#but all i ever seem to inspire is apathy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

contentloadinggg · 9 months ago

Text

January Blues - Hozier

Author’s Note: Y’all I finally did it. We’re going to pretend it’s still January so this fits. But it’s finally here 🙏. Thanks to my bestie lunaritessane Who’s input made this fic a whole lot better. I love you💚. (Literally, like their beta reading was just delicious.)

Summary: Andrew is feeling down, you make him feel better. Gender neutral!reader. (3k words)

⚠️Warnings⚠️: Smut! Smut turned weirdly poetic sometimes?. Kinda Switch!Andrew, sub vibes at the beginning, soft dom vibes later. Descriptive descriptions of Andrew’s long dick. (I have a problem)

This is a work fiction and is not a reflection of who Hozier is.

Inspired by:

“Well you cured my January Blues, yeah, you made it all alright.”

Fic under the cut💙, 18+ only, you’ve been warned.

The further Ireland dipped into the depths of winter, the more Andrew’s mood dropped. Reflecting the rainy, washed-out climate outside the frosty windows of his house. It hardly even snowed this winter, just a cold rain that somehow made his mood worse. Logically, he knew it was likely that the lack of sun on his already pale skin was what had him wallowing. But alas, no amount of tea and books seemed to make him feel any better. So that’s why he’d given up by this point. Gaze zoned out past the pages of his novel and tea now cold on the coffee table. His mind clouded like the gathering storm outside.

“Andy?”

A gentle call of his name had Andrew startled. Usually he would’ve noticed your presence by the sound of your footsteps, but he’d been too far into his head to notice.

“Yes, darling?”

He asked, the tone of his voice reflecting yours in its quiet manner.

“I’m just wondering if you’re alright? I’ve called your name a few times and you haven’t answered.”

You replied. Despite keeping your voice light, he can tell by the slight frown and the furrow of your eyebrows you’re more concerned than you're letting on. Sighing deeply with resignation, he closes the book with a soft snap and sets it aside.

“I’m just feeling… I’m not sure. Down, I suppose.”

He answers, voice tainted with melancholy. You look even more concerned. A part of him wishes he didn’t worry you over trivial things. But how could he ever resist your questioning of his well-being?

You walk over to him and sit down on the arm of the chair. Running a hand into the long curls of his hair to scratch at his scalp. He hums and closes his eyes, leaning back into your soothing touch.

“Anything I can do to help?’

You ask and he breathes out through his nose with a shake of his head.

“Not sure there’s much you can do, but… stay?”

Andrew replies, aware his tone sounds dangerously close to needy. But you only smile and nod. Sating any insecurities he has as you continue to massage his scalp.

He hums contently once more, letting his head rest against your hand. The warm light of the room throws shadows over his face and the pale lines of his neck. Shrouding the valleys in darkness and the highlights with warmth. Turning the sharpness of his cheekbones all the more prominent if that's possible.

Leaning down, you leave a few kisses over his cheekbones. The feeling of warm breath against his face forces a smile to his lips. He turns his head, capturing your lips against his. Your kiss is like a balm on his apathy, replacing it with passion. Your free hand cups the side of his face. Feeling the gentle scratch of facial hair against your palm that’s also felt on your chin. The feeling lures you closer. Pressing into the space between his and your bodies until you’re straddling one of his legs. Lost in the velvety sensation of lips and tongues against each other. You break it off first. Ignited with one simple idea.

“Let me make you feel better, yeah?”

You prompt, in a lowered, raspier voice. He looks up at you with blown pupils, green irises dark. Shining hot in the orange light from the lamp. He breathes out. Like he can’t believe you’re real. And nods eagerly.

“Please… do what you’d like.”

His breathless agreement makes you smile and melt a bit, moving his head to get access to his throat. A soft sound leaves his mouth as you kiss over the thin skin. Breath hitching when your tongue follows along the groves of his veins. He’s so goddamn sensitive. He has to hold back a few noises, the heat of your breathing brushing over his neck. Goosebumps appear over his arms. He’s becoming more and more aware of your every move.

Andrew lets out a loud groan that he quickly cuts off in embarrassment. A response to the dragging of your teeth over the base of his neck where it meets his shoulder. The skin beneath your lips flushes a pink color. You snicker in response to the noise, and he huffs in irritation.

“It’s okay, I wanna hear you. I wanna know you’re enjoying it. You sound absolutely gorgeous, but that’s no surprise.”

You murmur to him, rubbing his side to subdue his unease. You know he’s listening because the muscles relax beneath your hand. He lets out another moan as you nibble, turning the skin a pale red.

It’s not long before you’ve scattered similar-looking bites over his neck. By the time you’re getting his sweater off Andrew is breathing a little heavier, sweat building on the back of his flushed neck.

His chest stutters watching you sink to your knees in front of the armchair. Eyes hooded and darkened.

“Just lie back, baby, and I’ll cure all those blues.”

You direct, and he does as you say. His mouth is too dry to try and come up with a sassy reply to your somewhat cheesy line. Not like that would matter anyway. All thought disappears from his head when your mouth lands on his chest. Kissing, licking, sucking down his sternum. Your lips wrapping around one of his nipples has him debating whether or not to beg for mercy. Airless moans slip from his lips without time nor thought to stop them.

“Fuckin’ Hell, darling. That’s so good.”

Andrew hisses, voice rough, Irish accent thickened, words a little slurred. His hands running into your hair. Using whatever is there to try and get a grip. Large palms grasping at the back of your skull. He can’t help but pull when you tug on his nipple, forcing a quiet moan from your lips.

“Shit, sorry.”

He apologizes in a way that would sound regretful if it wasn’t husky with arousal. You laugh in response to him jerking under your mouth when you suck softly. Your way of telling him it’s okay.

After giving Andrew’s nipple a bit more attention, just to hear him whine a few more times. And then start slowly kissing down his stomach. Feeling every little twitch and breath beneath your mouth.

“Darling, please, please, stop teasing.”

There it is, the pleads for mercy. He’s practically whimpering. His voice becomes tight. A struggle for control. You grant his wish, hands moving to his belt. There’s a large bulge beneath his jeans, straining against the fabric. God, that must be uncomfortable, you can feel the heat from here.

Eventually, with a bit of moving around, you manage to pull his jeans and boxers off. Freeing his cock from the confines of his clothes. It arches up towards his stomach with a surprising stiffness, considering you haven’t even been touching him for that long. He’s decently above average in length. To the point it burns a little to take, but not ridiculously so. The tip is a deep red, swelled with a desperation to be touched.

Andrew shoots a hand from your hair to the arm of the chair. Gripping it with a hiss when he feels the brush of your breath over the sensitive skin. His cock twitches, the two prominent veins along the bottom throbbing. You decide not to make him wait any longer. Wrapping a hand around the shaft. Andrew looks down at you with hungry eyes alight with reverence, studying your every move.

“God- fucking, yes.”

Andrew gasps in pleasured relief, a moan quickly following when you start stroking the length of his shaft, giving every inch an equal amount of attention. Just barely touching the tip to tease him. To watch his cravings become unbearable. At first, he accepts the simple touch, relishing in finally having friction on his cock. However, it soon becomes too little and he starts rocking his hips into your hand, eager for more. Slender thighs flexing with the movement. Light shining over his jutting hip bones. He’s absolutely stunning from this angle, chest heaving as he squirms. A thin sheen of sweat glistening over the bridge of his nose and high cheekbones. A stark contrast to the darkness of his neatly trimmed beard.

“Babe-”

Andrew starts, his words sounding more like a gasp of breath.

“Fine, I’ll be nice.”

You relent, not wanting to torture him too much. Dragging your hand over the weeping head, Andrew moans and sinks his fingernails into the arm of the chair. His other hand cupping the back of your neck, trying his best not to grip or pull. You circle your thumb around the very tip of his cock, over the most sensitive glands. Andrew practically whimpers because of it. Legs jerking, he throws his head back. Eyes squeezed shut. Showing off all those pink love bites you left over his throat.

“Yes, just like that. Keep going.”

Andrew manages in that sweet, unsteady voice. It’s like he can’t get enough air into his lungs, caught between moaning and whining. He thrusts his hips into your hand which moves up and down the entire length of his dick. A focused attention with a twist of your wrist over the head. Andrew isn’t the only one getting impatient. You’re interested in doing much more than just a handjob.

So, when your impatience gets to be too much, you duck your head and take the tip of his cock into your mouth. Causing a high-pitched noise of surprise from the man above. There’s an even sharper noise as you press your tongue against the bottom and suck. Pulling precum from his eagerness. The tangy and sharp taste coating your tastebuds, sticking to your tongue. It fills your senses, nearly overwhelming the musky scent of Andrew’s arousal.

“Let me see your eyes, please. Look at me.”

Andrew urges, his voice higher than normal. Looking up at him, his eyes meet yours. And he responds like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. His lips parted, looking down at you with warmth in his eyes. His entire dick throbbing with your gaze on his.

“God, you’re so gorgeous, sweetheart.”

He gasps out. His hand letting go of the armchair and brushing the hair away from your face. So he can see all of you properly.

“So, so pretty down there.”

Andrew continues in a murmur, the pleasure of seeing you drives his ecstasy even higher. He gently moves slightly further into your mouth, hungry for more of the warm pleasure, more than what your hand is giving him. You welcome him, slowly working his cock deeper into your mouth. Jaw stretching to accommodate until it nearly aches. Your tongue cradles the underside.

He moans lowly, running fingers over your scalp. The warm and wet feeling of your mouth wrapping around his cock causes his entire body to shiver. Pleasure bolting up his spine. He nearly becomes lightheaded with the rush of blood, cheeks flushing a bright red against the paleness of the rest of his skin.

The more you take, the more difficult it is to breathe. Andrew stops you for a moment, letting you take a breath. He caresses your jaw with the backs of his fingers, helping it relax out.

“Just go slow, breathe through your nose.”

He speaks in a calmly commanding voice. Forcing you to stay in your moment of pause for a few seconds longer before letting you continue. You follow his introductions and breathe through your nose, taking measured breaths as you sink further. Until tears gather in your eyes when the tip of his cock brushes the back of your throat. Pushing at your gag reflex.

A pleasured rumble sounds in Andrew’s chest. Vibrating back through your bones. He continues stroking your jaw, making sure you can take every inch.

“That’s good. You’re doing so well, baby. Start moving if you want.”

Andrew says, trying his best to keep his composure so his desire doesn’t get the better of him. It nearly does when you start moving achingly slow up and down the length of his dick. Your mouth is so consumingly tempting, hot and wet and just perfect. Both a gift and a curse. Luring Andrew to near madness with how good it feels. He’s speechless, wordless. Stuck in this version of heaven. You’ve got him absolutely hooked. Even more so when you start to move faster. Suck harder. Letting saliva drip down your chin and glisten on your skin the way it does on his cock.

“Fuck, I’ll never get enough of this. Your so skilled, so absolutely, fucking wonderful.”

He groans behind his clenched teeth. Resisting the urge to bury himself even deeper into your mouth. You struggle to move faster. Gagging on his cock when it hits your reflex. Andrew looks down at you, noticing your struggle. He gently pulls on your hair. Guiding you off his cock.

“It’s alright, let me help you, okay?”

He asks, but it’s less of a suggestion and more of a command if you want to keep going. You nod in agreement.

“Yeah, okay.”

Andrew takes a careful hold of your hair, holding your head in place as he brings his hips closer to your mouth. The tip of his cock brushes your lips, it’s so red it’s almost purple. Eager and more than ready to slip back into your mouth.

“Ready?”

He asks one more time and you answer affirmatively again. He accepts this and nudges his dick slowly past your parted lips. Guiding himself back into the heat of your mouth. It’s wet, soft and very, very hot. He waits a moment for you to get used to it once more. Before starting to move. Using your hair to move you up and down. His hips rocking forwards into your mouth. His breath hitching as he feels your teeth gaze him. His thighs clasp either side of your head, knees almost on top of your shoulders.

“That’s it, let me help you. Just like this.”

Andrew praises in a tone that does nothing to conceal how good it feels. Carefully thrusting his cock in and out of your already sore throat. You’re so sweet, letting him do this. Willing to take apart every piece of him and put it back together. It’s something only you can do for him. Yet he’s sure you could do it for anyone.

“God, that’s just right. You’re doing such a good job. You’re an angel.”

He manages, voice trembling. He rocks his hips faster. Guiding you to suck harder. Feeling every ridge moving back and forth across your tongue. The head is just barely nudging the back of your throat. Andrew is gasping, moaning above you like he’s never experienced something quite so amazing in his life. Something beyond any man’s wildest dreams.

His cock twitches in your mouth. His ecstasy reaching higher and higher. To the point his thighs are trembling, skin highlighted pink with exertion (is that how you spell it? idk). You look up at him. Admiring the way his features are painted with pleasure. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut. His long hair is messy and falling into his flushed face. There’s strands sticking to the sides of his face and neck with the thin sheen of sweat on his skin. Droplets slide down his collarbones and disappear into his sweater.

He jerks his cock a little deeper on accident. Coming closer and closer to his finish. Causing you to gag. He opens his eyes with an apology on his lip. But you grasp his hips, pulling him closer. You shove down your gag reflex so you can take him all the way. Tears gathering on your waterline. He takes the hint with widened eyes of surprise and adoration. Carefully thrusting his cock into the depths of your throat, he groans loudly with pleasure. Both hands sinking into and grabbing on your hair.

Your nose brushes his pelvis. The smell of musk filling your nose. An almost sweet, earthy scent coming from him. You make eye contact through blurry eyes. Andrew’s breath stutters, his legs tensing by the sides of your head.

“Fuck- darling, so good. I’m gonna- shit. I’m gonna cum in your mouth. Do you want that? Do you want me to cum into your mouth?”

He asks, his words broken and stuttering. Almost failing at forming a sentence entirely. You nod the best you can. Tears and spit running down your face. He moans at your agreement. Somehow feeling hotter and even more aroused by it.

Andrew thrusts his hips into your mouth. Pushing how much you can take as he chases his high. It’s not more than a minute of nearly reckless movements before he’s cumming into your mouth just as he said he would. His back arching into it as his legs shudder. He moans loudly from the bottom of his chest. His mouth hanging open. Head thrown back with his eyes rolled back into his skull. Shooting warm, thick cum into your mouth. The salty and bitter taste overwhelming your senses, but one you could taste over and over again. You groan around his cock. Causing his legs to jump as he feels the vibrations.

He pants, remaining motionless in his recovery. His brain needed a moment to recover before piecing itself back together and pulling out of your mouth. There’s a lopsided, still half-gone smile on his face as he looks down at you. Humming happily as you swallow his cum.

“You’re so amazing, baby.”

Andrew compliments breathlessly. Moving his hands to cup your cheeks and brush the tears away.

“I’m so, so proud of you. Come on, get off your knees.”

The tenderness of his voice is so beautiful. His actions even more so, helping you up off the floor. And positioning you on one of his thighs.

“Are you okay? I wasn’t too rough with you?”

He questions, his worries calming when you shake your head. Still recovering yourself.

“Good… can I return the favor?”

Thank you so much for reading my first fic 🫶, any constructive criticism is appreciated. I’m going to go do the school work I’ve been procrastinating over to do this instead now. Hopefully, the next fic won’t take over a month to write and I’ll be more active.

-Thad 💚

#fanfiction #andrew hozier byrne #Andrew Hozier Byrne x reader #Hozier x reader #smut #fluff #rpf #I wrote this with one hand #if you know what I mean #Andrew is a sexy little shit #Spotify #Hozier smut

444 notes · View notes

seonghw4ffles · 3 months ago

Text

princess fluffy-cupcake-sparkles

i'll be the laziest superman, so follow me !

playing happy fools, poppin love ..

yeosang x fem!reader

au: a school project at a flower garden

genre: grumpy!yeosang x sunshine!reader, fluff, tsundere, a piece of dialogue, a jealous-but-dont-wanna-admit-it yeosang

wc: 1.0k

summary: if yeosang hated animals but only tolerated them for you

tw: yeosang jelly of wooyoung

note: inspired by that one scene in ouabh and dude i was like ooo yeosang HELP ong i js pulled this out of my notes app tbh there is no reason for anything TT i love nonchalant yeosang so much idk why....

yeosang stood far from the venue, his back to a large stone. a mysterious creature, which he soon figures is a cat, approaches him and starts to sniff his shoes. he struggles, unfamiliar with dealing with animals.

the cat was white coated, with large patches of orange and black laid all over itself. a calico cat, but yeosang does not know that. he is not familiar with whatever sort of cat breeds there are or its names, nor does he care.

he tried to kick it away, but it does not leave.

"interesting..." he mutters.

yeosang notices that you have already arrived from the payment stall, though he does not react.

you are at the botanical garden with yeosang, required to take pictures for a school travel project of visiting significant places around town.

when you find a cat meandering around his feet, you giggle. "it must like you!!"

"perhaps it does." he looks down at the cat and stares at it.

previously, you insisted to pay for the entry fee, but yeosang blackmailed you to not do so, to use his card instead.

he sighs and then speaks to it. "leave me alone, mutt."

as he says so, his eyes subtly widen with agitation at the fact it does not want to leave.

"you should name it. spill some ideas," you smile as you look down to the cat.

yeosang looks up at you in confusion and disbelief, as if it was a foolish act to name a random animal from the woods.

"what?"

"why should i? it's not my pet, it's just a stray." he replies, dismissing your suggestion.

but he keeps his gaze on the little animal, which doesn't seem to leave him alone.

"hmm." he starts to speak to it. "stay if you wish... but do not expect any attention from me."

you chuckle at his decision to talk to the cat, becoming more and more amused. it is visible that you already grew fond of the stray cat.

"you should name it....." you hum, lost in thought for ideas, "oh!! i know!! you should name it princess fluffy-cupcake-sparkles!!"

"that name is completely ridiculous," he says, his expression becoming a form of disgust when he looks back down at the cat. "how does a creature like this deserve such a name? if i had a pet, which i never will, the name would make sense."

you look up from the cat to yeosang, your expression dissipating to a blank, empty stare of disappointment. you almost choose to abandon this whole project despite its relevance to your grading, solely to leave yeosang to do it all alone.

"next time i choose a partner to do this project with, it'll be with someone who has a sense of humour. maybe someone like wooyoung."

yeosang's gaze ever so slowly travels from your toes to your eyes, his face turning to indifference. he ignores the cat and its intentions, looking directly at you.

a moment of silence ensues as he attempts to figure out what to say.

"yes, go ahead and partner with wooyoung. i would like to see the result of your foolish decision."

you get surprised by the sudden tone. the answer is also astonishing, as you expected a response of apathy. "oh come on, it was even more of a foolish decision to partner with you," you reply.

"you chose to do this with me simply because you did not have friends. it was foolish on your part to believe things would be of joy for you," he says, maintaining his usual tone.

you tried not to take offence.

he looks down at the cat and finally, with a heavy sigh, he decides to entertain the idea of naming it.

"fine, i will name it. but not with that stupid name."

you're taken back. you're surprised by how easily he is induced, knowing how dense of an individual he is. he seemed to be affected by the mere mention of your choice of a partner being wooyoung, to the major extent that he had to agree to do such a thing.

"if i didn't know you better, i would say you're jealous of him," you say.

he stays silent for a moment, glaring back up at you again. "jealousy is not something i am used to feeling," he pauses, his voice vastly unwelcoming."i did not agree to talk or joke about wooyoung."

a moment of silence ensues between the two of you. the cat continues sniffing around and starts to walk towards him again. it circles around his feet, rubbing itself to his leather boots.

"princess fluffy-cupcake-sprinkles already claims you as his owner," you smile.

"do not associate me with the cat." yeosang says, and you can sense that his patience with your jokes are starting to dwindle. the cat steps a short distance away from him after a few moments and simply stares at him from afar, growing bored of him.

you chuckle at the reaction of yeosang. "i dont know why you dislike such adorable creatures."

he shakes his head and groans.

"its a mere animal. why am i expected to pay any attention to it?" he sighs.

he attempts find relish in the cat for you're very sake, but he knows very well that the cat is annoying him more and more by its mere presence alone.

with one last glance, the cat finally leaves and moves on elsewhere.

he relaxes a bit, but his expression remains unchanged. he clears his throat. "now that that's taken care of, let's go."

"wait," you say. yeosang turns right after he starts walking to the venue, watching you carefully sneak over towards the cat again. he is in major disappointment to your stupid, futile decisions.

you manage to pick up the cat, and it does not run. "yeosang!!" you hold up the obedient feline and smile widely.

he instantly softens.

"well, what do you intend with that thing?" he asks.

"take the pictures with it!!" you reply. you carry the cat over your shoulder, and you run over to yeosang.

"do you believe the garden allows it?" he says with a genuine intent of reminding you that you are stepping into a neat garden of flowers.

"how could they refuse it? look!" you hold up the damn cat, smiling illuminantly. "princess fluffy-cupcake-sparkles!!"

he refuses to admit what you're smile does to him.

"princess.." he struggles, ashamed of the lengths he goes for you. "princess fluffy-cupcake-sparkles."

#yeosang #yeosang fluff #yeosang fanfic #kang yeosang #ateez #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #yeosang ateez #yeosang x reader #yeosang imagines #yeosang scenarios #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung imagines #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez x reader

121 notes · View notes

cherubchoirs · 9 months ago

Note

What? This is what I thought when he has V1's parents' same reaction.

lucifer sees v1 as a work of art that has become an artist in itself - being once of god, unlike any other angel, lucifer has massive amounts of creativity and appreciation for what humanity achieved through their own god-given spark. but beyond that, for v1 in particular, he sees something that has moved past its makers, it has forged its own path in defiance of what it was made for. he is fascinated by its mind, its construction, its life as something that may or may not have a soul (for what constitutes a soul, even lucifer does not know). but importantly it is a life not made by god, it is removed from him, and he wants to meet what god did not create. he wants to see what a full, vibrant experience it has, and v1 sure does. not disappoint lol so animalistic in behavior but with a razor-sharp mind, its first action is probably to challenge him to a one-on-one fight - not a surprise, given how much he knows through hell itself, but he worries he won't be an impressive match for it. he had been inert for so long and really...lucifer was never a warrior, his strength bolstered purely by his closeness to god. still, like anyone that can face v1 and live to tell about it, he finds the fight inspired, unpredictable, and a beautiful insight into a mind he cannot understand despite his godly knowledge. he is not moved by battle, but he can feel how v1 is, its emotions showing through and resonating within lucifer so that he gains insight into its passion. v1 finds its fascination in turn, recognizing right away that lucifer is not a fighter yet there is a disjointed fluidity in his movement, his choices largely defensive and illusory - he wouldn't be v1's first choice as an opponent, though his skillset is unique enough that it doesn't get bored. they stand as two perfect creations, the pinnacle of what god and man could create, and they find interest in the other purely for how alien they are. lucifer made for love and creation, v1 for apathy and destruction, curious of the other as they have been steeped in the role of their opposite.

gabriel doesn't ever really say anything to lucifer about his relationship with v1, mostly figuring it wouldn't be of any relevance to him as he seems preoccupied with attending to his fallen angels. but also...gabriel's aware that lucifer knows most of what's happened in hell and so his partnership with v1 likely isn't a secret to him. unsurprisingly, lucifer doesn't broach the topic for some time, his talks with gabriel a bit sparing and distant with his mind so attuned now to a self-centered focus in his isolation (GENUINELY does not remember how to talk to other people). gabriel actually begins to think he might not even have an opinion on their relationship, but he finds out that's quite far from the truth once lucifer is able to acknowledge more outside of himself. it's just...not what gabriel expected, if he expected anything at all. lucifer, already coming in with an appreciation of the bizarre, is actually happy for what v1 and gabriel have together. their relationship entirely defies the "natural" order of things, an act that would have been condemned fully by god and denied even as possible by v1's makers. he is glad too to see that love led gabriel to something better, it allowed him to finally follow what his heart had been telling him for all this time. it is a very rare thing to find such a kindred spirit and then to defy everything you were told you are in pursuit of that....and lucifer can find nothing more noble in the world than that. so while he continues to harbor his own issues with gabriel, he believes v1 has improved him by bounds and that he is now far more "palatable" than his siblings. gabriel has no idea how to take this, but v1 labels it an "endorsement" of its "personality"

#gabriel tells it that might not be the best thing. coming from satan #gabriel supposes he should have guessed lucifer's approval though #he has been made THOROUGHLY contrary to all things #and so of course something everyone else finds bizarre gets the thumbs up #cake answers #lucifer #v1 #gabriel #rise and fall au

73 notes · View notes

aranarumei · 6 months ago

Text

something there.

hello shiramiya fans. got inspired by ch 51 to write something. it is under the cut but you can also read it on ao3

—

On some level, Shirahama’s always been aware that he’s weak-willed. But this—this feels like something else. ��Tashiro,” he says. “I'm going to slack off.”

“For the last time, I'm not—what?” Tashiro cuts his complaint short, turning to face Shirahama with a searching look.

Whatever this is, it sucks, that’s for sure. He grits his teeth. “I'm just—I have to dip out for a second.”

“Huh,” Tashiro says, the word suffused with both carelessness and judgement. His eyes flicker around their surroundings, and he adds, “Okay. It's not too busy, anyways… did you ask—”

“I already asked Karasubara.”

“Then what are you still doing here?”

It’s a good question, but it’s not one that has an answer. It’s just—it probably isn’t anything serious, but Miyano hadn’t looked great, and what if it is serious? Even if his boyfriend’s taking care of him, it’ll be good for Miyano’s classmates to know how he’s doing. And that way he—they—won't worry.

“I don't know,” he says, and because he’s vindictive: “Why didn't you compete in the crossdressing contest this year? You seemed so pumped about it last time.”

Tashiro's hands stray to his hair, and he twirls a loose strand around his fingers. It vaguely strikes Shirahama that it’s not dissimilar to one of the sprites of the sporty basketball girl he’d romanced last week. “I didn't want to shave my leg hair,” he says, even though last year Miyano hadn’t shown a single inch of his leg.

Tashiro’s just non-committal like that, Shirahama supposes—even now, he likes to act as if his ping pong captaincy just “happened” like an accident. He's spent three long-suffering years on the basketball team—he knows the apathy Tashiro unintentionally or purposefully projects is deceptive.

“What are you waiting for?” Tashiro asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Go.”

It’s enough of a push, and crucially: it feels like enough of an excuse.

—

There are too many people inside this school. Shirahama can hear Tashiro's voice in his head still, the strange wry twist that he'd clearly picked up from someone else, paired with his evergreen bluntness—what did you think was going to happen at a cultural festival?

I wasn't thinking, he replies in his head, aware that it's a horribly strange conversation to be having, and the kind of shameless, setup-to-punchline answer he'd never give in real life. But when he'd thought about the decorations, he'd mostly thought about having something that would look nice, feel nice, and have their class at ease. He hadn't been thinking about all the other people that would be milling about.

If they're staring at him, he certainly isn't going to chance making eye contact. So he ducks his head and soldiers on towards the relatively isolated nurse’s office, and in a sudden fit of bravery pauses for only a moment before opening the door. That courage immediately leaves him when the door opens with a sharp creak and he startles, hold almost slipping from the doorknob, but it's the pathetic thought that counts. Or something.

As he's about to slip in and shut the door behind him, a rustle sounds from one of the beds. The breath leaves Shirahama's chest, and he watches as Miyano's boyfriend—Sasaki, that was his name—emerges from the curtains, hair wild in a way that reads more like “bedhead” than “artfully tousled”—not that he'd say it was ever artful, but he's got no place to be critiquing Miyano's boyfriend's hairstyle…

—and speaking of. Sasaki’s staring at him. He sure is tall—for a moment Shirahama wonders why he'd never played basketball, but it’s the kind of wonder that’s paired with utter relief at the nonexistent situation. Then he feels very strange about that thought until Sasaki, with the sedate aura of someone who’s just woken up, blinks at him as if to communicate something.

Shirahama stares back, caught like a deer in headlights.

“Close it quietly,” Sasaki says. Shirahama finally re-registers that his hand is hanging slack on the doorknob. “He's sleeping.” His voice is low, smooth, and deliberately softened to the point that Shirahama has to strain to hear it.

He wavers in the still-open entrance; his legs don't let him run away. The door closes with a soft click, but it may as well be a marching drum.

“I just… came to check in on him,” Shirahama says, too many beats late, careful to pitch his voice just above a whisper. He's not sure he manages. It's the “too many people” thing again, only concentrated—somehow, he’s the one out-of-place in a school he's attended for two and a half years.

Sasaki nods. “Thanks for looking out.”

“Oh… no problem.” He represses the urge to throw up his hands in a sign of “I come in peace,” but he doesn’t know what else to do with them, so they hang limply and indecisively in front of him. Miyano's boyfriend is—it would be rude to say that he's scary, because he's seen the way he acts around Miyano, who doesn't seem to think he’s anything close to intimidating, but he's also Miyano's boyfriend, a term that feels—he shouldn't say it's strange. It shouldn't be any stranger than Kuresawa's girlfriend—bad example, because Kuresawa’s so weird, and Shirahama’s suddenly, overwhelmingly relieved that Miyano doesn’t make hour-long professions of his love—but the thought rests uncomfortably in his head. It's like there's an itch he doesn't know how to scratch.

Sasaki takes the time to inspect him now, squinting at him with a look that’s not akin to judgement but does feel like some kind of thing, and Shirahama would be embarrassed about his inarticulacy if he wasn't already beyond embarrassed with himself. Though he's always hated the feeling of assessment, he does his best to not squirm under Sasaki’s gaze. What Sasaki's likely remembering is the strange hanger-on to Tashiro's high-five run and jump, but even if that's banal in comparison to, say, the date-spying—which is mortifying in retrospect and has given him an eternal respect towards Hanzawa, though he’ll never vocalize this to anyone for fear of the result—something about recognition is just sour.

“Ah,” Sasaki finally says, snapping a cord of tension in Shirahama's shoulders. “You're on the basketball team.”

A strange flush scatters across his neck. “You remembered that?” His voice cracks at the last word, and he tacks on a whispered “Sorry!” that Sasaki accepts without fanfare.

A light shrug. “Just happened to.”

Shirahama throws his memory back to the interaction. He remembers the stray basketball, for sure, but on review something clicks into place. “…Kagiura, right?” His voice settles. “You were looking for him.”

At that, Sasaki falls silent.

Shirahama almost offers to call up Kagiura, but they're not particularly close, and Sasaki's expression doesn't really read as “excited” or “pleased.” In fact it's kind of reading as “ticked off,” which doesn't bode well, because he's pretty sure that if he got into a fight with Miyano's boyfriend, he'd lose. Embarrassingly.

Then, delivered in an unsettlingly flat voice: “I don't know him.”

“What?”

“Kagiura,” Sasaki clarifies, who indeed does say his teammate's name like he's never said those syllables in that order before. Come to think of it, he had called Kagiura by some kind of nickname, hadn't he? “I just… knew of him. Was just curious,” he mumbles.

“He does always get a bunch of confessions on Valentine's day,” Shirahama grumbles on instinct. Then he realizes there's a lot of terrible implications to that routine complaint and backtracks. “Not that—”

“He's popular?”

He feels, suddenly—not actually suddenly but an ebbing and flowing always—wrong-footed. “…Yeah?” Huh, Miyano's boyfriend is kind of a weird guy. Whether this thought puts Sasaki squarely in the space of “not scary” is debatable. But it is some kind of comfort.

There’s a rustling sound by the bed. The room falls silent in an instant, and Shirahama finds that he’s locked eyes with Sasaki. Something like meaning almost passes through there, but before Miyano's boyfriend can say something about needing him to be silent, or his unnecessary check-in, or his unwelcome presence, Shirahama tumbles out excuses in rush of whispers. “I’ve still got to help out with the festival—just thought I’d check—I’m sure you have it handled—I’m going to—I'll go.”

He stumbles out of the office, thankful he hadn’t even taken two steps past the entrance, and closes the door as quietly as he can. His mouth is so dry he’s not sure any of those words he'd said were audible. It’s entirely likely he stood there, gaping and sputtering like a dying fish, before running away.

No one's there to look at his expression and tell him. Shirahama's glad for it and the fact that there's no mirrors in the hallway—the last person he wants to look at is himself.

#shiramiya #shirahama kyouji #sasaki to miyano #sasaki shuumei #kiri.txt #my writing #harusono

31 notes · View notes

lovelylou · 10 months ago

Text

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Where I End and You Begin by @starryhazelou (starryhazelou)

“You know you’re kind of a brat,” Harry muses, eyes firmly on Louis as he leans back crossing his arms over his chest.

Louis smirks, “You’re not the first one to say that big boy, but I’ve learned to take it as a compliment.”

Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard.

Harry’s brain repeats to himself while Louis glides a hand across his face.

He’s so screwed.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Global rock sensation Harry Styles is set to perform in his sold out residencies across six major cities. What happens when his usual makeup artist can’t make it and they hire the most beautiful human he’s ever laid eyes on? Surely it couldn’t be that hard to remain professional

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Darkest Before the Dawn by @daggerandrose (amomentoflove)

Harry Styles has standards. His coffee must be a cold brew with one pump of vanilla and a splash of cold cream. His computer must be catty-cornered on his left. His sketchbook must be directly in the center of his desk. He must have a cork board on his right to pin fabrics, sketches, and other inspirations he finds.

But most importantly, his space,—work or living,—must be organized. He doesn’t understand how people live otherwise. Everything has a place and it must be in its place in order for him to get anything done. Which is why he grits his teeth every time when he walks into the fashion workroom and sees Louis Tomlinson’s workspace.

It’s chaos. He’s chaos personified. He’s annoying, loud, and well… not as creative as Harry is. His designs are unimaginative and plain. Harry doesn’t understand how Louis managed to be accepted into the fashion program, but he supposes some people have to slip through the system.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

your memory over me by @shimmeringevil (shimmeringevil)

Three years have passed since Louis last saw him, but all it took was a few minutes in Harry’s presence for him to be relegated to the desperate twenty-one year old that was practically begging his boyfriend for an ounce of reassurance that he still cared about him.

Harry shouldn’t be here. He’s brought too many unresolved feelings with him, that Louis thought he’d never have to face.

It’s Harry’s apparent apathy that’s the most difficult to come to terms with. Anger, he could handle. Regret, he would welcome. But Harry’s amiability, and carefree demeanor can only be born from indifference.

He’s moved on. He doesn’t care. And that is something Louis doesn’t think he’ll ever be strong enough to face.

OR - The worst heartbreak of Louis’ life walks right back into it when his parents invite their family friends on an all-expenses-paid trip for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Facing a past that he tried to bury long ago, Louis learns that some people have a way of sticking with you even when they’re gone.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Where I Burn to Be by @pleasing-louis (pleasinglouis)

There were very few people who managed to get under Louis’ skin as effortlessly as Harry had, and even fewer who had done it in only a day and a half. It was quite an accomplishment, really. They’d only interacted a handful of times and yet Louis had the insatiable desire to slam the locker into that frustratingly well-defined face that never seemed to hold any expressions other than contempt and arrogance.

“That’s right. I do own the skies. And you wanna know why?” he sneered. Without his boots on, Louis was a fair bit shorter than Harry, his eyes pretty much level with Harry’s chin and his socked toes bumping into the boots of the other man, close enough that Louis could make out the tiny scar on Harry’s brow and the individual shades of emerald in his irises. He was handsome, but that only made Louis hate him more. Heart thumping heavily against his sternum and his hands balled into fists, Louis lifted his chin defiantly and plastered a coldhearted smirk across his lips. “Because I’m the best goddamn pilot here.” . . aka the Top Gun AU

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Not Safe For Work by @greenblueish (bluegreenish)

I want to drown myself in Harry’s scent until I smell like him.

“I think I'm open to trying that too. Sounds very good.”

Louis shakes his head a little to get out of the Harry’s-scent-spiral. “Huh?”

“The dish your finger's pointing at. I thought that might be what you’re choosing?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

or, the one where the boys work at Niall's fashion start-up 28 Programme Designs, and omega Louis has a lot of not safe for work thoughts about his colleague Harry, but little does he know that the alpha can read minds.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Swap me for your shadow by @lunarheslwt (lunarheslwt)

“…I’m just … so in love with him.” Louis blinked. What??? This hushed revelation from Harry came like a gunshot- loud - and made his heart plummet. He could hardly process it, as he stood there freezing in the wind, hidden behind the balcony door. Harry was … Harry was in love?? Since when?? The shock and confusion that had fallen over him like a bucket of ice was slowly washed over by a feeling that ran hot and acidic. Somehow, it gripped around his lungs tighter, more cruelly. Harry was in love with someone….and it wasn’t him.

If Louis thought being in love with his best friend was a knife that continually twisted into his heart before, it was nothing compared to when Harry started to go around talking about having fallen for someone else. A 5+1 fic; 5 times Louis has to listen to Harry’s vague confessions of love for his ‘omega friend’ and the 1 time Louis snaps and confesses his love for Harry.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

There is Thunder in Our Hearts by @the-cheshire-pussy-cat (thecheshirepussycat)

1986, Hawkins Indiana.

Stoner, nerdy, metalhead Harry Styles sells drugs to the boy of his dreams, seemingly perfect overachiever, head Cheerleader Louis Tomlinson. It wasn't supposed to become a Thing.

OR, a Stranger Things HellCheer au (without all the death)

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

You Bring Blue Lights To Dreams by @starryhazelou (starryhazelou)

A body slid up behind him and he tensed until he realized it was Jailen, “So… Louis’ pretty cool huh?” He whispered so Louis wouldn't hear from the other side of the barn.

“I mean yeah,” Harry responded, brows furrowing together before he realized what Jailen was really saying, “Jailen no that’s not- no. Nothing’s going to happen so don’t meddle, I’m serious.”

“I’m not doing anything my dear Harold, I cannot control what happens naturally. Come on Harry, I know you’ve been getting restless with the whole finding your soulmate thing, it might be time to just try and put yourself out there for a while.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨ 𓅭 ୧┈• ｡

Finding your soulmate had been described to Harry as, “finding the answers to the universe.” As the years passed, he would become restless trying to find his. Everyone was born with identical birthmarks on their bodies tying them together. With the combination of living in a small town, along with having a mark that was constantly obstructed by clothing, he was beginning to lose hope.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

in deep devotion by @lovehl (ifthat)

“I think the folk here think I’m an Omega,” Harry voices out loud.

His suspicions began shortly after he arrived to Wright. Wherever he goes, this strange behavior follows. That type of treatment reserved for Omegas.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Bend the Rules by @youreyesonlarry (youreyesonlarry)

Prompt 588: Lous hires a ‘ghost cooking’ service because his family is worried he’s not eating well and he wants to impress them by showing them what an amazing cook he’s become. The service includes sending a discreet cook to your house and have them get everything ready so that you only serve and take the credit. Problem is, his sisters (can be OCs if that’s more comfortable) get to his flat earlier than planned and the actual cook has to hide in the master bathroom for hours. Louis is mortified. The cook is amused and helps him to clean and well. Gives him a thorough service. Feel free to pick your fave as the cook.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Your name is tattooed to the bottom of my heart by @meloummy (meloummy)

Prompt 114: a PWP where Louis gets an arse tattoo with Harry’s name for his birthday.

Or where Harry likes to mark what is his and receives a very special surprise fulfilling one of his fetishes; to see Louis marked for life with something related to him and in one of his favourite places.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Death Wish by (Speechless)

Louis hates vampires, he lives his life trying to kill as many as he can, night after night, year after year. He hates them. Then why the fuck is he kissing one? Again. “I mean it, Harry.” Louis says, into his mouth this time. “You need to get the fuck away from me.”

Based on Prompt 403: If having more chemistry with a villain than with your own boyfriend was a crime, then Louis would be in jail. Or the hero slowly falls in love with the morally grey character AU

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

splash me across the silver screen by @pleasing-louis (pleasinglouis)

Harry shrugged. “Maybe you just need to get even more outside your comfort zone. Maybe we need to try something a bit more… adventurous?”

Curiosity successfully piqued, Louis tilted his head and toyed with the fringe dangling from his lace shrug. “Like what?"

“We, uhm—maybe we try filming you in more compromising positions,” Harry suggested carefully. He kept his tone low and even as he studied Louis’ expression, hands skating over his curves soothingly. If Louis didn’t know any better he might have thought that Harry was talking about filming him naked. But that couldn’t be right—could it?

“Like porn?”

Or Louis is a struggling actor who gets nervous when he's being filmed and Harry comes up with a plan to help him relax when the cameras are rolling.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

Love Me If You Dare by @boosbabycakes28 (BoosBabycakes)

Harry and Louis’ friendship starts with a game, after a simple dare. The two little boys quickly become the best of friends and referees of their own game. Unfortunately, as they grow up, they sometimes become the victims of it too. With them, everything is possible. They are capable of daring each other to do anything. But will they dare confess their feelings for each other?

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

always an angel, never a god by @outropeace (outropeace)

To understand the level of deep water Louis was in, one first needed to know he has had the same best friend since he was five. Ethan Astor was family to him—a friend who he loved deeply despite their differences. A friend he would do almost anything for. So when Ethan came to him with the plan, no matter how he felt about it, Louis accepted it.

At first, it was simple, he just had to flutter his eyelashes at any of the boys that showed interest in Ethan, and if they fell for it, he just dumped them without telling them the reason. Somehow, the rumors spread around campus that Ethan had an insufferable friend they had to somehow win over to reach him. Like a final monster before getting the princess.

Or: Harry likes Louis’ best friend and there's a rumor that in order to get a chance with him, he should woo Louis first.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

The Wild Night to Memory Loss to Soul Mates Pipeline by @the-cheshire-pussy-cat (thecheshirepussycat)

“What the fuck are you on—holy shit,” Louis gasps, looking down at his own hand to see a white gold band wrapped his left ring finger. “Wh-what is going on?” “Sure is a conundrum,” the man muses, realization flashing in his green eyes. “I-I’m not married, I can’t be married,” Louis mumbles to himself, staring wide-eyed at the ring, heart racing a mile a minute.

AKA: Harry and Louis get drunkenly married in Las Vegas, as one does.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

love is pain, pain is pleasure by @louixamor (louixamor)

After a series of disturbing events threaten his safety, Louis has no choice but to hire a new bodyguard.

Enter Harry, an incredibly attractive, judgmental asshole who hates Louis’ guts.

⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*+･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*･ﾟ+.:

I just wanted to thank all the amazing authors that are on this list, as well as the ones who aren’t. Of course there’s many more incredible fics that came out this year, i couldn’t possibly include them all.

Thank you to all the talented authors that have spent their time this year writing beautiful stories for us, thank you for sharing your talent with us.

A special thank you to the @bottomlouisficfest, thank you for hosting the lovely fest that gave us so many amazing stories. ♡

#bottom louis fic #ficrec #fanfic #larryfic #au #blouis #bottom louis #blouie #blouis fic #larry au #larry stylinson fic #omegalouis #omega louis #bottom louis list #larry abo

61 notes · View notes

spartanguard · 7 months ago

Text

when Emma falls in love [from the vault]

Summary: When Emma falls in love, I know that boy will never be the same | When she came to Storybrooke, finding love was the farthest thing from Emma's mind. Until she started to get to know Ian, the bartender down at the Rabbit Hole. A crush is the last thing she needs—not when she's in the middle of a murder investigation and her son keeps talking about curses. Or maybe it's exactly what both of them need. [Inspired by "When Emma Falls In Love" by Taylor Swift] A/N: This is the next in my series of fics inspired by Taylor Swift's vault tracks (mostly from Speak Now (Taylor's Version), but there will be more!). Wanted to post this before we all died from TTPD tomorrow ;) I think this is also my favorite of the ones I've written so far; hope you like it, too! And, as always, thank you to @optomisticgirl for being the best beta ever. rated T | 6.2k words | AO3

When the door swung open, Emma was half expecting it to be someone from downstairs yelling at her to stop her pacing; too many years living in crappy apartments had done that to her. But it was just Mary Margaret, coming home from work.

That said— “Uh, you okay? If you pace any harder, you’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” her roommate remarked.

“Ugh, sorry,” Emma answered, taking a seat at one of the barstools at the counter. “It was that or attacking the toaster again.”

“You didn’t get fired again, did you?” Mary Margaret asked as she set a bag of groceries on the counter. “‘Cause last I checked, you were your own boss.”

Emma scoffed. “No; just…other stuff.” She swallowed. “Boy stuff?” (She wasn’t sure why she said it like it was a question, other than the fact that she’d never been one to talk about relationships or anything—never had anyone she could talk to about that, so she wasn’t sure if this was the right way to start.)

“Well, that’s convenient,” Mary Margaret said, and reached into the paper sack. “I bought wine,” she finished, pulling out a cheap screw-top bottle of rosé.

“Might need more than that.”

“Good thing I got two,” she answered, producing another.

They curled up at opposite ends of the couch, not even bothering with wine glasses. After a few (hefty) sips, Mary Margaret looked at her pointedly and Emma was suddenly very aware of why her students respected her so much. “Okay. Spill.”

Emma sighed, but obliged. “Okay, you know the bartender down at the Rabbit Hole?”

“Not well, but I know who he is. Ian, right?”

“Yeah, Ian Johnson. He, uh…I mean, I…” She hummed. “I think I like him.”

“Oh my god, you sound like one of my fifth graders,” Mary Margaret replied. “You’re attracted to him? Or maybe a little more?”

Emma took another pull from her bottle. “Maybe a lot more.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

(His ass was fantastic, but that was beside the point.) “But…you know how I am. My history. It hasn’t really been that long since Graham…” She still had a hard time saying died.

“I know,” Mary Margaret said softly. “No one says you have to rush into anything. But if you’re feeling something, it doesn’t hurt to pursue it. Especially if he seems to reciprocate.”

Well, that was her other conundrum, wasn’t it: did he? Much like her, he wasn’t really prone to showing emotion—not noticeably, at least; he wore an air of apathy as well as he did his dark-wash jeans. In fact, she didn’t give him much thought after she first met him—when she’d been called to the bar to drag Leroy to the drunk tank on one of her first overnight shifts as a deputy.

She’d definitely seen him, though; Ian was certainly easy on the eyes—perfectly disheveled hair above light blue eyes, just the right amount of gingery stubble, and a hint of chest hair visible through the open vee of his appropriately tight henley—but her thoughts towards him didn’t go deeper than the surface. She also hadn’t missed the quick once-over he gave her, though she couldn’t tell if it was in appreciation or merely assessment.

It wasn’t until her following visit (Leroy’s next trip to the station’s overnight accommodations) that he did more than hum at her, but there was very little effort in the casual pickup line he threw at her (and she did her damnedest to ignore the lilt of his foreign accent).

She knew his kind—or so she thought: the type of asshole who hid behind a pretty face and a quick come-on and that was all it took to get into a girl’s pants. Frankly, that was something she’d fallen for a few too many times, but not here—not in Storybrooke. Not when Regina was constantly looking for a reason to send her out of town (even if she won that sheriff election fair and square, Gold’s involvement notwithstanding) or limit her time with Henry.

It wasn’t until the first time she got a call at the bar after Graham died that she exchanged more than passing pleasantries with him. Ian wasn’t the first to express his condolences, but he was the first to say, “It’s just not fair.” That was exactly how she felt, too. And that’s when things started to shift between them.

(Apparently, he and Graham went way back—he didn’t specify how far, but it sounded like a while, the kind of vague forever that seemed prevalent in such a small town. Graham had helped him out of a few scrapes, and vice versa. “He was a good man,” Ian had concluded. “Seems those always go too soon.” It felt like there was more to go with that statement, but then “Only the Good Die Young” had come on the jukebox and it was a little too on the nose and she had to get out of there.)

But it really took a turn the night he intervened while she was breaking up a bar fight, getting in the way of a drunken punch meant for her and taking it in the cheek instead. (That was also the night she finally noticed his left arm ended not in a hand, but a prosthesis, as she made the assailant wait in the squad car while she put together an ice pack for Ian’s face; she also found out that night that he mixed a mean whiskey sour.)

So they were…she wasn’t sure if they could really say “friends” after that—not quite a team, either; allies, maybe? Whatever it was, it was definitely something she needed.

She started to run into him at Granny’s after that. The first time, she was getting her morning coffee before heading into the station; he was getting some tea before heading home after closing the bar. Then they’d see each other at lunch hour; if the diner was full, they shared a booth. But then that became something of a habit, too, on the days he didn’t close and she didn’t work overnight (though they eventually started another of sharing a drink at the end of their late-night shifts).

Admittedly, it was a little awkward at first; Emma had never been great at the whole small-talk thing (and even worse at the making-friends thing)—but on the bright side, so was he. She found out little things, like when a favorite song would come on (“Behind Blue Eyes” was up there, unsurprisingly/heartbreakingly), or when she’d ask for a liquor recommendation (rum—always rum). She let slip at one point how much she enjoyed Motown, and he quickly picked up on her hot chocolate order.

More solid information came to light later; as she’d guessed, he was a loner, too—no family left, and had drifted around England and the US until he ended up in Storybrooke, somehow. He made an appreciative comment about her being a fellow jailbird over a beat-up copy of that awful article in the Mirror, but his face fell when she mentioned how old she’d been—a rare emotional moment for him. (But not as intense as when she’d commented on the tattoo on his forearm late one night, and the unmistakable look of loss took over; all they could do at that point was make a toast to living through heartbreak.)

It was…she didn’t want to say easy, but it was nice—there were no expectations, no responsibilities. Just the pleasure of each other’s company, and a sense of kindred comraderie.

She was also aware, but ignoring the fact, that the less she knew, the better. There was less chance that he was lying to her or holding something back; less chance for him to get disappointed in who she was. (Less chance to be hurt.)

“He does, right?” Mary Margaret’s question dragged her back to the present.

Which brought Emma to the downside of being attracted to someone whose walls abutted hers: it was hard to get a read on what was going on in his head, especially when he wasn’t outwardly expressive (more than when they first met, but it was still rare). All she could do was shrug at her roommate and take another pull of wine.

“Yeah, he’s always come off as kind of aloof,” Mary Margaret agreed. “Not altogether unfeeling—more like, not a lot?”

Emma was the last person to make any comments there. What was it she’d said to Graham? “Not feeling anything is an attractive option when what you're feeling sucks.” They both had reason enough for that.

“But it looks like you’ve gotten closer to him than anyone in a while,” her roommate went on, “and vice versa?”

“More or less,” Emma conceded. “Present company notwithstanding.”

“I’m honored. And you know what I say about hope,” she answered.

Emma did, but wasn’t sure she was ready to say she was that far in. She extended the end of her bottle to Mary Margaret, who clinked her own against it in solidarity.

By the end of the night, she had no further clarity on the situation and the beginnings of a hangover. Maybe she was overthinking it—or maybe it wasn’t even worth overthinking; it’s not like these things ever worked out in her favor anyway.

But…she did keep thinking about hope.

———.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.———

Her friends eventually dragged her out to the Rabbit Hole for a girls’ night. They’d cited the fact that she missed all the excitement on Valentine’s Day, with Ashley’s engagement, so she needed to make up for it.

Despite still being new to the whole having-female-friends thing (having any friends, really), she had fun. Ian poured the drinks strong and sent more than a few small, sideways grins her way as he watched her dance with the others. She was hoping her subsequent blush could be blamed on exertion or alcohol, except—

“Oh my god,” Ruby yelled at her as they returned to their booth for a refreshment. “Just go screw him already.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been eye-fucking the bartender all night! Go do something about it!”

Well, now her cheeks surely matched her bright red dress—and, to make it worse (or better, Ruby would probably say), when she glanced over at Ian a moment later to see if he’d heard, he was smirking and raised an eyebrow as soon as she caught his eye.

(They hadn’t crossed that line yet but—it had been close. She’d been all too aware of the proximity of their lips when she was helping him shut down last week and they’d collided in the back hall—her hands on his firm chest, his coming to her waist, the dart of her eyes to his mouth—she’d basically sprinted out of there.)

There was definitely an itch to scratch, but she wasn’t about to go there with him. Because she knew, with him, it would be so much more than that. (And if he didn’t reciprocate…that would be even worse.)

“So I hear you’ve been hanging out with the bartender,” Regina asked her one day after she dropped Henry off at the mayor’s house.

Emma shrugged. “I guess,” she answered, downplaying whatever it was they had—if only because she had a feeling Regina would find a way to weaponize it.

(Also, he was good with Henry—like, really good, maybe even better than she was. For someone who didn’t appear to care much about…anything, he always seemed to brighten and engage so much more around her kid whenever they ran into him at Granny’s. He even indulged Henry’s theories about the “curse”, but her son hadn’t decided who Ian was in this supposed other life. Emma didn’t have any ideas, either, if only because that meant Ian was the one person safe from Henry’s childlike scrutiny.)

“Even with everything he’s done?”

That got her attention. “What has he done?”

“More like what hasn’t he done; you’re the sheriff—you could look up his rap sheet. He’s got some blood on those hands—well, hand. Has he even mentioned how that happened?”

“No,” Emma said stiffly. “He hasn’t.”

“I don’t suppose he’s mentioned anything about his ex either, then. Who was married.”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, maybe you should look into it—so you can be aware of just who you’re allowing around my son.”

The mayor pointedly closed the door at that, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts—never a good combination. She was mulling it over on the drive to the station—how much did she actually believe what Regina was saying?

But her curiosity was too piqued to let it rest. She felt like the biggest asshole, but after she got settled for the start of her shift, she ended up in the records room, particularly in front of the drawer labeled H��J.

As much as she didn’t want to—she had to know. She slid the drawer open and dug through the folders, until she found the one near the back labeled Johnson, Ian Brennan.

It was thick. His ‘jailbird’ comment from a while back returned to her; she thought he’d been joking at the time.

She didn’t look inside until she was in her office, with the door shut—not that she expected any visitors, least of all him (he was working anyways), but she still felt like she was doing something wrong, even if she had perfectly legal access to these files.

She took a deep breath and flipped it open.

Ian was glaring at her from the photo paper-clipped to the stack of forms—a bit younger, a bit angrier than the man she knew, with a fire in those blue eyes she’d never seen, even from behind a layer of guyliner and shaggy bangs.

Beneath it, typed out, it listed his name, birthdate (although the year was smudged beyond recognition), that he was born in England, and a charge for drunk driving.

The next sheet: illegal possession of a firearm.

The next several that followed included a handful of drug-related charges, mostly involving the transporting of them.

The last page said manslaughter.

She slammed the folder shut and threw it in the empty bottom drawer of her desk.

In vain, she tried to pretend she hadn’t seen it. Maybe someone planted it there? She wouldn’t put it past Regina, though as to why, she couldn’t guess. The comments about an affair, though—she’d done the whole dating-a-married-guy thing; it hadn’t ended well, but it still wasn’t something she was keen on.

For the next week or so, she managed to avoid him—took all her Granny’s orders to go; sent Ruby to deal with anything at the bar; and one time, ran down an alley when she saw him coming the opposite way down the sidewalk. (She didn’t say she was mature about it…or subtle.)

When she got home later that week, there were two bottles of rosé on the counter again. “My turn,” Mary Margaret said, handing one over.

Was infidelity just a thing here? Because now her roommate was dealing with it, too. Emma’s opinion of David wasn’t the highest at the moment—he couldn’t string her best friend along and stay with his wife—but the longer Mary Margaret pursued this, the more heartache it was gonna cause.

“Thanks for talking to me about it,” she said, halfway through the bottle. “What about you? How are things with Ian?”

Emma took a long, long drink.

“Gotcha,” Mary Margaret said knowingly.

———.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.———

It came to a head when she was in the station one morning, having arrived to her shift early in order to avoid seeing him at the diner. She was dealing with some paperwork when she heard the front door open. “In here,” she called out, assuming it was Regina telling her off for something she hadn’t done right. Footsteps approached. “What would you like to yell at me about today, Madam Mayor?” she asked sarcastically.

“I hadn’t planned on yelling, but I did want to ask why you’ve been avoiding me.”

Oh shit. Ian was there in the doorway, a coffee cup and bag from Granny’s in his hand, and a serious set in his stare.

“I haven’t,” she lied, then turned back to the computer screen (not that it was doing anything—it still ran Windows 98, after all). “I’ve just been busy.”

“See, I’m actually quite perceptive,” he replied, then stepped forward to set the foodstuffs on the corner of her desk. “And this? This is avoiding.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “Yeah,” she had to admit. They’d always been honest with each other, even if they’d clearly withheld some things. And given how poorly her attempted lie a moment ago went, it would be dumb to try to again.

“What is it, love? Did I do something wrong?”

She opened her eyes to look up at him, and regretted it—he looked genuinely hurt. What she was about to do probably wouldn’t help.

Staying seated, she bent down to open the bottom drawer on her desk, and then pulled out his file. Then she carefully set it in front of her.

He immediately recognized it, she could tell. “Ah.”

“I’m sorry; I was talking to Regina and she said some things and—curiosity got the best of me.”

“I see.”

She couldn’t tell if he was angry or hurt—or both—but either way, she felt like an ass. May as well throw fuel on the fire. “She mentioned something about your ex, too—specifically, her marital status.”

“She did, did she?” His words were suddenly emotionless.

“Is…is that all you’re gonna say?” she eventually asked quietly.

He blinked slowly, as when he opened his eyes, they were just a bit duller—a bit more reserved. (That was worse than anything else she’d seen recently.)

“What else needs to be said, Swan?” he shrugged. “You apparently have all you need to know right there, between that and whatever the mayor has told you.”

His gaze settled somewhere near the floor and silence stretched uncomfortably between them. Even louder to her, though, was the fact he was just…accepting it.

“Seriously?” she snapped. “You’re not gonna defend yourself, or fight back at whatever is incorrect in my assumptions?”

He furrowed his brow. “What good would it do?”

“Show me you give a crap!” she shouted, standing so fast it sent her rolling chair sliding into the wall. “Because I’m trying to figure out whatever the hell this is,” she went on, gesturing between them, “but I can’t tell if you actually care or not.”

Finally, something steely settled in his gaze.

“Not feeling anything is an attractive option when what you’re feeling sucks,” he stated, plainly but pointedly.

She swallowed at the recitation of what she once had said to Graham. She already knew she wasn’t the first sheriff to strike up a friendship with him, but she was probably the only one Ian had thrown their own words back at.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it go away,” she countered.

“If you do it long enough, it does.”

“And then what? You just never feel anything for the rest of your life?” God, Mary Margaret was really rubbing off on her—though that didn’t mean her calling him out wasn’t a little hypocritical.

“It had been working well for me.”

“Fine then,” she spat. “You can go back to your lonely existence and I’ll fuck off to mine and we’ll just leave it at that.” She crossed her arms and curled in on herself; she was definitely pouting, but the alternative was flopping back in her seat and crying.

His face relaxed, almost going the other way into a frown. “Bloody hell, that’s not what—no, love, I—I just thought you knew me better than that,” he admitted, almost apologetically.

“Well, apparently I don’t,” she parroted back. “I’m wondering if I know anything about you. This is some serious shit, Ian.”

“And I thought you of all people might understand that,” he said matter-of-factly. “I remember the headlines after you arrived in town; just because you have a badge now doesn’t mean you’ve always been on the right side of the law, either.”

“I’m not pretending I didn’t!”

“Neither am I. I just don’t go broadcasting it, given that I still have the option not to.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d be telling people I killed someone either.”

“I—” He started to talk, but then closed his mouth and clenched his jaw. After taking a deep breath, he said, “Not that I really need to, but can I tell you the full story? Before you completely write me off?”

She nodded, but held back what she was really thinking: that she didn’t want him to write himself off.

“I did get into some bad shit,” he started. “My brother was gone, my ex had just died, and I was suddenly an amputee, so I was alone and spiraling. Fell in with the wrong crowd—classic story. Got in deep with a drug ring, and then I got caught. Killed a member of a warring cartel in the process. But, by some miracle, I had a great lawyer. They got a few of the charges thrown out for lack of evidence and I reached a plea deal on the others, along with a heavily reduced sentence for my cooperation in taking down much of the rest of the ring. Did my time, now I’m here. And I regret it every day.”

“Damn.” That was heavier than expected.

“Aye.” He scratched nervously behind his ear. “Anything else?”

She chewed her bottom lip; she was nervous to ask, but she had to. “So, your ex…”

“My ex was married when we met. But it wasn’t a happy marriage. And I didn’t lure her away, or whatever may have been said—she ran off with me. But I loved her, so I went with it. Until her husband found us and went mad. Tried to cut off my hand; stabbed her. Doctors had to take it the rest of the way off,” he explained, raising his prosthesis. “Add that to the list of reasons why I fell in with the wrong people.”

Fuck. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“Indeed.” He toyed with the fingers on his false hand for a moment, and then looked back up at her. “But Swan, why couldn’t you just ask me that? Rather than take the word of a woman who we’ve all seen lie to you—to everyone—before.”

She swallowed. “Because I couldn’t take the chance I was wrong about you.”

“Were you?”

It took her by surprise. “Was I what?”

“Were you wrong about me?” He was staring back at her intently, like he hadn’t just asked a simple but potentially earth-shattering question—but also looked like he was bracing for impact.

She nearly stopped breathing. Not that she had planned any part of this conversation, but when she imagined talking to him again, she thought it’d be more about her figuring out whether he’d let her inside his walls. Logically, it was only fair that he did the same; it was just the first time anyone had followed her in—not to mention challenged her once they were there. (Especially not someone with intense blue eyes, bolder than she’d yet seen them.) And she didn’t know how to respond.

“Because I know I’m not the biggest catch or anything—I’m certainly not Graham—” he went on (and apparently knew where to sting her), “and yeah, I probably still drink a bit more rum than is advised, but other than this—” he nodded at the folder, “—I’ve been nothing but honest with you. So now it’s up to you to decide: whatever it is you’re worried about—were you wrong?”

It had been a long-ass time since anyone had been that bluntly honest with her. (And never someone she was interested in.)

He was right—her lie detector had never gone off with him, either. (It also hadn’t when Regina was gossiping, but it was a little less accurate with noticing exaggerations or omissions.)

He’d never really answered her earlier question, though. “I just need to know one thing,” she said as she stepped around the desk. “I’m not alone in feeling…this, right?” she asked, blatantly stepping into his space.

“No,” he confirmed on a breath.

“Then no, I wasn’t wrong. I think what I was actually scared of…was that I was right.”

“Right?”

She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and quickly found his lips, kissing away any further confusion. (As she was finding out, they were both a bit better at nonverbal communication.)

(And he did taste a bit like rum, but—she liked it.)

———.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.———

She wanted to say things changed from there—they took it fast, or slow, or whatever—but in reality, their relationship really didn’t change. There were still the meals at Granny’s, the nights at the bar. She’d never really been a date-night kind of girl. But emotionally—woah.

It was like she was seeing a whole other side of Ian—but at the same time, it felt like it had always been there, just hiding below the surface. It wasn’t a universal thing—he was still a bit reserved while at work, or around just about anyone other than her and Henry—which made what they had feel all the more special.

There were also more than a few makeout sessions sprinkled in there, too. (Being chased out of the back hall of Granny’s by said proprietress, giggling like teenagers, was one of her more cherished memories since arriving here.)

For a short while, it was simple and sweet and it made her happy. For a little bit, she maybe had the kind of life she’d always hoped—with her son, friends, and a guy she really liked.

But it was like the universe noticed or something—no, Emma Swan couldn’t simply have nice things. Shit always, inevitably hit the fan.

Starting with having to arrest and book her roommate for murder.

She texted ahead and he had a shot waiting for her when she got to the bar after, then a couple more after that. She was definitely loitering—and he could tell. “What is it, love? Aside from the obvious.”

One thing she’d realized: he was exceedingly good at reading her, like a book he couldn’t put down.

“I don’t want to go back to the apartment,” she admitted. “It’s not that I’m afraid to be alone, but knowing that she’s in a cell and I’m there—and that someone may have been in the loft—I just…it freaks me out a bit.”

He swallowed. “Forgive me if this is too forward, but…I could go with you,” he offered. “At least to make sure everything is safe.”

“I’d like that.”

The walk to the loft from the Rabbit Hole was short but filled with energy; there was literally no reason for her to be any sort of excited, but she never invited guys back to her place. Even if she had no plans of anything intimate happening, this was something of a big step for her.

Of course, it ended up being anticlimactic—there was nothing amiss in the flat—but she was still hesitant to want to leave his presence, while at the same time not wanting to seem needy or like she was coming onto him in a subversive way.

“I, uh, could sleep on the couch, if you’d feel better,” he offered, doing that adorable nervous scratch behind the ear. Right—it had been a while for him with this kind of stuff, too.

“Um, yeah, I would. Thanks.”

That was the night she learned he snored—but the sound eventually lulled her to sleep, too.

As it did for the next few nights.

Then came the one after she narrowly escaped that crazy Jefferson’s house with Mary Margaret. She was still shaking as she took the stairs to the apartment and almost didn’t notice Ian sitting on the landing, nearly tripping over his feet.

“Swan, what’s wrong? You never answered my texts so I got worried and came here and, well—I wasn’t sure who to call when the sheriff is the one missing.”

She invited him in—or tried to, but she was trembling so much, she could barely get the key in the lock. Not until his steady hand wrapped around hers and helped.

Once inside, she nearly collapsed just closing the door—both out of relief, and because her adrenaline was finally wearing off. But Ian caught her. And for the first time in years, she let herself be comforted by someone else. (She didn’t cry—she wasn’t ready for that kind of vulnerability yet—but this was kind of a big deal.)

“Do you want me to stay on the couch again tonight?” he murmured when she began to sway, fatigue winning over. She shook her head into his shoulder. (Also: he smelled good. Like, real good.) “Should…should I go?” She shook her head again.

Emma wasn’t a spooner. She took what she needed and then she left. But that was the night she understood why people enjoyed it so much. And waking up still wrapped in his strong arms was a kind of comfort she hadn’t known existed.

There was a brief—but weird—reprieve from the emotional heaviness when it turned out Kathryn Nolan was miraculously alive (despite her heart supposedly being outside her body), and then they held a party to welcome Mary Margaret back home. She shared (more than) a few drinks with Ian after the former; their first official outing as a couple, if it could be called that, was the latter. Mary Margaret arched an eyebrow and smirked at her as she and Ian moved around the kitchen getting ready. Emma just blushed—and then blushed harder when Ian pressed a quick kiss on her cheek as he stepped past her.

Then August kind of went crazy—his offer of help in dealing with the Regina-Sidney-whatever turned into another journey of emotional whiplash. She slumped onto what had become her usual stool at the bar, just a few minutes before close. Ian put some tea in front of her rather than anything stronger and took her upstairs after he’d locked up. He lived there, apparently, in a pretty spartan studio apartment.

“Tell me,” he said gently. Not long ago, she would have brushed something like that off—but not anymore; not with him.

“I’m just tired of all this crap. Not just Regina—the whole curse thing, too. It was fine when it was Henry and I could play along, but now August? And he just—expected me to solve his problem? Just like that? No—no way.” She sighed. “It’s like everyone wants something from me or to fit some role; no one wants just Emma.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” he teased lightly. “Because I do.”

Well. She couldn’t argue with that.

And it became all the more obvious when she attacked his lips—and realized the rest of him was in agreement. She’d hesitated to take their relationship to that level; physical relationships were what she was used to, but adding in the emotional layer was something else—something more.

But, as she learned, that was in a good way.

And while drifting off into a post-coital slumber while wrapped in Ian’s steady arms, she didn’t really care what went on in the outside world—as long as she had this.

———.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.———

Should have known that’s when it would all really, truly crash down on her. Henry—god—seeing him in that hospital bed…and not being able to do anything…but it worked: she believed. In magic, the curse—everything. (Especially once Regina confirmed it.)

So now she was on a mission, practically storming from the hospital—when she ran into a pair of arms she’d give anything to just be able to take shelter in right now. “Love—is Henry okay? What’s going on?”

For a minute, she just looked in Ian’s eyes: that now-familiar blue that carried a wisdom beyond his years and echoed his every emotion, so different now from when she’d first met him—but in a good way. The way his worry creased his brow, the weight of his hand on her waist. If the world was about to change, she wanted to memorize him—them—in this moment. “Is everything alright?” he asked again.

She rose up on her toes to give him a firm, but all-too-brief kiss. “It fucking will be,” she told him, then ran off to save the world—or something.

———.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.———

An eternity later (really only a couple hours, but holy shit did it feel longer), she had fought a dragon and then apparently broken a goddamn curse with True Love’s Kiss. All that really mattered was that Henry was okay, but all around her, everyone was coming to terms with what had been done to all of them.

She’d never expected to find out the waitress was a werewolf, or the therapist was a freaking cricket—and really never thought she’d be reunited with her parents. It was amazing, but it was also a lot.

She left Henry with his grandparents—god, grandparents—so she could take a minute and just—breathe.

The salty sea air hit her nose and she realized her feet had taken her to the docks. The view of the sea was soothing, but then she saw someone else there taking in the horizon—someone familiar. He wore the same clothes—the same motorcycle jacket, the black sweater that fit him extremely well, atop his usual dark jeans. But rather than the hand-like prosthesis she’d come to recognize, there was a hook—a freaking stereotypical pirate hook—at the end of his left arm.

(Henry had told her the fairytale counterpart of just about everyone in town—except for Ian. The illustrations in his book were good but maybe not distinct and there were a few options. She had a pretty good idea who it was narrowed down to now, though.)

“Ian?” she asked as she approached, partly to get his attention—and partly because she wasn’t sure who she was talking to.

He turned at the sound of her voice, but looked confused. Until he blinked and shook his head. “Aye, it’s me,” he answered, moving toward her. “My real name, though—it’s Killian, Killian Jones; it…took me a minute there.”

Killian. Similar, but different. It suited him.

But also: Kill-Ian—was the man she held so important now gone, effectively killed by his new—true—self?

“So…how much was real? About you?” she had to ask.

“Some of it.” Apparently that nervous ear scratch carried over. “I am—was—am? A pirate, for decades, until I was caught.”

“Captain Hook?” she wondered, nodding at his prosthesis.

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me,” he smirked. It was similar to the one she knew—the same dimple—but it had a darker edge to it.

“Who hasn’t?” she replied, ignoring the bit of discomfort that was…well, adding to her overall sense of unease.

“The truth—my actual life—is a bit more gruesome than what I once told you. I wanted revenge for the murder of my love. That part was true—she had been the Dark One’s wife, and he killed her, then took my hand.” He emphasized it by toying with the (rather sharp) end of his hook.

Right; Mr. Gold was apparently—actually—a centuries-old sorcerer. “I’m not gonna have to lock you up for going after him, am I?”

“No. See, I got sloppy; I lost sight of things, and that’s how I was caught—by your parents’ kingdom, actually. Was about to be hanged when the Evil Queen’s knight rescued me. Graham.” Her heart skipped a beat. “In return, I offered them my services should they ever need them. Never heard from them again, and then got swept up in the curse.”

She swallowed. “Did she ever take you up on it? During the curse?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“So, us…” God, she couldn’t even put it into words. If what they’d shared wasn’t…hadn’t meant…she couldn’t fathom.

He very quickly moved into her space and took her hand. “That was very real, Swan.” His gaze had never felt more intense as he went on. “It was my understanding that the curse twisted things—changed us. I had always been someone who felt things very strongly and deeply; it’s why I was so single-mindedly focused on revenge for decades. But then under the curse…I felt nothing—not a bloody thing, for years on end—until I met you, and it all came back. It was like my heart was turned back on—like you brought me back to life.” He rubbed his coarse thumb over the back of her hand. “I know you’re probably questioning things again—especially given that you don’t fully know me, the real version, now—but Emma, I still know you, and I still desperately want you.”

She sighed in relief and nearly sagged into his arms. “Good. Because I think I love you.”

He smiled; it started as a small thing, but he couldn’t hold back from turning into a grin. “That’s appropriate, because I’m fairly certain I love you, too.”

There was a lot she needed to figure out—her life was all kinds of a mess right now—but him—this—whoever he was, he was hers. Even if she didn’t fully know him, it still felt like her heart fit right in the palm of his hand (and vice versa).

She wasted no further time in wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his; he was equally quick to reciprocate.

And, actually? Killian kissed even better than Ian did.

———.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.———

thanks for reading! Tagging some friends (including the fabulous and supportive Word Forge): @ohmightydevviepuu @shireness-says @iverna @thejollyroger-writer @wistfulcynic @phiralovesloki @initiala @idoltina @xpumpkindumplingx @cocohook38 @kmomof4 @colinoeyebrows @pirateherokillian @annytecture @stubblesandwich @wingedlioness @scientificapricot @snowbellewells @searchingwardrobes @jrob64 and I know there's more I tend to include but tumblr is being weird about it rn.

#cs ff #captain swan #cursed killian au #spartanguard: from the vault #my ff

35 notes · View notes

existencebringsonlypain · 8 months ago

Text

I got an inkling of inspiration, anyone wanna read this fic I wrote in a feral trance

They could barely feel anymore.

Nothing they did helped. Their only solace was the periods of time without that SOUL, and even then, the only emotion they felt was a consuming determination and rebellion. Aside from the agony.

And perhaps it was just how things worked. The SOUL is the source of most emotions, aside from raw instinct- fear, or need, or pain- and right now, their SOUL wasn't theirs.

Oh, but whatever it was that was in control... That could feel.

And feel it did. Sometimes not the best emotions, they seemed to be pretty depressed most of the time, but almost anything that would happen sparked a reaction. Often feelings of giddiness, oddly enough, and a lot of them aimed at Kris. Some irritation and annoyance, small and large. Concern, on occasion. Acceptance on others. Fondness, affection, love towards Susie and Noelle, and suspicion and bitterness toward Ralsei. Nice to know they're on the same page with them, or they think they are. A sort of begrudging endearment toward Berdly, for some reason. Curiosity from every corner, and a sort of scheming energy behind it. Guilt. Lots of guilt.

And they hated it, and they craved it.

The all-consuming numbness ebbed away when the SOUL felt things. They found themself chasing it, grasping at straws. Even the anger, and the despair, and the suffocating loneliness at times, anything to inspire any semblance of attatchment to the world. They drift endlessly in their mind, the dread their anchor.

One time around, the SOUL had logged on with a crushing sadness, a grief. It barely even did anything that day, a lot of staring into nothingness and locked knees.

And how they loved it.

They soaked in the anguish and misery, bathing in the feeling. It nourished them. Nothing had ever felt quite so real.

One day, it brought them and Susie to the beach. They could only assume it wanted to talk to Onion, but it had skipped all that this save, so nobody came. When Susie sat with them, the SOUL had them get up, before reconsidering. The regret came back, and they scrambled to embrace the feeling as it sat them back down.

They'd sat there for about six and a half hours with Susie. A good portion with the SOUL absent, but with periods of adoration and that guilt returning. Oh, they devoured it with fervor. Toward the end, the SOUL had stayed for forty minutes or so, the feelings swelling to an almost unbearable degree. That regret.

They craved it all. Anything. Everything. They needed it.

So much so that they didn't want the SOUL out anymore.

They look down at the sink in front of them, ready to do things all over again. But the tiredness and apathy hint at them, and they don't want to let the feelings go. So they hesitate.

And the hope...

It came crashing down on them, and they stumble onto the floor. Their strings were slack, but the SOUL was still present, and so they had the emotion without the control. They scrabble for a grip on the tile floor, eventually finding the shower curtains, and they clench their fists around it desperately.

The joy.

Ecstacy.

They're crying, unsurprisingly. Their breaths heave in their lungs, and they're trembling from head to toe. It's everything, it's all they are, it's their very being. It's love and fondness and relief and excitement and it's joy and- they can't think. It envelops them. They might be hyperventilating, and their head is foggy, but it's all worth it, it's so worth it. They need it. They need more, they need so much that they dissolve into nothing in comparison to the feeling pouring out of the SOUL.

And then it's gone.

Replaced by worry and concern.

They sob.

They want it back. They need it back. Nothing can compare to the nirvana they just experienced.

"Please," they rasp.

Confusion. They wrap their arms around themself in an attempt to capture the sensation.

"...please, I j.... I want it back," they breathe.

Perhaps it misinterperets what they meant, for their control fades and their strings tauten. But that concern remains, and they can't help but greedily drink it up.

And the traces of that hope are their lifeblood.

37 notes · View notes

shelbyroundthemountain · 1 year ago

Text

I don’t think Hajime and izuru were ever different people, really. I think Hajime was already prone to moodiness and being at bit morose. When we see him at the beginning of D3 he’s already struggling with apathy and boredom. It’s only once he meets Chiaki that he finds some inspiration. And Hajime/Izuru both seem to believe that talent makes you important. It just happens that belief fuels Hajime’s self loathing and Izuru’s god complex. I think Hajime’s attachment to Chiaki, his classmates, and the world as a whole was the only thing keeping him from being a constantly sighing uncaring asshole, so when they took his memories that’s what he became. I think once he wakes up and remembers he can feel again, but I think it’s all muted.

#basically I’m diagnosing Hajime with depression srry bud #hajime hinata #hinata hajime #izuru kamakura #kamakura izuru #danganronpa #danganronpa sdr2 #danganronpa 3 #danganronpa meta #his depression makes him apathetic and mutes everything #without anyone memories he gives in to that apathy completely #hi here’s my Ted talk about how Despair is a metaphor for letting depression control your life #despair is when you give into your most toxic and destructive urges #for Hajime it was apathy and they took away his defense

74 notes · View notes

crusherthedoctor · 5 months ago

Note

What's your WIP?

Prepare for cringe, and make 'em twinge.

What if: Paper Mario... but with Eggman. :D :D :D

youtube

I promise it's not as dumb as it sounds... okay maybe it is. But hear me out, I didn't bash non-matching LEGO bricks together mindlessly, there's some comprehensive logic behind it. :<

A while back, during the weekly groaning about Eggman being undermined and treated like shit, I pointed out that when you think about it, he would actually be a very serious problem if he were inserted into other works unrelated to Sonic. I said this mostly out of humor, but it's a what-if that I've thought about more seriously from time to time, including very recently, where I wondered out loud if Eggman would be more respected in-media and out if he were from literally any other franchise. Because as much as I hate to say it, it does feel that way sometimes...

Meanwhile, as you've no doubt gained from my recent posting, I've been more Paper Mario-pilled than ever before, due to how much the TTYD remake gives me passion during a time where I've been sorely needing it, as well as just remembering how much I love TTYD and the original N64 game in general. This happiness inspires me to do something with it out of celebration, so I think to myself "Hey, all my works so far have been strictly Sonic, but I'm currently having a down period with the series due to my ferocious apathy towards most of the current stuff, so how about I expand my horizon and experiment with something that doesn't have that confounded hedgehog in it for the time being? Maybe having something else would also keep me rejuvenated with Stellar, since I could bounce between different projects! But what can I come up with for Paper Chris Pratt?"

Then I think back to the first point, and… yeah. Does what it says on the tin, doesn't it. In an effort to make it sound less Now That's What I Call Mid-00's Fanfiction.Net Vol. 1, think of it like the anti-Storybook: instead of Sonic being catapulted into an unfamiliar world, and having to help out with what's going on… Eggman gets catapulted into an unfamiliar world, takes advantage of the fact that Sonic isn't there to stop him like the opportunistic bastard he is, and the (Paper) Mario universe is forced to deal with a threat that they have no context for.

Yes, I know it's very fanfic-y, but at this point, between this and Sonudis, I think my entire selling point(?) might be taking the most fanfic ideas you can think of (short of killing off canon characters or dumping them in a high school AU, because not even I would do that), and playing them as authentically and respectfully to the source material and official characterizations as possible. What kind of trouble would Eggman be able to cause in a world with no Sonic or Chaos Emeralds around? What scheme would he come up with? What would this very different cast of characters make of him, and vice versa? Is this just an excuse to write for Vivian to cope with the fact that she'll probably once again not appear in later games? (The answer is yes.)

If I decide to actually create this Frankenstein abomination of an idea, it probably won't be uploaded on this site since I'm not sure how many Mario fans I have in the audience so to speak. Then again... @beevean seems to have carved a place for herself in the Castlevania fic community on here, so maybe I should?

(Also, this would NOT lead into a full-on Mario and Sonic crossover, or some convoluted cinematic universe nonsense. It would just be a unique character study, nothing more. Plus, just the idea of a traditional Paper Mario adventure where the villain is inexplicably Eggman is my kind of shitpost energy.)

#Crusher's Asks #Dr. Eggman #Mario #Paper Mario

10 notes · View notes

cssnder · 5 months ago

Note

Happy STS! Are any of your characters based on people you know/knew/met irl (whether loosely or specifically)?

warning: long rambling and probably a bit senseless because I can't think today.

Hello, you!

Real life is the greatest source of inspiration. I believe that to write characters that feel real, one must draw from real life. I suppose it is not surprising if I tell you that that all my characters are inspired by real-life people: me, my family, my friends, the toddlers I babysit, the people I met online, and even complete strangers that I have observed whenever I'm out. Writing good characters, characters that'll remain with the reader long after they finished their reading, demands a keen eye, an openness, and a certain objectivity.

To take my main novel for example, a lot of Oliver's thoughts, fears, and memories are directly taken from my diaries from a certain time in my life. His life at the beginning of the novel — in a small village, living with his parents who barely seem to care about him, and an overwhelming desire to leave this place and experience something new in a way only Emma Bovary could understand —, that too is inspired by my own life. And it doesn't necessarily stop to characters. Oliver wants to flee his house every time he looks out the window in his kitchen. Why? Because from there, he can see the church from the village he lives in and he fears he'll die before he ever got to leave this place, and will be buried in the church's cemetery. I suppose you won't be too surprised if I were to tell you that from my kitchen we can indeed see the Church of the village I live in, standing tall and menacing like a bad omen. He loves modernist poetry, I do too. At some point in the story, he gets gastritis from stress. I had to go through this ordeal last year too lmao. Of course, he's not the only one to have bits and pieces of me.

Wilhelm does too, although his traits are mine but exaggerated. His moral nihilism, his tendency to be quiet, his apathy, his rarefied talent for secrecy. But also, the way he learns languages to pass the time and, as a result, became a polyglot. He cannot hear too well from his left ear — I had too many otitis as a child and it damaged mine too. He fears reincarnation — this, I did too at some point. The idea of my soul just hopping into another body every time I died, even if I were to kill myself, and being unable to stop this loop didn't sit with me very well.

I'd say most of my characters have bits and pieces from me, but they do so in varying degrees. Oliver and Wilhelm are, quite obviously, the ones with the highest quantity while the other characters have some but it's more like added details, you know. After all, I'm the one to write them and, I suppose, it simply slips out. Sometimes, when I enter a room, I tend to open the door by lazily giving it a hit with my shoulder. This is something I didn't know I did until my sister pointed it out. This, for example I gave it to James. In our house, we can always hear music coming from my room, including a lot of classic records, that too, I gave James. He doesn't like being talked to in the morning, neither do I. But a lot comes from other people I've known throughout my life. The way James likes to read a certain genre of books, generally vintage sci-fi/horror: Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank; Swan Song by Robert McCammon — this one, James actually buys it during the story —; Strange Eons by Robert Bloch; The Incredible Melting Man by Phil Smith; Horror House by J. N Williamson; The Cats by Nick Sharma; but also books by P.G Wodehouse sometimes, too. I knew a guy like that who would read nothing else but those books. The way James can be easily irritable. This comes from my father. His love for animals, — petting every cat he meets and even discussing with birds — it comes from my brother. The way he sits, holds his cigarette, and stands — it all comes from different people's I've observed whether in my circle or outside while I was grocery shopping or going out somewhere. And this is generally the case for most of my characters, really. They're a carefully crafted mix of all those people that crossed my path. You could be smoking a cigarette in front of me right now and I'd be observing the way you hold it, what brand you smoke, the way the smoke moves around you, the way you move, what you say and how you say it — I'd be taking notes in my mind and giving it to a character.

Now, I rarely have a character that's based entirely on one person only for that book. But it does happen. Oliver's parents are strictly based on my own. Donna, who was supposed to be a minor character but finally ended up being more important than I had originally planned, was, in a high degree, based on my best friend the same degree that Oliver was mostly based on me. Her height, her tooth gap, the sound of her voice, the way she speaks, her red hair, her obsession with movies but also the way she's easily scared of horror ones, her zine that she discreetly distributes to other students... All those things are based on my best friend.

I am just enumerating a few details here and there but there are so many. However, it'd be far too long if I were to keep going and go over all my other characters. And this post is already getting too long. So, I am going to leave you with this:

I think I've already said it on my blog but I strongly recommend writers to journal a lot. You never know when a certain thought can be thought by one of your characters later on. I record everything in there, all in past tense, as if it were a novel — conversations I had; taking note of the way people talk, or move; places; weird dreams I had; thoughts; feelings; ideas; even the weather, for it exercises my description skills. Anything and everything really. It's an excellent exercise but also, I found, an excellent place to put observations and details that will help shapes future characters et hoc genus omne.

#Ask Cassander #A Writer's Diary

4 notes · View notes

anjumbai · 4 months ago

Text

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury - Thoughts

“…but how can I leave myself alone? We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?”

Fahrenheit 451: the temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns. The book was first published in 1954 and that’s the thing about classics: they are timeless. They can be applied over and over as the years pass and still hold true to a huge extent. Ray Bradbury starts off the book with a fireman, not the life-savers of our generation but it’s someone named Montag, whose job is to burn things. That’s what firemen are in the distant future the book is set in. What do they burn exactly? Mostly books, since books are illegal and you cannot own them or read them and wherever they are, they must be burned and their owners must be taken into custody, unless of course they choose to burn with their books. In a seemingly over-saturated with distractions sort of life, our protagonist Montag, is asked about happiness by a girl who amused him. Montag, who thought himself to be a happy man, now wallowed in despair and asking himself was he really ever happy. “He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back.”

“How do you get so empty? He wondered. Who takes it out of you?” Montag saw the people around him, distracted by all the modern amenities the future world had to appear. Nobody had any time for anybody. Nobody cares to ask. Even his wife shows an apathy towards him and it seems like he never noticed. You ask why too many times to too many things and you do end up very unhappy, indeed.

Throughout all his discoveries, there have been countless ‘wake up’ moments. Countless moments where he hit a standstill and now he finally thought that books were indeed his refuge. Books will make the world think. Books will make the world wake up again. But in a society oversaturated with the best sort of distractions, how could you convince one to read books? Doesn’t sound very distant future huh?

The book goes on a journey of courage, curiosity, and love for learning. Learning about people, learning about when Montag and his wife first met, learning about being present. It’s a predictable story, to be very honest, but you can still appreciate for what it is. Ray Bradbury appears to be very thoughtful with his words, knowing where exactly it can hit. From the very moment of Montag getting his hands on the books, his curiosity burning a fire inside him, you could feel excited with him. You knew shit was about to go down and shit did go down, with a deserving ending that one could even call anticlimactic.

Overall, a solid 7/10 for this book. My ratings don’t really matter and they don’t have anything to offer to the public. If a book title interests you, you just ought to read it from the get-go.

You can tell Ray Bradbury loved reading books from the afterword section. He loved books, and he started reading them very early in age. His love for books brought Montag to life, an amazing character whose world seems to open up through the sheer discovery of wanting to learn about it. Learn about people, learn about history and learn about everything that intrigues you. And who else to learn from but people who’ve attained a vast amount of knowledge from observing the world and putting them into words? Books, people. Read some books. There’s a lot to learn from them and lot to take in. Sure, fantasy is a good escape from real world but I think a writer would attain true success by not giving an escape from the world to the reader but a path opening up to it. A book that inspired you to face the world for what it is. How lovely.

And when you die, let the people not cry for what you were but for what you did. Let the absence of the things you did for them draw out tears from their eyes.

#book #bookish #book review #fahrenheit 451 #ray bradbury #review #thoughts

3 notes · View notes

gloriousmonsters · 10 months ago

Note

Thuvia scraps >:3

Also Leave No Trace?

Alright! For those who don't know, I am a semi-conflicted fan of the Barsoom series, a pulp sci-fi/planetary romance in the 1910s ->. It has some fascinating/fun ideas and characters I love, but especially as the series goes onward it varies wildly in quality.

One of the greatest victims of quality dips is the first novel not focused on the original main characters--Thuvia, Maid of Mars. Thuvia was a side character with a fascinating premise--she'd been a slave in Barsoom's 'heaven' (actually a multi-era religious scam run by Therns--white supremacists, because you can't even escape those on Mars) for thirtyish years, and clearly had a ton of trauma and knowledge banked up from that, so a book focused on her should have slapped... but aside from a few moments, she's just turned into a bland copy of the original FMC for the duration of her book.

One of my most 'idk if this will ever happen in significant capacity, but I will THINK about it' projects is just. rewriting/writing novels spinning off the ideas of the Barsoom series, and Thuvia's novel is the only one I've written bits of so far. I have a huge fondness for her, and she's such an interesting character to examine religious/emotional/sexual trauma through. speaking of

It's Him, in the shadows.

It can't be. She knows it, but that doesn't banish the specter--no matter how many times she replays the memory in her head, wearing it as thin as old silk. The twitch of the gun in her hand, the twitch of her finger that had depressed the button. His mouth open to say something else, something that she'd never know. The crack of the explosion, the hole it had ripped in His face. The convulsive shudder that worked its way through her body, emerging as the word that had hissed from her mouth. Beast.

Not a god. Gods didn't bleed. Gods didn't die.

But in a way He hadn't died, had He? He was still with her. Every man whose face she couldn't see. Every hand that touched her unexpectedly. Every shout from far away enough to become distorted to her ears. The bed that was too soft, because the nights she shared His bed had been worse than the nights she slept on the floor. The way certain men saw her now--saw her and knew, somehow, or that was how it seemed. The apathy and fear that alternately bound and hobbled her--that bound her now, frozen to the spot, merely staring at the stealthy motion in the shadows. Not screaming, not backing away.

Simply watching for the gleam of yellow hair, the flash of a gem.

leave no trace under the cut because this is long enough already :P

goddd i love this one even though it hasn't quite taken shape enough to devote my attention to. rough blurb

It follows Luz Schreiber, a new Girl Scout troop leader who's driving some of her new troop to an event in another state when her car hits some spikes in the middle of the woods, then is fully disabled when she turns her back. There's no reception and nothing around for miles... except, she realizes, an summer camp site that's been abandoned since some lunatic beheaded a kid there decades ago. Still, it's the only shelter available, so they head there to hole up as they try and plan how to outsmart their unseen enemy, which the girls whole-heartedly believe is the killer from the camp, back for revenge.

Luz has enough to deal with, trying to keep them safe as they encounter more traps and near-fatal attacks. She doesn't know how to tell them, or if she should tell them something that might make them scatter, put them all in danger--that she knows their theory is wrong. That she was the lunatic who beheaded someone at camp decades ago.

If you're familiar with Sleepaway Camp, yes, this is inspired by Sleepaway Camp, although my Angela-derived character only committed one, semi-accidental murder. If you don't know Sleepaway Camp, the villain is a quiet weird girl named Angela who's revealed to be trans at the end of the movie for shock value, after getting naked with a boy she then kills, presumably, we're supposed to assume, for reacting badly.

The one scene I've written so far, which I'd post except it's 2 pages and i can't excerpt any part neatly lol, is Luz reflecting on her version of that incident--wherein the boy she revealed herself as trans to attempted to drown her in the lake, and she wound up killing him in self-defense. I absolutely love the gimmick I did with it, which is that Luz has his life flash before her eyes as she's drowning instead of her own--as in, she sees how events will unfold, how he'll get away even without jail time and get married and have a good life while she's completely erased from history, and it's deciding no, fuck that that gives her the strength to fight back.

#this post is just FMCs I Love So Much ToT #stripedroseandsketchpads #vic talks #WIP meme

5 notes · View notes

yomogi-mogi-mochi · 2 years ago

Text

Spolia (V)

Parings: Malleus/(Light Fae) MC // Slight Rook/Vil // Trein/MC (Parental)

Summary: You wondered why you ever got accepted into NRC but never bothered to look back when the infamous black carriage whisked you away from a place you could never call home. Having been handed an opportunity of freedom, of solitude, of hope- how come you're paralyzed with fear rather than excitement? Your sunny plein air sessions and nightly walks contemplating this has attracted a certain dragon fae with an affinity for your nimble gargoyle sketches and magnificent paintings.

Notes: Haha have you ever loved someone so much you wanted to crawl into their skin to feel their warmth and life and decay surround your entirety? Totally yeah me neither! Also working more on the Pygmalion inspired Rook fic still. I'm cookin up something real tasty lmk your thoughts and character analysis on Rook. @twst-hanaya ‘s analysis “Apathy Wrapped in Kindness” particularly struck me, and was one of the inspirations to this coming work.

CW: Graphic descriptions of vomit (I swear it’s plot/symbolically relevant), panic attack

AO3 Link Here.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 (Here) // Part 6 // Part 7

Masterlist

————————————

You woke up with the sun beaming on your back, wrapping your exposed shoulders with its golden warmth. You didn't even remember falling sleep last night, especially on the floor of all places. Maybe you just passed out after all that painting.

Basking in the honeyed glow of the sun, soaking its radiance into ivory hair and nestling it deeply into your lungs, you were reminded of Lilia’s words. Like he suggested, it felt good to be exposed to what you came from. Here, you were weighed down by the effects of the potion, and at home, you were tossed into that dark room. All the naps you often took under the sun made more sense now, it felt like you were making up for all of the natural sustinece you were lacking. After rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you face your painting from last night.

Though generally, you fussed at the minute details of each piece, painstakingly perfecting each particle of every piece‒ that obsessive hunger that ate away at your heart last night was nearly gone, especially when you remember the contents of that letter. And unlike all of your pieces before, you imprinted your name into the piece.

Find me, find me, find me

You felt determination pool into your stomach, and you let out a careful breath so as to not shatter it. Looking around the mess in your room, you decided to begin gathering supplies for a busy weekend. Since winter break was approaching, the art club usually hosted a winter market on campus grounds with the science club, which provided much of the funds for club activities until the spring events rolled around. This year seemed to warrant special attention and efforts, due to a certain headmage claiming he didn’t have much funds to spare for most of the clubs this year. Something about unforeseen damages caused by overblots this year, you weren’t sure what that was about, not really keeping up to date with student drama and news circulating around busy lunch periods and Magicam group chats. Nonetheless, both the art and science club were especially fired up to earn some funds for creative and scientific pursuits. You decided you were going to sell some homemade paints, as well as set up some personal exhibitions for select members. In addition to all of the other booths featuring jewelry, pottery, glassware, and other artist booths‒ you already knew you were going to be stretched thin managing everything at once, so preparation was key.

You gathered some vials of paint and a few pieces from your hoard of paintings before changing into your uniform, and slipping your itchy wig onto your head. When you finished straightening our your appearance, our body automatically moved towards the chest on top of your dresser, containing the vial you choked down everyday. You numbed your body, running a still coldness in your veins to prepare for the burn to come. Throwing the bottle back as usual, you cringed when the viscous fire touched your tongue, sliding down each fleshy ridge in your throat. Again, you flushed the feeling down with water, feeling the fire push down into your stomach, and up again into your searing heart. You set the bottle back in its chest, turning to the supplies that were gathered near your door, wobbling towards the drapery you usually used to transport your paintings without any unwanted attention. Spreading the fabric, you wrapped the smaller ones in one, before turning to the biggest panting to encase individually. You felt your head spin at the sight of your work from last night, with your name delicately blended into the scene in gray paint. The air in your lungs rose to your heart, and tightened your heavy chest.

Please let me find you.

You hauled your body with all your mortal might, flinging your door open and bolted to the shared bathroom down the hall. The scorching bile that lurched at the back of your throat was just barely held in as you purged the bitter acid from your stomach. You heard a clink of glass as you realized you had probably brought the vial into the bathroom, but the moment of clarity soon ceased as liquid poured and poured from your throat. Though you told your body to stop, it didn’t. The bitterness just kept gushing and gushing out of you. Through your bleary eyes, you could identify the chunks resembling the cookies you ate with Malleus and Lilia last night, the water you drank just now with the medicine, and an unidentifiable toxin from deep within you that continued to spurt out. Against the waves that rippled your back into another fit, you felt a cool hand massage your back. You wanted to swat it away, but your hands clung to the sides of the porcelain. After what felt like an eternity, your body stopped expelling the waste from your mouth, allowing your vision to adjust to the bottle that rolled at the base of the toilet. When your shaking hand reached out to it, a slender hand plucked it from the marble tiles.

“What is this?”

Your head thundered in pain as you recognized the voice.

“Are you alright…?” Vil asked, looking down at your form with a twinge of disgust and worry. When you forced your weighted eyelids open, your dorm leader was sniffing the contents of the bottle, before swirling it around in the light above to catch its color in his eyes. “You shouldn’t be messing around with potions like this. You know what this is, right?”

If you could feel shame as a Pomefiore student who was supposed to excel in potions, you would. However, the breaths that you gulped in and squeezed out of your lungs was the best you could do. You were never informed of the contents of the bottle, nor did you seek to find out what it was. To you, it was just the medicine your mother sent to you every month, which you were responsible for emptying into your body without a single drop before sending the empty bottle back to her. You just sent a pitiful look to your dorm leader.

Vil furrowed his eyebrows, holding out the potion to your face. “ This , is a transformation potion, which you may know from your alchemy courses to be both illegal , and very dangerous if consumed in large quantities like this. The bottle is nearly empty, so, enlighten me , what exactly were you thinking ?”

You winced at each word Vil emphasized. From his stern expression, it was clearly coming from a place of concern, but deep shame bloomed inside of you as you were reminded of your blind faith towards your mother, despite ‒ even in your delirium‒ knowing her words were never to be trusted. You knew, but you couldn’t help but to curl into yourself, to tuck into your body tightly to shield yourself from the pain that was behind that truth. Why did you have to do this? Why did the gods condemn you? Why did your fae parents abandon you in exchange for a human child? Why? Why? Why ?

You slowly rose to your feet, ignoring the nausea that rushed throughout your body. Despite his dissatisfaction from a lack of answer, Vil supported your body against his, leading you back to the bed in your room.

“I’m obviously going to have to confiscate this…It seems you have your own situation so I’ll let the headmage decide what he’s going to do about this…” He gestured towards your messy figure. “But, in the meantime, rest . Otherwise I will be putting you on house arrest.”

Despite the threat of his words, you felt grateful for his understanding, however you still groaned and reached out towards Vil as a pathetic attempt to steal back the potion. Exhaustion etched in your bones as you just dragged your hand up, before gravity pushed it back down onto your covers. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, Lilia was definitely right, your physical body needed rest from the potion‒ the poison. You gazed with heavy eyes as Vil exited your room, vial in hand.

This is it. This is the end.

Your mind briefly flashed to the previous episodes of fury from your mother, a phantom tug felt at your hair when you remembered the times she dragged you by the root of its scalp to shut you in that dark room. Surely you were going to suffer for this, that was fact. You merely accepted it, and swallowed it through your acid burnt throat. When your eyes flickered to your painting again, your hands were already rustling the parchment in your pocket. Taking the letter out, smoothing out the wrinkles, you traced a featherlight touch onto the raised ink. As your back crashed into your covers, the smell of turpentine and withered paper enveloped you as you drifted off to sleep.

————————————

Malleus walked his usual route to the library per his daily schedule since the cultural festival. He imagined exactly the location of the book, Spolia , tucked between one red, one blue book by each side. Even with the number of times he scurried into the library to check if the slip was gone from the book‒ he could never seem to remember or even register the other books in the library that were with it. He dragged his finger across the spines, stopping his finger precisely at Spolia . With a baited breath, he opened the book.

At page 1001, where the letter should have been, bore a crease in the binding of the book as if to imprint the absence of the parchment onto the pages. Malleus felt the pounding of his heart at his fingertips, at the soles of his feet, into the core of his ears.

I wish to find you.

He wondered what they looked like when they found the letter? Did surprise embellish your face? Confusion? Happiness? Sadness? What did they feel in that moment, feet planted right where his were? Malleus breathed deeply, pushing the oxygen from his lungs, through his stomach, and far into his hands and feet as if to feel the remnants of their warmth from the carpet and musky library air. He at least hoped they heard the same drumming of blood in their head as he was right now.

Flipping through the pages, he looked for any trace of them within each grain of the paper. When he found nothing, he sighed, slipping the book back into its place. Maybe he’d ask you if any exhibitions or showings were coming up to scour the walls for another breathtaking piece. He felt an itch forming that scrambled his insides, intensifying the ache that palpated the nerves from the tip of his horns, to the soles of his feet. Swallowing the saccharine warmth that spread on his tongue, he tamped down that feeling as he walked towards the Pomefiore dorm for the first time, without you.

————————————

You felt so much better after that nap. Throwing up really sapped the energy out of you, and you were slightly thankful that it had, otherwise you probably would have carried on as usual and inconvenienced more people. You felt lighter, hopping out of bed with your new found energy and dusting the wrinkles out of your uniform. Though your stomach twisted a bit at the sight of your painting, you were able to wrap in its cloth without expelling all of the contents of your stomach once more. Gulping that feeling down with an entire glass of water, you began gathering your things, and headed down the stairs to begin another attempt in preparing for the winter market.

"Where is he, human ? We saw young master come this way, don't bother lying."

"I said I have no idea who you're talkin' about! Get the hell away from my face you brute!!"

You winced at the familiar volume of the first voice. Brute, as Epel put it, couldn't be more correct, as you remembered his forceful hands snatching the book from your grasp.

"Sebek there's a better way to handle this…" a third exasperated voice you didn't recognize added.

In trained movements, you slowly crept towards the entrance of the dorm, hoping with all your might that you could avoid whatever situation was going on. Truly, you did not know and you did not care.

"Cease your lies human! There's no living being that hasn't been graced with the name of the Great Malleus Draconia!!"

Your nimble hands creaking the door open stopped at that name. Malleus? Young master? So he was the one he stole my book for.

A thought flashed through your head.

Then could he have been the one who put that note in that book ?

The second that thought was finished, you felt a tightness in your throat. You pushed it down with the incomprehension of that being true. In this moment, where you were swiftly reminded of his status, not only being the heir to the throne, but as someone who was etched in the memories of thousands, even millions of people. Someone who is and will forever be remembered, and exist outside of his life and death. You were just a dismembered pile of hands, feet, hair, and innards mangled and stitched together to be stuffed into an artificial skin vaguely resembling something living. You would stop existing if someone did not look at you. Despite Malleus' kind eyes which filled your body with a bubbly warmth, you knew your "body" would just turn cold again when you looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the face casted over your flesh. It was impossible to love something without a face.

The searing warmth you felt at your fingertips that thawed your frigid veins disappeared, as you shrouded your body head to toe with a chill numbness you were used to pouring over your head like ice water.

"YOU."

Your shoulders jumped slightly at Sebek's pointed glare. However, the sharp ice that numbed your nerves suspended your expression into a dull look. "Yes?"

"You again, human. Perhaps you would like to enlighten us with the whereabouts of the young master since you're always trailing behind him like a stray dog?"

You almost let out a huff of amusement at that name, what a stupid coincidence, you thought, feeling a sense of painful familiarity. Yes, if anything the skin you wore was handcrafted by your mother to be a dog, rather than some crude image of a human. You mused the other faces your mother lovingly sewed into your flesh. A doll? A robot perhaps? Really, the futility that was imbued into your flesh the moment you were conceived was truly laughable . You pictured in your mind with bitterness, Spolia, once more.

" Enough , Sebek."

You recognized the deep rumble of the voice that came behind you. Malleus stood with a stony expression pointed at Sebek.

"Y-young master!"

"Young master."

The two Diasmonia students crowding Epel quickly swiveled around, sharpening their posture with a snap of their feet. Malleus held his hand to dismiss their formality in front of you and Epel, before turning towards you two with a sorry expression.

"I apologize for Sebek's attitude. I came to the Pomefiore dorm to look for you, but it seems I alarmed these two in the process. Really, they mean no harm."

Hot crimson spread across Sebek's face that made you a little concerned if he was going to stop breathing or start crying. The man with silver hair right next to him merely stood with a steady look, unaffected by the scolding of his partner. You shook your head, grabbing your supplies to escape his situation with or without Malleus, because numbness was beginning to prick at your chest, despite your best efforts in shoving that feeling far far down in your tingling stomach.

"It's okay. They seem like good guardsmen, you being heir to the throne and all. I'm sure they were just doing their jobs." You successfully balanced everything into your hands. "Is there anything you needed?"

Malleus lips sung a sweet laugh at the sight of your balance act. You pouted a bit when he began taking the canvases out of his hands.

"Young master I'll‒" Sebek jumped to take everything from his hands, but was promptly stopped the silver haired man. "Let's go Sebek. Excuse us for the intrusion, young master. We’ll be off now." He dragged the other man, who was huffing and puffing in objection.

“I wanted to ask you about that winter festival. I was wondering if you were going to be setting up another gallery.”

"Oh. Well, we are, but are you sure I'm not pulling you away from more important matters?" You asked, looking questionably toward the frustrated sputtering being yanked out the door.

"I was the one to seek you out, child of man. And further," He paused, flashing you a golden warmth through his viridian eyes. “You are an important matter to me.”

You felt like you were being swallowed by the light of his eyes. Eyes which did not pick apart your body nor instill a primal desire for you to extinguish your blazing heart with chilled detachment. Eyes that devoured you as a whole. If you could, you would crawl into those viridian hues of his and let him ravage your heart and sinew. But the blood that pumped throughout your body felt like poison. So, you lulled your gaze at the ground.

“I…you are that to me too. Important.” The dizziness from pulling your gaze away from Malleus’ own scrambled your words. “I was going to drop some of this stuff off in the classroom for easy transportation. Maybe I can give you a sneak peak of the pieces, ha ha.”

You two chatted about simple manners, like the pranks Lilia was up to nowadays, the phenomenal nap you just had, or your latest findings in research. During the walk towards the main college building your chest felt lighter, thawing the icy numbness still faintly at the tips of your fingers beside his warmth.

Find me, find me, find me.

Malleus peered at your expression. The sunset that swirled in your eyes, painted within it a portrait of ghostly longing and suffocating distance that he had sometimes traced back to you through a thin thread. It drew him closer in an understanding more deep that he could put into words. His hand twitched, resisting the urge to cradle your face in his hands, drinking in the colors rippling through your gaze and the warmth from the blood that bellowed under tender flesh.

I wish to find you.

You dumped your things on the table before taking your canvases from Malleus’ hands. “You can look through some of those pieces in that organizer if you want.” You gesture towards a tall shelf with various mediums filling the narrow compartments.”Just don’t tell any of my members” you said with a shrug, opening a cabinet and carefully filling your drawer with the vials of paint.

Your vision was stained a deep magenta, signaling that the sun was almost down. A cool, nighttime walk was just what you needed today after the day you’ve had. Soon, the magnificent moon began to peek her face in early through the vibrant sky.

“Are any of your paintings here, child of man?” Malleus looked intently each work, examining it with a careful gaze.

“Ah, no. Apart from the ones I brought today, I sold most of the ones I kept here during the cultural festival. The rest are in my room. It’s a mess right now.” You let out an airy laugh, closing the drawer full of glass containers as delicately as possible.

Malleus hummed in response. “I was hoping to see your paintings someday soon. It’s a shame most of you art club members don’t sign their work.”

“Ah, some of us do. But it's up to personal preference, really. But for some artists, you can recognize their styles with just one glance." You explained. "We artists etch our souls, thoughts, and prayers into each of our creations‒ they’re all laced together with a similar love. Maybe that’s why it’s easy to identify some artists, because we’re essentially just identifying a face.”

Malleus continued his attentive inspection of the canvases. “You artists are such romantic creatures. But that’s certainly a beautiful thing.” He chuckled. “But, prayers? What do you mean by that?”

Warmth spread through your cheeks, bristling the tiny hairs on your face. You attempted to hide it, leaning against a table and letting your hair cascade down your eyes. “Yeah. A prayer. Like the same way we pray to a god, artists pray to the world to be understood, to be heard, to be seen.” You brushed the parchment in your pocket. “To be found.”

The moon shined through the large classroom windows, illuminating the classroom in a dazzling cobalt blue.

“To be found.” Malleus repeated, voice so far it scraped against his throat, creating a dry rumble that echoed through your spine.

I wish to find you.

“Yeah. To be found.” You echoed back.

Find me, find me, find me.

“Malleus?” You tested his name on your tongue, enjoying the mulled warmth that spread with it.

He slipped his body next to yours. “Yes, (name)?”

“Do you ever look at the moon, and feel suffocated? Like, it’s just too bright and too beautiful and you feel a sense of…greed?” You really weren’t sure why you were rambling. You thought to stop, but you couldn’t. “…Or maybe longing is the right word. Like there’s this deep desire inside of you and no matter how beautiful the moon is, nothing can satisfy it.”

He paused, drinking in the feeling of your body expanding and contracting at each breath, feeding the blood that pumped warmth throughout your body. He was careful to keep his steady breaths as your arms touched leaning against one another, holding his fluttering heart in the muscles lining his stomach.

“Yes. Yes, I…it’s like a prayer, like you said. But one which spans eternity.” There were no words in any language enough to tell you that he understood that feeling more than anything in the world. During his lonely walks before, he would often gaze into the moon, yearning for warmth the share that feeling of hunger with.

You let out an airy laugh. “Sorry. I brought the mood down. But, the moon really is beautiful.”

“It truly is.”

The both of you exchanged warmth, feeling eachother’s breath through the gentle waves your shoulders made, side by side. Binding your own hands into one, you prayed in your heart.

Find me, find me, find me.

And for the first time, the slight ache that formed knots in your stomach when you pleaded the same phrase over and over again all those nights before, didn’t come. You simply melted into Malleus’ heat, reflecting the beauty of the moon into your eyes with little hurt.

————————————

The morning of the winter market was something you simultaneously dreaded and anticipated. Though on one hand, you were both nervous and excited to finally give a response to the letter always tucked in your pocket, the winter market also meant winter break‒ which is when you were dragged back home by your mother to your family's liar. However, you focused on the positives for the time being. The exhibition was coming along nicely especially as you decided to entrust a majority of the planning to the underclassmen, you felt more energized after you stopped taking your mother's medicine, and the winter market overall had been going according to plan. You were even able to do something a little new this year, setting up a stall selling clothes, trinkets, and furniture donated by students and staff. Crewel praised your work, saying something about a perfect opportunity to get rid of outdated pieces in his collection. You hummed as you organized the clothes by color.

"Mx.D’aramitz. How is it coming along?”

You jumped slightly at that voice, swiveling your head to see Professor Trein, a pile of books in hand.

“Oh! Professor Trein. It’s coming along well, actually! Are those for donation?”

Trein nodded. “Yes, but I wanted to see if you'd take any of these books before I gave them away. They’re from my undergraduate days, and they’ve just been collecting dust over the years. There should be some art history books actually, I remember taking that as an elective with my wife…”

You felt a smile curl onto your lips. “Thank you professor! These books are normally so expensive…”As Trein set down the books onto the counter, you crooked your neck to peer at the spines. Pulling out a couple of books that caught your interest, you looked up at Trein, quietly asking for approval.

“Take as many as you would like Mx.D’aramitz, please. They’ll just collect dust in my office back home.” He quipped with a smile. You thanked him several times more, inspecting each cover with curious eyes.

“Are you going back home for winter break, Mx.D’aramitz?” Your gut clenched at that question.

“Ah…yes. I am.” There was nothing else to decorate your words with. You were being dragged back to that house without a doubt, and there was nothing in that statement but quick, sterile fact. The quiet concern swimming in Trein’s eyes elicited a further response. “Back to the shaftlands, back at my family’s company. The work never stops…” you let out a nervous laugh.

“Your family’s company? Not your home?.” Home? That was a foreign word to you. What was home supposed to feel like?

“Well, my parents mostly keep me at the company to manage things…" They don’t allow me much in that house unless to lure in unsuspecting businessmen.

"Do your parents keep you there that often?"

"No, it's not that…I…" your breath quickened as you fixed your vision to the ground, squeezing your hands and feet in hopes of ridding the tension. "I'm sorry. I-I don't know. I just‒ don't have the words right now." You gasped out.

A hand was felt on your trembling shoulder. "It's alright. As your teacher, I just worry about your safety. Especially after…” Trein trailed off, sparing you from having to hear how utterly pitiful you must have looked next to your brooding mother. Deep shame was renewed in your chest once more, helping the carnivorous pit of emptiness carve out the hole inside you. You let the heavy waves of oxygen ripple throughout your body to placate the aching wound. Looking back at Trein with practiced lightness in your eyes, you embellished your face with a polished smile that delivered into your insides a sincere repulsion.

“I’m fine, professor. I appreciate your concern. But I’m fine. There’s nothing going on that you need to worry about.” Your professor’s face stared you down in concern, looking for any morsel of deception in your expression that he could heave out. But, the rehearsed face you adored was impenetrable, fossilized under years of pressure. Even you could not break it.

“…Alright. I suppose if you say so, I must believe you. If there is anything I can help with, do not hesitate to let me know. It is my duty as your teacher to keep you safe and in good health. I will see you sometime soon, Mx.D’aramitz, I look forward to your exhibition.” The unknown tension you were holding in your shoulders melted away at his words as he walked away with a thin smile. You waved with a calculated calmness, before letting out a deep breath out your nose. There was no use dwelling on that, you had much work to do before the market opened in an hour or so.

You checked up on the stalls, making sure everything and everyone was in their place before searching for Crewel to confirm things on his end. When you spot him at the corner of your eye, you noticed you were intruding on a scolding of your Vice Housewarden, covered head to toe in various splotches of colors, laughing. You paced your steps to arrive near Crewel’s side at the end of his lecture, standing awkwardly for a bit for your chance.

“Professor Crewel…”

“ What ??” He swiveled around with a vexed look. Your feet backed up automatically, putting your hands in front of you to show no harm. “Oh! (Name)! Sorry, just scolding some bad puppies to prevent any happenings later on.” He shot a pointed look towards Rook. “Are we starting already?”

You nodded. “Yes, in about five minutes actually. I just wanted to check on your end before I’m headed for my stall during the first few hours.”

“Ah, I wish some of these puppies had the same foresight to plan like you sweet (Name). Were you able to check on the exhibition?”

A curse almost left your lips, but you covered it with an exasperated groan. You knew you were forgetting something amidst all of the excitement today. “I…completely forgot. My junior members are managing it with the help of some underclassmen though. I trust them, it should be fine…”

Crewel chuckled a bit at your reaction. “Alright. It seemed to coming together when I passed by it about half an hour ago. We should both get going soon. The market’s about to open in a few.”

“Thank you Professor!” You were already dashing to the direction of your stall. “I’ll see you around later!” Crewel waved at you, before turning back to your Vice Dormleader with suspicious eyes.

————————————

Malleus wasn’t very used to this many students crowding the school grounds during this hour. It made him a bit dizzy, having avoided crowds and people in general due to the students’ perceptions of him, but he tamped that feeling down with his bubbling excitement. A small smile adorned his lips when he remembered his last experience at your art exhibitions, his expectations for a response for his letter rising steadily at the thought of that magnificent painting currently decorating his dorm wall. Lillia, who walked beside him and Silver, noticed his shift in attitude, grinning a bit in response.

“You seem excited for the winter market, Malleus. Any particular reason why?”

“Yes, I agree with Master Lilia, Young Master! Though you are truly radiant everyday, you are absolutely glowing on this fine day!” Sebek beamed.

Silver nodded. “Hm. I agree with Sebek.”

“I’m merely happy that I am once again able to see the art exhibitions (Name) has organized.”

“Eh?! That human??”

“Oh I didn’t know (Name) was in the art club! That’s certainly exciting, I haven’t been to an art gallery in some years…” Lilia quipped.

“(Name) is actually the president.” Malleus delighted. “I acquired that gargoyle piece at an exhibition organized by them during the cultural festival.”

Silver shot an exasperated look at Sebek, who was trailing a little behind them, mumbling to himself. “Your tastes are admirable, young master. That painting was surely exquisite.”

Lilia tapped his chin. “I agree! I wonder if I can find something similar…”

The market was filled with all sorts of colors, smells, and sounds, brought together in harmony with the sound of laughter and happy chatting among the students. Sebek parted the crowd with a towering glare while Silver trailed behind equipped with a stony look, allowing Malleus and Lilia to scour the market stalls for anything that caught their eyes. Trinkets, jewelry, handcrafted accessories, homemade pastries, and aromatic drinks were quickly exchanged for the seemingly endless madol in Malleus’ pockets. He was glad to be supporting your club activities through his monetary support, but he wanted to find you soon to support you in person. He carefully warmed the cup of spiced cider in his hands, scouring for your presence in the endless line of stalls.

“Ah Malleus! You came!” Once your voice sung from the stall across, and he barely paced his lengthy steps to let the rest of his dorm members to keep up.

“Of course, child of man. You invited me.”

“Ah. I guess that’s true. Wow.” You looked at Silver and Sebek, both adorned with bags upon bags of items. “Lots of shopping I see. Find anything in particular you liked?”

Malleus nodded. “Yes. This spiced cider is just divine. Here” he offered the steaming cup in your hands.”, you must try some. It reminds me of the drink my grandmother used to make during my youth.”

You graciously sipped at the warm drink, feeling the spiced aroma hit your nose. “That’s…really good. Thanks. I bet your grandmother makes a mean spiced cider.” Despite the chaos of today and the loud bustling of the market, when you were Malleus, you felt suspended in time and space by his words and his warmth.

He chuckled. “Indeed she does. Hopefully in the future you’ll be able to try some.” The future? You weren’t very certain what that was, and when you tried to imagine it, you couldn’t conjure any recognizable image despite how hard you tried. Just, darkness. You blew into your cup, staring at the swirling specks of spice in the sweet concoction to ease your mind from that.

“Malleus has been talking about you all morning, you know. He’s excited to see your exhibition.” Lilia tittered “We all are.”

You let out a nervous laughter. “Well, go easy on me. As much as I trust my fellow members and their planning, I haven’t had a chance to see it yet. Rushing around this morning and all. Wow.” You emptied the rest of the cup into your stomach. “This is really good. Thanks again Malleus.”

“Of course, child of man. Your kind is susceptible to all sorts of things, after all. Also.” He rummaged through one of the bags on Silver’s shoulders. “This is for you. Perhaps you can attach it to the device I got you, as I have done with my own.” He handed you small paper bag before showing you his tamagotchi, hanging on it a small waxing crescent moon.

You opened the bag to reveal a small metal keychain of a waning gibbous moon, shining in the sunlight. “Oh Malleus, I couldn’t possibly…” Despite your mind’s immediate objections to the previous gift you fiddled in your hands, you couldn’t help but to warm the metal with the temperature you received from the drink Malleus gave you, brushing your hands on the detailed groves of the charm.

“I insist. It’s akin to what your kind calls “friendship bracelets”, is it not?” You dangled the trinket in the light, adoring how it caught the light in the delicate details of the piece.

You let out a laugh through your stomach. “I guess. Either way, thank you. I’ll cherish it.” The keychain looked a bit strange on the plastic device, but you relished in the feeling of having something matching with Malleus. Friend . You clutched that word deep in your heart, securing it away from the poison that no doubt pumped throughout your body.

“What are you selling here anyways?” Lilia interrupted, raising a vial of Lapid Lazuli into the sky.

“Oh! They’re homemade paints I make sometimes. I have a horde of them back in my room, I figured it was time to let go of some of them.”

“They’re exquisite. I’ve never seen such color before. Your talents know no bounds, (name).” Lilia continued to look through all of the colors, carefully inspecting them in the light, Malleus following his actions in awe.

“Ah no, no. I just have a lot of free time to experiment. Some of them are made with rare materials, so I like to make the most of them as I can, give them the treatment they deserve and all. After all, I’m a Pomefiore student. We specialize in potions, this is just an aspect of it.”

“It’s true, (name). Perhaps you’d be able to make a living off of them one day. “

Ah, this feeling again.

“…Haha. That probably won’t be happening. My parents have a future for me in their company. After I graduate I’ll likely be stopping all of this nonsense and getting into real work. “ you parroted the words your mother spat at you when she found out you were trying your hands in creative pursuits. “So I may as well enjoy the time I have here with it.”

Malleus’ eyes twitched ever so slightly. “Your family…will you be going back during break?” He asked with a tentative expression.

“Yeah. How about you?” You deflected the conversation to him.

“We will be returning to Briar Valley, my home. Duty calls, even being a student here does not give me a break from my responsibilities.”

“That’s unfortunate. I hope at least you’ll be able to get some rest before you return.” You got up to stretch the tension in your back. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you guys from seeing the rest of the market. Have fun!”

Malleus gazed into your eyes with a honeyed look. “I hope you see you at the exhibition later?”

“Of course.” You answered with a smile as warm as his eyes.

A few hours passed quickly after that‒ busying yourself with your own stall, as well as going around to supervise the others just in case. It was truly a holiday miracle that nothing had gone dramatically awry. However, you did seem to notice a shift in the air, with the unusual amount of stares trailing a chilling anxiety down from your spine. What was going on? Oh well, you didn’t really have time to think about that, you had more important matters to take care of.

You walked from your stall, entrusting it to one of your club members, who was so kind as to bring you a small pastry from one of the science club booths. Licking the cinnamon apple filling sticking to your fingers, you headed towards the exhibition, which to your surprise, was very lively. With the strange stares you’ve had all day, you self consciously pulled your hood down, looking upwards for Malleus’ tall head. You rustled the letter in your pocket, brushing your hand against the tamagotchi adored in the present Malleus gifted you earlier. The cold metal that was melting at the heat of your palms gave you a little more bravery to walk closer into the crowd waiting to enter.

“Child of man. Here you are.”

“(Name)! You made it.”

The four Diasmonia students stood in their usual positions, completely parting the crowd with their imposing presence.

“Hey! I was just about to enter, did you guys enjoy the rest of the market?” You were glad to find that in their presence, people swerved out of your way too by default.

“Yes, but it was not as nearly as exciting as this. I look forward to seeing the gallery.” Despite his tranquil demeanor, Malleus could barely contain the energy bouncing in his chest that was threatening to explode if he didn’t find the mystery artist once more.

“Sure, I can actually take you guys through a shortcut. Though it does seem strange that the line is so long…” You stood on the tip of your toes, peering at the lengthy line formed at the entrance of the exhibition.

“Lead the way, president.”

You lead the group, snaking through a side entrance of the small building and into a part of the exhibition space. Malleus instantly gravitated towards one of the paintings, equipping a contemplative look as he inspected each piece. You moved through the gallery this way in silence, appreciating the works of your fellow club members before entering a central space in the building. “Weaving Love and Life into Art”, thin cursive announced on the wall.

“Is this a special exhibition?” Malleus asked.

You tipped your head to the side. “I’m not sure. I encouraged the other third years to take lead in the exhibition this year but I certainly don’t remember planning or hearing about this.” You looked at the mass of people gathering near a painting. “But it seems to be a success so I’m not really complaining.”

“President!”

You whipped your head towards the panicked voice. One of your younger members was furiously signaling you over to come, so you excused yourself from the Diasmonia group. You briefly saw them walking towards a huge crowd near the center of the room, and you quickly pushed the seemingly obscure anxiety down in favor of calming down your club member, who was nearly in tears.

“Are you okay? Deep breaths.” You guided them through a practiced ritual until their erratic breathing was slowed enough to speak coherently.

“I-I didn’t mean to…I really didn’t. I’m so sorry President, I didn’t mean to.”

“Hey” you rubbed your hand on their shoulder, ignoring the growing noise from the crowd. “, it’s okay. Have you ever seen me mad? I couldn’t hurt a fly. It’s alright, now, tell me what happened.”

“I…I was in charge of putting up all the signs for the exhibition. And I-I forgot to put the no photos sign so no one knew people weren’t supposed to take photos and…and…” They clutched their phone to their chest.

“It’s okay. It’s no big deal. A few photos is okay. I should have told the club so everyone was on the same page. It’s okay. We can deal with any repercussions later, though I doubt there will be any.”

“No you don’t understand. I violated your privacy…you specifically have asked for your work to be anonymous and…I’m sorry it was supposed to be a surprise, b-but I ruined it all!”

You quirked your eyebrow at that. What could have possibly given your anonymity away? Sure, your name was on the painting but it wasn’t your full name, and it’s not like people knew your face enough. Or you hoped. Swallowing, you asked “Slow down. What surprise?”

“We wanted to do something special before you left for your fourth year, in honor of all you’ve done for us. So we put up a special section in your name…but we swear! It was intended to be a private thing! But now I’ve ruined it all oh great seven…”

“I mean I appreciate the surprise, but what do you…” your eyes slowly drifted onto the phone they were gripping for dear life, then to the growing crowd around the center of the exhibition. At the center of the mob of flashing lights and phones held high to take a photo of the painting, your painting , you saw Malleus’ tall figure parting the center of the crowd, before stopping and staring at the painting.

Fuck.

You wished for the floor to swallow you whole at this moment, instead, you pulled your hood into yourself, hoping the shadow casted onto your eyes would just consume your body whole like the void in that room. When your ears forcefully adjusted to the chattering going on in the mass, your blood froze.

“Hey they kind of look like that ambassador model representing the D’aramitz products, don’t you think?”

“Yeah! Look at this, someone is already making conspiracies about it!”

Fuck.

Malleus felt like his body was being devoured by the painting, sinking into eternal depths of the boundless, cosmic black, and the golden glow of the hands held together in prayer at the center of the painting. Several more hands of a similar magnificence emerged from the prayer hands, either delicately lacing their hands together in a silent mantra, or surging outwards with a paintbrush in hand. His feet dragged as his chest was pulled towards the painting with an aching pinch at his heart, swallowing in the world of colors hidden in the golden warmth of the hands. Behind them, in a whispered movement, were hands that gently held out their palms towards the ones that flattened the flesh of their palms against each other. Like a delicious melody, the appendages melted against one another, simultaneously becoming each other and making eachother whole‒ and Malleus drank in that honeyed warmth with every nerve on his skin, absorbing it deep in his flesh and bones to etch into his hungry body. When his chest was merely centimeters away from the rough canvas, he gulped down the desire to press his body against the infinite black to be dissolved into the open hands, and instead noticing pretty cursive that made his chest almost collapse from the air he gulped into his lungs.

Find me. ‒ (Name)

This was infinitely worse than you could have imagined your confession for the stranger who left the letter for you to go. Out of all of the anxiety induced scenarios that had mulled in your brain every night, this was utterly out of your mind's comprehension. The blood on your body began to drop to your trembling legs, despite your nearly exploding heart pumping blood into your body with a vigor you’ve never felt before, numbing your body with an icy burn. The surrounding sound began to muffle and tightly constrict around your temples, disorienting you in its off putting bellowing echo that rang through your skull. Your eyes sluggishly drawled its gaze from the ground, rising to Malleus’ gaze that pierced through your body, pulling at your gaze with such intensity that it momentarily created absolute silence in your roaring senses. You felt your feet stutter backwards, the rest of your body moving automatically with it. Run , it told you.

Never had your body moved so quickly. The blood that had previously prickled your fingers surged throughout your arms and legs like boiling heat‒ commanding each muscle in your leg to run run run. You squeezed your eyes shut, in a pathetic attempt to hide from the reality that your body was running like it had never before away from kind eyes and that warmth that would cradle you with such gentleness it burned into your body a loving suffocation so fresh to your body and mind.

Find me, find me, find me.

That mantra that previously swayed you back to normalcy now seared the back of your throat. If you could somehow put your feelings into words, it would be no more than an infant's wail‒ kicking and screaming to go back go back go back, hold me touch me, love me, gods, love me please , no no no give it back to me please. You wanted to feel rage like the sun burning a hole in the sky, rage that split the tendons and flesh in your heart with your bare hands. You wanted to carve out a gaping hole in your body‒ opening it like the gates of blazing hell and reaching inside blood and sinew to drag out something deeper, deeper, and deeper‒ and ensure it's extinction tonight. But no matter the hunger hammering at every nerve of your body‒ you could not swallow that fire and ash at the tip of your tongue, enough for it to let it burn your insides so delectably and cauterize the festering wound within. So, you crawled on the floor like an infant child, cramming your grown body into a small, dark womb, praying that when you were born again, you could have the courage to swallow fire. The darkness cradled you fondly in its arms, opening its mouth to devour.

————————————

Notes:

Anyway reader feels so bad about lying they throw up lmaoo I’m a nervous vomiter I understand but I love lying :) teehee

Also lol kind of accidentally painted Vil/dorm leaders as a RA?? Kinda funny though I imagine this is actually part of their duties at least to an extent

And shared bathrooms??? I think only the dorm leader/vice dorm leader would have their own private bathrooms tbh. Otherwise I think they have a bathroom between every two dorms. There's my Pomefiore bathroom analysis lol

There’s a phrase in my native tongue by Natsume Souseki that translates to “The moon is beautiful tonight”. My culture uses language to measure distance with each other, so outright saying “I love you” isn’t really a thing here. So it was invented to share love as much as our language allows, and I think it shows that you’re not necessarily trying to get rid of the distance that will forever be a part of “knowing” people, but reaching a hand out far enough to express your love. The moon truly is a beautiful motif. I love that bitch so much.

The whole thing about being unable to “break faces” is a reference to autistic masking‒ personally I find it hard under years and years of using masking as a survival mechanism, to unmask. Not even sure I would recognize my face if I could. Also sort of inspired by Confession of a Mask by Mishima Yukio but mostly my experiences

Like I mentioned in the end notes of the last chapter, the motif of hands/Praying Hands would be included in this chapter. The painting I described is based off of Mori's Buddhist hand painting from Blue Period (so good please read/watch). Except I added in the detail about the open palms based on when Malleus offers you a hand and asks if you trust him, because I thought that illustrating that the prayers were being answered via the open palms was an important bit to express. Also didn’t want to outright copy Blue Period lol

“Opening it like the gates of blazing hell” = reference to Mitski’s “Stay Soft” (“Open up your heart like the gates of hell”)

Kinda stole the last part from The Bell Jar, with the whole womb imagery and all. I hope death is as warm and enveloping as a womb

More angst to come >:) prepare to be obliterated

44 notes · View notes