#for my agonies I would like a little romanc

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴𝕴-𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓘𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Man...it has been a while. I've had this sitting in my drafts since May. It feels amazing to finally get it out. So sorry for the long delay! I hope you all enjoy! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) 𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡

“Damn it–!”

A sharp gasp of shock escapes you as your dominant hand betrays you, releasing the cup of tea seconds before it can reach your lips. The fragrant liquid, thankfully lukewarm, splashes on your lap and coat before thudding to the floor, thankfully undamaged.

Curling your hand into a fist, you draw it close to your chest, holding it with your other hand.

A sharp, burning sensation radiates through your fingers and palm, each pulse of agony sending jolts of discomfort through your arm. Inhaling sharply, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bear with the pain.

The pain was getting worse.

You were already well aware it was from the long hours you imposed on yourself as Fyodor’s translator. The lengthy days working away over these pages, treating each of his chapters with care to ensure each was translated perfectly from his native tongue into English, without his story being changed or translated incorrectly.

Well, at least hoped you were doing a good job of it.

You exhale sharply, releasing your pulsing hand from your gentle hold as you get up.

Bending down, your fingers curl around the gold handle of the cup, preparing to return it to its place on the small, new rolling table Dmitry had dropped off for Fyodor over the weekend. It's intended purpose was for a laptop but it made for a pretty good work space too.

Olga had bought it for him when she went into town, Fyodor had said. You smile. The last time you had tea with the couple had been pleasant…even if Dmitry had trouble speaking in English.

Your thoughts are disrupted as another jolt of pain shoots through your hand the moment you lift the teacup by its handle. Like a thousand little lightning bolts rippling through each digit down into your wrist.

Grimacing, you use your non-dominant hand to scoop the cup up, placing it down before you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up.

The bathroom in Fyodor's cottage was simple and practical, with only the essentials. Practical like him, you thought.

You couldn't help but admire the clawfoot bathtub, a novelty for you, and notice that there used to be a mirror above the sink, despite its absence now clearly marked by an outline on the wall.

You shrug off your burnt orange coat as you step into the cramped room, placing the wet fabric gingerly onto the sink, letting the dry portion hang off the side. With a determined effort, you grab the old sponge scourer nearby and begin scrubbing, trying to lift the sweet liquid from the fabric.

As you draw the sponge down the material, the pain flares up again. You wince, your hand trembling with each stroke, the sponge slipping through your fingers as searing pain ignites in your palm. You grip the sponge tightly, each squeeze sending waves of agony through your wrist.

‘Grit and bear it,’ you quietly whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath in to steady your nerves, ‘You can’t let something as silly as this stop you.’

You resume cleaning the coat, each movement accompanied by a few sharp huffs of pain.

Anger flares in your chest, mixing with the burning sensation in your wrist. You can't let something as trivial as a sore wrist stop you from salvaging your coat.

How pathetic would it be if a wrist injury kept you from cleaning your favourite coat? It would end up with a permanent stain, a constant reminder of your failure, and you'd have to abandon it—

Your anger falters, and your hand pauses mid-motion. 

Abandoning your coat was unthinkable. It’s a prized possession, one you couldn’t bear to part with. But if something loses its usefulness, it’s cast aside for something better, something newer, something more valuable.

No…no, no, no. You can’t let that happen.

As pain grips your hand like a tightening vice, you stifle a whimper, continuing to scrub the wet patch with increasing aggression. The determination to remove the stain overrides the pain throbbing in your wrist and hand.

You can’t let it lose its usefulness. You can’t let it be replaced by something better. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t…

No...no, it's okay....the stain is coming out...it’s all okay now… it's not damaged....it's still okay...It’s still wearable. It’s going to be okay…it’s still useful. It hasn’t lost its usefulness…

Breathing shakily, you glance at your wrist, the bandage damp. It’s not broken. No bones are sticking out, your fingers are intact, and your palm is still in place.

It’s just a bit of pain, that’s all. Some ibuprofen and you’ll be fine. There’s no reason to delay work over something that can be managed with a few pills.

As you hang your coat up to dry, you nod to yourself before leaving the bathroom.

You’ll take some ibuprofen and get back to work. The pills will ease the pain, and if they don’t, it really isn’t that bad. You can endure it. You have chapters to finish translating and only five days until the convention.

You have to keep going. 

You have to.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A silvery light cascaded down upon her cheeks, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to transform her countenance into something otherworldly.

The teardrops that glistened upon her skin resembled stars, tracing a sorrowful path along the delicate contours of her face, only to fall, tumbling through the air like unheeded dreams.

It was in this moment that the true weight of my words struck me—a realization that pierced my very being. With my tongue wielded as a weapon, I had unwittingly thrust it into her heart, inflicting a wound far deeper than I had ever intended. How cruelly could one soul harm another in the throes of passion and despair?

My mind scarcely registered the sound of her chair scraping against the stone floor as she rose, her back turned to me, a sob escaping her lips that shook her entire form, quaking as violently as the bitter winds of winter might.

A constriction seized my throat, and my voice, once vibrant, was stifled in the depths of my anguish. In an instant, my body sprang forth, the chair clattering to the ground with a resounding thud. I could not permit her to leave. My heart, that treacherous organ, would not allow it; it throbbed with a fierce determination to bridge the chasm I had unwittingly created.

“No, wait, don’t go…!” I cried, leaping from my chair. I reached out to her, grabbing her wrist–

I tried to reach her—

Grabbing her hand in mine, I—

Fyodor’s pen clatters onto his desk as he rubs his face in frustration, letting out a soft groan.

No matter how hard he tries, the words refuse to flow from his pen as they once did. Gently, he pushes this page to join the other drafts for the latest chapter on the floor, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. 

Just days ago, his inspiration had been explosive. Like a match tossed into a canister of petrol, igniting his mind with a flurry of ideas so intense that he hadn’t slept, desperate to get every thought down.

Ideas had sprung to life like a box of fireworks.

Intense.

Bright.

Uncontainable. 

Now, pens lay empty on his desk, dried of the ink they once held, mere shells of their former selves. He had gone through so many pens and sheets of paper, he'd already needed to call Vivian purchase a restock of supplies on his behalf.

But now, he can barely write a few paragraphs without tossing the draft aside.

He’s gone back, rereading every chapter from the beginning to the latest. He’s even reviewed your translations, hoping that the sentences you’d woven beautifully in English would reignite something, anything within him.

But it has only led to more crossed-out sentences, reworked paragraphs, and shredded pages.

At one point, he even considered rewriting an entire chapter. One of the first chapters. Inhaling deeply, he pushes away from the desk and stands, moving through his room, lit solely by candlelight.

His steps are soft, boots gently tapping against the floorboards. As he moves, Tolstoy rises from his spot under his chair and trots after him, mewling and weaving between his legs.

Fyodor huffs, watching as the old cat bumps his head against his leg, meowing several times. Tolstoy lifts his paws towards him, making a kneading motion in the air. A plea to be held or pat.

“I’m fine, Tolstoy,” Fyodor murmurs, pacing the small room, his footsteps echoing around him. His gaze drifts from the feline to the cluttered shelf of books on his desk. His eyes skim the spines, each one bearing the name of a close friend.

The spines are covered in a thick layer of dust so dense that Fyodor’s finger leaves a clean trail when he brushes over them.

When he withdraws his hand, his fingertip is entirely black. He rubs the dust between his finger and thumb, studying the imprint with a thoughtful expression.

He moves along, using his fingertip to uncover each title, freeing each from the clutches of the dust that clings to them.

Each name represents a fond memory. Each book a reminder of his past, of times part of his heart still ached for. All of these books were cherished, beloved by him.

He felt as though these books were more than just the stories written inside. That they held his past memories in them as well.

Memories of when he received these books and those who were gracious enough to give them to him. It was foolish to yearn for the past. He was foolish to yearn for it.

His slender fingers continue along their path until–

His gaze shifts to the last book on the shelf, one coated with a thicker layer of dust than the others. Thankfully the dust had only accumulated on the plastic covering the book had been delivered in.

The grey hardcover book was missing its name along the spine, a fault by the manufacturer when they had first been in production five years ago. Fyodor was given the first copy to keep while the rest of the errors were destroyed.

It was his first published work—anonymously, of course. Vivian had created his pseudonym, a gesture for which he remained grateful, despite the name alias now representing something more painful.

His fingertip hesitates over the dust-covered spine, pausing as if uncertain whether to disturb it. It lightly caresses the edge of the plastic covering the spine before withdrawing, as if he had touched something he wasn’t meant to.

Inhaling deeply, his right hand caresses the back of his left hand, gently running up to a little ways above his wrist before slowly caressing down as he exhales. 

As he inhales deeply a second time, he focuses on the gentle caress of his right hand on the back of his left hand. With each breath, his hand traces a path up to just above his wrist before slowly descending again, as if following the ebb and flow of his breath.

The delicate movements were almost hypnotic. He exhales slowly, his body relaxing.

Why was he doing all of this?

His reason to write, to create and weave stories was no longer present. His writings, his novels….did any of it have a reason to exist when his own raison d'être was no longer–

He sharply exhales, glaring at the wall.

Suddenly, a loud mewl rouses his attention. He looks towards his desk as a furry paw plants itself on his arm. His dark eyes turn, gazing down at Tolstoy as he paws at his arm, mewling and chirping at him. He huffs, finally reaching down to scratch behind his ear.

“I said I’m fine,” he whispers, much more softly than before. His hand runs smoothly down Tolstoy’s neck, enjoying the softness of his plush fur. He follows the curve of his spine to the base of his tail before lifting his hand, returning to scratching behind his ear.

He turns his gaze towards the clock above his door. He hums softly in thought, finally pulling his hand away from Tolstoy’s soft fur. He gives a soft mewl, reaching out to keep patting at his arm.

However, Fyodor steps away, moving towards the door.

“It’s almost midday,” Fyodor murmurs to the feline, encouraging him to follow. His voice sounds breathless, even to his own ears as he runs a hand smoothly through his ruffled locks of hair, “I’m sure Огонёк has already gotten started on lunch.”

He pushes open the door, gratitude washing through him as he notices you kept the curtains closed and the candles lit just as he asked for hours prior.

He furrows his brow, puzzled by the unusual silence. Normally, you would already be bustling in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans as you prepared lunch.

You would look up and tease him, either about what took him so long to come help or ask if he was that worried about you burning the cottage down. A faint smile briefly flickers onto his face.

His leather boots echo against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the only other room you could be in.

Suddenly, a sound of discomfort reaches his ears, prompting him to quicken his pace towards the living area. He grabs onto the door frame for support as he calls out in concern, hoping for a response, “Огонёк? Are you–”

He pauses, his voice catching as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes scan your figure, starting at your bandaged hand that is clutched tightly to your chest. Your other hand grips it fiercely as if trying to suppress the pulsing, burning pain underneath.

Pages are strewn about on the rolling table and the carpet, creating white patches around you. Even your pen is lost in the mess. But what captures his attention the most is your expression.

Though your eyes widen in surprise at his abrupt arrival, your face is twisted in agony.

 Your eyebrows are furrowed together, lips pulled back in a scowl, and your eyes are glossy. It's not difficult for Fyodor to piece together what happened.

You pushed yourself too hard.

Again. After he had told you not to. After you promised you wouldn't.

You should have listened. Why didn't you listen??

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, yet again.” His eyes are like cold steel, assessing every detail of your struggle, his eyes moving from your bandaged hand, to the twisted look of pain on your face.

How could you keep doing this to yourself? Why do you insist on suffering this way? Did you enjoy making yourself suffer, when he was right here to help?

Why didn't you ask for help?

He continues with a chilling calmness, each word enunciated with a surgical precision, “Your discomfort is palpable, and yet you persist as if it’s inconsequential.”

Were you doing this on purpose?

“Mr. Dostoyevsky–” You open your mouth, attempting to explain, but Fyodor’s narrowed eyes cut you off, silencing you with their intensity.

“It’s as if you’re deliberately ignoring the physical damage you’re inflicting on yourself,” he continues, his tone devoid of warmth. “Do you honestly believe that this relentless drive will yield any true satisfaction, or are you merely too obstinate to face the consequences?”

Why are you being so stubborn? Why can't you just listen to me?

You bristle at his words, your frustration bubbling to the surface. You move the rolling table to the side, “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t handle!” you snap, moving the rolling table aside with a forceful shove. Fyodor’s eyes widen slightly, his usual composure momentarily disrupted.

He hasn’t seen this side of you before now. 

“I’m not going to stop just because you think I’m overdoing it!” Your voice rises, defiant and fiery as Fyodor goes ridged, his arms crossing over his chest, “I don’t need your approval or your pity!”

Fyodor doesn’t waver, his cold demeanor unmoved by your outburst,  “It’s not about permission or pity,” he counters, his voice retaining its unsettling steadiness. “It’s about your responsibility to yourself before you jeopardize your future.”

Your anger intensifies, a wave of frustration surging through you. “I don’t need a lecture on responsibility,” you retort sharply. “I know my limits. I’m capable of pushing through–”

Fyodor steps closer, his presence imposing, his tone taking on a steely edge. “Do you truly grasp what could happen if you persist?” His gaze pierces through you, forcing you to step back, dwarfed by his intensity. “This isn’t mere discomfort or fleeting pain. You risk a permanent injury that could render your hand useless.”

His voice drops to a frigid whisper, “Envision living with that consequence, knowing it was avoidable. Picture squandering your entire future because of a few extra hours of work. That’s the reality you face if you don’t step back and take care of yourself.”

For a moment, he notices your brows knitting together, your lips twitching as if about to curve downwards, your eyes appearing slightly glassy. But then, the fire reignites in your gaze as you step back, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “A few extra hours of work isn’t going to cripple me! You’re just being paranoid–!”

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа.”

Fyodor’s tone, colder than the snow that fell two days prior, makes you flinch, your eyes widening in shock. He remains unmoved, his gaze penetrating as if seeking to unravel the deepest recesses of your soul.

His jaw tightens as he delivers a single, icy command. “Остановись.”

Your hands clench into tight fists, your eyes narrowing with defiance. As your vision blurs and your chest tightens with the sting of anger and hurt, you glance back at the rolling table, where your work remains incomplete.

Inhaling sharply, you turn, grabbing your shoulder bag, which holds several more of Fyodor’s chapters. As you prepare to push past him, he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you snap, “Since you clearly don’t want me here.”

Fyodor’s frustration is palpable as he follows you towards the door. The flames of the candles lining the hallway flicker wildly, some nearly extinguishing from the draft of your angry departure. “You are behaving like a child–”

“Oh, so now you see me as a child?” You retort sharply, not even glancing back. A harsh, humourless laugh escapes you as you wrench open the door. A frigid gust of air rushes in, extinguishing the remaining candles and plunging the hallway into darkness.

As the biting cold brushes against his skin, Fyodor’s body tenses involuntarily. You don’t look back as you leave, slamming the door behind you with a force that echoes in the empty hallway.

Fyodor stands alone in the darkness, his hands trembling slightly.

The impulse to chase after you gnaws at him, but his feet feel as though they are rooted to the spot by an invisible force. He stares ahead into the darkened corridor, his ears filled with the faint, almost nervous sound of his own breathing.

Even as Tolstoy approaches him, mewling and weaving his furry body against his ankles, Fyodor stays completely still, only the sound of his ragged breaths filling the dark corridor. 

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Brown, withered leaves, exposed once more due to the snow melting crunch under your boots as you storm away from Fyodor’s cottage, your shoulder bag swaying wildly.

Anger and adrenaline still flood your mind, your body feeling rigid and tense. Your bare arms are wrapped tight around your body in an attempt to protect your exposed skin from the cold elements.

Honestly, who does he think he was, telling me what I can and can’t handle? He doesn’t even know me. I could handle this and more. If I really wanted to, I could even cartwheel right now! Juggle a trio of bowling balls even!

Well...if you had the strength--

An angered huff escapes you as you slip under the floral archway, the aroma of flowers doing nothing to soothe your furious spirit as their petals seem to curl further away from you and inwards. As if they aren’t sure what to hide from; the growing coldness or your burning anger.

Your boots click against the damp, slick cobblestone path, your eyes catching glimpse of a ball of vibrant orange up ahead. You glance up noticing a familiar orange tabby cat doing circles around a cute, handcrafted bowl with cute, tiny blue paw prints painted along the trimming.

Olga kneels down as far as her old body will allow her as she scoops the intensely smelling wet food onto the bowl, murmuring something sweetly in Russian as the tabby begins devouring the served food as if it would be starving.

As the elderly grandmother stands up straight, she blinks a few times, her eyes falling on you before she gives an old, weary smile, “Oh dearie! Why hello! What are you doing out here?”

Stopping at the gate separating you both, you watch as Olga approaches you, her steps slower and more careful than before, “Did Fedyka send you on an errand?”

You hesitate for a moment, boot tapping against the cobblestone path. You could just say yes and continue on your way. Olga would be none the wiser. But as you stare down at her, fully taking in her kind, warm smile, you feel your resolve caving, despite the anger still clawing at your heart.

“Not…exactly,” you reply carefully, still unsure if you should tell the elderly lady the truth. You could just save all your ranting and venting for later when you could call Trixie. But the idea is dismissed the moment you see her face fall. She moves closer, unlatching the gate and opening it.

“Here dearie, come in,” Olga insists, the loud creak of the old gate startling both you and the tabby cat. Although the feline quickly goes back to eating like her life depends on it, “I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

You hesitate to enter the elderly couple’s garden, your eyes flickering from Olga’s plump form to the cobblestone pathway leading to the bus stop. You hum, looking back as the tabby cat mewls cheerily, following Olga back up the cobblestone steps.

She stops, looking back at you. Her ears twitch as she mewls, as if asking if you're going to join them.

“Mitya is out today selling some of our homemade jam, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves. We can have some girl’s time.” A hearty laugh escapes her as she opens the door leading into her cozy cottage, the mushroom-shaped bell on the door ringing merrily as she opens it.

“It's been years since I last shared tea with my girlfriend's. Come, come.”

With a sigh, your mind is made up. You head after Olga, up the stairs and into her and Dmitry’s marital home. 

The moment you step over the threshold, warmth envelops you like a tight, welcoming embrace. A delectable aroma dances in the air, wrapping around you as if beckoning you deeper into the home with the promise of delicious, homemade food. 

The fragrant scent of fresh herbs fills your senses, mingling with the enticing aroma of deliciously seasoned meat and the sweet-tart notes of pastries cooling on a rack.

As your eyes begin to take in the small, cozy cottage, you notice the floral patterns on the walls, complemented by a beautifully embroidered tablecloth draped over an old, sturdy oak table.

Above the warmth of the crackling fireplace, an Orthodox cross catches your eye, hanging between photo frames that crowd the mantel. The more you gaze around the living space, the more religious imagery you see scattered about, alongside photos of faces you’ll never personally get to meet.

Your gaze drifts to the mantel, where Olga and Dmitry's wedding photos catch your eye, and your heart swells at the sight of her in an elegant wedding dress. One photo captures them at a sun-drenched beach, sharing ice cream and laughter, their joy palpable.

Another image shows them with someone else—Olga, Dmitry, and a heavily pregnant young woman—smiling warmly as they enjoy tea together at the same dining room table, a snapshot of blissful camaraderie.

The warmth radiating from these photos mirrors the inviting glow of the hearth.

An old rocking chair sits nearby, adorned with a warm knitted blanket made from light colored yarn. It seems the tabby cat has claimed this spot as her resting place for the time being. She yawns, stretching her soft body out before curling into a tight ball of fluff. 

Across from the rocking chair, a comfortable-looking recliner holds another similar knitted blanket, bunched on the seat as if someone shrugged it off before leaving. There’s a pair of reading glasses and an old, worn grey hardcover novel left behind as well, an old, fraying bookmark peeking between the pages.

To the right, the warm, welcoming kitchen beckons.

The cupboards are a pleasant, natural dark oak, accented with delicate floral designs in white and light mocha shades. One cupboard door features a painted bouquet of flowers that looks fairly new, judging from the light pinks and yellows used for the petals of the flowers.

One of the two stovetops burns intensely as a large pot of stew boils and bubbles away, the smell almost making your stomach growl.

On the windowsill, several small plants catch your eye—herbs, you realize, their names written in Russian on their pots. Beneath the sill, sweet-smelling pastries cool, their deep purple blackberry filling peeking out from beneath the small pastry stars on top.

And there’s Olga, murmuring to herself in Russian as she prepares the teapot. You hang back, quietly watching as she fills the delicate gold and blue metal teapot with water, the malty aroma of the black tea leaves wafting through the air.

Black tea...Fyodor had a habit of choosing those tea leaves too.

Once the pot is on the stovetop, she looks back at you, mirth in her eyes, “Come, come dearie. Make yourself comfortable. The tea won’t be long.”

Murmuring your thanks, you sit somewhat awkwardly at the sturdy dining table. The timber groans beneath you, as if annoyed to be roused from its peaceful slumber. You grip your black skirt nervously, picking at your tights while keeping your head down.

What should you say to Olga about what happened?

Olga and her husband seemed to know Fyodor very well—so well, in fact, that you briefly wondered if they were related. Their bond was strong.

If you dared to say anything against him, would she defend him? Would she be angry with you for storming out, for yelling at the man she spoke of with such fondness and care?

Maybe she would even be heartbroken that you, the one supposedly doing so much good for Fyodor, would turn around and lash out at him.

You grip your skirt tighter, your knuckles turning white as a flurry of thoughts and consequences clutter your mind.

Suddenly, the loud whistle of the teapot jostles you from your internal struggle. You look up to see Olga humming peacefully to herself, organizing a wooden tray with the teapot, delicate teacups, and a few of those delicious-smelling pastries.

She carefully approaches the table, placing the tray in the center before she sits down.

As she begins pouring tea into the cups, she looks at you gently and asks, “Now, tell me, dearie. What happened?”

She gently glides the teacup and saucer towards you, the spoon left inside the cup. You gaze into the warm liquid, getting a small glimpse at your reflection.

The weight of your argument with Fyodor still weighs heavy on your mind as you let out a deep sigh. Picking up the spoon, you begin stirring the liquid as you finally speak up.

Whatever would happen after you explained yourself, good or bad…you would just have to accept it.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Honestly, who does she think she is?

Does she foolishly believe her own stubbornness will somehow be enough to stop the damage she is causing to herself? Perhaps I really should have a word to Vivian about her…unruly conduct…

Thoughts swirl like a snowstorm in Fyodor’s mind, his dark eyes scanning your translations but not fully taking them in. He huffs, flipping back to the first page before admitting defeat.

He tosses the pages back onto the rolling table, dropping his weary body onto the window seat in the living space, his hands raising to rub his face.

A mewl comes from his side as Tolstoy joins him, bumping his head against his ankle. He slumps onto his side, his paws gently batting at his shoe.

Fyodor gives an irritated huff, his eyes darkening as he looks down at the feline, “You’ve been pestering me all day.” He grumbles, standing and moving past the clingy feline.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen, the dark tabby on his heels, mewling and chirping almost urgently. He huffs, stopping at the table, “You have never been the clingy type, Tolstoy. I hope you do not intend to make this a permanent habit.”

The feline leaps up onto the dining table, mewling and nudging his broad head against Fyodor’s palm.

Tolstoy didn’t care about the complexities of human emotions and relationships. He was just a house cat, desiring nothing more than scratches and food. Fyodor couldn’t help but envy his simplicity right now.

With a sigh, he absentmindedly scratched behind Tolstoy’s ear, the cat purring contentedly as he settled against the table. Yet, his mind was far from the soothing rhythm of the moment; it wandered restlessly back to you.

What is it about the young that they believe themselves to be impervious? Where do they get this delusion that nothing awful will ever befall them, until they stumble headfirst into danger, as if the world were a playground rather than a battleground?

Fyodor knew this truth all too well; he, too, had once been young and naive, with dreams soaring above the mundane realities of life. A life free from troubles and strife. A true paradise. 

But you… with God as his witness, you seemed determined to earn the title of the most bullheaded human. Your fierce dedication was admirable, yet it danced dangerously close to folly. Did you not see the precarious edge upon which you teetered?

He recalled the way your eyes lit up when discussing your work, a flame that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was as if you were blind to the shadows lurking just beyond your fervor. How could he make you understand the balance between passion and prudence?

He huffs, a small smile playing on his lips. He wondered briefly if he had more grey hairs because of your impulsive, stubborn actions.

How many times had he found his mind wandering to you after you left for the evening, stressing and fretting like a mother hen?

Did she make it home alright? Did she eat? Is she taking the time to rest? How is her sleep schedule? She isn't staying up too late at night to work, is she?

His mind kept him awake a good extra hour each night as he stressed and worried about you.

It felt as if you were a tempest, sweeping through his carefully ordered life and leaving a trail of chaos in your wake.

Yet, there was something within that chaos. A certain warmth—a flicker of life that stirred something long dormant within him. He could almost picture you, fervently writing away at your translations, lost in the world of words, oblivious to the risks that accompanied such fervour with your condition.

It was infuriating, yes, but also undeniably captivating.

With a shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on Tolstoy’s rumbling, soft body, using the cat as a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts.

Perhaps he should apologise for being so hard on you. Sit down with a warm meal and discuss things properly. Maybe he could even help you write the translations.

He just didn’t want to douse the flame of your passion.

After all, wasn’t it this very fire that made you who you were? Still, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The world was far less forgiving than the safe cocoon you seemed to inhabit.

As he steps away from the dining table to brew a fresh pot of tea, he begins wondering if it was possible to find a proper way to guide you, without extinguishing that precious flame in your heart.

Above all, he wished to ensure you were ready for the challenging journey that awaited you.

The road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, and he feared it would be less about sunshine and rainbows and more about thorns and obstacles. His greatest hope was to prepare you for the trials that lay in your future.

He places the teapot onto the stovetop, reaching up into one of the cupboards. He retrieves the matching teacups, stepping towards the table to prepare everything for your return.

He huffs as he notices the once clingy, needy feline is now curled up, snoozing quietly at the end of the table. 

“I suppose you exhausted yourself chasing me around all day, hm?” He muses, resisting the urge to stroke Tolstoy’s soft fur, not wanting to risk the feline chasing him around for pats again.

As Fyodor leaves Tolstoy in peace, he hums softly and makes his way to the fridge, quietly sliding the door open.

His thoughts drift to what you might prefer for dinner upon your return. You had experimented with five different dishes this week, but most had earned only your disapproval so far. He surveys the remaining containers, a frown settling on his face. Given your past reactions, he doubted any of these meals would satisfy you.

He pauses, gripping the side of the fridge more tightly; whenever he was disinclined toward something heavy for dinner—or too preoccupied to prepare a proper meal—his mother would always offer him a warm bowl of манная каша.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he recalls how she would fill the bowl with nuts, fruits, and a drizzle of honey. Back then, he insisted that he didn’t need all the embellishments; plain porridge was sufficient. Yet, as he reflects now, he understands her desire to make it special and full of nutrients.

He reaches into the fruit box, only to find that with the season shifting toward Winter, the selection is limited to cranberries, apples, and pears. Disappointed, he crouches down and opens the freezer. There, next to the ice cube tray, sits a bag of frozen berries.

Perfect.

The sharp whistle of the teapot pulls him from his thoughts as he stands, the bag of frozen berries still in hand.

He places the berries on the countertop, removing the teapot from the stove, turning the hot plate off for the moment. Setting the steaming teapot at the center of the table, side by side with the teacups, he tries to recall where he last saw the bag of semolina when a sudden flurry of knocks at the door jolts him from his reverie.

You’re back already? But he hasn’t even had time to prepare the porridge. He calls out, his voice steady. “Come in, Огонёк.” After that, he heads toward the pantry, opening the doors to continue his search when another set of knocks echoes.

His lips press together in confusion as he closes the pantry. He was certain he hadn’t locked the door after you stormed out. Perhaps he had been too lost in thought to notice. But as he approaches the door, his frown deepens; it is indeed unlocked. He reaches for the handle, calling out, “Огонёк, the door is unlocked. Why are you—”

The door creaks open, a cold breeze sweeping in and playfully tousling Fyodor’s hair and coat. His eyes widen for a moment before returning to their usual calm.

Yes...that would explain why you weren’t opening the door.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“--And so, that’s...what happened.”

Your retelling of events comes to a close, your fingers drumming against the table in a rhythmic motion. Your bandaged wrist rests tenderly on your thigh as you quickly add, “I know Mr. Dostoyevsky is only looking out for me. I know he doesn’t want me to end up in hospital or to lose the function in my hand…”

You pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the orange tabby trotting towards Olga, tail held high. She leaps up onto the grandmother’s inviting lap as you continue, “But this job, my work…it’s so important to me. I…” Your gaze drifts towards your bandaged wrist. You flex your fingers open slowly, “I want to be useful to Mr. Dostoyevsky. I have to be useful to him.”

Your fingers curl up tightly, causing another thunderous wave of pain to rush through your hand, into your wrist. You bite your bottom lip, suppressing those sounds of pain that threaten to leave you. Straining your voice, you continue, “His success as an author in the international world rests on my shoulders. If he fails, it’ll be entirely because of me…”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, a shaky exhale escaping you as you stare at your hand—your stupid, wounded hand. Each pulse of pain feels like a reminder of what you suffered when you were small and vulnerable.

It's a burden you never asked for, a memory of your tainted youth...it looms over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury.

Right now, that burden could cost you your job. Or worse; it could destroy Fyodor’s career as an author…and your own dream of becoming one. The weight of it all crushes your chest, tightening like a vice.

No…no, no…anything but that. Ruining your own dream was one thing, but dragging Fyodor down with you was unthinkable. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t—

The sudden clink of Olga's teacup settling back onto its saucer jolts you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind, snapping you back to the present. Yet, the anxiety clings to you, heavy and suffocating. You swallow sharply, your breathing unsteady as you meet her gaze.

You had braced yourself for a scolding for daring to raise your voice at someone so important to her. Instead, you find warmth in her eyes—a glimmer of compassion that eases the weight on your chest.

A small, weary chuckle escapes her lips as she strokes the back of the tabby purring contentedly in her lap. “Oh, that sounds like our little Fedyka. I remember him scolding that rambunctious friend of his just like that so many times when they were young.”

Another chuckle follows, accompanied by a calm sigh. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with a wisdom you can only dream of possessing. A flicker of hope ignites amid your anxiety, her presence wrapping around you like a comforting hug.

Olga leans forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “My dear, I understand your need to push yourself. It sounds like you’re under immense pressure, feeling as if one misstep could make everything come crashing down.”

“But you must know his scolding came from a good place.” She leans back, her hand scratching the tabby behind the ears as she smiles warmly at you. “I know he worries for you, just as any good friend would.”

She pauses, allowing her words to settle before continuing. “I’ve watched over Fedyka since he was small. He has always been intent on ensuring the safety and well-being of those he cares for.”

Her gaze drifts to your bandaged wrist resting beneath the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but that fire in you—that passion and stubbornness—it’s a double-edged sword. While it drives you in your work, it’s also wounding you…causing you pain, isn’t it, dear?”

Her eyes return to yours, revealing a faint glimmer of nostalgia, of heartbreak beneath her warmth. “You are a determined young lady. But there’s a difference between determination and recklessness."

She reaches for the teapot, gently lifting it. “You should listen to him. I know you feel that everything rests on your shoulders, but it’s okay to take a step back. In fact, you should.”

As she refills her cup, her brows raise, and you feel the weight of her silent, parental scolding. “You were struggling to stir your tea just moments ago with that hand. I may understand your emotions and drive dearie, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with Fedyka.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you cough awkwardly, looking away. A fond chuckle escapes Olga as her tone softens further as she places the teapot back down. “I know that boy. Trust me when I say you can lean on him. In fact, I’d wager he’d prefer you rely on him than continue bearing this burden alone.”

You pause, the weight in your chest still heavy, a storm of thoughts brewing in your mind, looming and ready to engulf you. You glance up at Olga as she delicately sips her tea and blurt out, “But what if I’m the reason he—”

“Ah-ah,” Olga interjects gently, lowering her cup just enough to speak. “None of that, dearie.” She sets her cup down with care. “Your primary concern should be taking care of that wrist of yours.” Her gaze softens, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “Mitya and I want to see you succeed just as much as we want Fedyka to. So please…take his advice."

Your gaze turns downwards, gazing into the cold cup of tea before you. You stare hard at your own reflection, taking the time to really absorb Olga’s words.

Deep down, beneath your drive for success and your fear of failure, you knew she was right. If you didn’t stop and rest like Fyodor had told you to, you would ultimately be the reason for your own failure. 

Your gaze drops to the cold cup of tea in front of you, studying your reflection as you absorb Olga’s words. Deep down, beneath your ambition and fear of failure, you know she’s right. If you don’t heed Fyodor’s advice to rest, you risk being the architect of your own downfall.

Fyodor could find another translator if needed, but if you continued to push yourself, you might lose the use of your hand entirely. You have to stop, even if that thought fills you with reluctance.

Yet perhaps there’s a compromise to be made. If only you could talk to Fyodor—

“Thank you, Olga,” you murmur, your mind racing with thoughts of how to make this work without needing to stop completely. You lift your teacup and down the cold, sweet liquid in one swift gulp before adding, “I need to go.”

With a warm, almost motherly smile, Olga watches you rise from your chair, her trembling hand still stroking the orange tabby’s fur. “Go on, dearie. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.” As you move quickly toward the door, she calls out, “I’ll send Mitya around in the morning with some more tarts for you and Fedyka!”

With that, you step out of the cozy cottage, taking the cobblestone steps two at a time as you make your way back to Fyodor’s place. Your boots greet the cobblestone path as you hurry on, the gate groaning low as you shut it behind you.

Technically, you owe him an apology, don’t you? This isn’t the first time he’s scolded you for pushing yourself. Ultimately, Fyodor is just looking out for you, as any good boss and friend should.

A friend…

Warmth flutters in your chest as you step under the archway of flowers once more. The golden orb in the sky slips shyly over the treeline, casting elongated shadows that dance across the forest floor. Its rays shimmer and create a mosaic of bright highlights that ripple with the gentle movement of the water.

The sky is a canvas of pale blue, tinged with hints of orange and pink, hinting at the day’s slow descent while still holding on to the lingering warmth of afternoon.

The lake’s surface ripples faintly as if greeting you, even if you know otherwise.

A friend to Fyodor…those few little words had you smiling a goofy grin from ear to ear. You’d only been working for him for a few weeks, but you had grown more comfortable with him. Learnt more about him.

You’d learned his preferred tea leaves, his favorite meals, and his love for the cello and classical music.

You knew how he would endlessly gaze across the lake whenever you both sat outside. You even knew why he pursued this career path. You both cooked and ate together for every meal, chatting and joking with each other.

You spent five days a week, ten hours or more each day with him. Sure, those were your regular working hours, and it was part of your role to be there, but that had to count for something!

…Right?

You reach the cottage door just as your thoughts threaten to spiral into another overwhelming storm. Curling your non-dominant hand around the door handle, you twist it and push the door open, calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky! I’m–!”

Your voice catches in your throat as you take in the sight before you. Standing in the candlelit entryway of Fyodor’s cottage is someone else—someone you could swear you’ve seen before. His captivating eyes turn towards you.

You swallow your words, taking in his features: a strong jawline and an old scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, down across his left eye and halfway down his cheek. Yet, despite the prominent scar, his complexion remains fair.

"Handsome" is the first word that comes to mind.

One vibrant blue and one calm green eye scan you from head to toe, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against the doorway leading into the living area.

Most of his hair, white and soft looking, like fallen dove feathers, is tied back into a thick braid cascading down his back, while the rest of his fluffy hair delicately frames his face.

He stands with his hands in the pockets of his grey woolen trench coat that covers his darker grey sweater and white scarf. He straightens up, tilting his head as he continues to appraise you.

Like Fyodor, this man speaks with a deep, gravelly voice, laced with a thick accent that’s subtly different from Fyodor’s. Ukrainian, perhaps? “Why hello there. You must be the brilliant assistant I’ve heard so much about.”

His heavy black boots click against the wooden floorboards as he steps closer, and you find yourself rooted in place, gripping the door handle slightly. He stops just a few steps away, towering over you— he's taller than Fyodor.

“I… I wouldn’t say brilliant—” you manage to reply, earning a deep chuckle from him.

“It’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name. And what a pretty face it is.” He reaches out, capturing your non-dominant hand and lifting it to kiss the back of your fingers softly.

Your heart skips a beat, any word you mumble coming out as a stutter. You cough, trying to find a response as his unique eyes lock onto yours.

Then realization hits you like a ton of bricks. He’s one of the men from the photo in Fyodor’s room. Keeping your voice steady, you gently pull your hand back. “You… you’re a friend of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s. I saw you in that photo he has in his room.”

His eyes flicker with recognition, his hands sliding into the pockets of his black trousers. He tilts his head slightly, the mischievous smirk never leaving his face. “Ah, that old thing? I’m surprised Fedya still has it.” He takes a step back. “But you are correct, Огонёк~ I am a very close friend of his.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his teasing tone.

“My name,” he says, his voice a charming timbre, “is Nikolai Gogol. But please, I insist. Call me Kolya, darling~”

© 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦 ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ (SorryifImissedanyone!)

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast

Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics Orange heart divider- @/adornedwithlight

[peacereturnedtothevalley]

.

[fishnetdracula]

romance is like

in my head: my love for you is boundless. i cannot conceive of having this amount of love for someone, i don’t know where to store it in my 5’3 little body, it is bursting out through my skin surely like some sort of sunshine. how am i not levitating slightly off the pavement with the force of it. every hour im without you is an agony, you are the soft surface my brain rests on when it sits down. your smile is better than the first touch of warmth in spring that makes you remember why all those cold months were worth living through. looking at the contours, the mass of your body makes me near feral with want, or just fascination, a need to have my hands on it, as if that would make such perfection easier to fathom. i’ve never felt so at home with anyone, your laugh is magic, i feel our souls are intertwined. ive tried pouring all this mess into poetry and art and music and sex and bragging and it’s like a drop in the ocean, the amount that remains is an eldritch expanse i can’t even imagine the edges of. i understand every madman now: the exhumers, the moor-wanderers, the frantic name-carvers. of course i would wear a vial of your blood, of course i would follow you into hell. the world could be plunged into an inky black void and i would traipse it feeling for you in the dark and when i held you near to me, im sure the feeling of having your weight against me would blast through the cold somehow, would turn all the lights back on — or, as i sank, i’d at least have everything i needed.

out loud: hey loser. i’m gonna bite you

[vaaaaaiolet]

A broken backspace key, two rival magazines, and love letters sent through email. It’s the 2000's and Raccoon Mag’s prize photojournalist lands himself a secret admirer. 

You. 

gn / m, fluff, romance via email love letters, how to lose a guy in 10 days-esque, just a cutesy romcom, reader works a stereotypically female job but no pronouns mentioned!

word count: 2.4k // read on ao3

a/n: title inspired by the alicia keys song ofc. thank you to the lovely @kennedysbaby for the prompt inspo and endless support while writing this! this isn't my usual writing style so i'm kinda nervous AHGH but i thought it was cute LMAO. i <3 u!!

From: howtodept@starsweek.com To: lskennedy@raccoonmag.com 

Subject: You Don’t Know My Name

Dear Mr. Kennedy,

I hope this email never finds you well. 

No, no, that came out wrong, I swear! Gosh, I’m not sure how to work the backspace on these new computers. What I mean to say is that I hope this email never finds you.

I’m the new hire for the How To column at STARS Week magazine. They haven’t quite set up an email address with my name yet: I’m using the one readers mail their questions to. It’s a bit of a blessing to not have my name attached to this mortifying message now that I think about it. 

You must be wondering, why does an Agony Aunt columnist from your media rival have your email in the first place? You, the top photojournalist at Raccoon Mag, the highlight of all newsstands. You must think I’m crazy. 

But the thing is that I think you’re simply wonderful.

You visited our office last week. Surely you remember walking into the great big glass doors of the STARS building. Aren’t they glamorous? They make me feel like a hotshot movie journalist when really I just write back to teenage girls and help them pick out the right nail color, or tell middle-aged moms how to dress less like they rolled out of an outdated Sears catalog. I’m eternally grateful to get to work here – Ms. Hunnigan really did a favor taking me on – but I can’t help feeling like a bird with its wings clipped, stuck in a glass cage. I could be doing so much more with my talents. And don’t tell me that I already am; I know my advice articles don’t work because my own mom still wears stripes with polka dots.

Yeesh.

So when you came by last week with your great big camera filled with pictures of all your travels around the world, you caught my eye right away. 

You weren’t wearing a suit like all the other big shots in the STARS office. Mr. Kennedy, you came to what Ms. Hunnigan would consider “the biggest business risk of your life” dressed in a polo and slacks, still looking sharper than our Man of the Month, with not a word extra to say because your photos spoke for themselves.

Mr. Kennedy, I was working my measly little column when I overheard Ms. Hunnigan’s surprise at your refusal to take a dime for the photojournalism you brought to our office. Your manila folder was filled with pictures from a recently hurricane-hit island, one I’m embarrassed to say I only learned of from your spirited tirade. You didn’t care that Raccoon Mag and STARS Week were sworn enemies. All you cared about was combining readers’ donations for disaster relief. I thought it was mighty noble of you.

You didn’t flinch once at Ms. Hunnigan’s unforgiving stare and I know how hard that can be because I got the same one when I asked to switch to a journalism department instead. Ms. Hunnigan isn’t too keen on putting effort where there isn’t turnover. But you came anyway, and you left victorious simply because you wanted to help people that badly.

I think you can assume why I scrapped my article this week about getting over crushes. There’s going to be a horribly empty space in my column if I don’t figure out how to type something other than your name soon. Hence this email. 

(You left your business card on Ms. Hunnigan’s desk, if you’re still wondering how I’m sending this to the right email address. I’m not too shabby at snooping around, in a journalism kind of way, of course.)

I don’t think this counts as getting over a crush. I don’t suppose you have any ideas?

Yours sincerely, You Don’t Know My Name

> Saved as Draft (7/7/2003)

> Continue Saved Draft? YES

From: howtodept@starsweek.com To: lskennedy@raccoonmag.com

Dear Mr. Kennedy,

Did you see the smiles of the children who got their school rebuilt thanks to your disaster relief proposal? I’m sure you did: their pictures, along with all the other photos from the donation effort, got printed front and center on this week’s issue! I nearly sold out the newsstand from all the Raccoon Mag copies I bought the morning they came off the press. Had to hide them from Ms. Hunnigan too; she wasn’t too happy about my less-than-juicy column last week. 

But that’s not for you to worry about, Mr. Kennedy. I’ll figure something else out. Like what color fabric makes your eyes pop, subtle ways to tell a coworker you’re interested in more than just drinks after work, what to eat to look and feel your best in less than two weeks.

On a completely unrelated note, I can’t help but look forward to when you come back to STARS Week in less than a month (according to Ms. Hunnigan’s desk calendar).

You’ve inspired me to get back into journalism; put my degree to use. I didn’t graduate top of my class just to tell people what hairstyle goes with what neckline! I’m clumsy with cameras and not too nifty with technology (I still can’t figure out where that backspace key is!) but I’m a sure hand with a pen. I go to the library after work now and spend hours researching global issues to write about when I get home. My collection of research articles is coming right along. Kind of like your manila folder. I flatter myself.

I wonder what you write, what you read. What makes Leon Kennedy laugh? What does he read before bed, what makes him think? I wonder if we laugh at the same bad jokes. 

Email is a strange mode of communication. There’s an awful lot of dishonesty involved. You get to pick and choose what you leave out. I suppose I don’t get that luxury with my lack of backspace, but it’s the same in conversation when you don’t get to backtrack on what comes out of your mouth. Would it be silly of me to dream that I’m having a conversation with you like this? Through my keyboard?

I’d much rather hear you in conversation, I have to admit. You’ve got a lovely voice. The rest of us are just lucky you decided to use it for good and speak out about the problems of the world despite what may or may not sell (sorry, Ms. Hunnigan). I might even be lucky enough to hear my name fall from your lips one day. Are…oh gosh, this is making me shy. Damn you, backspace key. But I wonder what it feels like to kiss you, Mr. Kennedy. 

I hear tying cherry stems with your tongue makes you a good kisser. I’ll be sure to learn. Maybe if we ever hit the town and we get drinks, I could show you? I’m not even sure what kind of drinks have cherries on top. That’s more a milkshake or ice cream thing. I’d be delighted to get either with you; I even know a trick to cure brain freeze in a second! I hope that’s incentive enough. I’m quite partial to cookie dough if you’d like to share. Not so much if you’re a fan of rum raisin.

And then over ice cream, we could talk about everything under the sun. Your pictures, my writing, bad jokes, good jokes, your favorite rom-coms, important questions like that.

(I’m kidding, promise. The rom-com one is important though. I hope you understand.)

There so much I’d love to talk to you about. But for now, I’m content with sitting in my cubicle in the corner, hiding behind my potted plant and hoping for a glimpse of your golden hair through Ms. Hunnigan’s office doors when you come by. But as all good things must come to an end, here comes the end of this email to my Raccoon Mag Romeo. 

Looking forward to your nonexistent response, You Don’t Know My Name

> Saved as Draft (8/12/2003)

> Continue Saved Draft? YES

From: howtodept@starsweek.com To: lskennedy@raccoonmag.com

Dear Mr. Kennedy,

You used to be in the police academy before you worked for Raccoon Mag? 

Gosh, I hope my snooping doesn’t come off untoward, truly, I don’t mean to – it’s just that you’ve been coming to STARS Week so frequently this month and you didn’t visit in the last few days and…well, I missed seeing you. So it seems I’m remedying that with novice-level stalker work. Er, journalism. 

I’m marvelously impressed by you is all. Your sense of justice runs deeper than I thought. I wonder what made you choose this line of work instead of the force? 

For what it’s worth, digging up your past work introduced me to several fascinating topics. If Ms. Hunnigan lets up on her workload, she might even have time to look at the piece I’ve been drafting all month! You’ve inspired me in more ways than one, Mr. Kennedy, so you understand why I’m eager to see you again in the hope of showing you what I’ve written. I could slip my article into your folder, leave it in an envelope next to the cup of coffee you always let cool on the receptionist’s desk before going into the copy room…

But there might not be a point avoiding you anymore. I’m afraid you’ll run into me sooner than later with the number of errands Ms. Hunnigan sends me on around the office.

Worse yet, I think someone’s caught on to me. 

Claire from Sports is starting to ask about all these emails I type up while my How To assignment of the week sits by its lonesome next to my potted plant. I wish these keyboards weren’t so loud and cranky! They rattle up a storm when I type these emails to you, but turn quiet as mice when it comes time for me to work on my dreadful How Tos. Snitches get stitches, don’t you know?

But I’d never snitch on you, Mr. Kennedy. A tiny part of me hopes you’ve caught on to who hides an extra donut in the fridge for you from our office breakfasts. Rest assured that I can do much better than slightly stale office donuts, though. 

So if that ice cream date doesn’t work out, we could head downtown to Marvin’s on a Thursday for the best chocolate donuts I swear you’ve ever tasted. Thursday is when they bake them up fresh and I know a table by the street where the sunset looks the prettiest. A treat for you and a treat for your camera, how’s that? 

You don’t even know what you’re doing to me. I feel all crazy inside, giddy and smiling over my research like unpaid overtime I’m all too happy to take on. I really hope to show you my article soon. There’s nothing more romantic to a journalist than setting your facts straight next to somebody who smiles like the sun, like you, Mr. Kennedy. I might even dream of my article being printed next to your pictures one day.

But as short as today’s email to you might be, I hope our time together isn’t. The security team is redoing the How To department’s computers after Ms. Hunnigan’s keyboard started acting up – something about manufacturing issues. Remember that pesky backspace key of mine? They’re fixing it later today! 

Actually, they’re fixing it right now. The team’s coming over to my desk, so I’m going to have to enDKJJL

> Send Email? SFHALFNO

> Input detected. Email sending… NJOS NON DON”T SEND 

> Email sent successfully! (9/16/2003)

From: lskennedy@raccoonmag.com To: howtodept@starsweek.org

Subject: RE: You Don’t Know My Name

I’m submitting an answer for July’s How To: how do I get over a crush?

If I’m being honest, I’ve written and rewritten this email a fair number of times. I’m not good with my words. That’s why I take pictures: they say everything I leave unspoken. But it’s also why I’ve grown so fond of a certain How To columnist because they’re not afraid to put their feelings to pen, rather, keyboard. 

It’s just a shame that their name isn’t on any of the sweet emails they sent me. And it’s not like I can just go up to my boss and ask. If I’m their Raccoon Mag Romeo (see what I mean when I say they’ve got a way with words?), they’re the Capulet I’m after. 

So I took a page out of my admirer’s book and went snooping. It’s what a journalist does best, right? 

Marvin’s an old friend of mine. I went to his shop last Thursday to find out who comes for donuts and stays for the sunset. His donuts taste better than the office ones for sure, but there’s something a little sweeter about the thought behind the latter. FYI: my lips are sealed.

All this donut and ice cream business makes me think my admirer’s got a sweet tooth. I’m willing to share any ice cream that isn’t rum raisin either. Cookie dough is a close second to my personal favorite – mint chocolate chip – but that brain freeze trick is enough to convince me to have both. What do you say we try out all the flavors? You might even come across a scoop to write about, you never know. (RE: your question about bad jokes, how was that?)

And last but not least, Claire from STARS Week Sports isn’t too tight-lipped. She was perfectly charming when I asked about any deskmates with clunky keyboards who’ve been quite busy recently, so it really wasn’t that hard to find out who this kind, endearing, and incredibly talented admirer of mine is. 

You needn’t sneak your article into my folder because I found a copy of it on your desk with my name written on the bottom. You say you’ve only been working on this since I came for the disaster relief deal? That’s only two months!

Color me impressed. Ms. Hunnigan would be a fool to miss out on the untapped talent sitting in her How To department, so I think it would be a great idea to bring your article to her together. I’d be honored to straighten out any facts with you, though I doubt there’s much I can add to what you’ve compiled. My camera is at your disposal.

Let’s talk details over those donuts, then? It’s Thursday. I’ll wait by the bench outside the STARS building. I have a feeling it’ll be a nice change from sending emails. 

Yours sincerely (and I do know your name), Leon

(P.S. Personally, I hope this isn’t a crush you need to get over.)

(9/18/2003)

psst, find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 take care and i love you!

[justporo]

Hi JustPoro! I wanted to share an observation with you. Maybe you can turn this into some headcanon, fanfic or just share your thoughts on it? I just started my second BG run, romancing Astarion again. I didn't really see/notice it months ago on my first run, but now it's so obvious that when Astarion is sincere he always touches his own hands and fingers, like a tell. One moment he leans forward, looks you in the eye, spreads his arms, demanding all your attention. But the next moment he looks to the side, his words become smaller, he puts his hands in front his body and starts playing with his fingers, basically shrinking back into himself, even if he still smiles. It happens a few times and it's such a heartbreaking detail. How do you think the Tav would react when they first catch on to this?

Hi Anon, thank you so much for hopping in my inbox. And oh, this is a very good observation. So I wanted to write a little drabble about it.

If you see any typos: no you don't (it's not proofread, psst)

As a former thief you knew a tell when you saw one.

Because back in your thieving days it was part of your set of skills needed to survive. You had to know when someone was trying to rip you off. 

Astarion had a tell. Quite an obvious one too.

You hadn’t fully figured out yet what it was he was lying to you about or trying to hide from you. But it was clear that something was up, something going on behind these unusual crimson eyes, whenever he started to fidget with his hands.

Admittedly, you probably had figured it out as quickly as you did because you had stared at his hands quite often. They were beautiful hands: quite big, long, elegant and immaculately cared for fingers. You had to admit you had a thing for hands; but Astarion’s especially.

You knew exactly what those hands could do: from lockpicking even the meanest locks and making it look like magic in its own respect to dramatically being flailed around to underline the point the vampire was making; to oh so easily finding this delicate spot between your legs, caressing it, toying with it, making you lose your mind - with nothing but a touch of those fingers.

But the physical intimacy you had shared didn’t mean you were on the same terms in other aspects of your relationship.

And so the first time you noticed Astarion’s small nervous habit you didn’t let it show that you had noticed. It had been a delicate subject obviously. One of those rare moments where the vampire let precious details of his past slip.

From just the few things he had shared with you, you could imagine the horrors he must have lived through.

And from the way his body gave him away, you were sure of the pain it still caused him.

It was when his shoulders fell, his whole body basically folding in on himself from his usual cocksure flamboyant posture and attitude. His ruby eyes seemed leagues and eons away, still lingering agony swimming in them.

Those were the moments where unconsciously he started to nervously play around with his hands, obviously not even noticing. Tugging on the fingers of the other hand, pressing the thumb into the palm of the other - as if trying to give himself at least a bit of reassurance or to pull himself back by the pressure applied. And then the moment quickly passed again. Hands falling to his side again.

And so you took note but remained silent.

Until this fateful night back at Moonrise towers when Astarion had made a confession to you, you hadn’t ever expected.

Immediately it had been obvious how upsetting and strenuous it must have been for him to bring himself to even bring it up with you. So much so that you were sure he must be close to ripping his own fingers off judging by the way he worked while he opened up about his feelings for you.

So if this wasn’t the moment which would it ever be? As Astarion kept speaking you stepped closer, his eyes immediately growing big and round. So obviously afraid. Not of but of what he feared was about to happen. His words died on his lips as the vampire could only stand and watch, positively becoming a statue. His hands froze in position in front of his chest.

That’s where you gently grabbed them from with your own. He let you. Too shocked to react in any other kind of way.

“Did you notice,” you began as you started to gently massage them “that you tug on your hands when you’re upset or nervous or…” You blushed a little as you didn’t manage to finish your question, letting your gaze drop from his to where his hands were mingled with yours.

“I do?” Astarion replied bewildered, fully thrown off his groove and what he had planned to say.

You nodded, still not able to look up at him again, but kept softly soothing his fingers.

Silence fell between you as you kept going, feeling how your warmth spread to him.

After a long while you found the courage to look Astarion in the eyes again. He seemed transformed. A gentle smile was tugging on his lips, eyes full of warmth and kindness. None of that fearful behaviour that made him sink into himself but also none of the cocky performance he so often put on.

Instead, Astarion seemed genuine. Probably more so than you had seen him be this far.

And when he finally continued his speech, you felt more of that. All while you kept holding onto his hands. And - as you felt by the end of it - as he was holding onto yours.

Later, you of course still noticed those moments when Astarion nervously toyed around with his hands. But now you had no good reason to not go and do something about it.

So, whenever you noticed it happening you softly grabbed his hands, untangled his fingers and wrapped them with yours. Or pressed your palm against his. Or kissed his fingers one by one. Until the moment had passed.

And later still, when Astarion had started to learn to rely on you, you found he sometimes came to you, grabbing your hands for a bit of support. You squeezed his in reassurement and let your thumb wander over the back of his hand in these moments - until he squeezed back. A silent thank you, you’ve come to know.

[absolutebl]

Top 10 Great BLs That Are REALLY hard to find (but worth tracking down)

You may want to go hunting anyway!

Seven Days

Seven Days: Monday-Thursday

Seven Days: Friday-Sunday

Japan 2015

Never doubt my ability to recommend this show. One of the best live action yaois ever made, with perfectly structured angst, fantastic characters and acting, and no problematic tropes (rare in Japanese BL). The leads have excellent chemistry although it’s low heat there’s still some really cute mutual kisses.

Cherry Magic AKA 30-sai made Dotei Da to Mahotsukai ni Nareru rashii

Japan 2020

The sweetest fluffiest magical realism BL, packaged as a pinning office romance, very low heat (practically chaste) but the cutest. It’s truly great.

Cherry Magic Thailand

Thai 2024

A soft charming warm hug of a show about crushes and mind reading and self worth, with no-fuss execution from a consummate team and an OG lead pair proving why they remain eternal and deserve to grow up. Look, here’s the thing, Cherry Magic is a great Thai BL in its own right not comparing it to any other iteration. But even when I do compare (and I've seen all the Cherries and read the manga) it still stands. I personally like it slightly better than the Japanese live action, but I think that’s because I just really like Thai BL and I LOVE TayNew. Also all the kissing was both present and better than any other iteration. As it should be from Thailand.

I Feel You Linger in the Air

Thai 2023

IFYLITA is an exquisite BL, from filming techniques to narrative framework (much like Until We Meet Again). Steeped in history and family drama it edges into lakorn (but no as much as To Sir With Love and with way less scenery chewing). This is an elegant and classy BL... from Thailand which normally doesn't even try for classy. The main couple (both as a pair and individuals) were excellent, particularly Bright (Yai) whose eye-work acting style is a personal favorite of mine. Pity about the ending. Oh it wasn’t that sad but it wasn’t good either. This show could easily have earned a 10/10 from me except that it fumbled the… erm… balls in the final quarter. Argh. Whatever.

All about the ecstasy and the agony here.

Restart After Come Back Home AKA Risutato wa tadaima no ato de

Japan 2020

Atmospheric study in rural Japan meets complex family dynamics built on a romance framework of city boy meets country boy, grumpy/sunshine. It’s beautiful and icy sweet. Slow moving in places but ultimately worth the patience, low heat, low angst, and stunning.

Given

Japan 2021

Boy joins band, falls in love with other boy. The singing is terrible, fast forward through that but with the possible exception of the hair styles, this BL could have been made in 2015 and no one would be surprised. As such, it wasn’t ground breaking, but it didn’t disappoint either.

Make a Wish

Thai 2023

A doctor who can see the dead strikes a bargain with a wish-granting irreverent tree angel - naturally they fall in love (from Sammon: Manner of Death & Triage). Stars Fluke Natouch opposite not-Ohm, but who tf cares because Fluke has chemistry with everybody. Once again the Thai afterlife is incredibly bureaucratic but I enjoyed the premise and the unfolding of the story (it’s not predictable but still satisfying and with nice little twist). I like that the doctor is just gay AF - fag hag bestie and all the swagger. The cast is excellent even if the comedic stylings are a bit overblown and tonally off. It had sad parts and did make me cry but is ultimately happy with a great sex scene, good smiley kisses, and all the agency. Definitely recommended.

2 Moons The Ambassador AKA 2 Moons 3

Thai 2022

A Thai pulp that felt like it came out 5 yrs prior, with many of the flaws inherent to that time and studio system, including manufactured angst and convoluted plot, but an ultimately sweet main couple that (as a pairing) feels a bit more modern and satisfying to watch than they started out. This will probably go down in history as one of the few BLs where I genuinely didn’t care about any of the side couples. All that said, I find this show oddly appealing and rewatchable and I have no excuses for that except, I enjoyed it probably more than it deserved. Nostalgia & d**k, it's what's for dinner.

I Want to See Only You AKA Kimi no Koto Dake Mite Itai

Japan 2022

This is a beautiful well acted piece of cinema, about two boys who are opposite personalities and grew up together. Gifted and serious Sakura pines after outgoing eccentric manic pixie dream boy, Yuma. It is very pretty and this is the kind of atmospheric elegantly performed BL that only really comes from Japan (complete with dead fish kisses - what you though Korea invented them? oh no). If you want something stylish, this is it.

Triage

Thai 2022

BL does Groundhog Day featuring a doctor stuck in a time loop who must save a poor little rich boy from death by seducing the stuffing out of him, then PLOT TWIST, poor little rich boy must do the same for the doctor! Unfortunately... stuffing keeps leaking. I thought the plot was engaging if a little redundant and occasionally exhausting. The pairs were all well done, low heat but with decent chemistry and the support characters were likable (or unlikable, as required). If anything, the romance arc detracted and distracted from the main plot, but that doesn't stop this from being a genuinely good show.

HONORABLE MENTION

Great Men Academy

Thai 2019

Bodyswap involving unicorns turning a teenage girl into a boy makes this questionable as a BL (because, ya know, gender). But the fact remains that James is killer in the lead, and I (who do not like bodyswap) loved this damn show. Look, there is actual plot, hotties at boarding school, "bully the one you love" trope, some weird VR shit, very bad CGI, and yes, the boys end up together... whether they boys or not, so to speak.

Some of these shows may appear on a smaller streaming service, like WeTV, or they may be on a legal platform in your territory. I hope it goes without saying you should check there first.

(source)

This list updated Spring 2024, not responsible for cool stuff that went missing (or was added to a platform) after that date.

It's it last in a series the rest of which are:

[k0yaz]

Bro the first time I played ddlc (w no prior knowledge) I was so confused about why I couldn’t romance monika 😭

I literally repeated the first chapter so many times just because I was confused on why I couldn’t spend time w her compared to the others.

Pls drop either hc’s or a one shot abt this happening and Monika’s reaction.

Preferably w an afab reader but GN/amab is also cool

agony of her solitude.

Pairings: monika x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, spoilers for ddlc obviously, short baby fic, horror themes, monika being scary bc she’s awesome like that, mostly written from monika’s possible perspective so it’s not how I feel about the characters it’s how she saw them mid game I think, possessive themes, a little unhealthy but this is monika in the original ddlc not ddlc plus so she only cares about the person behind the screen, pre act 3 monika, not proofread.

A/N: HOLYSHITHOLYSHITHOLYSHIT I ACTUALLY GOT A DDLC REQUEST I HAVE BEEN WAITING A WHOLE YEAR FOR THIS IM GONNA EAT MY PILLOW RAHHAHHSDBDB also why would I write amab reader no offense to the guys reading my thing but I’m so fucking fruity for the whole literature club idfk under what conditions I’d write amab reader anyway THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING DDLC 🕯️

Various tabs of the console filled Monika’s vision, a perplexed look crossing her face as she stared at the files counting your replays. Her chin rested between her thumb and forefinger, pondering why you had looped the first chapter over and over, confusion racking her mind as she continued to search for a possibility. Perhaps your game glitched? Or the code wasn’t working properly?

“Why does she keep repeating the first act..? There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the script..” she muttered under her breath, clicking her tongue in mild frustration. Reaching up, her fingers gently swiped along the console, trying to view all the recorded replays of the first act in a desperate attempt to seek the root cause of your game loops.

Monika intently traced the the contents of the digital code, reflections of the binary patterns and script mirroring into her emerald green eyes with each tap into a different file. Each movement of your mouse seemed…off. Your clicker would often stray off to the side, deviating from the displayed choices of Sayori, Natsuki, and Yuri, while tracing it up and down as if you longed to find an alternate option.

She merely squinted her eyes at the replay of your mistakenly mindless gameplay, tilting her head in confusion as this pattern was repeated and prevalent across all your replays of the first chapter. That was until she stumbled across a particular point into your gameplay, her own body growing somewhat tensed as the repeated choice reflected across every replay of Act 1. Every single time. Monika paused for a brief moment, unsure on whether to feel elated, or confused in that moment as her hand rested onto her chest and clutched the fabric code of her blazer.

She wasn’t just getting her hopes up..right?

The choices presented themselves before you on the screen once more, depicting all four of the literature club members’ names in seperate pink boxes. Even after returning to this moment constantly, you remained utterly confused, eyes fixated on your screen with your pupils drilling into the pixels like a deer in headlights.

You felt fairly disoriented from the little chime noise emitting from the game every time your mouse hovered over one of the boxes, inching your face closer to the screen illuminating your face and splaying streams of light all across your desk. Your expression contorted to one of mild annoyance, brows furrowing and wrinkling your face up as you could only feel your shaky palm gripped atop the mouse. Why couldn’t you choose Monika? Why on earth were you restricted to the three girls you didn’t show any interest in?

Clicking on her name once more, you were met with the same dialogue spewing out of the line of text in game. That it wasn’t necessary to help her prepare for the festival. It was completely incomprehensible as to why this game wasn’t allowing to choose the route of the character you had your eyes on, making you scoff as a wave of irritation continued to bite at you.

Monika’s eyes widened upon seeing each brisk movement of your mouse, carefully examining how it clicked on her name each and every time it popped onto the screen as an available option. The script of the game barred her from having a route path, on top of that bestowing a near god like power within this digital world she was coded into. It was torture. The flashing colored lights burned her skull, the endless piercing screeches shattering through her ears as she was discarded into the void. Only knowing that she was trapped in a fictional world, believing she was the only one who was real.

A near unnerving smile stretched her lips, pursing them shut to mask her boiling excitement. You had been her only escape. Every time you opened up the game, she was freed from the agony of her solitude. Monika’s hands rested along the edges of the console, breathing out a content sigh. Her eyes flickered to your mouse jittering in possible frustration from the lack of response to choosing her once more, warmth seeping into her heart as she longed to snatch you to herself right then and there.

Ah. She had someone who actually desired her presence. Someone who wanted to spend time with her. No worries, (Name). You’ll be hers before long. Just be patient.

She snapped back to the game, her face seemingly more lit up, yet her sprite kept it as still as a rock as she stared straight into the screen. Her sprite was there while she tweaked the console and spoke to herself, but maybe she could finally rest for once. She could rest easy and let you play knowing you’re only set on her. Monika smiled to herself, hands grasping her elbows as she glanced over her statue of a sprite standing in for her there.

Her gaze over the protagonist made her nearly scoff from annoyance. His sprite repulsed her. Everyone else could have that piece of trash separating you from her. Monika only wondered to herself how gorgeous your complexion could be once she gets the chance to lay eyes upon you in person. If only she could crawl through the screen and wrap her arms around your neck in an embrace to feel your warmth.

It was only a matter of time. She just had to wait for you to reach the third act, and you were all hers.

“Don’t worry, (Name). Just wait a little longer and play through the game. You’ll be with me soon enough.”

A/N: I LOVE THIS I LOVE DDLC OH MY GOD IVE BEEN WAITING SO LONG FOR THIS YOU DONT KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS GAME IVE NEVER LEFT MY DDLC PHASE AND I LOVE MONIKA SHE ATE FRFR

anyway this was fun to write :)

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 4

Hopefully third time’s the charm, eh? Apologies for weird formatting, this is all on my phone as my laptop is currently out of commission. I will clean this up after I post just so I don’t have to try a fourth time to post this. Check the master list for previous parts.

Content warnings: alcohol at the beginning, reader being overall miserable throughout.

Despair, agony, misery, you’re not sure what to name the darkness that engulfs you following your book’s sudden rejection. You’ve labelled the aching hollow void in your chest as betrayal for having been turned away by the publisher, despite all your other books having been published through them. A part of you wants to naïvely believe it’s truly a matter of budgeting. Part of you, the paranoid pessimism, wonders if it’s because the premise of this story is a departure from your usual writing, but it can’t be, right? They wouldn’t have let you get so far into the story if they never had the intention to publish it, would they?

The pounding in your head is a hangover. You know that for sure

You grumble, head pulsing with pain and your neck and spine aching with every movement. You’re hunched over, head resting in your curled up arms. When you open your eyes, you are met with actual darkness. You lift your head up and feel the dark sway around you.

Okay, no, you’re actually still drunk. A little bit, anyways.

You try to make sense of your surroundings with the little you have to work with. It’s night, and you’re in your study you think. You think. You move your stiff arms, trying to feel for your lamp. Your hand clumsily bumps something right in front of you, followed by the sound of breaking glass and spilling liquid. When the smell hits you, you realize it’s alcohol you just knocked over, which is really good for the man with zero night vision, no shoes, and is slowly transitioning from drunk to hungover.

You prop your head up, fingers tangling in your hair as you pull it together. No, you’re not going to let a broken bottle of firewater be the straw to break the camel’s back. After the shitty few days you’ve had, you’re not going to let yourself fall apart over this. You’re going to hold it together, the tears you feel welling in your eyes are purely from the pain of your hangover.

You eventually find the lamp, and you pull the string. The click is audible, but there is no light. You pull it again, and nothing happens. The bulb has burned out. You have no idea what time it is, there’s no natural light coming through, and you don’t know your office well enough to walk around in the dark sober.

You’re alone.

You’ll be embarrassed about this later when the alcohol’s out of your system, but right now, there are tears rolling down your cheek as you tack on another failure to your life. You curl back into your original position, hunched over the desk with your face buried in your folded arms, and try to muffle your crying. You don’t know what you’re going to do now. It feels like all your plans for the upcoming future are falling apart, and it’s either Pantalone’s fault or your father’s. Paying for a run in with a harbinger two months ago has pushed back your plans to move out of Snezhnaya, but you figured if you gave it your all with the next book, you’d more than make up for the chunk of money lost. Now they’re just not even publishing you anymore because of fucking budget cuts, if you want to believe that, which you don’t think you do. They only want to publish stories that are going to make them money, so they’re going to cut back on the lesser known and less successful authors and their more obscure stories.

If you remember right, of all the romance authors who got cut, you were the first one they decided to let go.

You’re also the only one writing a story about two men.

No, no that’s not it. You’re deflecting, refusing to take into account that your story just isn’t good. It has to be, right? Again, if they never wanted to publish this, they would have shot you down the moment you presented your outline. It’s just a really unfortunate coincidence, but then again–

“Dear?”

You lift your head up and see the glow of the doorway, and the silhouette of your mother standing within the light. You quickly wipe your eyes, sniffle, and sit up. “W-What?”

She steps forward, ignoring the smell of spilled firewater. The door remains open, giving you a little bit of light. When she rounds your desk, she takes your face in her hands, and though you cannot clearly see her face, you know pity very well. She leans down to kiss your forehead. As much as you hate her coddling, it feels nice in the current moment.

“I heard something breaking,” she says, “are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No, no no,” you mumble, “just… knocked the bottle over trying to turn on the light.”

“Is… Is this what you’ve been doing since… since your meeting?”

“No, no,” you half lie. Have you spent the last week drowning in liquor and sorrow? No. Did you do that all day and night yesterday or today? Yes. “I-I’m fine, just… just having a bad night is all.”

“Dear, I don’t want you making a habit of this.”

You scowl and pull away. “I told you to stop coddling me.”

“This is the one time I should be coddling you,” she states, “when you’re doing something that will hurt you.”

“I’m not gonna hurt myself.”

She gestures to the floor. “There’s a broken bottle of firewater on the carpet and your breath reeks of it.”

She has a point and you know it. You sigh, slumping back in your chair. “I’m… I’m gonna be okay, just not in a good mood right now.”

“You need rest,” your mother says, “actual rest. No more drinking tonight. I’ll get someone to clean this up, you just come with me and I’ll bring you to bed.”

You allow your mother to guide you by the hand up and out of your chair, out of your study and two doors down to your room. She hasn’t done this since you were maybe eight or nine, guiding you down hallways that were too dark and scary for you to maneuver on your own. Your father used to tell her not to do that, because you had to face your fears by yourself, and your siblings teased you for being a mama’s boy and a scaredy cat, until your diagnosis shut them up. Now she’s making sure her half drunk son doesn’t accidentally kill himself on the way to bed.

You don’t even change into sleepwear. You just kick your pants off and slip under the covers, mashing your face into your pillows. You’re out like a light the moment your swirling head hits the pillow.

——

“I’m going to be honest, you look like hell.”

You set your cup of coffee down. “Thanks, I just got back.”

A server suddenly appears from your blind spot, making you jump. They apologize for startling you, and you assure them it’s fine. Two meals are placed down on the table, and the server leaves you two to your food. Lunch for your editor, Alik, is a sandwich on rye as they’ve always been a light eater. Breakfast for you, hungover and miserable, is a hearty soup and some pirozhki on the side. Alik eyes the pirozhki and you just sigh and hand them one.

Alik bites into the bun before immediately flinching at the heat. You chuckle and bite into the bun you still have, not learning your lesson and burning your mouth on the meat filling.

“You know, you didn’t have to meet up with me today if you weren’t up for it,” Alik says.

“It’s fine,” you reply, head still aching from earlier, “it beats rotting in bed with a hangover.”

Alik takes another bite, burning their mouth again. You put yours down and take baby spoonfuls of your soup. Alik sighs. “I’m… I’m really sorry about the publisher.”

You frown at the subject, despite knowing it was unavoidable. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That they were going under,” you clarify, “or, that they were going to go under?”

Alik clicks their tongue. “Um… I had heard they weren’t accepting new authors because of budgeting issues, but I think everyone knew that.”

“But nothing about them cancelling current books?”

“The only cancelled books I knew about were from authors who were already getting canned,” Alik answers, “like there were already problems behind the scenes leading up to their cancellation and being dropped.” They pause to take a bite of their food, and continue when they’ve swallowed their mouthful. “As far as I knew, they were still going to honour current publishing deals. I found out they changed their minds the same day you did.”

“Fantastic.” You take another bite of your pirozhki. “What about you?”

“I’m… I’m still okay,” they say, “since I’m still, um, editing for the people that… were left.”

“Mm.”

Uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. Well, as silent as it can be in the restaurant at this time. Neither you or Alik speak for a tie, more focused on your meals. You’re maybe halfway through your soup when Alik finishes their sandwich.

“So what are you going to do now?” Alik asks.

“Well,” you say, “I’m going to need to find a real job now.”

“Writing is a real—”

“Don’t,” you snap, “you know what I mean.”

“It’s a good book,” Alik says. “The main character is compelling, his love interest is actually likeable, there’s chemistry, the dialogue feels natural, and the story on its own is great! I know there has to be another publisher that would be interested.”

“You remember my first book,” you retort, “how it took forever to find a publisher, and they wouldn’t approve it until I made it a hundred percent clear the main character was a woman. I left it vague in the original drafts for a reason!”

“I’m not talking about a publisher in Snezhnaya.”

“...?”

Alik gives you a smile.

“No.”

They lose the smile and give you an incredulous look. “What do you mean no? This is the sort of thing the Yae Publishing House would eat up! And imagine how amazing it would be if the Guuji Yae Miko herself approved it.”

You flinch as the sudden rise of Alik’s voice makes your head pulse. You feel like the other people in the restaurant are looking at your table now.

“And, and, you’re always talking about moving out to Liyue or Sumeru once you get your big break. Why not Inazuma? It’s nice and sunny there too, and there’s cherry blossoms! Why have a garden when you could have an orchard?”

“They’re not blooming year round, you know.”

“Semantics,” Alik replies dismissively, “my point is if the Guuji thinks this story is half as good as I know it is, you’ve got your ticket out of Snezhnaya and you’re sticking it to every publisher who turned you down!”

You sigh and shake your head. “I don’t know if it’s to her tastes, you know? A-And I’m willing to compromise on some things in my stories, but this one’s special to me. I don’t know how much I’m willing to change.”

“It’s not like you have anything to lose by submitting your story,” Alik states, “the worst she’ll do is say no, which isn’t that different from what you’re going through right now.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’ll... I’ll think about it, but I’m not confident she’ll approve of it.”

“Good enough.”

Alik pays for the both of you once the meal is over, despite your insistance on paying for yours. They brush you off, stating this is the least they can do considering your circumstances. They go to take you by the arm, but you quickly pull back and make your way to the door. The gesture is sweet, but you’re not in the mood to be guided by the hand like a child.

The cold air stings the exposed skin of your face that isn’t covered by your scarf or the hood of your coat. Despite this, you’re feeling physically better leaving the restaurant than you were going in. Mentally, about the same.

Alik is walking behind you as you trek down the snowy sidewalk. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I’m alright,” you tell them, “I think my father was going to visit the bank with my sister today, so I’m riding with them.”

“Oh! I was going to ask about that.” You hear their footsteps and move to the right so they have space to walk alongside you. “Is your family really working with him?”

Alik doesn’t need to elaborate. You nod. “My father’s been sucking up to him so much, it’s like every day he’s either come over for dinner or everyone’s talking about how he’s coming over soon.”

“Have you talked to him? Actually talked to him, not counting when you ruined his suit,” Alik asks, and you can hear the excitement in their inquisitive tone. Always craving for gossip despite pretending they hate it.

“A few times.”

“And? What’s he like? Is he as intimidating as I hear he is?”

You slow your pace so you can think over the question. The simple answer is yes, absolutely. Even if he is kind in the moment, you’re always very aware of his standing in the Fatui and his status among the high class. You’re certain it’s intentional, but it’s not like it would be easy to forget those aspects about him. Charisma and logic come easily to him, important traits for a successful entrepreneur, and fantastic ones for a manipulator.

In spite of this, you’re growing more accustomed to his presence in your life. Simple and meaningless attractions aside, you gradually find yourself less fearful of his presence, and you imagine he’s noticed as well. Conversations, however fleeting, can come naturally now. Small talk is no longer just the weather, but about little things in your day to day lives. He hasn’t let his mask slip around you, but you feel like it could come lose if he felt the time was right.

When you pull yourself from your thoughts, you find you and Alik standing outside the Northland Bank. You move away from the steps leading up to the door so you don’t bump into anyone you don’t see coming. You see Alik staring at you expectantly, eager to hear what you have to say about Pantalone.

You shrug. “Depends on first impressions.”

They groan. “That is such a boring answer!”

You laugh. “I don’t know how else to say it!”

“Can you at least try to be specific?”

“Okay, okay,” you concede. “What to say about the Regrator…” You ignore the sounds of people coming and going from the bank just behind you and choose your words carefully. “He’s definitely intimidating the first time you meet him, and his presence can be overwhelming for all sorts of reasons.”

“Alright…”

You continue. “In my experience, though, he doesn’t make for bad company. He tends to rant and ramble, and it’s hard to follow along if you don’t know what he’s talking about. Still, you listen along anyways because he makes it all sound interesting. I think he’s very polite, and I enjoy his presence more than I’m intimidated by it.”

“Despite, you know… everything else about him?”

“Yes, Alik, despite everything else.”

“That tracks, you look like someone who would be into intimidating men.”

You lightly punch Alik’s arm. “Shut up.”

They laugh. “I’m sorry, it’s not my fault you’re literally describing the prince in your story when you’re talking about Pantalone. Better hope he doesn’t read your book, or he might get the wrong or right idea.”

Despite the cold air, your cheeks feel warm. You hear the doors open behind you, and lower your voice so whoever is passing by doesn’t hear you. “I made him up long before I met Pantalone and you know that.”

“So Pantalone’s the real life version of...” Alik trails off, seemingly at a loss for words. Their eyes are wide as they stare, almost horrified at the sight of you.

When you sense something, someone, lingering just behind you, you realize Alik is staring behind you. The horror on their face is bizarre, until you remember where the two of you are and who owns the building you’re standing outside of. The heat in your face reaches its boiling point when you turn around.

Pantalone’s smile takes up the entirety of your vision.

“Who am I the ‘real life version’ of?”

You stare at Pantalone like a child getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His smile doesn’t waver, and the longer you look at him, the harder it is to talk, yet you can’t look away. How much of that conversation did he hear? What should you say?

Alik saves you answering. “Oh, we were joking about how one of the main characters in my friend’s book acts similar to you,” they say, even though this book is… is it three or four years?”

You snap out of your daze and quickly turn to Alik so you don’t have to look at Pantalone’s knowing, smug face. “T-Technically, I think that character’s been around for six years? He was based off that rival prince character I ended up scrapping.”

“So way before you met the Regrator,” Alik says, and you nod.

Pantalone chuckles. “Interesting how these things work out, hm?”

“Yes,” you force out.

“If I may, what brings you two to the Northland Bank?” Pantalone asks.

“I’m on my way back to my office,” Alik answers, “and my client here is waiting on his ride, right?”

“Oh, right!” You turn to Pantalone. “My father and sister were meeting with you today. Are they still here, by chance?”

Pantalone sighs dejectedly. “Unfortunately, you just missed them. I believe they left maybe five minutes ago?”

“In that case,” Alik says, “I’ll give you a ride back when we get to my office.”

“There’s no need,” Pantalone states. He tilts his head to look you right in your eyes, his lips curling back up into a smile. “Your timing is perfect, actually. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Your eyes widen, and you feel your brain fill up with all the good and bad reasons Pantalone wants to meet you specifically. “With me?”

“Who else?” He beckons for you to follow him. “Come now, I don’t have all day, and it really is quite important.”

Nervously, you follow Pantalone up the steps with Alik right behind you. You mentally go through everything that’s happened since you two last talked. You don’t think you’ve done anything to offend him, which makes this sudden invitation even weirder. What purpose does he have with a failing, legally blind author?

Like a gentleman, Pantalone opens the door for you. Warmth blows past you as you step out of the cold. You turn back around to Alik, and before they can pass the threshold, Pantalone stops them.

“I’m afraid this is a private meeting,” Pantalone states, “I’m sure you understand.”

“I-I…”

You give Alik a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. I’ll talk to you next week, okay?”

Reluctantly, Alik nods. Before you can properly say goodbye, Pantalone shuts the door.

He’s still smiling, and gestures to a flight of ornate stairs. “Let’s continue this in my office, shall we?”

[sutxdreamwalker]

How the remaining Sarentu would react to a human on time of the month

Summary: So I thought how the Sarentu characters would react to a human on there time of the month. This is based around a thing I read about the Sully kids and Reef trio reacting to a human having a time of the month. I figured this would be a little funny and wholesome!

A/n: this is about that time of the month, sillies being sillies, wholesome stuff, platonic, but implied romance

It was a normal day at the resistance HQ, most of the humans were outside, studying the plants that have appeared thanks to the destruction of RDA sites that were causing pollution.

Y/n was laying on some blankets and pillows reading a book, there wasn’t that many people around the main area except for them and the remaining Sarentu na’vi.

They got along pretty well, after all they were all around the same age. But Nor was the oldest out of all of them.

Anyway, while Y/n was laying down, Teylan was tinkering with some gadget, Nor was in his own world of thought, Ri’nela and the Sarentu we’re having a conversation.

It was nice and calm, nothing being interrupted. Until a shot of a pain went there Y/n which made them drop there book and hug the lower half of there body with a groan of agony “AH!”.

That made the na’vi in the room draw there attention to the human. “Y/n! Are you ok?” Teylan said as he ran to them and kneeled down bedside them.

The others stoped what they were doing and went over to the area too. “I’m fine..just, going threw something” Y/n said standing up still having there arms wrapped around them with a look of pain.

When they stood up Teylan noticed something on the blanket they were just sitting one, it was stained red, by the sight of it he knew it was a blood stain.

“Oh my goodness! Your bleeding!” He screamed in panic and Y/n looked down and now had a look of embarrassment and panic.

“Their what?!” The other na’vi yelled, Ri’nela looked over the human to see exactly where there bleeding. “Guys! Guys! It’s ok!” The human tried to calm them down while slowly dying mentally inside.

“No it’s not ok! Your bleeding! and by the looks of it it’s a lot!” Nor exclaimed in worry. “It’s all fine! Really!” Y/n yelled trying to make them stop worrying but they wouldn’t.

“Your bleeding from your lower area!” Ri’nela said now seeing where the blood was coming from. The other three na’vi had confused and slightly embarrassed looks but went back to panicking.

“W-Why are they bleeding from there?” Teylan said sounding pretty frightened for them. “I-It’s…” Y/n tried to explain but couldn’t find the right words.

“I’ll find something to stop the bleeding!” Nor said getting up trying to find something to help.

“Hurry! Their bleeding out a lot!” The sarentu exclaimed. “I’ll radio the others for help!” Teylan said touching the com on his neck “Teylan no!” Y/n yelled.

“There is nothing around here to prevent the bleeding!” Nor yelled from a distance “improvise then!” The sarentu yelled.

“Hello? Priya! Come here quickly! Y/n’s bleeding from her lower area!” Teylan yelled in to the mic. From the other side of the com Priya just stood there and looked at Anqa who heard the panic na’vi and they just bursted out laughing.

“Why are you laughing?!” Teylan cried and just hung up “oh my god..” Y/n was mostly shaking at this point.

Nor was heard coming back “Ok, I couldn’t find anything that seemed that would help but how about this?” He held up a mop “a thing that can absorb the blood..on a stick”.

Y/n just wanted to die, not literally but more like disappear to get out of this awkward situation. They knew their friends were trying to help but they just didn’t understand that they were making the situation insane and awkward.

“What is going here? What’s with all the yelling?” The sound of So’lek’s voice was heard and Y/n thought this was about to get more worse.

“So’lek! Y/n’s bleeding!” The sarentu yelled and So’lek just looked at the group and with a confused blank expression.

“Disgusting, I mean, it’s not like their dying or anything” is all he said “what?!” The group exclaimed. So’lek looked at Y/n “just let them explain, your making them uncomfortable with your panicking”.

He walked out at all eyes were now on Y/n “are we making you uncomfortable?” Teylan asked with a sad look. Y/n looked at all there friends sad and worried expressions “I..no, um, yes?-” they sighed “just, let me do this thing first, and I’ll explain everything, just wait here” they said and walked out to another are of the base.

“We messed up” Teylan frowned looking down, his ears pinned down. “We didn’t mean too” Nor mumbled sitting down “I’m sure Y/n has a good explanation, and we can talk it all out” Ri’nela spoke in a soft tone.

After a while Y/n came back wearing some sweatpants as the group looked towards them but didn’t get up to give them space.

The human sat down were they were once sitting and took a breath “ok, you definitely have questions” they said as the nodded.

“Ok, so, once a month I bleed from my, you know, and it’s normal, it means I am not pregnant yet” Y/n explained.

“What? So someone’s been trying to get you pregnant?” Teylan asked “is it Nor?” The sarentu whispered “no!” Nor yelled.

Y/n only blushed a little “no, no, no, I’m not with Nor, and I don’t need to pregnant when I go thew this”.

“So, it’s how your humans reproduce?” Ri’nela asked “yes, it helps, cause after my menstruation I can get pregnant, if I want”.

“And I feel cramps during this time, which is a pain” they wrapped their arms around there waist.

“Is there anyway to stop the pain?” Teylan asked “yes, a heat pad, but I can’t really find any”.

“So how long is this gonna last?” Nor asked “for about a week” Y/n replied “any think we can do to help till then?” Teylan tilted his head.

“Since you guys are so big, maybe you could try and be my personal heat pad by cuddling me?” Y/n had a bit of a pleasing look in her eye.

“Of course!” Teylan smiled as his tail wagged and everyone else chuckled.

“Come on guys, cuddle pile” the sarentu said as they laid down around Y/n. Teylan wrapped his arms around them, being a big spoon, a really big spoon.

Nor laid next to Y/n but kept his distance, Ri’nela laid at the near the emergency of the blasted and pillow but was still comfy while the sarentu cuddled up in a bunch of pillows in a corner of the pile.

Everyone was comfy and started to slowly fall asleep being all nice and warm in each other’s presence.

Teylan put his hand on Y/n’s stomach to give them warmth for the cramps. The human put there hands over his with a soft smile on there face.

They looked at Nor with the same expression and he smiled back.

Y/n eventually fell asleep, the only thing they were feeling was the warmth from Teylan and his soft low purring.

[whimsicalwritingsandmore]

The Hybrid House | ateez x reader

Pairing: hybrid!ot8!ateez x rich!girl!reader

Genre: fluff, romance, slice of life

Warnings: mention of su*c*de (it isn't detailed, just mentioned), description of emotions after aforementioned event.

Word Count: 1223 words

a/n: just to clarify with the chapter warnings, it is not my intention to sensationalize su*c*de. it's just mentioned but I do describe the impact a little on one of the characters, so I included a red asterisk * at the beginning and end of where it starts and ends.

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Chapter 2

Things were never the same as before.

After returning home from Thanksgiving that year, your parents barred you and Axel from having any contact with your Great Aunt or anyone from there. Growing up became a monotonous journey of adhering to meticulous expectations and suppressing emotions that would creep in out of nowhere, sometimes late at night and continuously bang in your chest and surge through your veins like an icy slush, begging to be felt. You were expected to excel and outshine your cousins every academic year, and if you didn’t, you would have to face the grueling and mind-numbing one hour long lecture from your parents about how inferior you were to your cousins and even siblings, and how detrimental it would be to your life, if you didn’t achieve their your goals.

You felt like a hamster in a wheel, and so did your brother. Axel was no longer the same person he was. The magical life you both knew and enjoyed and that instilled a sense of possibility and hope every time you visited your Great Aunt was ripped away and holidays were never the same - no longer wonderful but rather filled with exclusive and lavish but toneless dinners with the same repetitive and dull conversations about either the successes of each person or the snide remarks about the failures of others.

You both became robots, submitting to your parents’ way of life. Axel was no longer the same. The brother you knew, who would resist and find ways to sneak around your parents’ dictator rules, became cold and distant. You noticed the haunted and hollow look in his eyes - it showed a profound emptiness filled with sadness with his expressions always mirroring a wilting flower. When he moved out to attend college (that your parents’ selected), he pulled you in a bone-crushing hug before leaving and patted the top of your head with a meek smile as tears glistened in his eyes.

“I’ll always be there for you.”

*

You had just turned 15 and by the end of the year, your world crashed and burned when you were told the worst news - Axel had jumped off a bridge and the medics were unable to save him. The weight of despair and agony crushed your whole existence, and you felt like you were drowning in an ocean of endless sadness and despair. The silent screams you would hold back erupted as an avalanche of sorrow, pain and a dark cloud of grief descended on you with tears stinging like shards of glass and the ragged gasps between sobs making it feel impossible to breathe. 

It took all the effort from your two other brothers to hold you back when one of your parents’ colleague and his wife made a snide remark about Axel when they came to offer their condolences at the memorial.

*

As for your parents, they became different people - they pretended as if Axel never existed, never told your youngest siblings who were born a few months before the event about their brother and pressured each of your siblings so pressingly, it led to the point where your eldest brother showed disdain at the mere mention of Axel’s name and your older sister iced you out if you asked anything regarding doing something for Axel’s anniversary.

Only your other brother showed some support but the bond between the two of you seemed to have become so damaged, he would retreat on his promises and disappear, ignoring you if he was passing by and you were in the room. So every night on the day of Axel’s passing, you would sit in the treehouse that became dusty and cluttered, and cry uncontrollably, secretly praying to go back to how things used to be when you were at your Great Aunt’s.

“What did we do to deserve this?”

And then, after a brutal and nasty argument with your older siblings, you studied diligently to curry favor with your parents and then requested your father to send you to an elite university in Upper New York. You decided to follow in Axel’s footsteps and work your way around your parents’ demands so that things could happen in your favor. You became calculative and observant and succeeded in proving your worth to your parents who as a gift, gave you a top position at the family’s company. Following this, you worked to establish your own personal company to help break away from your parents and move further away from your siblings. 

You took on one of your father’s failed projects and successfully achieved what your father couldn’t do. You saw things for how they were instilled in you to view - dollar signs that could help you move up even higher than before and gain unlimited independence from your family and anyone.

But your parents still tried to control one area of your life, your love life. They tried to set you up on dates and arrange courtships where possible. Luckily for you, it fell through one way or the other. 

However, despite your money-making centered lifestyle, you weren’t completely obsolete to everything. Maybe it was the part of you that learnt from Axel and continued to cherish his lessons. Even if you would never admit it, love felt more than just an arrangement to have more money. Although you were heavily ingrained in the fast-paced, upscale lifestyle, something pulled you in the other direction when it came to love.

Nevertheless, you continued to live your life day by day as it came with meetings, negotiations and the few occasions that included luxurious drinks and food at restaurants or clubs or on yachts in different parts of the world.

Until one day, after a hectic meeting you received a call from a lawyer, more specifically, your Great Aunt's lawyer. Once again, your world was interrupted with life-changing but heart wrenching news - your Great Aunt passed away just a few moments ago before you received the call and you were now the inheritor of her estate, money and home.

That night, you stood on your balcony unable to process all of it. You were now a hundred or probably a thousand times richer, but your Great Aunt who was a part of the best moments in your childhood that became vague and indistinct in your mind, was no longer here. 

Tears cascaded down your face into your concocted cocktail. This was the first time that you cried like this since your brother Axel.

You contemplated telling your parents but then decided against it, remembering that your family did not have any good things to say about your Great Aunt after all these years. This was a secret only for you to know.

And your best friend Yeonjun.

Recruiting Yeonjun, you told your parents you were accompanying him on a trip to Asia to help him secure a business deal with some clients. They paid no heed and waved you off and sent you on your travels.

Now, you were in a car outside of Seoul's airport waiting for Yeonjun to finish placing the bags in the trunk. 

It was at this moment the realization was slowly dawning on you: it had been 13 years since you last came to Seoul, which meant it had been 13 years since you last saw your friends.

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Taglist: @ateezennie23 @edenani @seonghwasslytherin

[tainted-liquor]

˖ ࣪Everything I Needed To Be ʚɞ

Pairing: 1610Miles x BlackFem!Reader

 TWs: Miles is basically going thru ghost grief, right person wrong timing, mentions of death, Unhealthy (NOT toxic,) relationship habits, emotional immaturity.

Genre: ANGST!!! (There’s a fluffier version coming soon I swear)

。    ✧    ⁺      。  。    ✧    ⁺      。  。    ✧    ⁺      。  。    ✧    ⁺      。

Four days had passed since you had last spoken to Miles, your boyfriend. You’re not even sure if boyfriend is the right term anymore. The boy you had once grown to love for his nerdy and alluring demeanor suddenly became inimical and detached. There was no longer a look of ever-lasting love behind his warm and auburn eyes, but a gaze engulfed by rage The arms that once lazed around your shoulders found themselves drilled by his sides. It didn’t take a Harvard degree for you to put two and two together, and it tore you apart limb by limb.

Miles had stopped loving you, and there was nothing you could do about it.

You sat with your head pressed against your painfully cold window pane, clutching your oversized teddy bear as you counted the raindrops speckled across the glass. Your eyes were wet with tears, your beautiful face ruined with trails of salt and emotion. It had been a whole three days since you neglected to fulfill your daily needs, such as eating and sleeping. The wind banged its fists against your window, whistling tunes of torment as you sniffled through the silence. 

You tore your gaze off of the outside for a moment, staring off into space as the candlelight from your nightstand flickered across your features. Its warm embers painted your skin, taunting you with its deep flames that once reminded you of passion and romance. You sighed, exhalation shaky as you turned to your phone. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

But when you went to run your hand across your face, that familiar ding rang through your ears as you turned to face your phone screen. Your eyes practically squeezed your phone, flipping it over to read the little message Miles had sent you.  

“Hey.”

“Can you open the door”

Read 8:27 PM

You grunted, shuffling to your feet and hoisting yourself off of your plush pink bedsheets. You pried yourself off of your fluffy teddy bear, sighing softly as your expression immediately sank further than it had before. There were only two things about to happen.

He was about to break up with you or tell you that he was sorry.

And deep down, you prayed that he would break things off. Maybe he wouldn’t be as cruel to keep dragging your heart along the abrasive pavement and bury you away with the love he once had for you. The last two months have been nothing but agony, and you prayed whatever divine god or goddess ruled would mark the end of your teenage romance.

You scuffled down the carpeted stairs of your apartment, wincing at every creek and crack that resulted from your intentionally delicate footsteps. Miles knew you were sensitive, he knew you would crumble like bad pottery under the slightest change in tone. So why had you become the object of his disdain? You bit back the tears that lined themselves along your eyes, carefully pulling back your front door to reveal your boyfriend. Your face found itself numb, paralyzed with your desolate frown. There were bags under your eyes that could carry 175 dollars worth of groceries; to put it short, you looked like a beat dog.

“Hey…” you muttered, pushing back the door and allowing Miles full entry into your home. His face softened as soon as he got a clear view of your face, but quickly resumed its drained expression.

“Have you been crying?” He asked, completely ignoring your greeting as he got closer to your face, squinting directly at your eyes.

“Nah, nah I’m straight. My eyes water when I yawn.” You fixed your face at the speed of light, rubbing your eyes and stretching your arms up towards the heavens. You plopped down on your couch, bringing your knees to your chest as you rested your head on your shins. Miles shifted somewhat close to you, maintaining about an inch or so of space before sighing to himself.

“Did I do something? You haven’t texted me in like…a week,” He began, hunched over with his hands folded in between his knees. The room flooded with uncomfortable silence. It was suffocating; it felt like you were drowning on land, your limp and sea-sick body thrashing violently against the waves of reality.

No matter how nerdy, sweet, and charming he was.

Miles was just a boy.

“Are you…serious?” You asked, raising your head from your slouched posture to look at him with watery eyes. He sucked his teeth before sucking in an unnecessarily deep breath.

“Can you just tell me what I did? I don’t wanna do the whole—”

“So you can distance yourself from me. Not texting me in almost a month, STOP ACTING LIKE MY BOYFRIEND ENTIRELY, but me not texting you in four days is enough for you to show up at my door on bullshit? Yeah no, get the fuck out before you wake my mama up.” You spat, blinking away the tears as you stood up from the couch.

“Nah, nah nah nah nah nah, come here I’m not doing this tonight. You talking bout I’m on bullshit but you out here crying in the dark?” Miles groaned, quickly getting up to follow you to your back porch. 

“So? How the hell would you feel if I started treating you like you treat me? I mean you’re here right now after four days, so obviously you wouldn’t feel good.” You snapped, attempting to close the back door on Miles. He held the door back with his one hand, holding your wrist carefully with the other. “Get the fuck off me, Miles.”

“Cuz you’re not being fair! You know I've been stressed out lately, and it’s been affecting my mood! I just—” Miles shouted, his eyebrows knitting together as he looked down at you from the dark veil of the moonlight.

“I don’t care how fucking stressed you are, stress doesn’t give you the right to treat me like shit!” You yelled, throwing your arms up in defeat.

“Wow, so my stress doesn’t matter to you?” He spat, a face of disgust painting his features as he stood with his arms folded across his chest.

“That’s not even remotely close to what I said! I said stress doesn’t give you the right to mistreat me. Like if you don’t love me no more say that!” Your face was wet with tears as the pressure in your neck grew painful. Your voice was shaky and broken, but that didn’t matter since there was a bigger issue.

“You don’t even know what I’ve been going through! There’s shit that you just don't understand—“

“So help me understand, Miles! Explain it to me! You don’t even talk to me about your day! It’s impossible to understand when you’ve stopped communicating!”

It was like talking to a brick wall. There was nothing you could say that would help HIM understand how you felt. 

“I don’t need to tell you everything!” He shouted, sighing as he slid a hand down his face. “God you’re so…you get on my nerves!”

“So when you treat me like shit, go from a literal ray of sunshine to whatever fucking…MONSTER YOU ARE NOW, I’M GETTING ON YOUR NERVES? God I wish I never met your sorry ass! How the fuck do you go from lovey-dovey to basically avoidant and quiet?” You yelled, now garnering the attention of your neighbors, who had turned on their porch light next to you. Your eyes widened as you covered your mouth, quickly shuffling back into the house with a deep exhale. Miles, much to your dismay, was still behind you and seething with rage.

“I was—!” He began, quickly quieting down and making a mindful note of his tone. “I was everything I needed to be. You don’t know what it’s like to be thrown away from everything you’ve known and—…and just THRUST into rejection! To finally be surrounded by people like you, and get told you don’t even belong! I’m sorry I haven’t held your hand when I DON'T EVEN FEEL LIKE I SHOULD BE ALIVE!” He whisper-yelled, eyebrows furrowing as his jaw tensed.

“What are you even talking about, Miles?! ‘People like you’” you recited in air quotes, “you mean BLACK PEOPLE? If things weren’t going great at Visions, you could’ve just—“ You began, extending your arms in front of you in defense. 

“See? You don’t understand.“

He knew he was being cruel. He KNEW he wasn’t being fair, but he didn’t care. Sure, he may have stopped his dad from dying. SURE, he went on about how he gets to choose what his life looks like, but he was terrified of you dying for just loving him. He already broke his canon with Gwen, and shit came crumbling down when all he wanted to do was save his dad. But when he laid his head down at night, all that played behind his eyelids was your cold, and limp body lying in his arms. 

He hadn’t even noticed that he began distancing himself from you until you brought it to his attention. Shit, he couldn’t even tell you how long it had been since you texted him. 

“Miles.”

“What?”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The two of you stood, motionless and silent. You were only about a foot or so from each other, but it felt like you were miles away. The warm but painful tears silently coursed down your face as you struggled to even recognize the boy in front of you. 

“You disgust me. And I hope whatever or whoever you deal with next never has to see the borderline monster you’ve become.”

It was quiet, but it pierced his ears like a gunshot. Now it was Miles’ turn to fight back tears, and god damn did he fight. His head hung low as he fidgeted with the nylon fabric in his pockets, attempting to control his uneven and shaky breathing.

“Get out. I don’t want you anywhere near me. Please get out.” You begged, speed walking to the front door as you held it open. The glossy red oak glimmered slightly as the dim lamp illuminated its backside.

“Wait, c’mon please I’ll explain everything, just let me—“ Miles stammered, suddenly snapping back into his right mind as it all sunk in. You hated him.

“No. I’ll never understand, remember? Now please, get out.” You urged, gripping the front of his jacket and pulling him forward, then carefully ushering him out of your house. There wasn’t even any time for him to protest, the door had been closed from the second he was safe from its hinges. And there he was, standing in the cold rain and wind as the world around him continued to spin. There was no time for him in this world, just like how he made you feel.

[paarthursass]

Reversing Ceremorphosis

There is an interesting debate to be had about whether mind flayers experiencing extreme partialism (the Emperor, Tav/Orpheus/Karlach depending on the ending) are truly the same person they were before ceremorphosis. According to 5e's lore, when a person undergoes full ceremorphosis they die and the tadpole takes full control. They normally experience none of the host's memories except in rare cases, where a phenomena known as "partialism" occurs.

Even in a non-magical setting "is something that experiences all your memories the same person as you" would be a tricky question, and in a setting where there are indisputably souls that depart the body upon death...that question becomes even stickier.

And that all brings me to my main point, which is: what is the best way to reverse ceremorphosis?

So we have two options in front of us:

Option 1) Though the tadpole may retain all the memories of its host, it is not them. The host (Balduran, Tav, Karlach, etc.) dies during ceremorphosis and what is left is a mind flayer tadpole experiencing their memories as their own. But their soul is gone, they are dead.

Option 2) The tadpole is experiencing the host's memories indistinguishably from its own. For all intents and purposes, it is the same person.

The game itself does not give us clear answers to this. Ansur speaks to the Emperor as if he were Balduran. Gale wishes to still marry you after ceremorphosis, indicating he at least still views you as the same person. The other characters don't seem to be of this viewpoint. The look Lae'zel gives you before she flies away with Orpheus is such a sad look that it reads, to me, like she views you as dead. Everyone talks at length about your "sacrifice," and it is clear they mean more than just your appearance. A romanced Wyll speaks about your future together like it is a lost dream, like you are already dead even though you're right there. There is no clear answer.

Which brings me to my second question...

What is the best way to reverse ceremorphosis?

Because the way I see it, there are two main options (not including Wish, which I will get to in a bit)

Option 1) True Polymorph. An illithid (or someone else of appropriate skill level) could cast this on them and polymorph them back to their original form. After an hour the effects are permanent, and they're not a mind flayer anymore! However, how "valid" this cure is depends on whether or not you consider the tadpole with the host's memories to basically be the host. Their soul has gone from their body, but they are not a mind flayer anymore and they have all their memories so...what are they? Are they Them, or are they something new?

Option 2) True Resurrection. This requires no body, nor any fragment of the body, and can be used so long as the target hasn't been dead for longer than 200 years. Especially considering Gale was able to get his hands on one scroll of True Resurrection, it doesn't seem all that unlikely (if perhaps a little difficult) that he and the others could get their hands on another.

But an illithid restored via True Resurrection would only have their memories right up until ceremorphosis killed them. They would have no recollection of defeating the Netherbrain and everything that came after (such as traversing Avernus, if they decided to go with Wyll and Karlach.)

And, more importantly (and horrifically) the mind flayer with their memories is still there, too.

Think about that for a moment. You remember dying, you remember the agony of your body becoming something else but then your friends brought you back from that, they saved you. But that thing is still there; walking around in what used to be your body, with your memories rattling around in its head.

And how does that feel for the mind flayer left behind?

You still think you are you, but then...there you are. Your friends wanted you back so badly but not you, no the other you, the you were before, the you they clearly think is the real one. You are not yourself, in spite of everything you have shared, everything you have done...

And as for the Wish spell, that is a notoriously finicky option. The spell description itself states "wishing that a villain were dead might propel you forward in time to a period when that villain is no longer alive" and "wishing for a legendary magic item or artifact might instantly transport you to the presence of the item's current owner."

So...who is to say that using Wish to restore someone from ceremorphosis would not simply bring the person back, the second before they transformed, with the mind flayer still there as well? Who is to say Wish would not simply do what a True Polymorph spell would do, and transform the mind flayer into their previous form without restoring the soul of the original owner?

I don't have any good answers for this, but I am fascinated by the implications of it all.

[ambrosialdesire]

bounded

18+ DARK CONTENT BELOW, MINORS + BLANK BLOGS DNI

pairing: s4 eren x fem!reader word count: 2.5k warnings + tags: general yandere and obsessive themes, unhealthy relationships, one-sided pining, childhood friends, p*rn w/ plot, non-con, manipulation, guilt-tripping, loss of virginity, forced fingering, forced f oral sex, vaginal sex, bounded hands (kinda), panty-gag, praise & degradation, slight edging, spitting, hair-pulling, forced cheating, all characters are 18+ synopsis: ignoring the romantic feelings of the man you thought was your beloved childhood best friend was never your intention, but you should have given eren a shot. maybe then you wouldn't be begging for forgiveness underneath the star-filled sky. a/n: continuation of boundless, as requested by many anons hehe so this is just straight up smut, mostly cause i'm still practicing how to write it. no i will not write a third part of this little series but i will accept asks about it just like any other fic i've written. i also reached over 500 likes since the start of this blog and i wanna thank y'all sm for the support!! i really didn't expect this much love towards my silly writing and i'm really grateful to be able to share a small piece of what i like to do. have fun with the read! i would love some feedback on the smut and how to improve it cause i feel like it's not up to par lol note: please keep in mind of the tags above and do not proceed if triggering or uncomfortable, especially if you are a minor!! do not read my or any other writers' dark content if you are underaged. this is a fictional work and does not reflect irl morals, do not believe this is how a real romance works or functions.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

A good god would never hurt their creations.

A good god would never bestow pain, sickness, or selfishness within their creations.

A good god would be morally just.

If there was a god here, they wouldn't have created this hellhole called Paradis. If there was one, what a cruel and merciless creator they'd be for letting thousands upon thousands of cannibalistic monsters live across the land.

No amount of written literature or street-wide sermons could convince you that any sort of higher being would create this generational agony out of the kindness of their heart. What was the lesson that humanity needed to learn? Why create this animosity towards the beings that you supposedly love?

You believed in no god. No merciful god was able to exist on this forsaken island.

Yet as Eren pressed the pads of his fingertips against the nub of your clit, the pleading incantations for something or someone — anyone — could not cease from spilling out from behind the cloth.

He sighed in annoyance but still rubbed it in slow circles. "I'd love to hear your voice but you know the rules up here. You don't want to get in trouble do you?"

The amount of pressure around your wrists tightened to the point that you thought he was going to break them, hot tears spilling out of your cheeks. To the best of your ability, you tried relaxing but your legs tensed and squeezed around Eren's waist as he began to pick up the pacing. You wanted to believe that he wouldn't hurt you, the dearest boy that you've loved ever since the two of you were little.

"Good girl." He quietly praised under his breath and you couldn't help but feel your heart ignorantly skip from those simple words, parts of his now-long brown hair falling over his eyes as he focused on your lower half.

His eyes had always reminded you of a clear morning sky, bright and confidently focused on the future ahead of him. You've adored those turquoise-blue eyes of his for years, admiration running through your veins whenever you shared a look with him. Now as you were able to catch a glance of them as he played with your now-throbbing clit, only dread crawled up your spine.

He was unrecognizable, a build-up of years of pain and resentment rippling off in a dark stormy sky. This was someone who simply existed to get revenge, tearing through everything to get what he wanted in the end.

This man wasn't your best friend. This man was not your Eren. This was no longer the boy that you playfully chased after over hills and through alleys. Whoever this was on top of you is a stranger.

A monster.

A demon.

He began to dip two of his fingers into your hole, a small shudder of breath escaping you as he slowly pushed one of his digits in. "Fuck, you're tight. That asshole doesn't know what the hell he's doing with you."

It hurt, the stretch from only two of his lithe fingers was foreign to your body. The sound of them going in and out with the slightest sounds of squelching made you cringe internally.

Your boyfriend never touched you once, both you and him promised to save each other until marriage. The idea gave you comfort at the time that no matter what, this fight will be worth it in the end. Since the Titans started to slowly thin out, the chance of finally starting a family with him became even more likely. It seemed that the world thought otherwise, digging its claws deep within your flesh. You shook your head towards Eren, who raised a confused eyebrow before grinning ear-to-ear.

"Don't tell me he never touched you?" He let go of your wrists and the warmth of his hand left from between your thighs. You thought he was letting you go scot-free. The two of you would just forget this night ever happened and go back to pretending that you were the best of friends. Unfortunately, you thought wrong.

Once Eren got an idea in his head, it was difficult to convince him otherwise.

He suddenly grabbed your waist, pulling your lower body close to his face, your legs dangling on-top of his shoulders. His arms tightly wrapped around your stomach and held you upside down, blood rushing to your head. You struggled around for a little bit, confusion and terror melding into your expression before he pressed his mouth against your hardened clit and sucked.

"He's missing out then." He groaned and the vibrations shot through your body, hands gripping at the blanket underneath you. Like a starved man, he lapped up your fluids like it was going to be his last meal. You felt dizzy, from the position you were in and how feverishly focused he was as he continued to lick your folds. A muffled whine came out of your mouth as his tongue started to tease around your slick opening, your head shaking back and forth as you stared at him with scared eyes.

Eren ignored you, squeezing your body even closer to his, tongue now slipping in. He started to hold you with one arm and reached over to play with your clit as he prodded the muscle in you, your legs squeezing around his head. You tried to ignore the pulse in your core when you felt him press against your back, the tears coming back in full force. Never in years have you felt this powerless, especially when it was coming from the very person that you've always looked highly upon.

You felt disgusted as his saliva intertwined with your slick began to drip down your pussy, the flesh becoming glistened in the moonlight. Feeling his fingers soon dip in along with his tongue had you loudly exhale into the gag, your legs shaking as the tips of his fingers brushed against a particular spot with you. He kept poking and prodding till you could feel a heavy pressure build up in the pit of your stomach, an exploding desire to finally release something in your body had your eyes tightly closed shut.

You tried imagining the man that was enjoying you was your boyfriend, that this was your honeymoon and that he was the one that was pleasing you. Yet your body and mind refused to think picture him. The hands and fingers that touched you was far too calloused to be his. The hair that brushed against your inner thighs was too long. The body against yours was more muscular than his.

No matter what you tried to deny, this was Eren. Completely and wholly Eren.

A throaty groan made your whole body tense up and your eyes shoot back open. Eren finally pulled away from your lower half, his eyes half-lidded and dazed with lust. You were in a haze, confused and partially irritated that the pleasure was suddenly stopped, leaving you horridly unsatisfied. His mouth was covered with your fluids and you watched him run a tongue over his lips, a grin forming as he knew what you were thinking.

"I wanna feel you cum on my mouth another time. If I waited any longer, I would've came in my pants." He teased, letting you finally rest flat back on the blanket. You heard the click of his belt and the shuffle of his pants being pulled down, his lower half settling back in-between you.

"Watch me put it in." You shook your head in refusal and closed your eyes once more, but he didn't take that response well from the way he grabbed the top of your head and pulled at the hair roughly for you to look down.

"I said watch." He bore his teeth at you as tears formed in the corners of your eyes, the pain making you open them back up. You wished that you kept them closed, your breaths beginning to quicken as you realized his cockhead was getting close to your entrance.

It was a pretty cock, not too girthy nor was it too short. The tip was flushed a soft pink from what you could see in the moonlight, already dripping and glossy with precum. Tufts of dark brown hair trailed down towards the base of it and there was a shadow of a protruding vein that you were able to see on the side of his shaft.

Eren used his other hand to align himself to your hole, and you begrudgingly watched and felt him slowly sheath himself into your pussy. Agony was the first sensation that shot through your body, hands twisting the filthy sheet underneath you. The stretch burned your core and you painfully whined against the gag.

"Fuck — fuckkk — you're so warm and tight." He moaned as he released his hand from your hair. You felt grateful that he hadn't made any sudden movements, letting you at least adjust to the insertion. Perhaps there was still some form of compassion in the man you knew.

His hands went to your hips, gripping and kneading around the fat. You could feel him shaking, his cock twitching against your walls. Eren was never good at restraining himself and it showed, a muffled cry slipping out of you as he began to thrust without warning. You watched as his dick rhythmically slid in and out of you, splitting you in two.

"You're fucking mine, you hear me?" He hissed as he continued to rapidly plunge into your slopping cunt. You let out a muted cry as the palm of his hand made contact against the side of your ass, a stinging pain forming. "From the moment we were kids to now, you were and have always been mine."

He was relentless as he pounded into your pussy, every thrust caused sharp but muffled moans into the gag. You wanted to fight back but when you looked back into his eyes, your heart sank down to the pit of your stomach.

Desperation.

The most recognizable expression you've witnessed on others on numerous occasions. He fucked you like it was the last thing he'd ever get to do, as if this was a necessity. The tormented expression in his face, the way he bit down on his lip and dug his nails into your hips. No doubt he felt guilty for taking you like this, it was like he had no other option left.

His fingers reached over in between your lips and ripped out your spit-soaked panty, tossing it to the side. You took in heavy gulps of fresh air before he pressed his lips against yours, sloppily rubbing his tongue against yours. It was like he was trying to devour you whole, almost taking the air away from your lungs.

Eren pulled away with a pant, letting you moan out to the world without any more obstruction. "You're a cruel bitch, ignoring my feelings for years like this. Running to some bastard that'll never understand you."

His hips started to slam angrily against yours and reflectively, you wrapped your legs around his waist tightly. You could feel the tip of his cock nudging and poking against your cervix, whines slipping out of your lips as he continued to push his dick against it.

"E-eren, I'm s-sorry." You begged, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes, hoping that he'd ease up on your poor hole. You heard him breathily scoff at your weak apology.

"Yeah? You're sorry?" He half-heartedly laughed and put one of his hands under your jaw, squeezing your cheeks together. "If you're really sorry, open your mouth for me then slut."

You hesitantly obeyed, confused with his request but at least he stopped thrusting so violently. He grinned cockily and spat on your tongue, your face contorting to a grimace as you felt the warm and thick liquid rest on the surface. You wanted to spit it out, almost gagging as it was nearly sliding down your throat but Eren stopped you from turning your head to eject it out.

"Swallow it." He absolutely lost his mind if he thought you were going to do that. You glared at him but he simply smiled smugly, running his fingers through your hair, lightly tugging at the strands.

"Swallow it and I won't cum in you." The second he said that, your blood ran cold, eyes widening in fear. He can't be serious, can he? This was Eren you were talking about, of course he'd be serious.

You hated this, you hated how it felt like you knew him but at the same time, knew nothing about him at all.

With one swift motion, you swallowed and started coughing, trying not to throw up the dinner you had nearly an hour ago. He pried open your mouth with his fingers, checking as if you really did do it and kissed you once more after he finished his inspection.

"Good, you're doing so good." He whispered into your ear as he rolled his hips, plunging you once more with his cock. You unintentionally squeezed him as he angled himself more to hit a spongy spot within your cunt, a dragged out moan coming out as the tip rubbed it.

"You like that, you whore?" You nodded wordlessly as you rolled your head back, pleasure swimming in your muddled brain. You could feel his fingers slip in-between your drenched pussy, curling against your throbbing clit.

"Ha— What would your boyfriend think? His so-called innocent girlfriend being a filthy cock-slut for her best friend." He teased as he rolled his fingertips around the nub, your core clenching around him. You wanted to tell him off — to stop mentioning your boyfriend — but you were so close to that release from earlier that you couldn't focus on what he was saying about him.

You could feel Eren start to speed up, his thrusts becoming more deeper and erratic, his fingers moving faster and faster against your clit until you couldn't hold it in anymore. You could barely hear him tell you that you can do it, that he was almost there too. Your walls gripped around his moving cock and your vision went white, every single muscle in your body became pulled taut as you finally came.

He didn't stop throughout your orgasm, letting out a broken cry as he finally stopped moving. You felt nothing until he sat up and pulled away from your body, whining quietly as he slipped his now-soft cock out of your still-sensitive pussy. With that, you could feel a warm liquid spill out of your hole.

"You p-promised." You sobbed out in a whisper and he silently stroked the side of your face.

"I didn't promise you anything, but I meant what I said earlier. I love you, I won't let anyone or anything take you away from me. Not even fate will tear us apart." Eren laid next to you, your bodies sweaty and sticky. You couldn't stop crying, letting the tears fall down your face as you stared up at the night sky with him.

"I'll take care of you, okay? You won't need anyone else but me from now on." His calloused hand took in yours, interlocking his fingers with yours and holding it firmly.

"Me, you, and our baby. That's all that matters in the world." You couldn't help but cry aloud at that.

If there was a god, good or bad, may they never let this child live through this hell.

[mamawasatesttube]

first, I just wanna say the Kon agonies are making me lose my freaking mind!!!! oh my GOD I’m devouring your writing every single time!!!

second, for my actual ask!! I was wondering how you think timkon’s proposal would be like? If you haven’t already told us, I feel like you have but I’m not sure!

thank you thank you!! i love kon and his issues. he has so many of them. (shameless plug for the kon agonies here again <3)

i love to think abt timkon proposal ideas. many possible ways it could go but i FIRMLY believe the one way it Can't go is "traditionally perfect and cliché and romantic". it has to go sideways at least a little. they're both weirdos with an insane general lifestyle. i have several ideas that i think are all really fun, but the baseline is just that there's no way it goes off without a hitch. therefore, i present:

how DO tim and kon get engaged? (one possibility!)

on a very casual chill date night in, while sharing a pizza while hanging out on the couch in their pajamas and watching star trek, they agree they want to get married. they also both agree it'll still be fun to do a proposal.

yeah each of them is now going "hehehe. i'm gonna surprise him with a nice date and i'll romance him as he deserves and then ask him to marry me and he will be swept off his feet!!!"

so. you know. now it's a race.

one weekend, kon takes tim on a lovely romantic date. by the point kon's got him sitting in his lap way up in the sky, twirling wispy clouds around them both into hearts while he points up at stars way overhead, tim is INCREDIBLY suspicious of what's coming (a proposal) and is SO mad because he was going to propose NEXT WEEKEND.

kon's sappy speech gets interrupted by toyman attacking metropolis and tim is like. oh thank god. i mean uhh... wow... FUCK toyman! i'm SO mad about this! meanwhile kon pouts the entire time he's decimating a small army of toy soldiers with real guns. tim finds this adorable.

kon almost still pops the question anyway, but his vanity stops him. his hair got a little singed by a giant firebomb and he's upset about it. he can't propose like this.

next weekend, tim takes kon on a lovely romantic date. when he goes down on one knee in front of a park fountain under a canopy of string lights (very romantic, kon deserves it), kon starts HOLLERING and pulls his ring box out like NO!!! I DID SO GOOD LAST WEEK IM PROPOSING TO YOU!!!!!

tim: NOT IF I GET THERE FIRST. CONNER KENT YOURE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE—

kon: YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!! TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE YOURE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE AND IM GONNA PUNT YOU INTO THIS FOUNTAIN IF YOU DONT LET ME PROPOSE TO YOU FIRST—

tim, yelling over him: —AND I'D BE HONORED TO SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE WITH YOU—

kon tackles him.

they both fall into the fountain.

they both have to hunt for their ring boxes in the fountain.

passerby are staring.

they are in their nice fancy date clothes. on their hands and knees. crawling around in a big ol park fountain. it's cold. they're a mess. please send help

kon finds his ring box first (tim swears up and down that he cheated by ttking tim's box away every time he almost grabbed it) and tackles tim a second time, sits on him in the fountain, and grabs his face.

tim licks him. kon is, shockingly, undeterred.

"TIM," he says, and squishes tim's cheeks. "you're a STUBBORN ASSHOLE. WILL YOU MARRY ME?"

"I'M a stubborn asshole?!" tim demands. it's muffled because his cheeks are still very squished. "god, obviously yes, but you're the jackass, i planned tonight out so well and you hijacked it—"

kon kisses him. tim kisses him back.

tim's ring box mysteriously happens to brush his fingers then. very convenient, thank you, kon.

they exchange rings still sitting there in the cold water under all the lights. tim's teeth are starting to chatter.

passerby are still staring.

they don't care. they're engaged!

and that's the story of how tim drake gets mild hypothermia and kon fusses and frets over him for the rest of the weekend—uhhh I MEAN, the story of how tim and kon get engaged. yippee!!

[cauliflowertree]

laurie laurence—all i want to say is i love you.

laurie laurence x fem!march!reader

summary: romance novel confessions.

word count: 1.1k

fanfic no. 043.

laurie laurence always had a pleasant time with the march sisters—he considered them family, if he could so bold as to say so. but as he grew older, the other sisters began to notice a slight show of favouritism for the third sister, y/n. soft but lively in temperament, she seemed his perfect match. and they didn’t mind so much, for laurie was still very attentive to them, and they observed they would make a very fine couple should they choose to be.

he hadn’t thought he was quite so obvious with his silent affections, but he could not deny his countenance greatly altered when with her, though often he did not realise unless it was teasingly pointed out by someone else who had observed this alteration. let them tease, he thought, it mattered not to him.

he had quietly pined after the favourited sister for many months now, elongated, he felt, by the winter season which seemed to last many weeks longer than usual, which often forced him back home in the early evenings where his lack of company was greatly felt by y/n and the other march sisters.

but when summer finally absorbed spring’s showers, he was greeted with the adoring sight of y/n reading novels in her garden once more. from his window he could see her quite clearly, often getting distracted from his studies which could infuriate poor mr. brooke. laurie was never the most attentive nor obedient student, which was only exacerbated by this consuming infatuation he could not shake, nor did he want to.

as much as his love for y/n tormented him, it was the reason he found himself so eager to greet the day in the early mornings, the cause many of his smiles and happy moments. but as much as this was true, she was also the cause of many sleepless nights, reprimands from his tutor and grandfather for not paying attention and confusion in his life.

despite this uncertainly imposed upon him, as soon as his classes had ended for the day, he headed to the march household—he could wait no longer to tell y/n the truth about how he felt; the uncertainty must come to an end.

meanwhile, oblivious to the plan laurie was hatching, you basked in the soft sunlight while reading a romance novel you’d bought from town with all the money you’d saved up recently. it was a delightful read, though you were nearing the end already, having only started reading it a day or so ago.

“you pierce my soul. i am half agony, half hope,” you read aloud, feeling your heart pound in your chest, wondering what those words would sound like coming from laurie’s lips.

theodore laurence had a hold of your heart from the day you’d met, and thus far, he had not relinquished his grip for a moment. you were a little too shy to admit your fondness for the boy, but would accept in a heartbeat if he were to confess he felt the same way first. it was a difficult predicament, for the dread came in knowing there was a chance you would never know if you did not ask.

“‘would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?’ — ‘would i!’ was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough,’” you continued to read, feeling the butterflies in your stomach fluttering as you the confession upon the pages unravelled.

“‘good god!’ he cried. ‘you would!’”

so enraptured in your novel, you hadn’t noticed laurie creeping up on you from your garden gate, smiling gently as he watched and listened to you read another novel from your extensive collection.

“what are you reading this time?” asked laurie when he was close enough.

“oh! laurie, you startled me,” you laughed, clutching your chest.

“i apologise, fair maiden,” he bowed in jest. “is it shakespeare’s sonnets again?” he asked, nodding to the book in your hand.

“not this time, the author is a woman from england,” you replied, elated with the knowledge it was a woman’s words you were devouring page by page.

“is it a novel?”

“yes, a romance novel,” you sighed happily. “it is fast becoming one of my favourites. oh, laurie, it’s utterly splendid!”

laurie sat beside you in the grass, fiddling with the green blades beside his feet. he listened to you talk fondly of this new novel you had fallen in love with, talking endlessly of some anne elliot and a captain wentworth.

“what is it?” you asked suddenly, feeling very self conscious of the intense stare from laurie’s eyes and his boundless silence.

“i’m in love with you,” he whispered without hesitation through a smile, almost in disbelief that the words had left his lips so boldly.

“what?” you scoffed, for such a declaration was not easily comprehended in the circumstances in which he had revealed it to you.

“all the while i have known you, i have been in love with you,” replied laurie, feeding off the courage he had unwittingly found. “i do not care that you talk too much, nor that you stay up too late reading by the dwindling candle light. i love that your hair is unkempt and that as soon as someone pays you a compliment you become bashful. i could not think of someone better to love. truly, i could love no one else but you.”

it was as if you were in a romance novel of your own, and the protagonist’s love interest was finally admitting his feelings in the last chapter of the book, letting its readers breathe a sigh of relief alongside their protagonist who had been waiting just as long to hear the words finally spoken.

“have i upset you?” asked laurie when you did not respond.

“no!” you cried. “you have only surprised me,” you laughed. “do you truly mean it, laurie!?”

“of course i mean it, dear y/n,” came his gentle response, which elicited a bright grin stretching across your lips as you tossed your novel to the ground, throwing yourself against laurie.

“i have been in love with you all this time too,” you revealed, hovering over his lips and revelling in the sensation of his arms snaking around your waist and over your back.

laurie could not speak, only match your joyous smile as he let the words you had spoken sink into his heart, down to the very bottom where he endeavoured to hold them forever.

he wetted his lips, lifting his chin up cautiously, to which you matched his actions before pressing your lips to his delicately—a chaste first kiss that neither of you wished would end. but you had all the time in the world for the number to grow and grow beyond count.

requested by anonymous.

🏷 @sw34terw34ther @imabee-oralizard @mad-elia @velvetcloxds @natashxromanovf @ell0ra-br3kk3r @uwiuwi @goodoldfashionedluvergirl @krishavania @innerloverpainter @locke-writes

[haesunflower]

to hell with the stars | royalty au with ricky and zhanghao

(written in the stars chapter 3)

✩ chapter 1, chapter 2 ✩

genre: romance, angst

pairing: reader x ricky, queen oc x zhang hao

about/tags: you're back in astoria where you feel love bloom again. among other things, the queen of mariposa's relationship with king hao worsens. (4k+ words)

y/n is a princess, infidelity, cursing, mentions of death, slight slutshaming, these characters live such hard lives

The sky is a beautiful orange, with pinks blendings purples to welcome the impending setting of the sun. Celeste and Citrine are busy drinking from the water trough after a long day of riding. Ricky tosses you an apple meant for the horses, but you don’t have much of an appetite. 

“I hear you’re leaving tomorrow.” The prince takes a bite into the red fruit, as he sits down next to you under the tree where you’ve been planted for the past twenty minutes. Your mind was all over the place, thinking about your sister – how you and her husband, the king, spent over an hour crying and getting closure, how you eventually shared a kiss with him. 

That would have been enough reason to leave the following day anyway. So when you received a letter from your parents in Astoria asking you to come home, you were a little bit relieved. It saves you the agony of coming up with an excuse to tell your sister. 

In true avoidance, you spent the whole day riding. You rushed to the stables that morning, without even letting Chaehyun know. Everyone was looking for you the moment they realized you disappeared with your horse. Which is exactly why they sent Prince Quanrui to look for you, and he successfully found you crying by the pond. 

With no one in sight, he hugged you, arms embracing your torso as you sobbed into his chest. His head rests atop yours, as he soothes your back trying to get you to calm down. Even in your misery, a part of him is glad that he gets to hold you like this. 

You don't want to return just yet. So again, there you were sitting under the tree. Just thinking. You haven’t said much to Ricky at all, he didn’t pry. Instead you both moved in silence. Grateful for his perceptiveness to your emotions, he deserved a decent conversation. “Yes, tomorrow morning. The King and Queen have summoned me.”

Ricky nods slowly, but he’s undecided on whether or not he wants to believe that answer. He sets the apple down, and sighs loudly. “Since you’ll be gone, I have no purpose staying here any longer than you are. I’ll leave tomorrow as well.” he says matter-of-factly. 

You can’t say you��re not surprised. In fact, you’ve suspected that he favors you more than any other royal because he likes you to some degree. And you like Ricky too, how could you not? 

You spent every year of childhood playing with him around the castle, he was your favorite guest at your tea parties, he was your escort for your first royal ball, he taught you how to paint, and he made you laugh. And you once overheard both your mothers joke around, saying perhaps their children will marry each other one day. You weren’t sure if that meant you. But if it did, you wouldn’t mind. Ricky is a friend above all things, a really good friend – who is also a welcome distraction from your thoughts. 

“You spent almost all of Spring here in Mariposa, did you not tire of my company?” you playfully nudge him, and the tip of his ears turn a little red. He breaks into a smile as he turns to you, eyes locking “it wasn’t dreadful”, he jokes back.  

“I knew it. So you do like me a little bit, Prince Quanrui?” you tease. 

“Love. I do love you Princess Y/N.”

There is no more joking undertone, just a declaration. He says it confidently, his voice unwavering. He looks to your lips, then to your eyes before he looks away – staring at the sky instead, “but I can wait, however long you need, Y/N.”

You think about what he just said, and you’re scared to ask “Ricky, you know something, don’t you?”

“Well…” he begins. “I knew there must have been a good reason as to why you didn’t come to Solaria when I invited you, perhaps you were occupied with royal matters too. And because I was at your sister’s wedding, I figured you weren’t in attendance. Perhaps you were sick, as there was no way you would have missed an event that involved your family. I also know that you were trying to get away from that dumbass King after your dance with him –” he wants to continue, but he glances in your direction. 

Your head is down, ashamed. So he was right, it is about the King. 

“I’m a horrible person. Yesterday, I kissed him.” you whisper the confession, barely audible. You check on Ricky, who is no longer watching the sky, and is instead gazing at you.  He seems unphased. 

“Do you see me differently now?” you ask, feeling hopeful that maybe he doesn’t think you’re a disgrace, a slut, a traitor. He one ups your expectations when he responds with “I see you exactly as you are. The same from when we were kids. Beautiful, terribly unfunny, but fresh like air. Nothing you do changes my love for you.”

For confirmation, you ask once again – “you love me?”

“In every way imaginable, Y/N”. You smile as you realize how easy it was for Ricky to answer that question, and compare it to how difficult it was for you to answer Hao the night before.

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—--

When you leave the next day, Ricky is the one that brings you to your carriage, opening the door for you. He tells you that he’ll visit Astoria after he gets his political affairs in order. He removes the glove that you had on, and kisses the back of your hand sweetly. It’s intimate, sweet, and in Solaria – reserved for only husband and wife. 

You want to tease him, but you don’t. Instead, you remove your necklace, a golden chain with a sun and star on it, and place it on his palm. You enclose his fingers around it gently, and your hands stay in that position for a while. You’re afraid this is the last time you’ll see each other as just Crown Prince Ricky and Princess Y/N. 

“Don’t keep waiting for me, okay? Thank you for the past few weeks”. You place your hand on his cheek, and swipe your thumb comfortingly. 

Those are the last words you speak to him before the carriage door is closed. Ricky is watching as the carriage smalls to the distance. The necklace is safely nested in his clasped hands, afraid he’ll lose the precious item you gave him. Rather, afraid he’ll lose you entirely. 

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—-- 

When you return to Astoria, the first thing that you are alerted to is that the crown prince’s condition has worsened. Crown Prince Hanbin has been sick since the middle of winter, and everyone had assumed he would eventually get better. He always does. But an entire season has passed, and his condition has only worsened. 

You enter his room, and he’s laying in his bed. Your mother and father, the queen and king of Astoria, are seated on chairs by the side of his bed. For both of them to be here at the same time, it must be really grave, you think.

You close the door gently and walk to your brother to take his hand. He’s coughing but he manages to smile when he sees you. “What took you so long, sister?” he asks, his voice is hoarse. 

“Don’t speak, I am here now brother.” You place your hand on his head, feeling his temperature and wiping away the layer of sweat that rests on his skin. “What do the doctors say, mother?” But she doesn’t respond to your query. 

“Y/N, let’s speak outside....” Your father commands.

Hanbin interrupts, “no, let me be the one to tell her.”

You’re looking at both of the men in the room, waiting for them. “Sister, listen –” a roar of coughs erupts before he gets the rest of the sentence out  “– you know that if anything were to happen to me, you’ll be queen regent right?” You’re nodding, “starting tomorrow, your official title will be crown princess.”

Your world spins, and you think you might faint. You were right, that was going to be the last time you would be seeing Ricky as just, princess y/n. Tomorrow, you duties begin as crown princess, the next in line to the throne.

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—--

In Solaria, Prince Quanrui’s mother asks how his trip to Mariposa was. And if he has already proposed to you, like he said you would. He shakes his head, and tells her that it isn’t the right time. 

“I always knew that both of you would end up together,” she says quaintly. “You begged to visit Astoria almost every year, even when we didn’t need the diplomatic meetings anymore. You studied her interests, her country, and you know the Astoria government more than anyone in our parliament. Son, you even painted a portrait for her,” she scoffs “you’ve never even painted for your own mother. And remember when you were devastated when she didn’t visit us last year?” The current queen of Solaria pauses to take a sip from her wine, watching the expression on her son’s face. “Am I right to believe you’ve loved her ever since?” 

When the prince nods, she nags at him, "then why are you in Solaria and not Astoria?"

He has a small smile on his face, and he thinks of you as he touches the gift you left him, currently clad on his neck. 

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—-- 

A letter from Solaria announcing Prince Quanrui’s intent to visit Astoria arrives a week late. Now, the palace staff are in visible panic, making last minute preparations. You haven’t seen them make this much haste since the last time a crown prince stayed in Astoria. 

It’s a bright day, and the gardens are littered with fully bloomed stargazer lilies this time around. As if timed perfectly, a carriage slows down the moment you leave the palace doors. A footman opens the vehicle, and Prince Quanrui steps out dressed in all black. On his right hand, a dozen red roses. 

As you walk down the stairs to greet him, he bows at you. And out of habit, you curtsy back. “Your favorite, Princess Y/N”, he hands you the flowers. Roses don’t grow well on Astoria soil, so Ricky has made it a tradition to gift you a dozen every time he visits. They’re usually yellow or white. You wonder if these red ones hold any special meaning, and you decide to read on it later. 

“They’re beautiful as always, Prince Quanrui.” He takes your ungloved hand, and plants a delicate kiss from his lips. It feels familiar, it feels sincere, it feels nice. 

“I hope the King and Queen are not too offended about my sudden desire to visit the Astoria palace.” You’re walking side by side, back to the grand doors. “Don’t be silly Ricky, they’re elated that you’ve come here again.” 

Ricky is glad to hear that he’s still in your parents’ good graces. Because he plans to ask for their blessing for your hand in marriage soon.

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—-- 

The palace staff are instructed to not speak anything about Prince Hanbin’s debilitating condition, nor are they allowed to address Y/N by her new Crown Princess title around guests. They have not made the royal decree public, and they only plan to do so once things have been made final. Everyone hopes that it doesn’t have to come to that point. 

Silently, you’ve been preparing to take over. Hanbin’s responsibilities have been passed on to you, along with additional education from his royal tutors. It’s exhausting to be a ruler. Thankfully, all of that takes a backseat for the first few days of Ricky’s visit. 

At first, you enjoyed your usual activities. Strolling by the garden, painting together, visiting the new museum artifacts, riding Celeste and Citrine, having meals together. You threw a tea party for fun, and he willingly participated, joking about how you must have no better company because he’s the only one present. “I’m in disbelief that your idea of fun is throwing tea parties and rotting away at the library.” 

Faking offense, “excuse me, that is no way to talk to your host.” He laughs, uninhibited, gums showing. Your favorite. He often puts on a cool and cold demeanor around strangers, but you know who he is. So in rare moments where he allows himself to genuinely laugh, even with palace staff around – you treasure it, tucking a memory of this moment.

“Let’s do something that’s actually fun. I’ll come get you later this evening.”

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—-- 

“Are you certain about this?” you ask Ricky, as he tucks the rest of your hair into your cloak. Underneath, both of you are sporting commoner clothes that you rarely use. 

“Unfortunately, I’m not taking no for an answer. Come on.” He grips your waist tightly and hoists you up the palace walls, the ones near the staff entrance where it’s much, much shorter. And therefore, very climbable. Ricky follows after you, and you’re both giggling at the excitement of sneaking out past curfew. 

The stars are littered throughout the sky, acting as a soft source of light. You mount your horses, and ride towards the central area of Astoria. The night market at the town square feels so alive. There’s a weekend festival that the tavern owners like to host, and you hear old men as they clink their mugs and cheer for the free drinks. Children are still up, enjoying the Astoria delicacies being sold by vendors. At the center, near the fountain, a traditional square dance ensues. It’s mostly old couples and young teenagers. Ricky drags you in, and you’re both welcomed into the chaos of music, laughter, and sweaty bodies. As he dances with an old lady, you can’t help but stare at his beauty that surely rivals your own. He’s holding both her hands, encouraging her to go along with the beat. He’s smiling wide, as he teaches her the steps. That damn smile that you love so much. 

You’re walking down the food vendor lanes when you buy Ricky an Astorian strawberry delicacy. To put it simply, cow’s milk that’s been pasteurized with strawberries. “Try this, you’ll like it.” you excitedly bring the cup to his mouth, and he takes a sip. He says it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

You try a lot of new things. There’s a sketch artist that offers to draw the ‘lovely couple’ in charcoal, and you both pose on the chair attempting to keep your laughs at a minimum. He buys you a little doll made by a local toymaker, saying it looked like you when you were younger. Both of you even try winning a game of hopscotch against the children. He doesn’t want to, but when you tell him to lose on purpose to make them happy, he obliges.

You’re walking back where you came from when you tell him “your idea of fun is certainly better than mine.” You slow your steps, and decide to go to the railing of the bridge overlooking the lake. There are fireflies dancing around the swans. 

“Thank you. For taking me out of the palace today”. Your hands are glued to the railing, but you’re looking up at him. Ricky’s gaze is heart-stopping, and you struggle to maintain eye contact with him.

Meanwhile, he thinks that you shine the brightest at nights, with the moon illuminating your face – like you’re the only thing that matters. To him, it holds true.  He doesn’t know if it’s because he missed you, or if it’s purely from the way you’re looking at him. But he places his hand atop yours on the railing. You don’t move, not because you’re frozen, or nervous, but because it feels – natural. You look to his hand, safely enclosing yours when you notice the necklace you’ve given him, now repurposed as a bracelet that he’s wrapped thrice around his wrist. “You kept it…” 

“I treasure it as it’s from you.” And there’s an increased fondness that grows in your heart for the boy that loves you. You regret the words that you uttered to him when you gave it to him. 

“Ricky, I take back what I said.” He looks confused, “about you not needing to wait for me. I take it back. You’ll keep waiting, right?” You look up at him, desperate and glassy eyed. Ricky thinks your eyes look like they’re sparkling, but he knows it’s because you’re on the verge of tears. 

“I didn’t plan on stopping anyways.” To assure you the only way he knows how, he moves your hands from the railing to wrap it around his shoulders. As if letting you know that it’s okay to rely on him. Then, he inches down closer to you, so that your noses touch. Your lips are merely milimeters away. He searches your eyes, and asks “may I?”

You give a tiny nod, and he places his lips on yours. It’s not as gentle, it’s unlike what you’re used to. But you find it exciting, and there’s an electricity that you’ve never felt before. He swipes his tongue against your lower lip, and you slightly open your mouth to let him kiss you more fervently. Your stomach drops and you hold on to him tighter. You’re both out of breath.

And as you stand there at the bridge overlooking the lake of fireflies, you feel that you’re just Y/N and Ricky. Two people, no titles. 

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—-- 

It’s a rude awakening, to get yelled at by your mother for disappearing into the night. Work piled up over the last few days, and you’re struggling to catch up. Prince Quanrui sends you little letters or drawings that he slips under your study. Cute, you think. You start to feel terrible that you haven’t been seeing much of him anymore, so you invite him to join you in your royal duties. 

You’re in the middle of studying the star patterns, something you did weekly as a requirement in your crown princess education. Previously, you did this as a hobby. It's a sudden whiplash to start viewing your favorite activity as duty. It’s burdensome.

Ricky is surprisingly very willing and interested to participate. He’s quick to be useful, though you’ve only taught him once at thirteen years old. He seems to have taken notice of your change in demeanor though, he knows something is troubling you. So when it’s just the two of you, he asks “I’ll speak candidly, Y/N. Is something wrong?”

He’s standing by the telescope when you retract yourself from the eyepiece. You look at him, and he seems genuinely worried. His brows are furrowed, and he’s slightly biting his lip anxiously waiting for an answer from you. Ricky is never nervous. But nowadays, you have been the exception. Ricky fears you're actively avoiding him, thinking he’s scared you with a confession of love, or if he’s come on too strong since he’s arrived at Astoria. Maybe it was the kiss you shared. Or perhaps you’re still in love with Hao. 

“Can I tell you when I’m ready, is that okay? It’s not anything you did, I promise.” It’s like you read his mind. So he nods, and decides to patiently wait until you are ready to confide in him. To wait, just like you asked him to. 

This time, you’re the one that steps closer towards him to rest your head on his chest. He wraps his arms around your back, and you feel safe. You don’t want to tell him anything just yet. You’d rather stay in his arms, an ignorant state of bliss.

Because you feel that if you tell him, you’ll speak it to existence, some sort of manifestation. It scares you. Because you might be Queen of Astoria, and Ricky is meant to be King of Solaria – thus, you aren’t free to love him either. The damn stars, even at a second chance of love, there is no hope for fruition. 

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—-- 

In Mariposa, things are more dreary. Hao smells like whiskey, and the alcohol’s scent follows him as he barges into the queen’s quarters. It’s been several months since Y/N left, meaning it’s been several months where the king spends his evenings drowning himself in liquor.  

The queen has been holed up in her room since she found Hao and her sister in the second floor library. She didn’t even say goodbye to her when she left, making up an excuse about pregnancy pains. It’s been a few months, and she’s since given birth to a daughter, Yeseo. 

Amidst motherly responsibilities, Knight Jiwoong has been a distraction for her. In Astoria, he swore under oath to protect her with his life. It helps that they’ve known each other forever, and that comfort of having someone know you equally, or maybe even more than yourself has been saving grace for her. So when the queen found her husband and her sister that night, the first thing she did was run to Jiwoong. She cried, and cried, and cried – and he silently listened. 

The palace talks, and word must have gotten around about the Queen’s secret rendezvous with the Astoria Knight that guards her door. When there is a change of the guards, Jiwoong makes sure to come back outside right before anyone catches them. Sometimes, his uniform is in disarray. 

It’s unsurprising, yet terrifying when Hao makes a beeline at the Knight who is currently standing by the Queen’s window. His hands are grasping at his armored collar, in an attempt to intimidate him. “How long have you been fucking the queen?”

“Hao! Let him go.” The queen rushes to the two men, and pushes the King away. Jiwoong is silent, and he kneels down before his King, but doesn’t respond. “I demand an answer, knight Kim Jiwoong. How long has this been going on behind my back!” his eyes are fueled with rage, as he stares down at the man that’s knelt before him. 

“Do not answer him Jiwoong.” The queen puts a finger up towards him. “Hao, if you want to play ‘timelines’ we can. So now I’ll ask you – how long have you been in love with my sister?”

This time, Hao is silenced, but he breathes heavily.

“Is this,” gesturing to you and Jiwoong “the reason why you were okay with all of that? Even asking me to dance with her. Were you pushing me towards her so that you could enjoy your little play thing? You knew this whole time?” Hao is visibly angry at the story that unfolds in his head. An angry King Hao, it’s a sight that is rare to even the oldest of staff in the castle. His chest is huffed out, and his eyes are wide. 

The queen, luckily, is not one to back down. “I know that you kissed my sister while you are still married to me.” The queen walks past Hao and takes a seat by the fireplace. She’s staring at the fire when she says  “I know that you do not love me. I know that ever since we’ve left Astoria you’ve been different.”

“Do not guilt trip me. I am devoted to you, I chose you!” he’s yelling. 

There’s venom in the queen’s voice when she says “you are devoted to me but you do not love me. You are devoted to the country, you are devoted to your children. And yes, you will choose me each time because I, as queen, am also Mariposa. But you do not love me.”

He walks up behind the chair of the queen, and accusingly he says “you speak of the children, but are they even mine? – Yujin & Yeseo, are they even Mariposa blood?” His anger blends into sorrow, the thought of not being the father of his supposed heirs is more heartbreaking than anything else. 

It is only then that the knight speaks. “Your Majesty, I am impotent. There is no doubt that the young heirs are Your Majesty’s”

And just like that, Knight Jiwoong’s secret is out. Hao pours two glasses of whiskey and takes a seat next to the queen. 

—--⋆⋆☆⋆⋆—-- final chapter here

✩ chapter 1, chapter 2 ✩ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

A/N: these chapters just keep getting longer and longer also i'm sorry i made you impotent jiwoong TT

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