly scan around Richard’s place, setting his spare key down on the kitchen counter.

You’d barrelled across town to get here, after receiving a call about an attempted break-in. His neighbour to the left had your contact details in case of an emergency -it’s not very easy to reach him at work, of course- so here you are. You came to give things a quick checking over, assured that no-one suspicious had continued to loiter. Richard won’t be much longer -his shift has nearly ended, and you’d left him a voicemail so you’re sure he’ll hurry- but you still thought you’d go on ahead of him, especially so that he wouldn’t worry about Lady.

Looking around, thankfully all seems well, and you don’t think anyone made it inside after all. Slowly then, you allow your nerves to calm and your heart to settle, bouncing the little bundle of fur in your arms, and feeding her a treat from the packet on top of the microwave, just in case she’d been stressed out.

Calming, you can’t help but smile as you look around, absorbing all the little details of Richard. You do hang out in his apartment a fair amount, but most often you will meet or sit outdoors, when the weather allows. After all, he loves to feel the sun and fresh air on his face, especially after spending all day cooped-up in windowless rooms. To you though, this Richard-ness is like a breath of fresh air, and you let it all wash over you, drinking in the details of his simple daily routine. The discarded half-plate of frijoles and rice by the sink. The ironing-board piled with identical uniform-issue shirts, pants, and plain white t-shirts. The photos on the fridge door – some of you and him too.

Doing a lap of the living space, you further note the dining-for-one TV table, evidence of his relatively solitary existence, and you can almost see him sitting there. Can almost hear his soft voice relating the far-fetched storylines of his favourite telenovelas. You imagine him chuckling warmly - perhaps shedding a tear sometimes too.

You decide you should pop your head into the bedroom and bathroom to check there too, for good measure, and you set Lady down, the dog trotting along at your heels. Once you’ve done a loop, you sigh, seeking out a fresh task, and you circle back to the sink, scraping his discarded plate and rinsing it, stacking it in the dishrack. Then, you move towards the TV chair, intending simply to sit yourself down and wait for Richard to come home. After all, you’re here now - you may as well say hello; or, maybe you can even prepare him dinner after his long shift, you muse.

As you revisit the small, rickety table, however, your eyes more keenly notice that a bunch of papers are strewn over it, all identical- a series of pastel pink leaves of paper and envelopes.

Letters.

Handwritten, in his familiar scrawl.

Letters addressed to you.

Your brow furrows in confusion, as you wonder what they could be. You don’t want to invade his privacy, of course, but perhaps this is something that’s meant for you? After all, sometimes he leaves you notes when you come over to feed or walk Lady.  

Still, this feels different, and, with a lump in your throat that you don’t quite understand, you pick up one of the leaves at random, skimming the first line, yet feeling only more confused than you did before.  

You see your name at the head of the paper, followed by the words “my dearest love,”, and underneath, some other half-formed paragraphs, scribbled over and crossed out.

No, you shake your head, your stomach flipping over. That can’t be right, you think, even as your fingers scramble for another leaf - for leaf upon leaf, until you piece together what’s going on. Until, with every line you read, fragments of both English and Spanish, you feel as though you are piecing together his heart.

Could it be true? Is this really true?

Your fingers dive for a sheet more developed that the rest, where you see paragraphs of writing, and you devour the words like you are starved of love; for you are, aren’t you? Starved? And yet, you suddenly feel so full. Brimming.

My darling,

There are infinite ways to fall in love. Some are elemental, like a raging fire. A shock of lightning on first sight. Some are slow-burning and constant, the heat of friendship warming your hearth, defrosting your iced fingertips when you come in from the cold.

There are infinite ways to fall in love, and I should know, my heart, as I have experienced every one of them with you.

You can barely read the rest as tears blur your eyes, and your hand comes to clamp over your mouth as realisation sinks through to the pit of you, the page quaking -like a leaf- in your fingers.

You make my heart beat like a drum. When I look at you, I am music, without being played. When you’re with me I am dancing, without movement. If only you would touch my skin, I feel like I would sing. If only you would-

“-Are you safe? Are you alright?” Richard asks from behind you, and you tear your eyes away from the page with a start. You were so absorbed by this swell of beating music that you didn’t hear the scrape of his key in the lock. You didn’t hear his hurried footsteps coming up behind you.  

“Richard,” you suspire, and for once his touch is on you without hesitation, his hands clasped around each of your shoulders, slowly running down your arms, and you nod quickly to reassure him, your mouth opening wordlessly. You’re safe.

His touch is warm through your clothes, and you think he is right- your skin would sing for him too if he touched you. Your love rattles you, like drums beating musically in your chest, pulsing through your body.

Then, Richard clocks your sideward, guilty glance at the pile of letters, and you see his panic instantly surface at the thought of all his unsent and unspoken words laid bare before you. All the pieces of his heart exposed.

At first, he looks apologetic, but then you step forwards a little more, into the circle of his arms. Arms which suddenly fall, unsure, at his sides once again. And, achingly slow, endlessly sure, you lift up you hand and you place it on his chest, over his heart, smoothing over his shirt and over the cool metal of the shield he wears there. You feel his heart really is beating like a drum. His chest is rising and falling beneath your hand, his breath quickened – eyes nervous.

You step a little closer, and your fingers continue their slow crawl, dancing up around his collar, inching further up until your fingers finally brush the bare skin at the nape of his neck, pushing up into the curls behind his ears, your thumb skimming his sideburn. You touch him, with your fingertips, and he does sing for you, a half-choked moan leaving his mouth at your tender caress.

“Richard,” you say breathily, searching his face, eyes openly appraising his beauty. “Don’t worry, sweet man. I love you too.” And, when you next meet his eyes there is no nervousness there. Not any longer. Instead, you find his dark, expressive eyes brewing with adoration, and that gentle but ever ascending note of passion.

“Darling, can I kiss you?” he pleads, his voice dogged by desire, his brow knitting together and his hands slipping bravely to your waist, circling you as you arch into him.

“Yes. Yes,” you say, and his mouth meets yours in a desperate, tumultuous crush. You sing too, your skin thrumming as you finally know the feeling of his thick moustache brushing against you. As you taste the sweet flavour of cherry sucker on his kiss. As you finally feel the texture of his slicked curls beneath your fingertips.

You kiss, urgently, until you are each smiling too broadly to continue, and instead Richard beams and presses sweet, intermittent kisses all over – your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, your neck- his moustache tickling wherever it touches. His hands are everywhere they can be politely, roaming over your back and your arms and your hair, and it feels so good to finally be held like this.

Eventually, he pulls back, his smile no longer tugging at his lips so keenly -lips now kiss flushed with deep colour- but shining in his liquid eyes. “How long have you loved me back?” he asks in a still choked, disbelieving voice.

You bite your lip, but then allow your face to split in a radiant, unrestrained grin.

Always. Always. I loved you first, you think.

You reach for your bag, reluctant to break from him so trailing your love’s hand in yours- and you fish out the letter. The one you’ve carried around since it was returned to you. “Take a look, Richard,” you encourage.

He looks from you to the small envelope, turning it in his spare hand as you pass it to him. “What is this?”

His brows rise in confusion as you tap the stamped postmark with your index finger. Years. Years ago.

“I sent you a letter,” you explain. “Telling you I loved you. That I love you,” you correct, squeezing his hand tightly in yours, amazed at how natural it feels already, to touch him.

He audibly gasps in air, looking pained. Devastated. “I never got it. I would’ve-“, he fumbles for words, but he can’t finish them, the magnitude of all those years lost to yearning too big to wrap his lips around. “I never got it,” he repeats sorrowfully.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about that now,” you soothe. “I got your letter.” And, as you engulf him with your arms a soft smile takes over his features once again. He can’t help it.

“I’m so glad you did,” he beams, drawing you to him for another kiss, which you eagerly accept, opening your mouth to him.

God, he’s a good kisser, his tongue in you deep and eager, and the heat generated is quick to catch, a fire lit in the pit of you. That moustache is a divine thing too, his lips soft and full beneath, his mild-mannered tongue positively sinful as it works against yours.

Letting the kiss grow, you grab hold of him by the belt to draw his body closer to yours, arching your hips into his, and you feel an impressive bulge greet you as you do so.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers bashfully, angling his hips away from you, in case you’re not ready for… that yet. “You’re perfection. So perfect, I… I’m a little bit, uh, excited.”

You don’t blame him. You’re a little bit excited too. There’s a drum beating in your chest. Music in your heart. A song everywhere. A dance in your body.

“W-would you like to take me to the bedroom, Richard?” you purr, softly. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

You wish you could capture the bliss which sparks in his eyes then, and keep stoking it forever more. His whole being glows as if you are the sun shining down on him. He loves the sun on his face. He loves you.

He loves you.

*******

Later that night:

At some point after round three, Richard is ravenous, and so you head to the kitchen to grab some snacks. One of Richard’s plaid shirts wards off the slight chill, settled over your otherwise naked body. As you microwave something quick, you can barely keep the smile from your face – even more so as you glance over at the table full of half-finished letters. As the microwave pings and you grab out the plate, another idea occurs to you, and you simply can’t help yourself.

So, you pad mysteriously back towards the bedroom, where Richard is waiting. The blanket is slung low over his hips, skimming the dark trail of hair which draws your gaze down beyond his abdomen. He is covered, and yet you bloom blissfully with heat at your new-found knowledge of what lays beneath. He’s laying with one hand folded behind his head, and one hand rested on the soft, roundness of his stomach, which you had laid your head on only moments ago.

Richard’s eyes shine with unadulterated admiration as you enter, and you flash him a mischievous smile as you transfer the plate to his hands, and subsequently tip a cascade of his letters into the middle of the bed.

“What’s all this?” he asks, with a contented laugh as you bounce eagerly into bed by his side, humming in equal contentment as you slot yourself under his arm.  

“I want you to read them to me. Will you?” you ask, sweetly, and he looks bashful all over again. “No-one has ever sent me a love letter.”

“Me neither,” he chuckles. “Or I thought so…”

He hesitates, perhaps feeling shy, but he wraps his arm around you securely, nuzzling you into his side as he picks up the closest leaf of paper.

He hums gratefully as you begin to stroke his smooth chest. He really does sing whenever you touch him.

“They’re not finished,” he caveats. “I wanted to find the perfect words and I… I couldn’t.”

“The words don’t have to be perfect. It’s more important that they’re delivered,” you say, your voice soft as you sink into him, and so, he gently clears his throat and he begins to read, his words and his rich, soothing voice filtering over you like warm sunshine.

After a moment listening, and letting his love and his letters envelop you, you interrupt him gently. “My sweet man. Promise me you’ll never write me another love letter?”

“Are they that awful?!” Richard exclaims.

“No!” you laugh, into his chest, tipping your chin up to look him in the eyes. “They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It’s just… I think I hate love letters, Richard. They’ve only ever kept me from you.”

His expression becomes wistful, lost in thought until a smile finally captures him. Then, with a finger curling gently under your chin, he dips down to plant a small kiss to the very tip of your nose.

“No more letters then,” he promises softly. “Let’s always promise to say it out loud from now on. Let’s talk every day.”

You heart full, you bring your hand up to caress his cheek, before planting a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips; and, despite what you’d just suggested, you plead for him to keep reading to you, his voice and his love lulling you to sleep in his arms.

With the love letters as kindling, your dim spark finally catches, your fire now blazing. You set it in a hearth in your chest, and you vow to keep it stoked for always.

THE END

Bonus:

[daybreakrising]

He does sense the smile: it's like a sixth sense of his, so highly attuned to everything she does, even the slightest of shifts in her expression, her mood - he can feel it all as easily as he feels her touch on his arm. He doesn't need to see her face, to feel the curve of her lips against his shoulder, to know the smile is there. He recognised it the second it chose to grace her face.

The way she leans into him settles a sense of calm upon him. This effortless effect she has on him is something he has come to cherish, to crave - there is an itch under his skin that only she can soothe. It's a rare kind of peace she brings to his tormented mind, that keeps him rooted to this reality, that grounds him when, otherwise, he would be adrift.

When words are uttered softly, warmed with a trace of - humour? affection? - he feels the corner of his mouth twitch, curl into the faintest of smiles, of a kind only she can summon forth. There is comfort here, a relaxing of barriers that crumble to ruins in her presence. Your exceptional dancing, she says, and he feels her against him once more, her hand upon his shoulder, the scent of her invading his senses so all he can focus on, all he can think about, is her.

Perhaps that is why he shifts, angles himself more towards her, why his gaze falls back again to the head upon his shoulder. A furrow appears upon his brow, eyes narrowing sharply - and a hand lifts, adjusts the coat draped upon her shoulders, lest it dare to slip free as it had threatened.

But his hand lingers a moment. As if drawn like a magnet, his fingers glide along the curve between shoulder and neck, his touch so feather-light it is but a whisper against her. "I suppose I have been wondering many things of late."

Caution, if it could speak, would tell you how it could scarcely recall the contours of her hands, and the gentle, silken touch of bare palms that so few had ever even known. It had been abandoned in his presence long ago, left to be nothing more than a memory, a whisper caught on the wind and let go. It had no place here, not anymore. There was no room for prudence or hesitance any longer, there was nothing other than an aching familiarity that called to a time almost older than recollections even permitted, how else could something feel so innate? Peace, warmth, they were realities that had never once been sought before him, and yet since, were craved more than she'd ever known. Longed for by she who did not long for such humanities. And yet, those fingers tightened much as the contour of her frame sunk into his own at his side, and perhaps— more still, when his voice hovered so closely overhead. Perhaps he could sense the smile that grew amidst a countenance still wholly embellished in the dim of the lights at their side as they passed, or better yet: sense it, when her cheek nestled just that bit more firmly to his shoulder, leaving the curve of her smile to press into the outline of his shoulder.

"Your exceptional dancing, and undying good taste in movies, of course." Reverie had almost whisked her away from him, but his curiosity, as it often did, would return her to reality: the sound of her heels to stone at his side as they walked, and the voices, and songs that had been their company this night, engulfed to be no more than distant murmurs of the past. Who would have known him to dance as he had? It was the ghost of a touch at her back, the lightest caress above the fabric of her dress that tickled her still now, enough for the lightest glint to form in the depths of her eyes. And when they would fall to a close for even just a second in time, she could swear that she still felt the touch of a man's hand against her own, rather than the hilt of a cherished blade. "What's with the curiosity, Bladie?"

[ahtsumu]

under the light of the fireflies

pairing: miya atsumu x f!reader

synopsis: every summer, you fall deeper in love with a forest spirit who never ages. inspired by hotarubi no mori e.

tag(s): fluff, angst, you might cry!, wrote this while stressed and nostalgic ; wc: 1.7k

you first meet miya atsumu when you are six and he is seventeen.

(he is actually one thousand and seventeen, but you don’t know that and you never will.)

you meet him at the edge of a clearing–– the only open space you’ve discovered in the miles of forest you’ve lost yourself in. it was right behind grandmother’s house and just beckoning for you to come take a look, so it’s not really your fault you lost your way. that’s what you told him.

the boy’s a little strange-looking. his hair is whitish-gold–– a shade you’ve never seen on any human–– and he wears a mask that makes him look like a fox. bluntly, you ask if he’s a ghost. even worse, you try to poke him to see if you’re right.

he laughs while dodging it and says no, but warns you that if you touch him he’ll disappear forever. and then he makes you grab the other end of a stick and leads you right out of the forest back to your grandmother’s house, letting out a noise of agreement every now and then as you tell him about yourself, that you’re here for the summer, that you’re currently in first grade at a school in tokyo, that you’re friends with a boy called shouyou, that you––

“wait, mister!” you call out just as his body starts to disappear back into the woods. “what’s your name?”

he pauses.

“atsumu,” he says over his shoulder. “don’t wear it out, kid.” and then he chuckles to himself–– a little sadly, since you were pretty entertaining to have around–– because he knows he won’t hear it from you ever again.

he’s proven wrong (and happily so, because he’s just a kid himself and it gets lonely in the forest) when you show up at the temple where he lives the very next afternoon.

and the next.

and the next.

and the next.

after that, you spend every summer running through the forest with a human-looking spirit boy and a stick between your hands. 

and then you turn twelve and move to the states. the summers in the forest are pushed to the back of your mind. 

(the boy isn’t.)

loneliness takes your place beside atsumu for four summers.

you meet again when you are sixteen and he is seventeen.

he can hardly believe it when he sees who you’ve become: a stunning young woman with a smile like the sun. it’s a welcome sight; he’s seen a few too many cloudy days.

“you’re back,” he blurts, eyes wide in surprise. quickly, he gets up from the patch of grass he’d been laying on and–– and... he thinks this is the appropriate moment humans hug. when their feelings are so strong that their bodies move for them. but miya atsumu is not human and he’ll die if he touches one. so he keeps his arms by his sides.

(they still twitch, though.)

you rest your hands on your hips and roll your eyes. “no, this is my apparition speaking to you.”

atsumu grins. that biting sense of humour you’d brought to him as a child had only grown sharper. you’re you, but better. he sits back down on the grass and pats the space beside him.

and like that, you fall back into pace. you tell him about what happened in the years you were gone, the friends you made at school, the things you learned. what america looks like.

you say you missed him.

yearning slowly washes over his amber eyes. for what, he isn’t sure.

“you’re lucky you get to leave,” he sighs, leaning back on his arms. he stares up at the patch of sky formed by the treetops. actually, you’re lucky in many other ways. atsumu’s gaze falls onto your hands.

frowning, you bring your knees up to your chest. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t worry about it.” he offers you a small smile. “guess you just gotta bring the world to me, then.”

when he walks you home that evening, you promise you’ll show him every part of the world, no matter how long it takes you.

(he hopes it takes you a long time. he hopes it takes you forever.)

atsumu is sleeping when you show up in the clearing the next day. he lies on grass with his hands folded over his stomach and the fox mask you’ve never seen him without tossed carelessly beside his head.

and he’s beautiful.

your breath hitches in your throat as you tiptoe closer, admiring his slightly upturned nose, pale pink lips, thick, curled lashes, honey tinted skin.

you want to touch him.

suddenly, one of his eyes cracks open.

“hello,” he drawls. the corner of his mouth curls up in a mischievous smile. yelping in surprise, you jump back with a hand to your chest.

“did you plan that?” you ask, eyes still wide from the shock.

he doesn’t reply but the laugh that leaves his lips is an answer enough. you look at the fox mask on the grass. a strange sort of curiosity seeps into your thoughts. it’s so much of who atsumu is. surely it contains some of his essence. the urge to hold it causes your fingers to twitch.

atsumu follows your gaze and picks up the mask. “wanna try it on?” he offers, gingerly holding it out in front of you.

it doesn’t fit on you the way it does for him. but something leaps in his chest when he sees you with it.

(his chest does it again when you hand it back and he sees the faintest trace of your lip gloss where the mouth should go.)

“so,” you say, clasping your hands together. “what’re we doing today, ‘tsumu?”

the blond tells you he found a little cave by the river down south. “it’s pretty cool,” he says, a goofy grin on his face.

when you hold up that same gnarled wooden stick from years ago with a “let’s go, then” dangling off your lips, his stomach churns. atsumu realises he doesn’t want to hold that.

he wants to hold your hand.

(your lip gloss tastes like citrus and mint.)

you meet for the last time when you are both seventeen.

“you said you’ve never tasted a cheesecake, right?” you call out, setting down the bag you hauled from tokyo on the grass. it’s noon and there are hardly any shadows around, but you can’t find atsumu in the clearing.

he’s here, though. you can feel it.

“well, hello to ya, too.” atsumu jumps down from the branch he’d been sitting on. he’s happy to see you, not that you can tell.

“take your mask off, i thought we were past that,” you tease with a smile.

“do it for me,” atsumu lilts, clasping his hands behind his back, leaning forward so that your faces are just inches apart.

a flood of blood rushes through your veins.

breathing shallowly, you pinch the porcelain nose and lift it up off atsumu’s face, revealing a boyish grin underneath.

beautiful.

“hi,” he breathes, eyes twinkling.

you gulp.

seeing your frazzled state, atsumu laughs. he opens up the bag and pulls out the slice of cheesecake.

“thank you,” he says over his shoulder.

(he makes you feed him the first bite.

and then he feeds you the second.)

on your last day, he tells you that there’s a spirit festival happening at night.

“is that your way of inviting me?” you ask, noticing how he’s dressed in a dark blue yukata instead of his usual shirt and shorts this time.

“no.” from behind his back, atsumu pulls out a dazzling set of red robes. “this is.”

that evening you stroll through the spirit festival with a red cloth wrapped around your hands. he wins you a little necklace that you wear immediately at one of the game booths; you order takoyaki to share at the food stalls; and you end the night watching a puppet show.

atsumu walks you home as fireworks bloom in the dark sky.

“thank you for the night,” you hum, swinging your arms lightly.

“thank you for being my date,” atsumu replies.

instantly, you whip your head around. with a wide grin, you ask, “did you say date?”

atsumu stops in the middle of the dirt road and smiles softly at you. the pale moonlight makes his skin glow. amber eyes shine as bright as his hair. this moment feels different than any other you’ve had in your life. “i did.” 

“i don’t know what it is about you,” he admits, “but i want you around me all the time. i wanna hold you. and kiss you. do things like real people do.” he chuckles awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. “is that weird?”

“not at all,” you breathe, frozen in waiting.

“can i?” he asks. “kiss you?”

you nod.

atsumu pulls out the porcelain mask from his robe pocket and places it over your face.

and softly, his lips touch your cheek.

a warmth spreads from your heart all through your body.

“a lot of things keep us apart, don’t they?” he laughs, resting his forehead against your masked one. “but i feel like we’ll find a way to stay together.”

you open your mouth to agree, to confess that you’ve been in love with him since he found you in that forest, that you spent every summer away thinking about him, that you spend every moment of the school year thinking about him, that––

but in that moment, two kids run past atsumu and one trips over his sandals. instinctively, atsumu grabs him by the arm and hoists him back up, smiling when the kid says thank you and continues running like nothing had even happened.

but something had happened.

a strange look comes over atsumu’s face.

“‘tsumu…” you say, staring at his hand. it’s dissolving, breaking into bright blue shards and floating up into the sky.

atsumu lifts the hand up and inspects it slowly. somehow, it’s not much of a surprise. he’s never been the lucky type.

(meeting you was an exception.)

“that was a human kid, wasn’t it?” he sighs.

panic–– a cold, cruel hand–– seizes your heart. a black hole opens in your chest when you realise what this means. “atsumu, i––” love you.

atsumu cuts you off and says your name as his other hand starts flaking away.

“c’mere,” he whispers, grinning with tears in his eyes. “i can finally touch you.”