#its still way too blue to match the ocean but it is what it is

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

[the-rippedtide-record]

i’m baaaaack guess who’s once again rearranging the northeast corner of the island 💃✨

[yueebby]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. period piece, forbidden love

contents. ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior (5k words of gojo pining), lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. inspired by the apothecary diaries and this post. loosely based off of ancient japan (this is basically its own world). this is the prologue to the series where everything can generally be read as a standalone ! (fic under the cut)

series masterlist | next

emperor!gojo who broke a hundred year tradition to take you as his only lover. despite your role as a concubine, everyone in the imperial palace knew he was going to make you his empress.

emperor!gojo who had not meant to fall in love with you, but you have managed to somehow charm him. a man that single handedly brought his own clan to power– weak in your hands. hushed whispers around the imperial palace call you a witch, but they never reach your ears. not as long as he is alive.

emperor!gojo shamelessly showering you with love. he pays no mind that it is highly frowned upon, he will have his hands on you every time you are in the same room.

emperor!gojo who is livid when there is an attempt on your life. his usual ocean eyes turned to blue flames like a wild animal. servants and clan elders alike scurry under his gaze. the assailant is taken care of by his own hands. 

emperor!gojo who is forced to satiate the clan elders into submission by taking in another concubine from an influential clan. he insists to you that it is no more than a political formality. who are you to meddle into imperial affairs?

emperor!gojo who can’t help himself and ends up falling for another girl who his clan elders demand he must wed. she is much younger than you, beautiful and is well bred; a perfect match for the emperor. 

emperor!gojo whose frequent visits to you come to an end, forcing you to move from his chambers and back to the consorts’ pavilion.

There was a time when you had everything. A place to call home in the Inner Court, a beautiful palace with anything you could have ever dreamed of. Servants, admirers, riches; you had it all. But what was most dear to you was your lover– a man so divine, many thought he was directly blessed by the hand of God. It was too good to be true. A woman of lowly birth like you, paid as homage for the sins of her clan against the new reigning family of Japan, becoming a concubine of the Heavenly Emperor. 

You remembered it all too well.

His brilliant mind that once strategized the downfall of the previous imperial family, calculating its next move in a game of Go against you. You can still remember the shock on his face upon his first defeat. The way he would keep you from leaving to fulfill your other duties until he was satisfied, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to keep up with you. No matter how hard he tried, you remained victorious. It drove him mad.

You remembered the stolen kisses while you made your rounds in the Inner Palace with your ladies in waiting. It took you quite a while to learn to tune out their giggles every time the Emperor dips you down to taste your lips in broad daylight. The grin that he wore after was enough to leave your legs weak.

Above all, you'll always remember how safe you felt in his strong, reassuring embrace. You’ve seen him train, and it was no wonder the Gojo clan rose to power so quickly as a result of one man. The way he wields the katana is unlike any man on the face of the earth. Those arms were your sanctuary. You can still vividly recall the attempt on your life, orchestrated by a traditionalist incensed by the Gojo clan's swift ascent to power. The emperor, outraged by the assassination plot, personally saw to the man's execution. 

However, the damage was done and it caused great strain in the Imperial Palace.

To appease the old geezers that were forced out of power, Emperor Gojo had taken in another concubine from one of the Big Three families of Japan— a beautiful Zenin girl. Her flowing, silky hair and saccharine voice enchanted everyone in the Inner Palace, captivating the Emperor, most of all. She was younger than you, with perkier breasts and soft skin that was enough to capture the attention of any man. 

You don’t blame her for taking the Emperor’s attention away. Though you would be a liar if you said it did not hurt you. Deep down, you cannot deny the agony that sears your soul, realizing that the only semblance of love you've ever tasted remains unrequited. With a heavy heart, you resign yourself to the bitter truth of your existence, knowing all too well the cruel confines of your place in this world.

You were merely a pawn, and the Emperor did not want you anymore.

That was made clear months later when you received a scroll from the Emperor’s advisor, a man you were once well acquainted with, Geto Suguru. 

“What is this?” You asked him quietly, your heart silently begging the Heavens it was not what you had suspected it to be. The black haired man in front of you does not respond, and you feel something pierce into your heart. Despite being a part of the Emperor’s court, it was rare that you received letters directly.

Your suspicions were confirmed when your shaky hands finally opened the scroll to read the familiar kanji written by your beloved.

“The Emperor decrees the termination of your role as concubine." Geto spares you the trouble of deciphering the characters neatly written in ink. “In his mercy, you are to be moved as a servant in the Outer Court. You are to serve the Imperial Physician.”

What you remember most was the silence. The Emperor’s silence after the stressful months you had to endure alone. The silence shared between you and Geto when you were forced out of the Imperial Court. All that was left was the sound of your heart breaking and the wood creaking underneath Geto’s feet as he walked away. Satoru never bothered to see you off.

Seasons change and by the next spring, you’re busying your hands with collecting herbs for the Imperial Physician, a man by the name of Yaga Masamichi. He is a kind man, pitying you enough to fill your days with laborious tasks to prevent your mind from wandering to thoughts of the unfortunate turn your life has taken. He is even generous enough to supply you with a new wardrobe of clothing full of light fabrics, a luxury you thought you would lose in the Outer Palace. Though the initial humiliation has worn off with the passing of time, you are still constantly reminded of your fall from grace.

Looks by the mix of condolences and disgust are shared when you roam the walls of the Outer Palace. You hear whispers of how the Emperor is infatuated with his newer, shinier toy. It is enough for you to swallow the bile that makes its way up your throat. 

“It is no wonder the Emperor tossed away a wildflower like her in exchange for a cherry blossom. He needed someone to rival his own greatness.” A particular comment stopped you in your tracks. Your grip tightens on the woven basket in your hand filled with medicinal herbs you had collected earlier that morning. 

“Have some pity on her.” Another eunuch whispers. Your breath falters, but you continue your walk with your head held up. You’ve heard the rumors. The beautiful Zenin Himiko has charmed the Emperor enough that there are rumors of a royal marriage to come. It doesn’t help that the Emperor has remained monogamous to her since he had banished you from his court.

A comforting hand links itself with your arm, “Ignore them. I saw Yaga shooing away a crowd of suitors that were lined up for your hand.” Ieiri Shoko scoffs, secretly sending you a wink. She has been studying medicine under Yaga for nearly a decade, eagerly accepting you as a companion upon your arrival. You feel your cheeks heat up at her flattery. You know she’s just trying to make you feel better.

Although your beauty never faded, it seems as though you are no longer sought after in the marriage market. Not that it matters, considering the new life that you’re living. You’re now a personal servant to the Imperial Physician, leaving no time to worry about suitors and such. Your days are filled with good work— tending to Yaga’s cherished garden that he has sowed for decades rather than frivolous games and attending the Emperor. It may not be glorious compared to your former life, but it was the best a woman of your status could receive. 

When you and Shoko return to Yaga’s estate, you’re surprised to see the somber look that has settled on his aging features. Shoko makes an offhand comment that he will age faster if he keeps scowling. She receives a scolding.

“Is something the matter?” You gently place down your basket full of herbs. 

Yaga sighs, calloused hands rolling up a scroll with the Imperial Seal. “It appears the Emperor’s consort has fallen ill and His Majesty commands my presence in the Imperial Palace.” 

The Royal Consort. The woman that dethroned you: Zenin Himiko.

“I understand.” You nod, maintaining your composure while two sets of eyes scrutinize you with keen observation. It was only natural the emperor wanted the best doctor in the country for his object of affection. “Shall I close up the shop while you journey into the Inner Palace?” 

Yaga shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary. I will have Shoko act as my stand-in.” He remarks with a quick glance in her direction “You, on the other hand, will accompany me.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“You cannot be serious.”

“Typically, one of my apprentices would accompany me on such journeys. However, now that I have acquired a personal attendant,” He gestures towards you with a flick of his hand, “It shall no longer be necessary.” As he speaks, he runs his hand absentmindedly through his well trimmed beard, gaging your reaction.

"I—" Your words falter and fade away. "Yes, sir," you respond, inclining your head in deference, a stark reminder of your place. While you may have concealed it, you were seething with humiliation. Returning to the Imperial Palace after a year of exile to serve the woman who took your spot was mortifying beyond measure.

“Very well. Pack enough for one week’s time. I doubt the Emperor would have called me if this was a light ailment.” He says gruffly. “We leave at dawn.” His gaze shifted to the horizon outside.

1 YEAR AGO

“Your Grace,” You purr at the feeling of his large hands scratching your head. 

The smile that rests on his face is almost ravenous. “Yes, my love?”

“I think—“ A soft sigh escapes your lips when he presses on your weak points. “I should g-go.”

His ministrations stop almost immediately. 

“Go?” His eyes peer down at you in his lap. It is now that you realize the weight of his piercing gaze. “Have I commanded you to leave yet?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have nowhere else to be.” He huffs, unintentionally puffing his cheeks out. You stifle the giggle that nearly escapes from your lips. He vaguely resembles a pufferfish– or so you think. Though you’ve never seen the round creature with your very own eyes, you’ve heard that the delicacy was something only members of the aristocratic class would feast on. 

Your mouth waters at the thought.

“What are you thinking about that could possibly be so important? Keep your eyes on me,” A strong hand squishes your cheeks together and firmly guides your face back upon him. 

You should be embarrassed; ashamed at the intimate position His Majesty has trapped you in. The way your head is tucked away in his lap as he peers down at you, nothing to shield you away from him. It was incredibly scandalous, considering that you were an unmarried woman! But it seemed like the Emperor had taken no mind towards it. You would even dare to say that he was enjoying it, with the way his lips quirk upward at the sight of you squirming. 

“Your Grace,” You repeat, determined to free yourself from his hold. His eyebrows furrow.

“Satoru,” He reminds you. You purse your lips. The position you hold in his court is simply not high enough to grant you the privilege of calling him by his given name.

“Your Grace,” You try again, the title rolling off of your tongue naturally. A man like him did not deserve any title less than.

“You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart. Indulge a man, won’t you?” He pouts down at you. As stubborn as ever, you don’t relent.

“I would be overstepping my boundaries as your consort to call you as such. That privilege is reserved for your future bride.” You take advantage of his guard let down to sit up and escape his hold. If he could have caught you, he made no effort.

“I am a simple man.” He follows you to your vanity. A giggle escapes your mouth. He is anything but. “I want my love to call me by my name.” 

You turn around to cup his cheek. He eagerly leans into your touch, sighing happily at the contact.

“I wonder how Lord Kento and Geto would react to you like this.” You tease, a smile unknowingly painting itself on your lips. 

Satoru’s face falls, features morphing into an appalled expression. You watch him close the distance between you through the mirror.

“Kento?” His voice had a dangerous lilt in it. You blink, unsure what spurred on the sudden tension in the room. “Since when were you so comfortable around him? He cannot satisfy you like I can.” He reminds you of the man’s castrated state as an eunuch. You wince.

“I have not gotten comfortable,” You’re careful to pick your words. Gojo’s possessiveness was something that was not easily tamed. “He simply provides good conversation while you are away.The palace is far too big and lonely while you’re away dealing with clan matters.” 

The only response you get is a quiet grumble. “You’re lucky that you’re pretty.” His large hand creeps its way into your hair again, undoing the hairstyle your ladies in waiting had spent a copious amount of time on earlier that morning. Gojo carefully plucks the extravagant silver hairpin from your hair, the dangling pearls clicking softly at the sudden movement.  His hands slowly make their way down to the kimono that you are wearing, hands ready to undo the obi.

Your hands softly hover his, “I fear that our roles have been reversed. Should it not be me who gets you unready, Your Grace?”

He chuckles and through the mirror you can see a smirk make his way to his lips, “I’d let you undress me any day. Just say the word, beloved.” 

You roll your eyes, but allow him to continue. It was moments like these with the Emperor that led you on to believe that there was a semblance of love between the two of you. 

How wrong you were.

PRESENT DAY

The sun has yet to meet the horizon when you arrive at the Inner Palace. The horse-drawn carriage that you and Yaga had taken is the only sound at the scene, clopping down the stone road and back to the Inner Court. You miss the serenity of the beautiful palace you once resided in, knowing that it will be bustling with life in just a few short hours.

In front of the large doors of the primary ceremonial hall where the Emperor spends most of his time, stands Lord Nanami, a counsellor to the Emperor himself. Time has only made his face sterner, but his neatly styled hair and blue and yellow dyed court attire remained the same. He waits patiently while you and Yaga make your way up the flight up stairs that lead up to the hall.

“I am glad to see you in good health, Yaga.” Nanami bows. 

The man next to you promptly waves his politeness off, thanking him for his hospitality. You stand silently while the two men engage in conversation regally.

Lord Nanami sighs, “His Majesty has been plagued by stress lately. To say I am relieved by your presence would be an understatement.” His statement is a subtle reminder that you must harden your heart upon entering the palace walls. The meticulously built walls were no longer a sanctuary for you, rather, a painful testament that you were no longer wanted. 

Yaga lets out a hearty laugh and it reveals a rare sight, Lord Nanami’s lips curving upwards by a slight. “I highly doubt the boy would be glad to see me. The appearance of the Imperial Physician is portentous.” He scratches his beard. You tilt your head in confusion at how he referred to the Emperor.

“I suppose, yet I am intrigued to find out how he will react upon seeing his object of affection flourishing anew despite the sting of frost.” Nanami audibly wonders. Even a fool could understand his eloquent comparison. The Emperor would be thrilled to see his consort in full bloom once again. You pray that the Heavens would grant you some mercy from witnessing such a scene.

“Youth,” Yaga shakes his head, chuckling to himself before regaining composure. “I mustn't keep the Emperor waiting. [Name], please gather the herbal ingredients to treat the young Consort as you seem fit. I shall confer with His Majesty and meet you in her chambers to declare a proper diagnosis.”

You bow, “Yes sir.”

While Yaga prepares to enter the doors where The Heavenly Emperor resides, your eyes couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the large bronze doors. 

“You seem well,” Nanami addresses you for the first time in over a year. Your eyes trail from the Emperor’s door to the blonde man in front of you. “Allow me to guide you to our herbal stock.” Nanami offers you his arm as you start to make your way down the stairs. 

You take it, lightly holding his arm.  “Thank you, Lord Nanami. Time away from the Inner Palace has been like a breath of fresh air,” You respond, ensuring your voice carries no malice. You hear the large palace doors from behind you open, the metal creaking loudly in the quiet dawn. 

“I must ask you to call me Kento,” He leads you down the stone steps. “We are old friends, it is strange to hear anything but.” 

You focus on your steps down the stairs, only responding once your feet meet the solid ground, “I fear that our social statuses have changed since then. It would be the cause of a scandal should anyone hear I am calling the Imperial Counselor by his given name. Your admirers would have my head on a stick.”

“Your imagination is amusing as always, [Name].” He gives you a closed eyes smile. You huff.

“I am only speaking the truth!” You insist. He chuckles.

“It is quite refreshing to see both you and Yaga again. I’m not sure how long it has been since I have been at the imperial physician.” 

You gape at his confession. “You mustn't skip your annual visits to the physician, Kento. It is in the best interest of your health!” You lightly scold him, lifting your hand to flick his forehead. It was a force of habit. “Perhaps if I have time after treating the Consort, I shall do a check up on you.”

Nanami clears his throat at your comment, the twinkle in his eyes dissipating as if your direct touch had burned him. 

“I would rather not lose my head.” He mumbles, eyes scanning the courtyard around the two of you. You knit your eyebrows, confused.

Nanami leaves you to fulfill his duties once you arrive at the Royal Kitchens to retrieve all the necessary items to treat Consort Himiko. You are glad that he did not accompany you into the kitchens to prepare Consort Himiko’s herbal soup. 

The memory of it still irks you.

“You’re late,” One of Consort Himiko’s ladies in waiting snaps just as you enter the kitchen. You look up to see a young girl, dressed in a light purple kimono. It must be Himiko’s signature, you note. It was strange to see someone outside of the Imperial family donning the color, but you suppose it was only a grand display of Himiko’s influence.

“You’re a lot more plain than I anticipated,” The other lady in waiting quirks an eyebrow, eyeing your appearance. You furrow your eyebrows, shocked by their rudeness.Their undying loyalty to their Lady was enough to fuel an unspoken hatred for you. Though you’re not sure that the two coincide, you don’t blame them.

The two are mixing a concoction that you don’t recognize to be used to treat the sick. The taller one adds some aromatics and herbs in and you see the other one unwrap a cloth to reveal a rare delicacy from the West. Cocoa, you believed they called it. 

Then it hits you– the two are not making a medicinal soup for their Lady, rather they are making an aphrodisiac! The image that conjures in your head makes you blanch. Back in the Outer Palace, Shoko had shown you the effects of the stimulant (you shiver at the memory of her shoving a treat laced with it into your mouth). It was certainly a night to remember.

“How pathetic,” You mutter underneath your breath, quickly rushing to obtain the ingredients you needed without making conversation with the two girls.

Fortunately, they pay you no further attention for the time you’re in the kitchen.

“Please excuse me,” You bow upon entering the Emperor’s chambers. Despite the Consort’s Pavilion being similar in size to a small town, you remember spending most of your time in the Emperor’s chambers rather than your own. It was probably the same case with Consort Himiko. You slowly place the tray carrying broth and medicinal herbs to treat the Consort down on the circular wooden table in the middle of the room.

Out of curiosity, your eyes can’t help but soak in the Emperor’s room. Not much has changed since you’ve left. His Majesty’s preference for minimalist decorations have stayed the same, along with his natural musk that fills your nose. You feel your face heat up at your own thoughts. How could you think of such a thing when you are about to meet his new lover?

Your gaze moves to his bed, where Consort Himiko resides– only to find nothing.

“Huh?” 

You observe his bed, silk sheets neatly made, seemingly untouched. The sounds of your sock clad feet patter on the wooden floor as you make your way to feel the bedsheets for any signs of warmth, but you are met with nothing.

“Don’t you know that entering the Emperor’s chambers can be punishable by death?” A deep voice from behind you causes you to jump in your spot. 

Your guard is immediately raised, head whipping to the sound. In hindsight, you should have never agreed to accompany Yaga on his trip. It was a foolish idea all along, you think as all of the air in your lungs dissipates upon seeing your former lover. 

Standing at the entrance of his own sleeping quarters is Gojo Satoru, his frame big enough to tower over the doorway. His arms are crossed over each other, electric blue eyes focused on nothing else but you. You press your thighs together tightly to avoid squirming anymore than you are.  He has loosened his dark blue kimono to expose some of his hardened chest, a sight any woman in the nation would die to catch a glimpse.  Even underneath all of the fabric, anyone can see his divinely sculpted physique.

“Your Grace,” You waste no time to dip your body deeply, praying that he will allow you to keep your head by sunset. “I apologize for the intrusion, I was under the pretense that Consort Himiko resided in your quarters–” Your voice loses itself in your throat when you see his shadow quickly encroaching.

“Himiko stays in her Pavilion,” He towers over you, eyes gazing down on you. “But one might suspect that you already knew that.”

Your eyes frantically meet his feet, desperate to salvage what was left of your dignity, “I assure you that I speak of the truth, Your Majesty.”

When he doesn’t respond, you slowly lift your head.

The flustered look on your face must have been amusing to him, as he makes his way closer to you, bending down to interrogate you further.

“Is that so?” He hums, enjoying every second of cornering you into his chambers. The back of your legs have met his bed, trapping you. You inhale sharply, trying to keep your breaths even, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing the effect he had on you.

He continues, “You’re awfully skittish for someone who was happily skipping around my territory in the arms of another man just earlier.” His predatory gaze seems to darken. 

“Kento?” When his name leaves your lips, the man in front of you grits his teeth. You turn your head to the side, deliberately avoiding him. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, but I don’t see how Kento and I’s relationship is any of your concern,” He does not take your actions well, his gaze searing into you.

“It certainly is when the woman in question is you,” Gojo’s voice loses its feral lilt, distress flashing across his face. There’s a newfound desperation in it that chips away at your resolve. His hand raises to your face so slowly, as if he did not want to startle you.

“This is wrong. I– I saw a couple of servants earlier making aphrodisiacs, perhaps you could have unknowingly consumed them.” You tell him, frantic eyes meeting him. It is not unusual for couples to use aphrodisiacs, you know that after under Yaga. The Emperor must have mistaken the laced dessert for his usual. 

He shakes his head, running a hand through his white hair.

“You are mistaken. This is solely your effect on me.” He promises. You could barely believe his words, stuck between feeling offended or shocked.

“How could you stand to be so cruel?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. There are no tears in your eyes this time.  “I am not a courtesan you can buy for the night,” You snap, pointing a harsh finger to his chest. 

“What do you mean?” He sounds breathless.

“Whatever do I mean?” You scoff, a dry laugh escaping your mouth. “For a year, all I have gotten is pity from the world, because you decided I was no longer entertaining. You could have at least banished me away yourself. Instead, you sent Suguru who couldn’t even look me in the eye! Don’t you know how humiliating that is?” With every word that left your lips, more venom seemed to drip. Anger was prickling you all over, taking control of the rational part of you.

Gojo seemed to be taken aback by your outburst. It was far too late to take anything back now. If you lose your head by nightfall, so be it.

You dig a deeper grave for yourself when you take advantage of his moment of weakness to flee. He’s quick to react, attempting to grip your wrist.

“Wait, [Name], beloved–” He uses that all too familiar term of endearment, but it doesn't deter you.

You accidentally bump into the circular wooden table placed in the middle of the room. What an awful place to keep it, watching in horror as the Consort’s medicine shatters on the floor. To add salt to the wound, a vase you recognize to be specially gifted to the Emperor from a foreign nation tips off too before you can catch it. The sound of porcelain shattering fills the room.

“[Name]! Are you alright?” You hear Gojo ask from behind you, but you run over the broken shards before he can catch you.

Had you bothered to pay closer attention, you would have noticed articles of your clothing and a couple of your missing belongings littered all over the room– creating a faux impression that you never really left the palace.

Days passed by after the incident, and luckily, your head was still attached to your body despite offending and nearly endangering the Emperor. Yaga’s disappointment when you had told him what happened was made evident when he sent you home early after hearing the events that transpired, insisting that he can handle the Consort on his own. Normally you would have argued, but you knew better than to inflict Yaga’s wrath.

“Now you’ve really done it,” Shoko whistles lowly, walking in from the front of Yaga’s shop. 

You hide your face in your hands, “I made an absolute fool of myself, didn’t I?”

“A fool? No. A conspirator against the Emperor? Perhaps.” She dangles a scroll with a familiar seal on it. The Gojo Clan’s familiar emblem reflects off of the sunlight spilling into the room. Your heart drops.

“Oh, they’ll have my head.” You moan, hands instinctively lifting to shield your neck.

“Though I’m quite impressed that Yaga only sent you back here. He used to have worse punishments.” She shudders before impatiently unraveling the scroll. You watch her eyes gradually widen as they read the contents of the letter. The scroll falls from her hand.

You rush to it, desperate to read your fate.

To [Last Name] [First Name],

Greetings and prosperity unto you.

By the mandate of the heavens and the authority vested in Us, We hereby extend Our solemn words to you, [Last Name] [First Name], servant of the realm, in acknowledgement of your debt to the Empire.

In response to your unmeritorious deeds, The Emperor bestows upon you His imperial pardon from capital punishment. In consideration of your obligations and the harmony of the realm, it is hereby decreed that you shall serve as an indentured servant to the Imperial Household for a period commensurate with your debt. During this time, you shall labor faithfully and diligently under the supervision of Our Heavenly Emperor, performing duties essential to the welfare of the Empire.

By fulfilling your obligations with diligence and humility, you may yet earn favor and esteem in Our sight.

The Imperial Court

A loud gasp escapes your mouth.

You feel your legs weaken, your emotions running wild. Shoko’s eyes meet yours, mirroring your frantic gaze. In that moment, you are met with the same suffocating sense of hopelessness.

extra!

gojo was kicking his feet happily as he watched suguru draft out his letter to you. suguru thought it rather cruel, while the white haired male was too busy purring happily as he fantasized about having you back into his grasp.

[oaksgrove]

Welcome Gift

Pairing: König x Reader

Synopsis: After moving to Austria to live with König, you find yourself overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of a new country. From navigating the bustling streets to adjusting to the rhythm of life in a different culture, your nerves are stretched thin. But König, ever thoughtful and patient, is determined to make you feel loved and at home in every way possible. 

Warnings: none?

word count: 985

Salzburg streets bustled with a quiet charm, the winter air crisp as you and König walked hand in hand. Snow dusted the cobblestones, and warm lights glowed from shop windows, painting the city in hues of gold and white. It was picturesque, but your nerves were a jumble. Moving to Austria to live with König had been a leap of faith, and while you loved him deeply, adjusting to life here was proving to be a challenge.

You found yourself clutching König’s hand a little tighter than usual as you walked. Everything felt so new—unfamiliar faces, different languages, even the way people carried themselves. There was a rhythm to the city, it wasn’t unfriendly, just one you hadn’t quite learned yet, and while it was beautiful, it also left you feeling adrift in an ocean of the unknown.

“You’re quiet,” König said softly, glancing down at you. His Austrian accent, once a novelty when you first met, had become a comforting melody in your life.

“Just… taking it all in,” you murmured, giving him a small smile.

König slowed to a stop, turning to face you fully. His height meant he had to dip his head to meet your gaze, and his piercing blue eyes held a wealth of affection. “If it’s too much, we can take it slow,” he said, his large hand brushing softly against yours. “You’ve already done so much by coming here.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his warm smile and the steady reassurance in his gaze stopped you. He leaned down slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “Let me spoil you today, ja?”

Before you could respond, König guided you toward a shop nestled between two taller buildings. Its display window glittered with jewelry—delicate chains, rings, and gemstones arranged with care. You blinked up at him, your brow furrowing.

“What are we doing here?”

“I told you,” he said, holding the door open for you. “A proper welcoming gift. Something beautiful to match you.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed at his words, your mouth opening and closing as you searched for a response. A welcoming gift? You’d thought the flowers he brought home every day were already more than enough, but König clearly had other ideas.

The interior of the shop was even more charming than the display outside—polished wood counters, velvet-lined cases, and a faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. A kindly older woman greeted König, her tone familiar and warm as she spoke in German. He responded easily, his voice dipping into the fluid rhythms of his native tongue.

You caught most of the exchange—your German was decent, though far from fluent—but nuances still slipped through your grasp. König noticed your tentative expression and gave you a soft smile. “This shop,” he explained, switching back to English, “is special. My mother, my sisters, even my grandmother—they’ve all come here over the years. It’s where my family buys things for… important moments.”

Your heart skipped at the significance of that statement. “König, that’s—”

“Shh,” he interrupted, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Now, let’s find something for you.”

He took his time examining the displays, occasionally asking the shopkeeper questions. Eventually, his gaze landed on a pair of earrings— a delicate silver design, teardrop-shaped with a subtle shimmer that wasn’t too flashy. Beside them was a matching necklace, simple yet elegant, with a single pendant that mirrored the earrings’ design. 

Turning to you, he gestured to them. “These. Do you like them?”

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, your cheeks flushing. “But König, I can’t—”

“You can,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I want you to have something from here. So that when you wear it, you’ll remember how much it means to me that you’re here.”

The sincerity in his words left you speechless, and before you knew it, you were leaving the shop with a small, carefully wrapped box in your hands, almost too much to bear. You turned to König, your voice tentative. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You already have,” he said simply, taking your hand in his as he led you back into the bustling streets.

Later that day, the scent of fresh coffee and pastries filled the apartment as König emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate. On it was your favorite pastry, carefully chosen from a bakery he’d insisted on visiting earlier. He set it down in front of you along with a cup of coffee and a small stack of German vocabulary cards, each one handwritten with neat, blocky letters.

“I know your German is good,” he said, almost shyly, his towering form seeming a little smaller in the soft light of the kitchen. “But I thought these might help with the little things.”

You picked up one of the cards, your eyes skimming over his careful handwriting. “You made these?”

He nodded. “I want you to feel comfortable. To feel… like this is home.”

Your chest tightened at the depth of his thoughtfulness. “König,” you said softly, setting the card down to reach for his hand. “You’re spoiling me.”

He chuckled, crouching beside you so that you were eye level, his large hands cradling yours gently. “Maybe,” he admitted, his smile warm. “But I don’t mind. I want you to know how much you mean to me. You’ve made my life so much better just by being in it. Now that you’re here, I want to make sure you feel loved and safe every day.”

Your breath hitched, and you bit your lip, unable to find the words to express how much his actions meant to you. Instead, you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was a quiet reassurance that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

König smiled against your lips, his hands tightening around yours. “Welcome home, meine Liebe,” he murmured.

[teddybeartoji]

彡 HE'S ANNOYING AND BEAUTIFUL AND HE'S GOING TO RUIN YOUR FUCKING DAY

☆. contains: satoru gojo x gn!reader; con-artists au, crack, he's stupid, he also has a massive fucking crush on you (and you're no better btw), reader smokes a cigarette gasp!! oh and reader is wearing a suit wc: 2.2k

+ a few hours later...

the spring sun warms your skin as sit on a little bench on top of the hill that overlooks your destination. a castle – it's fancy, fanciest you've ever seen. it's fucking massive and you can't help but wonder, how it would feel to sprint through the long beautiful hallways of the place...

way too many super cars are lined up in front of it and their various colors are making your eyes hurt. people in stunning dresses and equally stunning suits spill out of the machines and they laugh and roar, smoke blowing from their noses and lips as they flex their expensive pipes and cigarette holders. bald men with terrible mustaches flood your vision and you decide that you've had enough for the moment and let your head fall back. this is your last chance to recharge before the work begins.

digging in your inner suit pocket, you pull out a silver cigarette case with a beautiful engraving on it. memories reside in the little crevices of the art and the thoughts make a sentimental (albeit an annoying one. you'd never do this in front of him.) smile tug at the corners of your lips. the tiny machine was part of a set, a gift for you.

you try not to think about that for too long.

patting the side of your upper thigh, you dig out a lighter. it's just a plastic one; it's old as hell and it has definitely seen better days. but despite its tired look, you still consider it a friend, a partner, a helping hand.

you grab a cig from the box and place it between your lips before pocket the case again. the lighter is warm in your hands as you stare at the design on it. swirls and lines run all across the silver, dancing and merging together. a lot of memories are buried in the cracks of them and a sentimental smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

click! click! click!

perhaps today is the day you'll lay it to rest. there's no fire, no heat, but you're not mad. the cigarette hangs from your lips and you let out a sigh. you lean back onto your hand and close your eyes; if you won't get your final energy boost from nicotine, the sun will have to do it.

a gust of wind brushes over your skin, it cards through your hair and you feel alive. the laughter from down below finds it way up to you and it makes you crack a grin yourself – these rich pricks won't know what hit them. this'll be an easy job, no sweat. in and out, it'll only take a few hours tops if everything goes without a hitc—

click!

time slows.

cracking open an eye, you watch the stick catch fire.

engravings in silver – a perfect match to the ones on the case that's hiding comfortably in your chest pocket. right beside your heart. pale, slender fingers and manicured nails, a perfectly fitted sleeve – it's him. trailing up his arm with your eye, his cologne fills your nostrils and you realize that he's standing way closer than you thought.

it takes a mere two seconds and you craning your neck to meet his eyes. they match the clear sky, the only difference being that while birds twirl and dance in the blue ocean up above your heads, little stars twinkle in his.

satoru gojo.

and his stupid fucking smile.

you hate him.

he snaps the little silver machine shut before placing it back into his pocket with one swift move. his pearly white teeth shine under the blinding sun and the sight of his dimples makes your stomach churn. silly butterflies.

staring up at him, you hollow your cheeks and breathe in the smoke. it travels through your mouth and makes its way deep into your lungs. he's patient. the grey fog fills your organs and you let it simmer before letting out out again. you blow it at him but he doesn't budge; your eyes look so pretty in this light. he watches your lips curl into a pretty little smirk and then he's already being blessed with your saccharine voice. "gojo."

he does a dramatic bow as he stands before you – his one hand behind his back and the other on his heart. "my beloved."

the hum and the eye roll you award him with warm his insides. he straightens his spine and locks both his hands behind him, almost making him look like an innocent, virtuous person. it's that charming smile of his that's able to save him from just about everything. his ability to bare his teeth in the most endearing way pisses you off.

it really fucking does.

he twirls on his heel and the gentle gust of wind ruffles his snowy hair. he eyes the castle below and the little ant-people that buzz in front of it.

"you got an invite?" he asks in a sing-song voice. he seems excited. that's a bad thing for you. he will ruin your plans, you already know it.

"i did not."

you don't need to see his face to know that his smile has stretched even wider. you hate it. he quirps a little "hm" before spinning back around. his hand dips into his inner suit pocket and returns with an ivory envelope. his eyelashes flutter shut as he dramatically fans his face with it.

you hate him.

"that's too bad. they have this cool new system – they give you a keycard. they check it at the door, of course, but after that you can just go wild with it." he paces around in front of you while you just inhale the smoke back into your lungs as a way to alleviate the fact that he's going to ramble about a fucking key card. "there are tiers, you see. the smaller guys just get to use it as the invite while others..."

he turns to you with a big grin. "can actually open some super secret doors."

he flicks the envelope just to show it off some more and you wish you could suffocate him with the cigarette smoke. or maybe you should just push him off this damn hill instead.

"not that you would know anything about it though..." his words trail off as his eyes snake their way up from the ground and to your pretty face.

"and you're one of the big guys then, i presume?"

your remark is like water off a duck's back. it's the exact opposite actually – it only eggs him on. he watches the smoke slip from between your lips as you try to bite him back, he watches your chest fall; you look handsome in your suit. he's never seen you in an outfit like this - sure, he's seen you in some fancy fits before but this... takes the crown for sure.

you almost look like you belong here, though he skeptical on whether you'd think of that as a compliment or not. he doesn't say it, opting for something else.

"you look good– "

"you look good."

damn.

you blink up at him, he blinks down on you. he fiddles with his fingers behind his back and he bites back the comment he wants to make about you complimenting him, about you two speaking at the same time. something about being partners, something-something.

he does look good.

he's also wearing a gorgeous black suit on top of a pearly white shirt and a matching black bowtie adorns his neck, and it looks like he did try to style his hair just a little, but you know him – you know he likes it when the wind messes it up. he always says it makes him look more rugged.

you assume he doesn't know what the word means.

silence falls upon the two of you, engulfing you in this comfortable little bubble. your lips wrap around the cigarette again and he pockets the envelope in his hand.

"y'think so?"

he asks for praise so nonchalantly that you almost give in. "...maybe."

satoru's chest puff up and his eyes light up even more than ever – you regret your decision to tell him that. his lips part but you don't give him a chance to tease you any further.

you shake the cigarette butt before pushing yourself off the bench. satoru observes you, always so excited about everything you do. he can't tear his eyes from you. placing the cig back between your lips, you approach the man in front of you in a confident stride.

without locking eyes with him, you take your place a little bit too close in front of him and casually reach for his tie. satoru's breath hitches at the sudden proximity but he doesn't back away. you tug at the edges of it, your eyebrows furrowing in the process. you look cute, all concentrated and everything. his smile makes its way back onto his lips as he stares at you and his hands twitch at his sides.

smoke dances in the air as you take your time to fix his tie; the sun melts the two of you together as the silence settles around you again. the breeze plays with his hair some more, it grazes the apples of your cheeks and it's refreshing. this feels like the old times.

"smoking kills, you know."

his voice is barely above a whisper and you snort at him. "so do cars, dipshit."

"hm, douche."

you send a sharp glare at him and he doesn't even try to hold his ever-growing grin. the stupid fucking butterflies in your stomach are making you sick. he's about to say something ridiculous again, so you rush to give his earlobe a gentle-not-so-gentle tug. you laugh at the way he winces and the way his skin turns a dark shade of pink in a matter of seconds; it manages to bloom all over his ears and the apples of his cheeks before he decides to swat your hand away.

your eyes and the tingling pain in his ear are enough to distract him from your wandering hands. skilled fingers dip under the front of his suit jacket as you lean forward to whisper to him. "it's touché."

his eyes glue themselves onto the cigarette in your mouth, between your pretty lips, giving you more than enough time to swipe the envelope from his chest pocket with ease.

"right..."

dusting off some imaginary dust from his shoulder, you cock your head to the side and take the cigarette from your lips while giving him another good look. how could you not? despite his god-awful personality and his tendency to screw up every single one of your plans in one way or another – he's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. from this angle you could count the freckles that are scattered across his nose and cheeks, hell – you could count his damn eyelashes if you really wanted to.

(you kind of do.)

while he's being bewitched by you and your eyes and your perfume and the damn smoking stick in your hand, you hide the envelope behind your back. you make use of the promiximity between you two, your own body concealing the movement of you tucking the thing under your own suit jacket and into the waistband of your pants. you're here to steal afterall.

satoru rubs his ear and feigns a pout. it's the fakest one you've seen yet, but then a dopey smile makes it's way onto his lips and for a second you think that your plan didn't work, that he felt it, that he saw it—

"you know... if you wanted satoru to just get you an invite, you should've just said so, sweetheart."

...

you stare at him with a blank face and he shines right back at you. he plucks the cigarette from your hand and throws it to the ground, stomping on the thing, he puts out the light with the heel of his foot.

"but... since you didn't ask for it, since you didn't ask for satoru's help... you'll have to find your own way in, yeah?" he's way too smug, too arrongant and the only thing that's making you feel better is the thought of him being shut out from the party because he doesn't have the invite. anymore.

"stop referring to yourself in third person, it makes you look stupid."

"you don't think i look stupid in the first place then?"

.............

you can't wait for this day to be over.

"alright. go now. run along, little prince." you give his shoulder a shove but he refuses to back away, leaning closer a little instead.

"are you gonna be okay out here, hm? all alone? no keycard or nothing?"

even his breath smells good. you want to punch him.

"don't worry about me, gojo. i'm sure i'll figure something out."

"ahh! you always do! and that's why you're the greatest, baby!" wincing at the volume of his tone, you clench your jaw and press your teeth together. satoru loves it when you do that. "don't take too long, okay? i'll miss you."

he offers you another fake pout and turns around on his heel, but not before giving you a wink. he looks over his shoulder for the last time and...

"don't forget to throw away the cig! littering isn't sexy!"

he's so overbearingly annoying and he will so ruin your fucking plans.

[koyagifs]

𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸: 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂

pairing: pirate!hongjoong x sea witch!reader au: pirate au | lovers to strangers | genre: angst word count: 2.9 k synopsis: she was the star in his eyes, the treasure he longed for. now, he still searches for her. warning(s): toxic relationships, screaming match. cursing. please let me know if i miss anything else!!

Hongjoong never thought he'll fall in love when he started to explore the sea. He knew that what he wanted to do was explore the sea, go adventures that he couldn't when he was younger.

But love, as unpredictable as the tides, found him anyway.

It wasn’t in a grand, dramatic moment like the tales of sailors meeting enchanting sirens. No, it crept in slowly—between the soft glimmer of sunlight on the waves and the quiet nights spent staring at endless horizons. At first, Hongjoong thought it was just the sea he had fallen for: its vastness, its mystery, its ever-changing beauty. But soon, he realized that within this world of endless blues, there was someone else who had become his anchor.

They were part of his crew, always just a step away—laughing with him under the stars, pointing out constellations he’d never noticed, and braving storms at his side. It was their presence that turned the sea from an adventure into a home.

Hongjoong never set out looking for love. But maybe that’s why he found it—because love, like the ocean, doesn’t wait for permission to sweep you away.

When you joined the crew, your magic left them speechless—ripples of light dancing across the water, winds bending to your whispers, and the way the sea seemed to sing back to you. You were a marvel, something out of stories Hongjoong thought were only meant for dreamers and fools.

He didn’t hesitate to show you the ropes when you became part of the crew, though his eagerness earned him more than a few knowing smirks from his mates. They saw it before he did—the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, the way his words softened when he spoke your name.

Hongjoong fell, and he fell hard. It was in the quiet moments, when the crew slept and the ship rocked gently beneath the stars, that he realized it. Watching you stand at the bow, the moonlight weaving through your hair, he swore his heart leapt clear out of his chest.

His mates teased him relentlessly, of course. “Captain’s got it bad,” they’d whisper with wide grins. But he didn’t care. For someone like you—someone who could tame the sea with a flick of their fingers—Hongjoong would gladly be swept away, no lifeline in sight.

And truth be told, he hoped you’d let him drown in it.

and drown you both did.

You and Hongjoong were the only two awake, the gentle creak of the ship and the soft lapping of waves against its hull the only sounds accompanying the silence. The sea carried the ship wherever it pleased, and neither of you seemed to care.

The night sky stretched endlessly above, stars shimmering like scattered diamonds—bright and clear, as though they were putting on a show just for the two of you. Hongjoong leaned against the ship’s railing beside you, his gaze flitting between the vast heavens and the faint glow of your magic dancing over your fingertips.

At one point, he spoke softly, his voice almost drowned by the whispers of the ocean.

“I used to chase goals like a man starved,” he admitted, his tone faraway, like he was recalling another lifetime. “Adventure, treasure, proving something to the world…”

He turned to look at you then, his eyes reflecting the starlight, soft and steady. “But that all changed when I saw you.”

There was no greed or possession in his words—only the raw honesty of a man who had found the one thing he didn’t know he was searching for. You were his horizon now, the anchor that stilled him, and yet the wind in his sails that kept him moving forward.

The sea stretched on forever, wild and free, but tonight—beneath the brilliance of a thousand stars—it felt small and quiet, as though it, too, knew that the only thing that truly mattered was the two of you.

And as Hongjoong reached for your hand, his calloused fingers brushing yours, the night seemed to hold its breath. That's when Hongjoong noticed the blackness that took over your fingertips.

His brows furrowed deeply, the playful calm he'd carried moments before vanishing like mist on the sea.

“What the hell is that?” he hissed, grabbing ahold of your hands with a firm yet careful grip.

You flinched, pulling back instinctively, hiding your hands behind your back. A small, nervous laugh escaped your lips—forced, brittle. “Nothing, my love. Just… a trick of the light.”

Hongjoong wasn’t buying it. His sharp eyes narrowed as he straightened, his presence solid and unwavering, like the captain he was. “Don’t lie to me.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight, sinking into the space between you like an anchor.

You looked away, your gaze dropping to the worn wood of the deck, the faint hum of the ship beneath your feet matching the low hum of dread in your chest. The blackness was spreading faster now. You could feel it—like ice crawling through your veins, like ink spilling across the edges of a map that used to be clear.

“You promised—”

“Hongjoong, I had to—”

“To do dark magic?!” he snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet night like a blade. His chest heaved, fists clenching at his sides as he tried to process your words. “To risk us? To risk you?”

The anger in his tone wasn’t cruel, but desperate. It was the sound of a man who was scared—scared of losing the only thing that truly mattered to him.

You flinched at his words, the weight of your guilt pressing down on you like an anchor. “You don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I did it for you. For us.”

Hongjoong froze, his sharp eyes searching your face for answers, for something—anything—that could make sense of this. “For me?” he repeated, his voice softer now, but no less strained. “What did you do?”

His words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. You stepped back instinctively, your darkened fingers trembling as you tried to hide them again. Hongjoong noticed, his breath catching as he took a cautious step forward, like you were something fragile—like you might slip away if he moved too quickly.

“I…” You gulped, the words caught in your throat. How could you explain? How could you tell him that you had done the unthinkable to save the only family you had left?

“Y/N,” Hongjoong whispered, his voice breaking as his gaze fell to your hands—the blackness creeping up your skin, unnatural and foreboding. His chest tightened. He’d seen many things in his life as a sailor, but nothing like this. Nothing that made him feel so helpless.

“Joongie… I’m so, so sorry,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face as your voice barely carried over the heavy silence.

That’s when Hongjoong noticed it—the stillness.

The sea had gone quiet, unnaturally so, as if the ocean itself was holding its breath. Not a wave lapped at the ship’s hull, not a breeze stirred the sails. The world was frozen. It was wrong. So wrong.

Hongjoong’s heart sank like a stone. “Y/N… what did you do?”

Before you could answer, the silence shattered.

A deafening boom ripped through the air, shaking the ship violently. Hongjoong stumbled, throwing his arms out to brace himself, but his gaze never left you. His mind raced to process the chaos—splintering wood, the groan of the ship’s beams, and the sound of rushing water.

An explosion.

The world erupted into chaos—splintering wood, cries of battle, the acrid smell of smoke curling into the salty air. But Hongjoong didn’t hear any of it. All he could focus on was you.

You, running toward the attackers.

His chest tightened, disbelief freezing him in place as the realization hit him like a wave. “Y/N!” he shouted, his voice raw, cutting through the cacophony. You didn’t turn back.

For the first time in his life, Hongjoong felt the kind of betrayal that cracked through his heart like lightning.

The crew fought desperately around him—clashing swords, shouting orders, scrambling to defend the ship—but Hongjoong couldn’t move. He stood frozen, staring at the spot where you had disappeared into the smoke, your darkened hands glowing faintly with the power that had caused all this.

“This can’t be happening,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

A shadow loomed behind him, but before he could react, something slammed into him.

Hongjoong hit the deck hard, the air knocked from his lungs as his vision blurred. The sounds of the battle swirled around him like a maelstrom, but his head was spinning too fast to focus. Distantly, he felt the sting of a blade grazing his shoulder, the warm trickle of blood following it.

“Captain!” someone shouted—one of his crew—but their voice felt miles away.

Hongjoong blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, trying to move, but all he could see in his mind was you. The way your eyes had flickered with regret and desperation before you ran. The blackness crawling up your arms. The explosion that tore his ship apart.

Hongjoong blinked rapidly, his vision still swimming as Seonghwa’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Captain, where’s Y/N?”

Seonghwa’s face was streaked with soot and sweat, his brow furrowed in confusion and worry as he tugged on Hongjoong’s arm. Around them, the ship groaned under the strain of the damage—flames licking at the sails, the wood creaking dangerously as it tried to hold together.

“Y/N…” Hongjoong rasped, his voice barely audible. He staggered forward, ignoring the pain radiating through his shoulder where blood now stained his shirt.

“Captain!” Seonghwa called again, grabbing his arm to steady him. “What’s going on? Where is she? Did you—did you see her?”

Hongjoong stopped and turned to look at Seonghwa, his eyes hollow, haunted. “She’s with them,” he croaked, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Seonghwa froze, disbelief washing over his face. “What? What do you mean ‘with them’? She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—”

“She did.” Hongjoong’s voice trembled as he said it aloud, the reality crashing over him like the waves against the broken hull of the ship. His gaze remained fixed on the fleeing ships in the distance—the ones that now held you aboard. The sails disappeared further into the smoke-choked horizon with every passing second, taking you with them.

Seonghwa turned his head toward the wreckage and the flames still devouring their ship, then back to Hongjoong. The silence between them was broken only by the cries of the crew as they scrambled to regroup.

“What do we do now?”

The question was Seonghwa’s, but it came with weight—as though he were speaking for every member of the crew who looked to their captain for answers.

Yeosang approached quickly, bandages and a makeshift medical kit in hand, his sharp gaze darting between Hongjoong and Seonghwa. “Captain,” he said softly, kneeling by Hongjoong’s side and reaching for his injured shoulder, “we need to treat this wound. You won’t make it far bleeding like this.”

Hongjoong didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the horizon, the faint silhouette of the enemy ships becoming a memory. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa urged, kneeling so he was level with his captain. “We don’t have time for this. The crew is looking to you. We’re looking to you. What’s the plan?”

Hongjoong swallowed hard, " we patch her up as much as we can and head to a port."

Seonghwa and Yeosang paused, " you sure...captain?"

Hongjoong nodded, his breathing ragged as the adrenaline that had kept him upright began to fade, leaving behind a throbbing ache in his shoulder and a weight heavier than the sea pressing on his chest. “I’m sure,” he rasped.

“Make sure everyone is fine, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong said, his voice quieter now, but carrying the weight of command. He turned slightly to look at his first mate, his gaze steady despite the exhaustion in his features.

Seonghwa nodded wordlessly, his face unreadable as he stepped away to check on the crew.

Yeosang remained, carefully steadying Hongjoong as he adjusted the bandages on his injured shoulder. Silence hung between them for a beat before Yeosang spoke, his voice hesitant.

“Then… what about Y/N?”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched at the mention of your name, his gaze dropping to the deck. For a moment, he didn’t answer. The wood beneath his feet was slick with seawater and ash, and the memory of the explosion flashed behind his eyes.

“She made her choice,” Hongjoong muttered finally, his voice hollow, as if saying it aloud could make him believe it.

Yeosang froze, his hands stilling as he processed the words. He glanced at Hongjoong’s face, searching for something—anything—beyond the cold resolve in his tone. “Captain… you don’t mean that.”

Hongjoong lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Yeosang’s with an intensity that left no room for argument. “She made her choice,” he repeated, the words sharper this time, like a blade cutting through the silence. “And we have ours to make.”

~

You stood in the captain’s cabin, the heavy silence broken only by the sound of waves lapping against the hull. The room smelled of salt and wood polish, though it felt suffocating. Your first mate, a woman as sharp as the blade she wore at her hip, leaned over the map spread across the desk. A proud smirk curled on her lips as she tapped a finger against the parchment.

“He actually believed you loved him?” she chuckled, the sound low and cutting.

Your heart twisted at her words, though you kept your face neutral, your expression carefully guarded. You stared out through the cabin window, where the faint glimmer of dawn kissed the endless sea. Hongjoong. The memory of his face—his eyes wide with pain and betrayal—flashed in your mind. You squeezed your blackened hands into fists, the taint of the dark magic pulsing faintly beneath your skin.

“I did what I had to,” you murmured, your voice calm but devoid of conviction.

Your first mate scoffed, turning toward you with an arched brow. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? Because I don’t recall hesitation when you set off that explosion.”

You flinched, barely noticeable, but enough for her to see. Her smirk widened.

“Don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen for the good captain,” she teased, tilting her head as if testing you. “That’d be… inconvenient.”

Your jaw tightened, and you finally turned to face her. “We got what we needed, didn’t we? The ship is in ruins, and they’ll be lucky to make it to port alive.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender, though the glint in her eye was anything but apologetic. “Whatever you say, Captain. Just don’t let those soft feelings of yours get in the way of the plan.” She tapped her temple, stepping back toward the door. “You’re too valuable to waste on sentiment.”

As she left, the door creaked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the dim cabin. You sank into the worn leather chair at the desk, staring down at the map. The inked lines of the world blurred as your vision swam.

Your fingers hovered over the black marks creeping up your hands, the dark magic pulsing faintly—alive. It whispered to you, promising power, control… and yet, it felt like chains. You closed your eyes, your mind betraying you with the memory of Hongjoong’s voice.

Laughter—your laughter—filled the air, light and carefree, as you lay in Hongjoong’s arms. The golden light of the setting sun filtered through the ship’s cabin, casting everything in a warm glow. His arm was wrapped around your waist, his presence grounding you, safe and steady.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you teased, your voice soft but playful, as you turned your head to meet his gaze.

Hongjoong only smiled, his dark eyes tracing your features as though memorizing every line and curve. His fingers danced lightly over your skin, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. “Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you rolled onto your side, pressing a hand against his chest as if to push him away. “You say that to all the women you meet, Captain.”

He laughed—a warm, hearty sound that made your heart stutter. “Never.” His voice softened then, the teasing edge replaced by something deeper, something real. “Not like this.”

Silence settled between you for a moment, save for the soft creaking of the ship and the distant call of seabirds. You traced the buttons on his shirt absentmindedly, as though your fingers couldn’t bear to stop touching him.

“Do you ever regret it?” you asked quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“Regret what?”

“Letting me join the crew.”

Hongjoong’s hand stilled against your skin before curling gently around your waist, pulling you closer. “Not for a second,” he said firmly. “You were meant to be here, with us… with me.”

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him. “You don’t even know what I’m capable of.”

His eyes softened, his thumb brushing faintly over your cheek. “I know enough.”

“You trust me that much?”

“More than you’ll ever know.”

The memory unraveled like a frayed thread, pulling you back to the present with a jolt. Your eyes snapped open, the cold darkness of the cabin swallowing the warmth of his embrace. Your fingers curled into fists as you pressed them against your chest, as if trying to hold together the pieces of yourself that felt like they were breaking.

He had trusted you. Completely.

And you’d shattered that trust.

[razorblade180]

Light Training

[Teapot]

Aether:*warps in* (Okay, let’s see what’s going on around the training fields) *looks left*

Off to the side, Furina is swinging a wooden sword against Nilou, who blocks effortlessly before countering with a well timed thrust Furina is able to dodge and lead into her own counter. The two of them keep a steady pace and flow.

Nilou:See? There ya go.

Furina:You’re going easy on me.

Nilou:No, seriously! You give me way too much credit. You’re doing wonderfully! Keep it up!

Aether:(Nice to see those two getting along and working hard.) *looks right*

On the beach, wind howls and sand scatters. Flashes of light ignite sparks like a series of fireworks. Blurs of purple of blue can be caught for only a fraction of a second before lighting crackles along the ground and ice carves its way through the ground and freezes crashing tides. Ayaka briefly appears, swinging her fan and sending an icy blast that gets diced into pieces and ran through by Keqing before clashing swords again and vanishing once more.

If Aether didn’t know any better, he think they were trying to kill each other. Still, this was insane and seeing his group of friends off to the side of the match only furthered the absurdity.

Heizou:*drumming*

Xinyan&Kazuha: *shredding guitar*

Venti:BURY THE LIGHT DEEP WITHIN!!!!!!!! CAST ASIDE THERE’S NO COMING HOME!🎶

Scara&Xiao: WE’RE BURNING CHAOS IN THE WIIIIIND!!!!!! DRIFTING IN THE OCEAN ALL ALONE! 🎶

Aether:Yall having fun!!?

Xinyan drops to her knees and starts performing the most passionate guitar solo Aether’s witnessed and the boys start head banging while Keqing and Ayaka only get faster!

Aether:….*starts head banging*

[thisismeracing]

Cherry | MS47

Pairing: Mick Schumacher x fem!reader (she/her)

Word count: 1.3k

Genre: smut (no plot, just face-sitting smut)

Warnings: not proofread; graphic description of sex; oral (fem receiving); face sitting; mentions of food; +18 (minors DNI);

Summary: Mick has an idea while lying in bed during a lazy weekend, and Yn is more than ready to oblige.

A/n: Every piece I write here it's a new experience, so your feedback, comments, and asks are more than welcome. *mwah* 🤍

Based on this request. I owned you guys a face-sitting smut after mentioning it on rosy cheeks, salty hair, and warm bodies, but not detailing it further. So here you go! ❤️‍🔥

see my masterlist | check here if you want to be on my new taglist

you can support my writing by liking and reblogging

It was a Saturday afternoon, the sun was bright, while the wind was cold, so the weather felt just perfect to enjoy a lazy day in bed. And that was exactly what Mick and Yn were doing, relishing the match of the ideal temperature with a day off work. 

Yn’s record player, a gift she got from Mick to celebrate their first anniversary, was rolling a red vinyl on its plate. Lana del Rey’s voice was over the room, along with the gushes of wind from the open window. Mick was lying beside her, bare chest rising and falling with each calm breath he took, messy blonde hair around his head like a halo, and ocean-blue eyes observing Yn. 

“We should go to Brazil next vacation, perfect weather, great food, nice people,” Yn states munching on her cherry, there’s another between her fingers, and she turns her head to face Mick just in time for him to watch her pop it inside her mouth. He watches her parted lips and how some of the moisture from the fruit paints them a clear red. 

She looked just about perfect, wearing nothing but one of his oversized shirts, makeup-free face, braids up in a bun, and big brown eyes curiously waiting for him. 

“I think that’s a great idea,” Mick voiced, eyes still glued on how Yn’s mouth was working the cherries. 

Oh, how sweet.

“You want some?” Yn asks, eyebrows jutting together in a sign of confusion.

You’re staring, Mick chided himself in silence. 

“It depends,” he smirks. Yn stops chewing, and now her whole body was directed towards his. It was her silent sign that she was waiting for his answer. “I want something, but not the cherries.” 

“Oh,” a small gasp passed between her lips, and Mick’s smile grew.

“I wanted to try something,” he signs with his hands, and it’s just a second before Yn is sitting on top of him, the bowl of cherries now forgotten somewhere between the mess of blankets. Mick’s hands find their way to Yn’s waist, exploring her delicious skin and then dipping under the shirt only to realize she’s, in fact, not wearing anything under it. 

“What is it?” 

“Huh?” Mick questions, dazed by the way her body feels on top of his, how pretty she looks. 

“What is it you wanted to try, babe.”  She explains.

His blue eyes search for hers as they get ready to read any sign of discomfort or doubt with his suggestion. Not that what he would suggest was too adventurous. He was used to giving her oral on a daily basis or whenever they were together and had sex, but they never tried the whole sitting thing. He did not really know what Yn would think about it, but if their conversations and how comfortable they were around each other were any indication, he thought that there was a chance for a positive answer. 

Still, Mick was a cautious guy. He was an attentive lover, and he wanted nothing more than to see his girlfriend satisfied and comfortable in all ways, sexually, physically, and mentally, so communicating everything was part of this process. 

“I wanted you to sit on my face,” he blurted without taking his eyes off her. 

He felt when Yn held her breath, eyes growing a tad bigger with surprise, but her body was still on top of his, “Yes!” she sputtered.

Mick chuckled at her reaction, and Yn followed him, face feeling hot just like the rest of her body. 

“Is this something you’ve thought about before?” he asks

“I-” she starts, eyes cast down on his naked chest, nails drawing patterns on his milky skin. “Mmh… You always do those neck exercises when training and I just happen to notice how strong your neck is in comparison to regular people… my mind went there on its own.” Yn confessed. 

Mick did not waste a second before holding her neck and smashing their mouths together in a messy kiss. The movement made Yn lean on top of him, their surface of contact now greater. They moaned and swallowed each other's noises. 

The cold wind moved the curtains blending the noise with Lana’s angelical voice, who was just starting to sing the first accords of “Cherry”.

A touch from your real love it's like heaven taking the place of something evil, and lettin' it burn off from the rush, it echoed through the room just when Mick’s lips found Yn’s sweet spot. He switched between kissing, licking, and eventually biting her neck. Her fingers gripping his golden hair would guide him whenever she felt it was too much, and the assault would leave any marks behind. 

“Will you sit on my face, love?” he asked, innocent face facing her, and dark blue eyes hungry for her final answer, which he knew would be positive, but Mick also knew his girlfriend, knew how much it turned her on when he voiced things. 

The dirtier, the better, she would joke. 

Yn gave him a nod before taking off her oversized shirt and throwing it somewhere on the bedroom floor. Mick’s hand guided one of hers to hold the headboard for support if needed. The other he placed on top of his head, her fingers instantly threading between his soft strands. And then, finally, she easily held her up and brought her down to sit right on his face.

The mere contact of his hot mouth against her wet pussy made Yn shiver. His nose was digging deliciously into her clit, and her head tumbled back when his tongue went out in a lazy lap on her cunt. She felt on her whole body when Mick moaned and opened his mouth wider, eyes closed as if to capture the feeling, tongue drawing figures on her pussy while one of his fingers found her chest and played with her nipples between his fingers.

His other hand found guidance on her waist, but he was just caressing her skin. The placement was more of an encouragement for her to choose the pace. 

And that she did.

Yn pulled his hair and purred when his tongue sank down inside her. She moved her hips just right for his nose to grind on her already puffy clit. Mick moaned again, and Yn pleaded sensually. She was full-on riding his face, and he could feel all his blood rushing to his hard cock. 

The scene was way too arousing, the noises Yn was making, the way her body was answering to his touches, her scent, and taste, the background sound blending with her moans and his groans.  His whole face was messily soaked.

When her body started to drift into a bliss state, Mick knew she was close to her climax, so he made space to insert two fingers while keeping his tongue exploring. He thrust the digits inside while taking turns between kissing the underside of her legs and licking her juices and clit. 

He was in awe watching as Yn sinfully chased her orgasm, taking the reigns and using his face, tongue, and fingers without apologies. 

She looked fantastic, especially when she moaned his name along with some incoherent dirty words and let him guide her to the edge. Her body shuddered and jolted before falling forward, painting his face with her cum. Mick observed as her chest rise and fell with ragged breaths, and her legs quivered, still sensitive. 

He had a satisfied smirk on his face when he moved her body to lie beside him on the bed. Yn still had her eyes closed in bliss when Mick licked his lips and gathered some of her juices in his mouth, moaning at her taste. 

“How did you like it?” he asked, and from the way his voice sounded, Yn knew he was smiling smugly. 

“I think we should do it every day.” She pants, still not over all the sensations. 

“I can try and make it happen,” Mick hummed and grinned before dipping his head to kiss her lips. His gentle yet sloppy kiss only seemed to fuel Yn’s desire, and they rolled in bed, ready to try a new position.

taglist: @sachaa-ff @ferrariloverr @kenanlotus0 @mellowpizzapuppy @Dalsuwaha @mickslover @formulakay3 @mishaandthebrits @crimeshowjunkie @iloveyou3000morgan

[unicyclehippo]

Hey, Ollie, you mentioned AGES ago that Show Me the Way Home (Avatrice) had a second chapter, it just wasn't perfect yet-- do you think you'll ever post it? Or is that officially an abandoned fic?

its not abandoned, i actually did some minor editing on it the other day. the problem is that its a very seasonally locked piece in my mind & also im lazy & also a perfectionist & also i want to watch wn again before i keep writing it bc i need to rmbr what the characters are like & basically any one of those obstacles are enough to shut me right down so.

it actually is a four part story & if u want, i can share a little with u now? maybe that'll make me feel better for not posting it yet lmao

thursday 22nd december

// 6:55 //

Beatrice stood by the doorway of her apartment, phone in hand and duffel bag at her feet, and wished she was already at her parent’s holiday home. 

It wasn’t that she thought their reunion would be simple or pleasant; it was more that today had started hot and was getting hotter and her parents kept their home at a crisp twenty-three degrees at all hours of the day and night, environmental impact be damned. As the humidity clung to her, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of her neck, Beatrice’s thoughts drifted to the crystal blue pool and the ocean wind that would blow up from the cove and she checked her phone again for any word from her driver. 

Camila’s voice travelled from the kitchen. ‘Maybe you should take the can opener with you. I mean, what if you need to open a can and you don’t have one? There might be beans. Baked beans, cannellini beans, red kidney beans.’

‘I’m sure my parents have one. They do have a kitchen. And a personal chef.’

Camila heard her. The apartment was too small for her not to have heard but she continued listing off every tinned item she could think of. 

‘Lentils, obviously. Diced tomatoes, crushed tomatoes, peeled tomatoes, puréed tomatoes.’ There was a long pause. Beatrice wondered if Camila was reading the labels of what they had in the pantry; if she was, those lentils had been there for a very long time. ‘Tinned peaches.’

‘I think those come with a tab now,’ Beatrice pointed out. She kept her voice mild, not really wanting to draw Camila’s attention to her hiding place by the door. 

At some point over the last few days, the nerves buzzing under Beatrice’s skin had jumped ship and now Camila was the one pacing the confines of their apartment. She’d picked over every inch of the house in search of things Beatrice might need—which ranged from the useful, like the good phone charger she’d “found” (definitely hadn’t stolen out of her room a month ago) to what could be charitably called not useful, like the can opener—and now she stood at the end of the hall bearing the can opener and a dark frown befitting a serial killer. 

Beatrice cleared her throat. Carefully, she said, ‘I really don’t think I need it.’

Camila looked down at her weapon. ‘Oh. Right. No, sure, of course not.’ She tossed it backward into the living room; it missed the couch, landing instead on the floor with a loud thud, the sound of their rental bond being instantly halved. Beatrice winced. Camila seemed not to have noticed, though, and with her hands now empty she returned to chewing nervously at her thumb nail. She scanned the living room, hawkish, before fixing her attention on Beatrice once more. 

‘Can I help you?’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Camila…’

‘Because you don’t have to. You know that, don’t you? It’s not your only option—you could come home with me again! My parents would love it, we’d all love it, I promise. And you wouldn’t be intruding at all, I swear. The boys ask about you all the time and when you’re coming to visit again.’

‘They’re very sweet.’

‘Sweet! When they want something, sure! They’re still hoping you’ll teach them how to throw people—they bring up your match with Conner every time I call home.’

‘Tell them I’ll think about it.’

‘That can be your Christmas present for them. And Pop, he says you’re the only good one of the bunch.’

‘It’s because I don’t talk.’

‘I know. Poor guy. Christmas in a household of me’s. It’s so loud we have to mime everything for him.’

Beatrice smiled. ‘He turns off his hearing aids.’

‘What? That sneak!’

‘Don’t tell him I was the one that dobbed him in.’

‘It’ll be the very first thing I say—then you won’t be his favourite anymore and the rest of us will have a fair shot.’ Laughter shone in her eyes; it faded a little as she stared at Beatrice, gaze flicking down to the duffel at her feet. ‘I’m serious, Bea. You could call up your parents and tell them you’re not coming anymore. I’d prefer you tell them to go fuck themselves but.’ She sucked in a breath, shook her head. ‘Bea. Don’t waste your time on them. Spend your holiday with people who want you around. Who love you.’

It was a tempting offer. Of course it was.

From the day they met, Camila had been Beatrice’s friend; from the second, her sister. She’d gone out of her way to be all that a sister could be—kind, understanding, supportive, deeply irritating—and offered it all without cost. Her family was just the same. 

Beatrice remembered last Christmas fondly. The singing, the laughter, her chair squashed up to the end of the table next to Camila’s, the friendly chatter, the elbows bumping, the squabbles breaking out, the yet more guests arriving and pulling up a chair, the pass the salt, pass the butter, pass the damn water would you I’m dying over here, where’s the champagne, Arthur we don’t need another bottle of champagne it’s not even midday for Christssake, Beatrice do you want a second serve help yourself sweetheart, when do we open the presents. It had been loud, sometimes overwhelming, and wonderful all the same. 

But. 

Beatrice shook her head. 

Camila sighed. ‘I had to try, obviously.’

‘I know. Thank you.’ She set her hand on Camila’s wrist and squeezed. ‘I appreciate it, very much. Please tell them… Please tell everyone I miss them and that I’ll see them soon.’

‘You mean for your surprise birthday party?’

Beatrice smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Good. Because mum’s going to need a menu from you—’

‘I thought we agreed we’d buy the food, Camila, I’m not making your mum cook for me.’

‘She likes to cook for her kids. Unless you want me to tell her you’d prefer eating a stranger’s food over hers?’ Beatrice scowled at the bold threat. ‘That’s what I thought. Pick what you want and I’ll tell her. Better yet, text her yourself.’

‘If I know your mother, she has something in mind already.’

‘More like eleven somethings.’ 

They shared an identical grin. Camila’s mother had a small habit of going overboard for parties and events. A buzz broke the moment. They both glanced down at Beatrice’s phone. 

Mr. Morris I have arrived

Beatrice Thank you. I will be there momentarily.

Beatrice nodded. This was it. She slid her phone into her pocket. ‘Mister Morris is here. I should go.’ To Camila’s suddenly stricken expression, she soothed, ‘It will be fine, Camila.’ And, because she was not completely oblivious to Camila’s concern, ‘I will be fine.’

‘I know that. Of course I know that. But I want—you don’t have to be just fine. You should be having fun. You’re my best friend, Bea, I want you to be happy.’

Beatrice paused. She struggled for a moment to think of a way to explain the purpose of this holiday to Camila, explain her purpose, in a way that she would understand and accept. 

‘It means so much,’ she began, carefully, ‘to be welcome in your family. But they will always be your family.’

‘Bea…’

‘You and they are all beyond generous.’ She held up a hand to stop Camila interrupting. ‘I know they love me, and I love them. I do love Christmas with your family. It’s always wonderful and comfortable and fun.’ She paused, considering her words. ‘But this is - this is about me,’ she admitted with difficulty, and was rewarded for the effort when Camila softened. ‘I want to go. I need to find out whether I have a place with them or not. And I’ve been so uncertain of how it might turn out that I haven’t tried. But this invitation is an opportunity. One would like to make the most of.’

Camila grabbed both of her hands and pulled her close. Very intensely, she said, ‘Okay.'

'Okay? Just like that?' Beatrice asked, doubtful.

'Yeah. I’m not going to say I understand because I don’t. It honestly makes me furious and a little bit sick to think of you going back to them. But I love you and I trust you and I want you to call me if you need anything. And whatever happens, Beatrice, you always have a place with me. Always.’

Beatrice smiled. Shifted so that she was the one holding Camila’s hands. Her friend wouldn’t let her go willingly and there was a big part of Beatrice that wanted to let herself be held tight and give in to her friend’s protectiveness, to be bundled safely up into Camila’s terrifying little car and trundling off to visit family. 

It was hard to pull free. 

Beatrice stepped back and opened the door.

‘There’s no need to fret, Camila. I’ll have Ava with me, remember?’

‘Yeah. I know. It’ll be great, you’ll see.’ The tightness around her eyes told Beatrice she didn’t quite believe her own words. ‘And you’ll call me.’

‘Every day.’

With one last hug, Beatrice picked up her bags and left. 

// 7:03 //

The town car waited for her outside the apartment. It was sleek and black, washed and polished; the only evidence of the recent storms were faint specks of grey mud deep in the tyre wells.

Beatrice stopped at the bottom of the stairs, observing the car and its driver—Mister Morris, patiently stood at the kerb—and swallowed around a lump in her throat. He looked the same as when she had left. A little more silver in his hair.

He might not have changed much but she had. Now that she was grown (or perhaps, now that she was not in that household), she found herself full of questions—where was it that Mister Morris had driven from? Where did he live? Had the storms been bad on his side of town? How had he passed the time? Had they lost power? (She and Camila had huddled in their living room—it was, Camila had insisted, the perfect weather for a marathon of gory slashers—and the rain had hammered against the windows with frightening strength but had done no damage. She knew others had not been so fortunate.) Most pressing of all, how had he been? Questions that could not be answered by hiding.

Beatrice gripped the strap of her duffel and, setting her shoulders, marched to meet him.

‘Good morning, Mister Morris.’

‘Miss Turner,’ he greeted her, his smile small but true. ‘A pleasure to see you again. How are you?’

‘Quite well, thank you.’ Then, keeping her tone light and brisk, ‘And yourself?’

‘Very well, Miss Turner. Very well.’ It looked as if he wanted to say something more but then he only smiled and cleared his throat. ‘Your luggage, Miss?’

‘I can see to it myself.’

Beatrice stashed her duffel in the boot then folded herself neatly into the backseat. Mr. Morris retook the driver’s seat. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Beatrice fixed her eyes on the headrest in front of her.

‘We have another stop to make, Mr Morris.’

‘Yes, miss. Do you have the address?’

‘I do.’ She ran a finger along the inside of her watchband, rubbing away the sweat that had gathered there. She made it a notch tighter, then loosened once more. ‘They are - That is to say, she is my—’

Mr. Morris met her eyes in the rear-view mirror. His were green and kind. The kindness did not make it easier to say.

‘She is my girlfriend.’ 

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Oh.’

‘Though your mother used slightly different terminology. Companion, I believe she said.’ He kept his eyes locked onto the rearview mirror. When Beatrice glanced into it again, he said warmly, ‘Congratulations, miss. That’s wonderful. I’m very glad to hear it.’

When she had been younger, there had been a stretch of time where running away had seemed very appealing. Each time she attempted it, Beatrice had never made it further than the park four streets from her home. She’d been too pragmatic, even at ten years old, but she’d also been stubborn so Beatrice had say there in the swing until someone noticed; whomever did notice, it was always Mr. Morris who collected her. She was reminded of it as he started the engine. The sound of its growl scared old memories out of hiding—she remembered how the plastic swing creaked, the feel of the metal chain in her little hands, how the gravel of the park entry had crunched beneath the town car tyres. How the headlights had washed over her and away with the tilt of his park and how invisible she’d felt when the lights turned off. Like a ghost haunting the playground.

Beatrice stared thoughtfully at his back, remembering how he would climb out of the car and sit next to her on a too-small swing until she’d been ready to return.

‘Thank you, Mr Morris.’

He nodded. Then, ‘I do still need her address, miss.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

[b0nten]

BLUEBELLS, YOURS TRULY.

[SYNOPSIS] ˚⁀➷｡ albeit rarely, rindou overthinks, and frequently, ran doesn’t think too much.

[NOTES] ˚⁀➷｡ this is like the “backstory” for the ring. MAYBE i’ll turn it into a multiple part. i also put it in the timeline where everyone is happy because i really love everyone being friends. wrote it because rays’s version destroyed me !!!!!!!!!!!

he spins the ring on his finger. he slides it off. he looks at it. he lets it hang from his neck, on the chain. he sighs.

“now what the hell is up with you?” barging in, ran asks. “who shat in your cereal every morning for the past two weeks?” he says, opening the kitchen cupboard to take — funny enough — some cereal out.

“i’m not in the mood, ran.” his younger brother spits back, head falling against the wooden table.

“hey now, there’s something really wrong with you if you’re acting like .. this.” pointing at him, he sits down, fat bowl of cereal clashing against the dark block, spilling some milk onto it. “now, spill.” with mouth full, he tries to choke out the words, spoon in his brothers face the moment he gulps down the first mouthful.

“you’re gross sometimes.” rindou just sighs, looking away.

“what’s with the ring?” ignoring the insult, the lanky haitani just continues his questioning. “by the way, the blue doesn’t look that bad on you.”

“it’s mine, and i got a matching one for y/n.” the other explains, “thanks, by the way. it was her idea to dye it like this.”

“you wanna propose to her?” his older brother asks, chewing loudly. “y’know we’re still just teenagers?”

“no shit, big head.” rolling his eyes, rindou feels the exasperation dig its roots deeper into his brain. “i’m not proposing. yet. but i don’t know if i should give it to her.” he finally says, letting ran in on his worries.

“and why not? what’s that? cartier, right?”

“no brand can escape your gaze, you’re really unbelievable.”

“thanks, bro, love you too.” as he swallows his last spoonful, ran winks.

“not in a good way.” the younger sibling announces, earning a displeased look from his brother.

“now you’re the annoying one. fuck’s going with you two?” ran finally snaps, trying not look worried. after all, he loves his brother, but they don’t do that kind of talking.

“she’s leaving next week” rindou finally manages to choke out.

“what? what do you mean?” his brother asks, taken aback by the sudden information.

“her student visa’s expired. she’s gotta go back home until gets it renewed.”

it pains him to even think about it. he hasn’t eaten in almost fourteen days, ever since he found out. but what pains him even more is how excited you are about going back home. about going away from him.

he thinks it’s selfish, because he knows how much you’ve missed your parents and how much you’ve waited for a holiday that’s long enough to return.

“if the flights take four days in total and i want to stay for two weeks, then i’d rather not go anymore.” you always said. “i want to spend as much time as possible, without having to rush anything, y’know?

but maybe sometimes love is all about being selfish, loving someone with your whole heart. maybe he wants to never let you leave without him. maybe he can’t let you leave without him because he can’t stand not being an 8 minute subway ride away from you.

“don’t tell me you got some of those control issues, the pretty tiktok girls say they’re not cute at all…” ran comments, dodging an uppercut by a mere second.

“can you take me seriously for once? i think she wants to break up with me, she called me over today saying we have to talk.” rin frowns, blond-blue bangs covering his tired eyes. “i shouldn’t have believed that tiktok reading that said good news are coming my way.”

“you’re so fucking dumb, lord have mercy.”

“excuse me, ran?”

“you’re excused. let’s get this straight: does it really matter to you wether she’s oceans away or in meguro? what do you think she’s gonna do, break up with you only to return in three months and see you everywhere? do you really think y/n’s that kind of girlfriend? throw away three years BECAUSE OF A VISA?! fuck outta here with that insecure crap, rin. i raised you better than that.”

on the inside, ran smiles. oh, how he loves knocking sense into his younger brother. truly the best activity.

“now go and talk to her.”

rindou hesitates.

“i won’t say it nicely the second time around.” the older one threatens, and rindou jolts up from his chair and bolts through the door, house slippers still on, door wide open. before ran can say anything else, rindou’s voice echoes from the staircase into the kitchen:

“i’ll buy a new pair when i get back, don’t start bitching, please! i’ve got a girl i have to convince not to break up with me!”

his older brother laughs as he pulls out his phone.

sister in law

(16:22) he’s on his way.

then, a ping fills the empty space.

sister in law

(16:23) already talked to mikey. everything’s going great.

(16:23) love you, big head

(16:23)🫰

maybe ran’s not gonna tell you the reason rindou is running like a maniac through minato ward right now.

ugh, is his head really that big?

tagging: @h4nman BECAUSE YOU MADE ME CRY😡😡😡 ; @sirachano0dles <3 i might start a taglist if i make this into a multiple part fic?!?

[jade-kyo]

Non-Red vs Blue fans guess the fake fact: results!

Find the og post here

Alright time to finally review the results! Correct answer is at the bottom of this post for those not interested in all of the results and explanations!

So the most highly voted option at 23% was Elijah Wood which I’m sorry to say is incorrect! Elijah Wood was a voice actor in the series. He played the role of Sigma! What this big name actor is doing in a random web series I have no idea but it’s still one of the wildest things to me.

Now the aspirin overdose comes in with 17.3% and got mentioned a lot in the notes and it is also incorrect. However I will admit to some poor wording on my part because it was actually an allergic reaction not an overdose. That’s a genuine oopsies on my part 😅

Florida sinking into the ocean gets a 10.1% and is also incorrect! The state of Florida does in fact sink into the ocean and it’s implied this was to cover up the disappearance of Agent Florida (who is also the guy who dies from the aspirin)

The gay guy, who’s name is Donut btw, becoming Jesus comes in with 8.3% and is in fact very real. He even walks on water. It was wild and tbh I barely remember it cause it’s from a season I dislike but it was too wild not to include.

With 7.2% I can say for sure that the giant killer robot is indeed dressed up in cute hats! Specifically a sombrero! Also the robots name is Freckles.

CPR for a bullet wound in the head gets 6.7% and is in fact considered effective medical care. Now I will say this later gets retconned and it turns out the guy didn’t actually get shot in the head the bullet just grazed him and his armor locked up making them all think he was dying- hence the choice of word being considered. The characters fully believe it but the CPR did not actually save him cause he wasn’t even hurt to begin with.

The crazy love triangle comes in with 4.7% and is also very canon and is exactly as it’s said. There’s literally just this insane love triangle for like two seasons- honestly the only love triangle plot I ever enjoyed.

With a solid 4% I can say that there is in fact canon mpreg! Hurray? Idk man this one’s exactly as it sounds. Dude got knocked up by an alien.

In last place with 2.5% of votes is the main character dying repeatedly. This is also incorrect. First off this guy is named Church which very funny on its own. Secondly it’s actually one of the first running jokes in the series how much this dude dies. Until it’s not a joke 🫠 also a few people pointed out RvB doesn’t have a main character and while I agree I felt it was simpler just to call Church the main character for this poll since it’s designed for people who haven’t seen RvB and I would argue that the majority of the narrative centers around Church even when he’s not there.

And now for the correct answer, coming in at third place with 16.1% is Caboose is god!

Now I will fully confess to being sneaky with this one. This is actually a joke made within the series but it is not true at all. Caboose is not actually god and the platypus is just that fucked up. I knew nothing I could come up with would be able to match the absurdity of this series so I decided to twist a few words so that way everything seemed equally fucked up.

And that concludes the poll! I will now leave you off with a few honorable mentions that did not make the Final Cut:

They have a Spanish speaking robot. None of them speak Spanish.

He’s a ghost but not actually a ghost but actually a highly advanced computer program

Woman has mega beef with an AI copy of her dead mom

The highly advanced computer program can’t aim for shit

The first 5 seasons were revealed to actually be a prolonged torture session

Dude chases his dead gf through multiple iteration of the same memory

Woman developed a sibling like bond with an AI copy of her extremely neglectful father

[kaythefloppa]

Wild Kratts: Our Blue and Green World Trailer.

Underneath the cut for those who consider it to be spoilery, but we have a trailer for the one-hour special, Our Blue and Green World, airing April 1st, 2024.

The Kratt brothers disagree on what's better; blue oceans or green forests. Aviva takes on the role of referee to demonstrate how oceans and forests work together to make our living planet, just like Martin and Chris need to keep working together. It's up to the gang to get Martin and Chris back in sync in time to save planet Earth from Zach and Paisley's villainous plans.

This special was first mentioned back in May of 2023 during an interview with Martin Kratt heralding the show's premiere of its 7th season. The original title was Blue and Green: The Living Earth before it was chaned to our Blue and Green World. The episode will feature climates and habitats corresponding with the Kratt's "blue and green." With it, will come the introduction of new Creature Power Suits: The ones we have seen thus far in the trailer are Indri Power, Green Anaconda Power, and Blue Whale Power.

My thoughts:

HOLY SHIT THE BLUE WHALE SUIT

HOLY SHIT THE BLUE WHALE SUIT

HOLY SHIT THE BLUE WHALE SUIT

*calms down.*

Ok but I'm starting to see a weird pattern in the PowerSuits in this season. For some strange reason, they have to retrofit the wearer's mouths to match the ACTUAL anatomy of the animal the suit is based off of. They did it with the Wild Pony and the Mountain Goat Power Suit and both of them were.... ugh. Now they did it with the Blue Whale Suit and to be fair, while I hate that particular feature, it's not enough to make me hate the suit. In fact, I kinda like it more because of how silly it looks (Martin is the perfect person to wear this suit tbh). Still though, I wish they designed it like the Crocodile, Hippo, or Puffin Suit where the giant mouth is simply an attachment that doesn't move while the wearer speaks.

For those who don't know, Indris are the largest species of lemur in the world (alongside Diademed Sifakas). They are the only animals besides humans that can find and use rhythm using "wailing songs" to communicate. They're also critically endangered due to slash and burn of their habitats and poaching for their flesh as delicacies (yeah, very odd that Gourmand isn't here, but I digress). There's an estimate to be less than 10,000 left in the wild and are expected to have a population net decrease by 80% within the next 30 years... yeah, considering that they're endemic to Madagascar, not a very good sign. I didn't even know what an Indri was until reading the article, and if I'm not the only one who had no clue about these guys, it's probably definitely a good sign that they're getting some spotlight in this show.

The Indri Power Suit looks so goofy, but again, something about how silly it looks just makes me appreciate it all the more. I... weirdly expected it to be way bigger like the Puffin Suit, but again that's just me.

I am a huge fan of how they designed the snake-inspired Creature Power Suits in the show. But the Anaconda Creature Power Suit... holy shit.

LOOK AT IT /POS

Look at the markings! Look at the green! Look at the patterns, and the color schemes! Chris FINALLY got a green Creature Power Suit to activate! Our boi won! It's also a pretty clever callback to the Amazon special where Chris met the Anaconda (I really hope the Power Disc for this suit is green because god that would be so aesthetically pleasing).

Ngl, if the old flash games were still on the website, and this was one of the Power Suits I could earn for my character, I'd play it in a heart-beat.

I'm really interested to see the Zach/Paisley team up. This season already started to utilize her better by giving her another solo appearance, and now we're seeing a 1 on 1 team up with her and another villain. I was always gunning for a Paisley/Donita teamup but this works too. They're both very similar characters that can bounce off each other in similar, yet different ways (I actually headcanon that they're related - second cousins to be exact - because of those similarities). The final battle is gonna be kickass.

If you were to tell me without any context at all that this was a screencap from the upcoming WK feature film (that this episode is often mistaken for), I would believe you. Because HOLY SHIT! The linework, the lighting, the hues, AND the shading! I am becoming more and more grateful for the 2-year long hiatus - the animators needed time to cook and they fucking COOKED. For an extended TV episode, this is pretty damn impressive.

People don't talk enough about this, but fun-fact: A lot of the animators of this show had experience working for Disney. Erika Worthylake was one of the artists on this show, doing several beta designs for animals such as wild ponies and salmon sharks. In 2019, she was the lead designer for Anga, one of the new characters in Disney's The Lion Guard (which, much like Wild Kratts, was animated in Toon Boom). Ben Balistreri had collaberated with the Kratt Brothers and Luc Chamberland in 2007 to work on the show's pilot episode, creating several different designs for the animated characters. Ten years later, he became the executive co-producer of Tangled: The Series. Kendal Brouet, who animated A Creature Christmas, worked on The Proud Family: Louder and Prouder in 2022. Just to name a few. It's just a fun little thing that comes up in the back of my mind whenever the topic of WK animation comes up, and this instance of animation is so fucking good that I HAVE to talk about it, because I have MAJOR respect for these guys, and if there were ever moments in the show that remind me "Oh, this slaps," I just remember what these talented artists worked on through the years and it clicks together nicely in my brain.

According to Whrokids, this episode is gonna have a runtime of 58 minutes. I found this screenshot of someone who did far more searching and sleuthing for new episode content (they were the ones who found this trailer actually). I'm not sure how valid this particular screenshot is, but if this is the case, then this will be the longest episode of Wild Kratts in history, and will be the closest thing we get to a Wild Kratts movie (until the actual WK movie is released in theaters).

Fucking. Hyped.

[yelenaslyubov]

Cosmic Love

main masterlist || rhaenicent || requests

a/n: this is my first ‘a song of ice and fire’ universe fic i’ve written, as well as the first double character pairing fic i’ve written! i’m still getting the hang of it, so bear with me. i hope you enjoy it, friends! as always, if you want something, don’t be afraid to request it!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ pairing: rhaenyra targaryen x alicent hightower

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ warnings: cheesy sexy tooth rotting fluff x 1000 with a little side of angst.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ description: based on the events during the season two finale and loosely inspired by ‘cosmic love’ by florence + the machine, Alicent has made the journey to Dragonstone to strike a deal with Rhaenyra in regard to the crown. Rhaenyra is blindsided by the unexpected visit by Alicent, especially as Alicent wants Rhaenyra to follow her into the great beyond. what happens if Rhaenyra and Alicent are finally honest with themselves about where they stand?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ word count: 3.6k

DISCLAIMER: SOME OF THE DIALOGUE DOES NOT BELONG TO ME, IT BELONGS TO HBO!!!

Rhaenyra once again realized that sleep would not find her tonight. Of course, this was nothing new as of late, but there was still hope for improvement in her mind. The endless insomnia that seemed to never leave her would be the bane of her existence.

Ever since the death of Lucerys, Rhaenyra could never find a speck of sleep. Each time her eyes grew heavy, visions of her lost babe would appear to ensure sleep was never possible. It was now, more than ever, that sleep would improve her position.

The realm had its head turned to her and her opposers, and she would not be found lacking. With Daemon gone and some of her own army against her method of warfare, Rhaenyra felt hopeless.

She felt the flutter of her eyelids become heavy, slowly shutting them while thinking thoughts that brought good omens in hopes that tonight would be the night that she may get some rest. As her eyes shut, there was a knock at the door that was a tell tale sign that tonight was not the night for sleep.

Alicent’s held on to the rough, splintered side of the boat that was threatening to knock her off her feet. She had already regretted her choice as soon as she stepped afoot the large ship. The ocean was never her forte and this trip was only confirming her resentments.

She looked in the distance at the formidable island that lay for hundreds of years. She understood the significance, but she refused to acknowledge the indignation she held against it now. It was the home of her enemy, or so she thought. These days she felt her heart growing fonder for her once friend, hence her journey across the sea.

But these were not thoughts that she wanted to impede her brain at this time. They were too deep into the trifle that their indifference and misunderstanding had caused them. She must make haste in her quick thinking that had led her all the way to Dragonstone.

She was led off of the ship as soon as they touched land because wasting time was no option. Though speed was preferred, Alicent could not help but admire her surroundings. The castle and everything that it hugged was exactly how Rhaenyra described it to be. It all felt too surreal for Alicent.

Her fingers dragged along the cobblestone walls that prevented passerby’s from falling to their demise. She could feel the fire that lived here long before She felt it in her bones, and it was the same fire she felt that Rhaenyra had. Perhaps it was only in the name Targaryen, but perhaps it was much more than that.

Alicent approached the guards at the front entrance. “I am here to see Queen Rhaenyra,” she said plainly, even surprising herself by the address.

Each guard looked to each other deciding whether they would allow such a treachery to happen under their watch.

“I come unarmed and in need of confession in the late hour, I swear it.”

The guards took another look, even deeper this time. They studied her appearance; a light blue cloak with a hood to match, along with melancholy eyes. Against their better judgment, they let her through. Of course, this was not possible without the supervision of Rhaenyra’s own guard. He followed close behind and alerted another guard on watch that Queen Rhaenyra was expecting a visitor.

After completing the most daunting of their tasks, it was another struggle to weave through the castle. It proved well to have somewhat of a guide.

They reached a great room with a high ceiling. On the far side of the room was a tall staircase that led to another door. Alicent was asked to remain in the room and wait until prompted.

Rhaenyra prepared herself for whatever could be waiting beyond her quarters. A message delivered by raven could be waiting once again, news of Daemon, or anything that may cause her to lose even more sleep. What she did not expect was her childhood companion to be waiting on the other side.

As Rhaenyra followed her guard, she froze when she saw what was waiting for her.

“I had to see you,” said Alicent, moving closer across the room. Rhaenyra walked down the stairs, leaving Ser Lorent Marbrand.

“Who knows?” Rhaenyra asked.

“None save my protector. He laid down his sword at your gate.” Alicent’s voice was wavering with the weight of her regret. “I’ve been, I think…mistaken.”

Alicent explained the weight of the duty she had to carry all those years after Rhaenyra began to distain her. Her arms had been pulled in every direction possible, only finding moments to herself to indulge in the things that made herself happy.

Regardless of how she felt towards Alicent, Rhaenyra had changed. She was not the woman she was before. She was not the Queen she was before. She realized that now was the time for duty and honor, or so she thought.

Alicent explained that she had been wrongly led astray in her duties and priorities. She realized that there were very few times where she felt completely free, but she acknowledged now that her soul was peaceful. It was poor timing considering the realm’s current situation.

“I have been alone as of late. I walked outside the walls of the city and I felt a weight lifted from me,” she explained.

“How lovely for you,” Rhaenyra said, condescendingly.

“I thought, for the first time, what I would choose…if not for the duty I put before all else.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but chuckle at the sentiment. “Shall you cast your son down and rule alone?”

“No,” Alicent was quick to rebuttal. “I do not wish to rule, I wish to live. To be free of all this endless plotting and striving.

“The crown will pursue war and victory at any cost,” Rhaenyra sighed, hoping that Alicent was not naive enough to believe that she would be free of any repercussions.

“I…” Alicent began, “but as for me, I would take my daughter and her child and leave it all behind.

“It’s too late, Alicent,” Rhaenyra laughed.

Pathetic she was; Alicent that is. To think that after all this time she would be able to make freethinking decisions. She was entirely too deep into the war looming above their heads.

The hunger from selfish men could practically be smelled from miles away. There was no stopping their greed and desires now, not after the havoc that Alicent had caused.

“Oh, go then. Leave us behind, as you say.”

Alicent scoffed. “Rhaenyra.” Alicent walked away from Rhaenyra, almost as if she had given up on her original goal of coming to Dragonstone.

“Wander in the wilderness.”

Quickly, Alicent turned around facing Rhaenyra once again. “I came here to entertain you, or so I thought! Was it dim of me to believe that you may still have fondness in your heart for me? I see now that it was.”

“Alicent-”

“I came to ensure a way of peace, even at a price. I know the consequences of my actions and I will forever be reminded of them, but I want to make things right again. I knew your father well enough, and I was blinded by my own dignity and righteousness to see it was I who was mistaken; you have been the true heir.”

Rhaenyra was stunned by Alicent’s honesty. All this time she had taken her for a brainwashed fool, but it seemed that she had learned much in a short period.

“You do understand what this means and the allegations you just put out into the world? Your own son on the line, is that something you would live with?” Rhaenyra asked sincerely.

Alicent produced soft tears forming in the corner of her eyes. She knew the price she would pay for this treason, and yet she was willing to serve this sentence willingly.

“If I am to take the throne, I must put an end to the opposition. I must take Aegon’s head, and I have to do it for all to see. You know this. However you may try to evade it, you know this,” Rhaenyra explained.

Alicent’s tears grew and she held her head in her hands. She could not bear the thought of losing her own child, but the thought of throwing the entire realm into disarray because of his selfish decisions haunted her more. Both decisions could send her into deep despair, but which would bring peace to the masses?

“Choose,” Rhaenyra demanded. “Will you shrink from what you set out to do? Or will you see it through…and make your sacrifice? A son for a son.”

Both regents stared at one another with longing.

A son for a son. Rhaenyra knew the pain well, and casting this decision on another, let alone Alicent, was not made easily or even in good conscience. The thought itself made tears well in Rhaenyra’s eyes as well. They stared at each other and for once it seemed as if they shared each other’s pain. The pain of not only being a woman, but being a mother during these trying times they found themselves in.

Rhaenyra wiped away her tears. “You are much changed.”

“Let us be done with this, please,” Alicent begged.

“And what do I do with you now?”

“You let me go, to do what I promised. And you fly to the Red Keep in three days' time, and you take your throne. Or you take me a liar,” she scoffed. “I have neither weapon nor armor. My life itself is forfeit… I cast myself on the mercy of a friend who once loved me.”

Rhaenyra’s attention was pulled even more into focus at her words. “History will paint you a villain. A cold queen… grasping for power, and then defeated.”

“Let them think what they must. I am at last myself… with no ambition greater than to walk where I please and to breathe the open air. To die unremarked and unnoticed… and be free.”

Rhaenyra smiled fondly. “You speak as if from a distant dream.”

She could picture the two of them walking arm in arm across the courtyard to visit the Godswood as children. The distant dream was really a tried and true memory that was once loved by them both. They had missed each other so deeply but were afraid to admit it after Rhaenyra had felt so betrayed by her friend. Though, it was not Alicent’s fault at all as it was not her doing. It was simply another way for her father to gain the power and credibility he so longed for. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Then, the energy in Rhaenyra’s chamber had shifted; it became lighter and hopeful. There suddenly was an air of forgiveness as well as an unidentified desire present that was yet to be seen.

“Come with me,” Alicent blurted. And so the mysterious desire became quickly apparent.

There seemed to be no decent answer that Rhaenyra could give Alicent that she could possibly muster in the moment. “And why should I do that?”

Alicent came closer. “Oh please, Rhaenyra. Why wouldn’t you?”

Rhaenyra looked down nervously, shuffling her feet. “I have my own duties, I have-”

“Would you please shed your act for one fleeting moment, I beg!” Alicent shouted, causing Rhaenyra to step back in utter shock.

Rhaenyra was taken aback by Alicent’s fury. She was angry now, but she did not quite know who she was angry at. More than likely it was herself that she was angry at, angry for being so blind all this time.

“I have not forgotten about the wish you so hopefully cast upon me that I declined against my better judgment.”

“May you remind me of this request?” Rhaenyra spat. Even though her tone was harsh, she felt fullness in her heart for the first time since she had all of her children surrounded in her presence.

“Back at the Godswood, when we were children,” Alicent said. “Oh, it sounds pathetic now, to think of the dreams we had when we were young. Alas, we were only children.”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra began, “we were.” She paused for a moment to gather her whereabouts, as well and dissect the assumptions that Alicent was alluding to. It was too early to be delving into such things, but Alicent had set out to do just that.

“A-at the Godswood,” Alicent moved closer, “do you remember what you once said?”

Rhaenyra was suddenly reminded of her words that she spoke as her head rested on Alicent’s leg. Additionally, Rhaenyra became frighteningly aware that the two of them were not alone.

Ser Lorent Marbrand stood near the stairs guarding the Queen in any attempt of harm. Rhaenyra waved him off.

“My Queen?” he pushed.

“You may go, Ser Lorent,” Rhaenyra demanded, but the guard stayed put. “You are dismissed!”

The guard left promptly after the Queen’s harsh display of dismissal. Rhaenyra waited until she heard the soft echo of his footsteps before continuing. She did not know exactly which direction this conversation may go, but based on the topics so far, it is one that she did not want others to be present for.

“Continue,” Rhaenyra said to Alicent.

“The words you spoke, your grace.” Rhaenyra was thoroughly shocked at the words that Alicent so carefully crafted. “You had said that-”

“‘I wanted to ride dragon back with you and explore the wonders far across the narrow sea,’” Rhaenyra finished.

“And eat only cake,” they both said in unison.

They remembered that time as if it had occurred only yesterday. They were children, friends, and enemies together. Secretly they hoped that they could be more.

“I cannot help but think, what if I would have agreed to those childish antics?” Alicent asked out loud.

“Why, after all this time have you decided to come crawling back?” Rhaenyra rebutted. “I would even argue that there has not been a more inconvenient time for such games!”

“This is not a game, Rhaenyra! Have I not poured myself out to you enough? What else would you have me do?”

They both paused to stare at one another. Rhaenyra stared deeply at Alicent, studying her expression and desire that she was so eagerly displaying in this moment. Alicent looked at Rhaenyra with the same childlike wonder that she once did. It was the same feeling, but also something brand new and foreign to both of them.

Rhaenyra walked away deeper into the room. She was looking for something she had stowed away a while before this that she thought might be of use. She walked back to Alicent with a slip of parchment in hand and held it out for her in hopes of taking it.

Alicent unfolded the small piece of parchment to reveal a ripped page of a book that she studied for a moment. She looked at Rhaenyra with her glassy expression.

“I assumed you had thrown it into the fireplace to let the flames engulf it,” Alicent said.

“I could not,” Rhaenyra shook her head. “Each time I found myself looking to it, I saw the happy memories of what once was.”

Alicent walked closer to Rhaenyra, causing her to shift in her place near the table. She had not come this close to Alicent since she disguised herself as a septa in order to make good with her, which did not bode well in the end.

Rhaenyra’s heart leaped when Alicent placed her hand atop of Rhaenyra’s. “We can restore those memories and be as we once were. I am sure of it,” Alicent said.

They looked in one another’s eyes to pinpoint the explanation of the longing they had been feeling the entire lonely night. “Let me set it right… please.”

Rhaenyra and Alicent never peeled their eyes away from each other in those fleeting moments. They stared so intently that Rhaenyra did not seem to notice that Alicent had taken her hand into her own, slowly raising it to her lips.

Alicent’s lips parted slightly as she brought them down to Rhaenyra’s hand. She left a gentle kiss upon the back of her hand, eyes never leaving the stars that gleamed within Rhaenyra’s eyes.

Rhaenyra could not wait any longer for the drawn out confession of her companion. She quickly placed her hand against Alicent’s flushed cheek, savoring the new warmth that she had been desiring for a decade.

“Oh, Alicent. We have been so blinded all this time,” Rhaenyra said, lovingly.

“I don’t believe we have been blind, only repressed from the things we truly wanted.”

Rhaenyra stroked Alicent’s cheek with her thumb, while also exploring extremely close to her lips. “How I have missed you.”

“Every light that guided me has been blown out since we have been apart. I always knew I would find my way back somehow,” Alicent explained.

Rhaenyra replaced her hand on Alicent’s cheek with her own lips. She could taste the heat radiating from Alicent’s skin, acting as motivation for her pleadings. Her lips moved closer to Alicent’s, but not without savoring each movement she made. Alicent sighed, her needs being fulfilled at last with the taste of Rhaenyra on her skin.

Alicent’s hands crawled to the back of Rhaenyra’s neck in hopes to guide her right where she wanted. To follow suit, Rhaenyra snaked her hands around Alicent’s bust to hold her close.

“It has been torture staying away from you these long years,” Rhaenyra whispered.

“And it is torture for me to watch you draw it out so,” Alicent whispered back, their lips almost touching. She waited for Rhaenyra to initiate their intimacy in hopes that Rhaenyra really did feel the same way she did.

Slowly, Rhaenyra lingered her parting lips over Alicent’s to graze each pair against each other. The breaths they took were shaky due to their built up nerves that started long ago. They yearned so much for one another that they were paralyzed with the realization that the moment they had waited for was here.

As if a mouse had spoken, Alicent spoke so softly. “I love you.”

“I loved you first,” Rhaenyra responded. “With all my heart.”

Rhaenyra broke the space between them with a kiss they had longed to share. Their kiss said more than they ever could to each other. It was a piece of them that became whole and healed again.

Both of them clawed at one another like rabid animals. Their hands were everywhere on their faces, their hips, their back, and spaces they never knew existed.

Their moans filled the air like a beautiful, intimate song. Rhaenyra tugged on Alicent’s long, curly hair, twirling it around her fingers as her lips moved against Alicent’s.

Alicent held Rhaenyra’s face in her hands as if it was the most precious jewel she had beheld. Her touch was gentle and loving. Alicent took her time to worship Rhaenyra just as she had been intending to do.

This was not near enough for Rhaenyra. She guided Alicent to the nearest wall to rest herself against. Rhaenyra pressed Alicent between the wall and her own burning body. Legends say that it took a special person to tame a dragon, but Alicent Hightower had Rhaenyra Targaryen wrapped around her finger.

Rhaenyra dug her nails into the side of Alicent’s neck while she left hot kisses along the side of her porcelain skin. There was barely skin left to touch by the time that Rhaenyra was done with Alicent.

Alicent had explored the most sensitive parts of Rhaenyra’s skin which elicited sensual responses each and every time. Her tongue was full of wonders as it snaked through Rhaenyra’s mouth and tangled within her own. They may savor the taste of each other for as long as they both roam the earth.

“Come with me,” Alicent hummed against Rhaenyra’s lips.

“And to where would we go?” Rhaenyra replied.

Rhaenyra felt Alicent smile against her lips, causing a roar of fire to be lit in her soul. “Anywhere, as long as it is with you, my Queen.”

“Mm, I could get used to that.” The words were like honey rolling off of her sweet lips. Rhaenyra could listen to her speak as long as she lived. “And what of the war? What shall we do with that?”

Their kissing ceased to exist for the moment which caused Alicent frustration. “Can we forget about that matter for the moment? The war will continue whether we are involved or not, you said it yourself. Bloodshed is inevitable.”

Rhaenyra studied Alicent’s face after she had spoken. There was an incessant need to be impulsive in her head which was frightening to her. She had never gone through those emotions, but there was a voice telling her to listen to the voice.

“Well, we had better get a move on then,” Rhaenyra said.

“You are quite serious?” Alicent laughed in disbelief.

“They say there is no time quite like the present, don’t they?”

And so, the two of them snuck around the darkened corridors of Dragonstone, weaving behind guards and avoiding questioning at all costs. Rhaenyra took Alicent down to the dragon pit for the first time. Syrax was Rhaenyra’s pride and joy, and it gave Rhaenyra great pleasure to fully show Alicent her world as she lived it.

Though Alicent had played her part in the Targaryen story, there was something incredibly profound about being in Dragonstone itself. Just like she had arrived, she could feel the furious energy down to the island’s bones. Real power had lived here for years and it was just getting started.

Playing a part in the Targaryen story took on a whole new meaning as the beginnings of a beautiful relationship bloomed between Rhaenyra and Alicent. They could sail and fly anywhere in the world, but home was such a pleasant place to start.

//

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[forasecondtherewedwon]

a tall, tall tale no one believes

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Pairing: Sally/Poseidon Rating: M Word Count: 875

Summary: How do I feel? she asked, and he told her, weak in all his strength, Wet.

Sally can’t sink, which is a strange trade-off for raising her little boy alone, but it’s just a fact of her life. The ocean bears her up. At the cottage, she rinses vegetables in a colander in the sink and, if her hands dip in to agitate some brussels sprouts, the water floats them to the top, refusing to sieve through the holes, refusing physics, cradling the back of her hands. Her fingertips never prune.

It’s the same in her apartment’s bathtub, the Finger Lakes, the model boat pond in Central Park. Percy isn’t sure about it, only four, but she helps him set his boat on the still water. The moment Sally slips her hand beneath the surface, a current propels the boat along. Her son is surprised and delighted. She wonders whether Poseidon can see, whether the water is a two-way glass, whether he feels any paternal instincts that aren’t too supernatural to put in a parenting book. Regardless, it makes her smile to watch them playing together at the park, the sunshine on Percy’s hair.

She teaches him about it: how wild water and domestic water touch. About rain and rivers, aquifers and Arctic thaw, treatment plants and tap water. How it’s all connected, like her and him. She rubs her thumb across his freckled cheek. All one thing that will always find its way back to each other, to the ocean. Those concepts are so bound up, but Sally doesn’t tell him, not yet. Instead, she laughs when Percy puts his ear to the closed tap and claims he can hear the ocean. Sally, unsinkable, would believe him in a heartbeat, except that he’s giggling the whole time. She tells him, Well, it’s time for bed. Try not to get any perch caught in your toothbrush. He’s at an age now where his end of their make-believe will drop away unexpectedly. Those are freshwater fish, Percy corrects. Her mistake.

Older, and he’s at school. The bathroom is unbeatable for oasis per square foot; it’s where she goes when the apartment is loud, or quiet, or it’s pouring and she’s in a mood that makes her afraid of what the people in the building across from hers will think if she climbs out onto the fire escape and gets too friendly with the rain. In the shower, where the water came from the ocean, sometime, someway, somehow, Sally makes it cry down her body before it returns to his domain. Remember me? is the question she doesn’t speak aloud. Her boyfriend keeps complaining to the super that the pressure’s for shit, that the spray is cloudy, that he gets out of the shower grimier than when he got in. But water pours clear as glass from the head and runs over Sally’s closed eyelids, her parted lips. It’s her lover on her skin, and sometimes she feels crazy for thinking it, but then the water streams along the blue veins visible on the pale parts of her breasts that were (usually) covered during their long summer at the beach, and traces the grooves of stretchmarks in her stomach and thighs, and she’s sure that he’s tracing her, her lines that wind like rivers, her body of water.

She remembers being pregnant with Percy. Back to the cottage, the shoreline in the fog, her hands in the kitchen sink. Oh, she would wade into the shallow water and ache for Poseidon. Her clothes discarded on the sand, Sally would hold her buoyant belly and understand what it felt like to be bigger than the skin that held her. Was that how he felt, when he was there? The size and shape of a man, but so much more? And less? Contained in one form, and then—she would stroke the place where Percy kicked—another.

She remembers before she got pregnant. How do I feel? she asked, and he told her, weak in all his strength, Wet.

Fire and water don’t go together, and that seems cruel, because she’s always sitting in the rain when she misses him most. Matches often won’t stay lit long enough for her to touch them to an offering. Tic Tacs from her purse stick together in her palm as their coating dissolves. A partially eaten granola bar Percy left in her coat pocket goes soggy as its silvery wrapper fizzles away from the weak flame. Cruelest, the toast she burnt by accident in the toaster refuses to catch as she dances fire along the crust on purpose. Some days, it’s more than she feels able to bear.

When she wants to, Sally can dive deep. Down there, it feels like she’s holding her breath longer than most people—most humans—can. It could just be her imagination. She’s not a god.

Water, for her, will never wash things away. It’s a tide, seemingly made up of equal comings and goings at first, but drawing everything in eventually. Her floating is an uninsurable chronic condition. Sally isn’t complaining, she just has to wonder sometimes. About fate. About the urge she has to cup her hands at the mouth of a downspout and splash her face with the draining water. To make him touch her as he passes through.

[xxladyballadxx]

My Love, My World, My Treasure

Richter Belmont x f! reader

❀ Dividers by @saradika-graphics ❀

ꕤ I recommend listening to Two Slow Dancers by Mitski while reading this ꕤ

Summary: A week had passed ever since you finally killed the patriarch that used you as a weapon to rage against wars. The nightmare was over, you were finally free. Then…you became more aloof, distancing yourself from everyone. Richter and the others knew what was up. Tera and Maria decided to help Richter out to do something special for you, to bring out a smile on your face once again…

“Richter, where are you taking me?” You asked in curiosity while having a blindfold over your eyes. “Hold on, we’re almost there.” Richter reassured you, holding your hands steadily that way you don’t trip or bump into anything. Still wondering what Richter was up to. Your eyes remained close behind the blindfold. “Okay, my sweet dove, we’re here.” Richter released your hands, hearing the steps of him walking behind you to untie the knot of the blindfold. 

With the blindfold no longer shielding the surprise, you lit your eyes open and felt the warm breeze crawling up on you, your hair dancing mid-air as it flowed over some parts of your face. 

You gasped, reeling in joy and happiness. Your eyes wandered around the place, you were taken to a field full of gorgeous flowers by your amazing boyfriend Richter Belmont. So this is what he wanted to show you. 

Roses, daisies, tulips and many other flowers were blooming beautifully on the green shining grass. “They’re beautiful!” You beamed out, bending down to touch the petals with your fingertips. “I know you haven’t been feeling like yourself recently.” Richter spoke calmly while he went over to you, a worried smile appearing, “I wanted to do something special for you, to bring a smile to your face once again. To cheer you up…” 

You stood up, walking over to Richter with a sweet loving smile popping up, “Richter…” he held your hands and motioned his eyes to gaze at yours, “I hope this isn’t too much, you’ve been through a lot and I realized we were never able to spend more time together since we were so focused on things that were dragging us down to the fucking dirt. You mean a lot to me, (Name).” He squeezes your hands lovingly, his blue oceanic orbs falling up on you, “I can’t bear to see you suffering like this…” 

Richter was hurting deeply inside, for you and he figured out that you haven’t been your usual happy-self for the past few days. This is why he did all this for you… 

“Oh Richter…” You held up your hand, caressing the side of his face while he looked at you worryingly, “This…all this means everything to me. I love what you did with the flowers…” you pulled away to look down to the blossoms. “Somehow they remind me of a beautiful garden back home in London, do you remember?” 

Richter chuckled, recalling the moments you spent more time with him when you were both children, “I always plucked out the rose from the bush and removed its bloody thorns before putting on your hair. Sometimes I get yelled at by one of your butlers since I wasn’t supposed to take the flower from a bush.” He picked out a Chrysanthemum and placed it behind your ear, admiring how stunning you look with it. “You love to make those flower crowns and put them on my head, wanting me to match with you.” 

You smiled fondly, “Oh yes. I even made a flower ring for you too. “ Those were the greatest days for you and Richter. You were much happier back then, running around in the garden with Richter while he chased you wildly. “I..missed this…I missed the moments we had together when we were kids.” 

Richter held your hands together in his palms, gazing his blue sea orbs upon you, “I do too, (Name). Nine years and here I thought…I would never see you again. The person whom I held so close to my heart.” 

You recalled the time where Richter rescued you from that cult, he couldn’t recognise you at first. You never prayed for someone you knew to come and rescue you. Richter Belmont, the close friend you ever had, rescued you. He came back to you. During the invasion in London, with the vampires slaughtering the citizens, Richter thought you were killed along with your family. 

He regained some parts of his happiness when he found you, so did you.

Richter sat beside you as you began to make garlands, creating a crown out of various flowers. He watches you making one, his gaze unmoving. “Where do you see us when this is all over?” Richter had been wanting to ask you for a while, he never got the chance to for some reason. Perhaps he was too focused on taking down the Messiah and her army. 

You put down the unfinished crown on your lap and face Richter in his direction, “I truly wish I have an answer for that. I never thought about it that deeply. Maybe…somewhere nice…perhaps in a cottage. Living there peacefully I suppose..” 

Richter shone a warm smile, holding your hand into his, “That would actually be quite nice…for you and me.” You gave him a kiss on the cheek in return before finishing off making the garlands. Richter knew you would need this, wanting to get away from all the terrible things that were dragging you down. 

You set your eyes towards the warm blue sky, the yellow-red burning sun shining brightly on your face, “It’s quite lovely out here, isn’t it?” you stood up with that finished flower crown in your hands you finished making. 

Richter got up on his feet, standing next to you. His eyes wandered around the area, a little speck of gleam going through his pupils, “It really is. Not as beautiful as you though.” 

Your face flushed at his compliment, you turned towards his direction wanting to look him in the eye with that flourishing reddened face of yours. Richter found it quite adorable seeing you like that, it brings him much joy just by spending his time with his lover. Seeing a girl he truly loves smiling once again. 

He took the flower crown off your hands, slowly planting it on your head. A sparkle of happiness painted over Richter’s face, “You look beautiful as ever, (Name).” The wind dancing through your hair, parts of them flowing over your face as a radiant smile shone across your lips. 

Richter gripped your hands, inching you closer to him. He held your head leaning in for a kiss. You closed your eyes when his lips touched yours sweetily. A slow, passionate kiss melting onto your soft lips. Richter moved his head away from your face to say, “I love you, (Name), so damn much.” 

Your eyes pricked with tears, “I know. I love you too.” You wrapped your arms around him lovingly, your head burying into his chest, “My love, my world, my treasure.” you looked up to his face, smiling as you shed more tears of sparkled joy, “You are the one I need. You, Richter Belmont, are my precious treasure.” 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

a/n - Hello everyone! I hope you all like what I've written on here! I wanted to tear up so much while writing the ending for this (╥﹏╥)

Anyways, keep yourselves warm in this very cold season and make sure you take care of your health! ( • ᴗ - ) ✧

UNTIL NEXT TIME 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

[taomyou]

a sip of sunshine - chapter one (A)

!! minors dni !! pairing: levi ackerman/reader word count: 22,458 sypnosis: Life is not easy, and Levi’s made peace with the fact that it never will be. And, yet, as the days pass and he comes to enjoy the company of the baker across town, he learns that the sun will always continue to shine, no matter how unworthy he feels to bask in its warmth. - or, Levi learns to be okay with drinking shitty tea. tags: postcanon, canon universe, birthday, angst, fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, found family, survivor guilt, eventual romance, eventual smut, character study, grumpy/sunshine, hurt/comfort, bakery, tea, meet-cute, no y/n, pov levi ackerman, not beta read a/n: no smut in this chapter, will be in chapter two. also sorry this took a while to crosspost www. this chapter is also being broken up into two parts because it exceeds the text limit, this is the FIRST half (,,>﹏<,,) accompanying playlist || ao3

chapter one: white peony beauty, bashfulness | shame, apology

Though Levi never imagined ever making it past 20, nevermind past 30…

If Levi ever had dreams of what his life would be like when he’d turn 40, he certainly never would’ve imagined this.

This where his days are occupied by nothing.

All his life, he’s had to fight for more—for more resources, for more time, for more freedom. Between fiending for food and fighting to keep himself from crumbling, never was there time to even think about nothing.

And, now, with the War finally laid to rest alongside his fallen comrades, Levi finally has the time to do what meaningless things he couldn’t during his time as his mother’s son and Kenny’s mentee and the Underground’s most notorious thug and Humanity’s Strongest Soldier.

For the first time in his life, he’s free.

And because he doesn’t know how to be that, he does nothing.

But that’s fine with him. He’s hardly concerned with the fact that he’s as boring as he always was, and there’s plenty of other parts of this life that hardly make any sense to him.

This where the weather—the sky—is equally as tranquil as the morning birdsong.

He tips his head back to gaze at the sun above often, but he seldom ever finds the clouds he expects to be blocking it.

Instead, he’s met with a sky so painfully big and bright and blue, he fears he may tear up if he looks too long.

Yet, all he does is stare.

The breeze is never still, nor is it harsh, and the air is never as disgustingly muggy as he grew to believe it always was. He’d breathed fresh air when he first came to the Surface, but that feeling doesn’t hold a candle to the now crisp, everchilling wind that clears his sinuses and blows his hair in every which direction whenever he steps outside of the quaint farmhouse he now resides in. There's a weathervane perched atop his roof in the shape of a horse that points him in the direction of the stars, and Levi'd painted it black to match the stallion he'd trusted with his life so long ago.

Though, even if he has come to enjoy the presence of birds as they fly overhead to the south, he’ll never truly get over the stains their shit leaves on his outdoor tables and chairs.

Fucking bastards.

This where the sea meets that same sky he once dreamed of seeing.

Scarcely ever does he ever go to the ocean to view the sky from the sand, but in the rare moments that Mikasa requests his presence at the shore, Levi lets himself get lost in the way the clear blue fades to red and orange and purple and pink as the hours pass. The colors bleed into themselves, yet Levi can still discern where they start and end. Even with only one fully functional eye, he can see the pigmented stains in the sunset.

Sometimes, he’ll see green, but that might just be because Mikasa speaks castles about the emeralds she finds in her memories of Eren’s eyes.

They’d always reminded him of Isabel’s, though, so maybe it’s her that he sees when the sun falls in the west.

Where the sea meets the sky, the waves brush up white water, leaving salt marks on the treads of his wheelchair, and while Mikasa holds her scarf to her eyes as she weeps, Levi wishes he had more time to dream with his friends of what life would be like along this very shoreline. Whether or not they’d enjoy the crisp salt air, he has no idea, but he has no doubt that they would’ve spent all their free time watching this very horizon, waiting for the night to find excuse to take themselves to the bar and drink their hearts away.

He supposes that’s why he refuses to come to the sea alone.

Mikasa shoulders his grief, just as he shoulders hers.

This where carrots and cabbages and all other crops are growing just outside his house, and are brought to life with his own hands and those of his loved ones.

When he’d first moved in, he refused to tend to the plants already there. He was exhausted enough after hauling all of his shit in (which, admittedly, wasn’t much to begin with, but you try to move furniture in a new house with fresh wounds), and he’d be lying if he said he craved responsibility after all his years of leading soldiers to their deaths in the Corps.

But as time went on and Levi realized his hands weren’t as marred by blood as he thought they were, he opened up to the idea, and, one day, he found himself simply accustomed to watering sprouting stalks, taking note of the seasons, and planning his meals around what he could harvest from the earth in his backyard.

It’s hardly easy, mostly because he can barely stand to be hunched over the garden for longer than a few short hours at a time, but he holds himself to it. He hasn’t been as strict with upkeep lately, as it’s hardly worth the effort to keep the plants from browning in the winter, but he already knows what he’s going to plant in the new year.

In particular, Springer forces Levi to keep at it, constantly threatening to buy out the extra farmland from him. Levi knows that piece of shit isn’t rich enough to even own his own property, much less buy out this farm, but it’s motivation enough to know that the soldier-turned-ambassador will risk his safety to push Levi to be consistent in his farming duties.

Gabi and Falco help, too. Those kids are over at his house during practically all hours of the day, fussing about and asking Levi to regale what parts of his life he’s found joy in while they help carry buckets of mulch and water.

He’s grateful that they don’t ask about anything else, but the fact remains that they fucking suck at making marks in the soil, so don’t get it twisted and say that he’s gone soft.

He takes care of this garden because he has to, not because he feels any personal desire to do so.

Besides, Onyankopon took fucking forever to build up all the furrows a bit above ground level to allow Levi the ease of not having to fully squat to reach the earth. Levi refuses to let that labor go to waste and leave the heightened dirt barren.

This where he can lay in a bed that’s always comfortable and clean, never sullied by the sinking weight of the grief he carries with him in the daytime.

Sleep doesn't come any easier now than it did before. When he can’t get his mind to rest easily (which is more often than he’d care to admit), he sits in the chair at the corner of his bedroom with his eyes closed, burdening the wood with the weight of his blood-soaked soul. His mind runs wild in the nighttime nearly every day, replaying memories he only wishes to remember in memoriam of those he’s lost, but Levi refuses to lay between his sheets until he knows he will not dirty them with his sorrow.

He’d already ruined the dirty cot he had as a child with the grief of his mother and her work, the bed he had occupied during his time as a hardened criminal with the blood of his adversaries, the bed he was given in the Corps with the guilt of not being able to protect those he loved. This bed, the one with white sheets and the smell of lavender sprigs, Levi decides, will not be laid in unless he’s sure he won’t ruin it with his memories.

To everyone else, it’s foolish, but after all is said and done, he knows his bed will be there, and though he seldom gets to sleep in it, that is enough for him.

To have a bed, unmarred by the parts of his soul he wishes to save for his conscious self.

This where his tea is always warm, always the same.

Prior to this life, he never thought he’d be afforded the luxury of having something familiar. War changed far too much for a man like him, burdened with the heartache of the world, and to think that he has hot water, the same tea leaves he’d enjoyed in Paradis, and a kitchen where he can sit and watch the steam spill out of a ceramic teapot he’d brought with him from across the sea.

It’s more than enough.

And perhaps it's because, apart from his own memories and the scars that follow, he’s lost everything else reminiscent of his life before all this.

He never dare venture into new blends, new ingredients, new anything—his tea has, and will always, remain the same, because the fear of letting go of the one thing that’s stayed the same is far too great for him to part ways with the mundane routine.

Besides, there’s no guarantee that he’d be able to have another cup of tea to begin with, so he’s better off sticking to what works. All else has changed—why steer from that and disrupt the harmony of what remains of himself?

And, right now, this where he’s forced to take a seat at his dining table during high noon, and Gabi and Falco put two boxes in front of him. On the left, one that’s smaller and wrapped in golden paper, and on the right, a plain, white box that’s about the size of his head, and held together with slotted pieces.

It’s probably housing some sort of baked good—Braus used to sneak back boxes like this when they’d all first arrived in Marley.

All this isn’t to say that Levi is ungrateful in the slightest. The routine, the sky, the sea, the garden, the bed, the tea—all of it, is finally his. He never would’ve imagined they’d one day belong to him, but he’s here now, and this is his life, even if all these things don’t feel like they’re his.

It’s just that he never would’ve imagined that he’d be here, especially as he’s faced with the daunting sight of two children, now taller standing than he is sitting down, looking to him and waiting for him to open… whatever it is that they’ve brought him.

“What are these for?”

“They’re your birthday presents!” Gabi exclaims, a bright smile on her face. The slight movement of her hair as she speaks makes a flower fall from where it’s tucked behind her ear, and Falco rushes to pick it up from the floor and put it back in its place.

After a bit more shuffling, the boy then clears his throat and looks toward Levi, a nervous smile on his face. “We hope you like them. Happy birthday, Levi.”

Levi hasn’t celebrated anything, never mind his birthday, in years. He didn’t even realize it was today himself.

How they even know his birthday, he has no idea, but he supposes that word gets around when you’re Humanity’s Strongest.

More likely, before he’d set sail to tend to his ambassador duties, Arlert found his date of birth during the latest file restoration, and told these two to get Levi something.

Good call on his part. If he’d sent anyone else, Levi’d be quick to turn them away and tell them to spend their money on better things than him.

Not that he doesn’t still think that, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell Gabi and Falco that he doesn’t need anything for his birthday, much-less that he wants to celebrate it in the first place. 

He isn’t even sure if he can unwrap these presents on his own—trying to peel away the clear tape that gleams underneath the kitchen light doesn’t exactly sound easy or pleasant, especially considering the fact he’s never tried doing anything like this since losing his right pointer and middle fingers. Hange used to wrap his birthday presents with the strongest industrial tape they could find, and even when he’d had full use of both his hands, he could barely pry the tape off those fucking things.

For a brief second, Levi imagines that if they were still alive, they’d have jumped at the chance to do this for him. To unwrap his presents for him and force him to celebrate his birthday, just like they and Erwin used to before any of the three of them even knew there was a land across the sea. Maybe they’d even joke that they’d be his replacement digits, or try to design something to be that for him, and Erwin would scold them for forcing their ideas onto Levi.

He misses them both a lot.

Levi curtly nods at the offerings on the table, and at the children’s continued and insistent encouragement, he caves and reaches for the first present.

Picking up the smaller wrapped present on the left, from the shape alone, he knows that he’s been gifted a canister of the black tea he buys at the market on the other end of town. It feels exactly the same in his hand wrapped as it does when he holds it barren in his kitchen, and he can feel the faint impress of the metal engraving through the wrapping paper. He brings up the gift to his ear, gently shakes it, and his suspicions are confirmed when he hears the faint rustling of loose tea leaves, a sound more familiar to him than the creak of the wooden floorboard in front of his bedroom that he refuses to fix.

An appropriate gift. He’s nearly out of his current stock of the tea, and with the current winter wind, he’s been too sluggish to get himself all the way to the market across town.

His fingers trace along the edges of the wrapping paper for where it’s folded over top itself, but as he searches for the seam to start trying to pick at it with his fingernails, against the skin of his left wrist, he feels a small ribbon. Holding the box up above his head, he sees that it hangs from the bottom of the gift and seemingly comes from within the wrapping itself.

How odd.

“What’s this?”

“You have to open it! We can’t tell you!”

“Not the gift. This ribbon.”

“Oh! The lady who wrapped it for us told us that it’s so the person opening it doesn’t have to struggle with the paper. She said to pull on the ribbon to open it.”

“Where did you find someone to gift-wrap these for you?”

“Uh,” Gabi looks to Falco, who shakes his head for her not to tell. “She just saw us struggling to wrap it, and she helped us.”

Levi’s best guess is that saying who she is would give away some part of the gifts they’ve brought back for him.

Levi hums as he tugs on the white ribbon gently, holding the canister with his left hand and pulling with his right thumb and ring finger, and the paper comes undone quickly, the ribbon tearing through.

Huh. That was surprisingly easy.

It looks that the ribbon had been attached to the canister itself, and pulling on it brought apart the paper which kept the gift hidden.

He sets aside the wrapping paper and ribbon, both of which are in one piece and will save him the trouble of having to clean up the half-town pieces of tape he expected to collect in his hand, and stares down at the tea canister. He turns it to see that it is, in fact, the black tea he always gets, and there’s a slight tug at his lips at the sentiment that the children take enough note of his tastes to make sure they’d gotten the right blend.

“Thank you, kids.”

They’re hardly kids anymore, both of them fifteen years of age, but he can’t help but see them as the young children he’d met when he’d first reached this land.

They grow up too fast.

“Now the other one!”

Levi carefully sets down the canister, and with his both his hands, he reaches for the other gift they’ve brought him.

Instead of picking it up, he simply slides the box closer to himself. Just as when he ran his fingers over the wrapper canister to find where he could start unpeeling the tape, he feels a ribbon just barely peeking out from the backside of the box. He pulls at it, and as it comes away from the box and takes away torn tape with it, Levi internally thanks whoever it was that packaged this all up.

Gabi rushes to take away the trash in Levi’s hands and from the table, rushing off to put it in the bin underneath Levi’s kitchen sink. She comes running back, holding the flower in her hair in place as she hurriedly takes her seat again, and she motions towards the box again.

Even with his eyes downturned, Levi can feel the excitement radiating off the children, so he smiles to himself as he pulls the top compartment of the box halfway-open, revealing an ornately decorated cake. In curly piped frosting, reads Happy Birthday, and all around the border is a ring of cream that smells of lemon and faint notes of mint.

What odd flavors for winter.

He pulls up the top compartment all the way so he can take out the cake, but before he can take his hands away from the cardboard to start trying to get the cake out, he sees a small pink ticket attached to its underside.

He squints to try and read the words printed on it—Good for one free item! In the bottom right corner is a small logo, picturing a bow, as well as some other lettering that’s too small for him to read.

“So, what do you think?”

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“With the cake…? You eat it,” Falco politely clarifies.

“No, I know what a cake is,” Levi says gently, trying to take out the ticket from the board. He struggles a bit, his nails too short to pull at the tape initially, but he manages to pull it away and holds it in front of himself, reading the words again—Good for one free item! The print he couldn’t read earlier lists the exact address of this bakery. Looking at the logo again, he recognizes it as belonging to the corner shop he crosses to get to the market where he buys his tea. “What’s this?”

“The lady working at the bakery said it was an extra treat for you! We wanted to get you a tea-flavored cake, but she said she ran out for the day by the time we got there, and gave us a ticket to make up for it!”

“Is she the same person who wrapped the tea for you too?”

They both nod.

Levi sighs.

Whoever this woman is must be either too kind for her own good or too stupid for the same purpose. In the first place, a local bakery definitely isn’t well-off enough to be giving away free inventory to people who aren’t regulars to begin with.

Levi puts the ticket into the pocket of his pants, and he tells himself that he’ll stop by to return this to the bakery later today. He has nothing better to do today, as he doesn’t have to water the plants with the expected night rain, so he might as well just make sure that whoever it is that’s foolish enough to give away free shit knows that he won’t be taking advantage of that.

He supposes that today is the day he finally ventures back to the hustle and bustle of the city. It was about time, anyway, so he’s glad he has a reason to now.

It’d be worth it to give thanks for how she’d wrapped his presents, too.

Gabi and Falco both get up from their chairs to go over to his side of the dining table and help him take out the cake from the box, taking more hands than Levi originally thought necessary, and Levi excuses himself to grab cutlery and plates.

As he opens the cupboard to fetch just that, he can hear the two children fussing about, trying to get the cake placed in the dead center of the table, arguing over where the first cut should be made, untying limbs after they help straighten each other’s shirt collars, shouting to tell Levi he needs to start thinking of an extraordinary birthday wish to make up for all the birthdays he hasn’t celebrated.

It’s heartwarming—that they can finally occupy themselves with things other than the perils of war. That they find not only the sea, the sky, and the earth beautiful, but themselves as well.

Levi wishes he could be the same.

The dinnerware and serving utensils he needs in his lap, Levi wheels back to the table, and with the help of the two who’d so graciously brought him this cake, the three cut themselves neat slices of cake. Even though they’d forgotten to bring candles with them for Levi to blow out, they push him to ask for that wish they’d asked him to come up with just minutes prior, and even though Levi doesn’t think the universe is that forgiving, he begrudgingly tells the children that he did.

It’s almost as begrudging as the way he lifts the half-spoonful of cake that he brings up to his lips.

Earnestly, Levi doesn’t have many sweets to begin with. He enjoys candy well enough, especially lollipops, but he himself doesn’t care to learn how to bake or ever make use of the honey that’s been collecting dust at the back of his spice cabinet. He prefers the milder flavors that he knows are safe, that he can’t fuck up.

Which is why it surprises him that he enjoys this cake so much, even with the taste of sentimentality that he knew would be carried along with the spoon.

The taste of lemon is surprisingly faint, only made prominent by the smell of the cake itself, and it doesn’t eat at his taste buds in the way that harsh citrus usually does. Hardly ever does Levi get the chance to taste vanilla, as it’s far too expensive for him to excuse as being a reasonable purchase, but its presence here is welcome as the sweet cream dissolves in his mouth. The mint, which he’d expected to taste like his toothpaste, leaves only a small twinkle dancing on the tip of his tongue.

Yet another reason to go to that bakery—to give his compliments to the baker, whomever they may be.

Though he wouldn’t dare dream of taking advantage of the ticket, maybe he’ll look around, see if there’s anything he’d like to treat himself to. Seldom ever does he have the will to do such, but whatever magic touch this baker has… Levi has to at least try something else of theirs.

With summer having long since passed in the year, it’s been a while since he’d felt so… refreshed, even if just by taking a single bite of this cake. So eager to take another bite, to feel the soft cushion of sponge cake against the roof of his mouth.

Gabi and Falco are both quick to continue digging into their pieces, eating quietly as to not disrupt the quiet that Levi typically prefers during mealtime, so they don’t take notice, but Levi sits with the spoon in his mouth for a long while, waiting for the flavors in his mouth to stop prompting joy in his heart.

They don’t, and Levi only has himself to force open his mouth and pick up another morsel of the dessert.

After everyone finishes their helping of cake and Levi listens to Gabi and Falco regale their past days spent together, both his stomach and his heart are full, and he sends them home with their own pieces of cake to bring back for their other loved ones, as Levi knows that he wouldn’t be able to finish it all on his own anyway. They’re reluctant to go, not wanting to leave Levi by himself on his birthday, but after he insists that they’ve done more than enough for him by spending the sunniest parts of the day with him (and that he’s too old to be taking up their youth), they’re happy as can be, and the two skip off to go bother whomever else their hearts desire.

With his house now empty apart from himself, he goes looking for his winter coat, preparing himself for the decently long trek over to the bakery to return the ticket. It doesn’t take long for him to find it and get it onto his frame, and after taking a pair of fingerless gloves hanging from the wall near the door, he’s ready to go. He checks that he still has that ticket in his pants pocket, and when he feels the rough texture of the fibers, he knows it’s there.

As Levi wheels himself down from the elevated foundation his house sits on top of, he looks upwards towards the sky, and when it’s as beautiful as he’s come to accept he’ll never be able to fathom, he wonders if his birthday wish could be granted. 

Was it a waste to wish for something as impossible as peace? To yearn for something he’s never known, even in his dreams? To ask for a life that’s more beautiful than what he can see with his own eyes?

It’s been so long since he’d had to even consider the mere notion of an act like that—perhaps dating back to when his mother would sneak rolls of bread for him and tell him to wish on the singular red-hot coal she’d stolen from the brothel’s kitchenette. Even when he did celebrate his birthday in his years with Furlan and Isabel, and later in his years with Hange and Erwin, he’d never been pressed to want more than what was there.

Maybe he’ll figure it all out someday.

Maybe he’ll suddenly come to know, and, at that point, he��ll only have to reflect to see the beauty that’s become of his life.

Maybe he won’t, and that’d be okay too. It’s not like he knows anything but what he’s lived through, thus far.

But, right now, that’s not what’s important.

What’s important is that he finds this bakery, and he returns this ticket to the woman who was so kind as to wrap his things with ribbon, even if she didn’t do it for him intentionally.

Maybe, then, he’ll have the headspace to know if dreams, just like his to see the clear sky, can come true.

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

By the time Levi reaches this bakery at the corner, the sun has fallen halfway to the horizon, and he can only barely see it above the tallest building in this part of the city. He’d have gotten here much faster if he’d asked someone for a ride by car, but he didn’t think it necessary with how unimportant this errand actually is.

But, because he has truly nothing else of importance he needs to attend to, this is what’s most important to him right now.

No matter, because he’s here already, and though he’d thought the complete opposite would be true, this place is… quite quiet.

Perhaps it’s the weather, or perhaps it’s the time of day, but there’s hardly anyone here, as Levi can only see a handful of people through the large, barely-fogged out glass windows. With how good just that single piece of cake was, Levi had thought it’d be packed.

On the contrary, there’s no line, no hurry, no rush.

When Levi’d been more young and naïve and stupid, he had dreams of opening a tea shop. Something just like this, with huge windows and enough sunlight to read the morning paper from a register that’s spilling over with receipts and drink orders. Even though he’s impartial to people themselves, he’d imagine that, if he had the chance to be anything but who he’s been at every stage of his life, he’d be talented enough with his craft that there’d always be a line out the door, an abundance of people to appreciate what he’d have to offer them.

Maybe that’s why his heart drops, seeing how empty this place looks.

The door stays propped open with a large potted plant, unusually healthy and green for such cold weather, so Levi doesn’t have to fuss around with finding a way to get inside with his wheelchair. He gets inside easily enough, only just barely struggling not to crash into the plant or get any of its leaves caught on the wheels. Now, without the faint fog to cover its interior, he sees all sorts of plants and decorative teaware lined up on a shelf perched against the side wall of the bakery, definitively marking the space as some sort of garden.

No one pays any mind to Levi as he looks around, them all occupied by their own objects of affection, and Levi finds himself going over to a large display case, near empty and only filled with a few stray pastries, of which they all look appetizing and worthy of the money he’d brought along with him in case he’d wanted to buy anything to bring home.

He decides that he’ll get everything that’s left, as he feels compelled to support a business such as this, so undeserving of its low-traffic patronage. It’s only a handful of things; he knows he has enough to afford them all.

At the back wall, he sees that there’s some sort of drinks menu, but that hardly is of any importance to Levi, so he ignores any of its writing and downturns his eyes, going back to imagining how to make use of all the sweets he’s about to bring home with him.

The ship is returning tomorrow. Maybe he can round up those brats he used to call his soldiers, and they can run their mouths about whatever political business they’ve found themselves entangled in (or, more likely, about whatever memories return to them upon visiting the island they’d once called home).

He gently lifts himself up from his wheelchair, trying to peer over to where the front display meets the back kitchen, when he catches sight of a flash of pale yellow, rushing between what seems to be opposite sides of a room he isn’t in. Whoever it is, they turn back and look from over the door frame, and Levi finds himself locking eyes with the stranger, her own eyes blinking in surprise in reaction to his steeled gaze.

She then rushes off to put something down, and she emerges from the back room, a bright smile on her face as she waves at him, meeting him from through the display case.

She’s wearing a pale yellow apron over a plain, long-sleeve white dress, her hair tied away from her face with a ribbon that’s the same shade of white as what’d been used to wrap the gifts the kids had brought him, only hers is thicker and seemingly made of a satin material. 

She looks to be about his age, if not only a few years younger, her smile lines and the faint crow’s feet at her eyes being the only signs of aging and a life well-lived. They add a lot of character to her face—her features show love, romance, in a way that’d ordinarily only be made visible through the soul.

Still, her youth is undeniable. Her mannerisms are endearing in the same manner that the sun is bright—unfathomable, unrelenting, without shame.

She’s… beautiful.

Definitively so, with the slight tilt of her head as she greets him, taking his breath away in tandem with his sanity.

“Hello, sir! What can I get for you today?”

Peeling his eyes away from her, he clears his throat, feeling an unusual pause for a second before regaining his composure. “Could I have everything in the display case?”

Her eyes widen, and she blinks. “Are you sure?”

He nods.

“Really?”

He nods again.

She smiles once more, the shine overwhelming even through the frosted glass which separates them, and she crouches down to gather a box, similar to the one that’d kept his cake earlier. She uses steady hands to grab the sweets with tongs, and she motions Levi over to the register once she’s gotten everything in the box.

She reads the total amount to him without needing to input anything on the register, letting on that she’s knowledgeable enough about the price of all the stock in the bakery, and she pulls out a spool of ribbon and a pair of scissors from underneath the counter. Levi hears the quiet snip of scissors as he gathers the money from his coat pocket, and he watches as she laces the ribbon through the openings of the box.

She puts away her ribbon in exchange for a small roll of tape, and when she sees that Levi has already set all the money on the counter between them, she nervously smiles. “Thank you! I’m sorry, just give me one more second.” She focuses her attention downwards again, placing the tape in various spots to keep the box sealed, and she holds it out for Levi to take when she’s finished.

He does, and he places it on his lap, careful to make sure that it’s level and won’t fall off.

She takes the money he set down, and she counts it to herself quietly before inputting something into the register, placing the money inside, and outstretching a silver coin in change to him. “Have a good rest of your day!”

He nods, taking the change, but just as he’s about to leave, he remembers that he has that ticket in his pocket, and before the woman can leave for the kitchen again, he takes it out and sets it on the counter. “I don’t need this.”

She hums in confusion as she looks down at it, then her eyes flicker up towards him. “I don’t recall ever seeing you before, where did you get this?”

“My kids said someone gave it to them as an apology for not having a specific flavor.”

She lights up. “Oh, those two! About this tall?” She motions, showing how tall they are relative to her own height. Levi nods. “They were here in the morning to buy a birthday cake. How’d you like it?”

“It was good,” he says gently. “And thank you for wrapping up their gifts for me.”

“Of course! They’re incredibly sweet, you and your wife must’ve raised them well.”

Levi splutters, and, in surprise, he nearly drops the box from his lap. “They’re not my kids in that manner, I just look out for them when I can.”

She giggles, shaking her head. “Well, no matter, if you have this ticket, you might as well use it, right?”

“It’s alright, I don’t need it.”

“I’m insisting, then.”

“Isn’t your boss going to be upset with you for giving away stock?”

She hums, shaking her head. “I own the place, so I wouldn’t say so.”

Levi frowns. “Can you even afford to give things away for free?”

She laughs, this time without qualm, and she looks off and out the window, scratching at her cheek with her pointer finger. “I guess it does look pretty empty today, huh? I’d sold out of most of today’s inventory in the morning, so if you’re worried about my business, don’t be.”

That’s certainly a relief.

“Besides, I rarely ever hand these out, so it’s alright. And today’s a special occasion!”

“What’re you talking about?”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Levi muses, kissing his teeth.

“Just think of it as another gift, then.”

“I still don’t feel right accepting anything for free. Besides,” Levi eyes flicker back to the now-empty display. “There’s nothing else to take.”

The woman turns around, leaning back against the counter to be further eye-level with Levi as she points to the written menu up-top in front of them. “You could have some tea! I’d like to think I’m pretty good at brewing a cup.”

As eager as you sound, that offer doesn’t sound enticing to him at all. He has no doubt that it probably tastes fine, but he has no intention of trying any new tea right now. Possibly ever. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

She picks up the ticket and looks, again, between it and Levi. “Well, I can’t force you, but now that I know it’s your birthday, I can’t just let you go home without something special for yourself.”

“Who said all these aren’t?”

She rolls her eyes. “I know they aren’t.”

Levi deadpans. “And you know this, how?”

She hums, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the counter. “You seem like the type to save the best bite for last, but that just means you appreciate your food. You’ll probably invite some friends over and only eat what’s left after everyone picks what they want, right?”

When Levi doesn’t reply, instead only briefly looking down into his lap, she laughs again, standing straight up again.

“Got you, didn’t I?” She teases, winking playfully. “Take a seat at one of the tables, I’ll bring you something from the back.”

“Wait-”

Before he can tell her that he had only planned to come and go, she skips off to the back, and Levi can only watch as the ribbon in her hair trails behind her and leaves behind a white blur.

Well, he guesses he’s stuck here now. He’d feel even worse if he just left, and that poor woman came out and couldn’t find him.

He supposes he was right to think she was both exceptionally foolish, and, more-so, painfully kind.

Levi sighs, and he looks over his shoulder to assess the tables. There’s one at the corner of the room, away from the few patrons here, and he makes his way there. He passes by the shelf of greens and ceramics to get there, and he gets struck by a strong smell of… freshness.

Just like he was when he’d had his cake earlier.

He puts his box on the table and moves himself from his wheelchair to the plush of the seat provided, and he sighs at the change of cushion on his thighs. He takes off his gloves and leans his head on a propped-up left hand, breathing warm and slow to watch the cold air cloud with a slight gale. He faces the window as he waits, watching as people covered up for the winter walk past the bakery, and he pulls his coat tighter as he feels the cold wind as it blows in through the open door.

The baker comes back to the table before he can think too harshly about anything in particular, and with her, she carries a tray with a small packaged sweet and a steaming cup of tea. She places it in front of him, careful not to spill anything, and she smiles down at him.

“Happy birthday! It’s on the house!”

“Thank you,” he replies, awkwardly nodding, and he waits for her to be safely faraway enough from him before he stares down at the tray, watching as the warmth of the tea bleeds up into the air.

Through the clear top of the package, Levi sees a slice of cake, with speckled vanilla cream and berries strewn about. On the side of the package, tied with ribbon, is a small plastic fork. He lifts the slice up, and as he saw earlier with the tea she’d wrapped, there’s a small ribbon hanging from the bottom too.

Next to the teacup, there’s a smaller dish of sugar cubes, as well as two small pitchers of cream and honey. Even more captivating, there’s a small sprig of what looks to be mint. The point where the small stem has been split off looks wet, as if it’s just been plucked from its shrub.

She must’ve broken it off on her way to his table.

He has no intention of drinking the tea, nor doing anything with the additions she’s brought him, so he carefully lifts up the cake slice and pushes away the tray.

Better to leave it noticeably untouched. Maybe she can drink it herself when she returns to clear his table after he leaves.

He peels away the ribbon at the side to get his fork, then at the one on the bottom, and the box unfolds into a sort of plate where the cat sits neatly at the center. A blueberry nearly rolls away and off the surface, but he manages to stop it with the edge of his fork.

He sets the berry back on top of the slice, atop the dollop of cream at the cake’s edge, and he cuts away a piece to pick up with his fork.

Once more, his mouth is greeted with a symphony of flavors, none too familiar to him.

He can’t be bothered to even try to make sense of the way this new sensation feels. It’s divine in a way he doesn’t know how to describe, and his rational mind gives way for his mouth to blindly enjoy the sugar and spice that’s in front of him. Around him, people slowly leave, himself being the last person lost in this cold paradise as he savors the baked good brought to him, but at least he has the shared, lonesome company of the baker running this shop.

She had come out from the kitchen a few times to clean tables and bring dishes to the back, but for the most part, she’d left him alone entirely. He didn’t think anything ill of that—he’d just assumed she was busy taking care of things for the following day’s opening, or whatever else it is that bakers have to handle at the tail end of their day.

Once Levi finishes his cake and gathers his things on his lap, she emerges from the kitchen once more, sending him a smile before going over to flip the bakery’s open sign and move the plant keeping the door open. 

He wheels himself over to the trashcan near the door, tossing in the remnants of the cardboard he’d just eaten off of, and he meets her gaze halfway as he goes to leave.

“Thank you, again. For the cake.”

“Don’t mention it,” she muses, going over to hold the door open for him to leave.  “I need to close up now, but come again sometime, yeah? I’m open from Tuesday to Friday!”

He nods halfheartedly, and she smiles as she tilts her head towards the direction of the street. He leaves, needing to be careful as to not bump into her hair ribbon as he passes through the door, and he’s off to find home again. The sun, now, is nearer to the horizon, but he knows he’ll have enough time to make it back to the house before dark.

Before he can get too far, though, he hears the bell of the bakery doors reopening abruptly.

“Wait! I didn’t catch your name!” The baker calls after him.

From across the street, he looks over his shoulder and at her, her hair blowing alongside the zephyr. Her hair’s white ribbon flies higher, as its light weight makes it catch wind more steadily, and her cheeks turn pink with the nipping cold.

“Capta-,” he hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek.

Even after all these years, he’s never fully been able to forget his formal introduction.

Maybe he was right to think it wasted to wish for a life simpler than what he’s been given.

“It’s Levi,” he says a bit louder, hoping the wind will carry his name to her.

“Levi?”

He nods.

She then smiles, and she waves at him sweetly, her other hand keeps her hair from blocking her vision. “Happy birthday again, Levi!”

He brings up his hand to wave back to her in polite gratitude, and her grin becomes ever-brighter at the returned gesture. 

As he turns away from her and she retreats back to the bakery, he realizes that even with the sun now hiding between the concrete of buildings seemingly taller than the skies themselves, she was so like the sun. So blindingly-so, that he’d forgotten to ask her name in return.

Goddamn it.

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

It’s not too long before Levi returns to the quaint little bakery at the corner near the market.

Once the new year has begun and he’s needed to go stock up on more supplies for his garden, he’s back in that part of town, and after he’s exhausted himself by looking for new gardening gloves and new nails to repair a broken section of the trellis, he’s found himself back here again, looking through the display glass at various cakes and sweets, much more fully-stocked than the last time he was here, and through gentle breeze at the baker who’s currently giving a high-five to the kid in front of him in line.

As Levi waits his turn, he looks through the array of desserts carefully before he decides on a slice of black forest cherry cake. He hasn’t got any clue what that’s meant to taste like, but he doesn’t think he could be let down by anything from this place. Because he has plans at the house later with Onyankopon, Gabi, and Falco to start working on getting the dirt ready for the spring planting, he’ll bring them all back something too.

When it’s his time to get to the baker, her eyes light up at the sight of the man, now dressed slightly warmer with the now-present hot sunrise. She herself is still in that same yellow apron, but she’s now dressed in a long skirt and a frilly blouse.

“Welcome back, Levi!”

“Good morning,” he greets softly.

Still in her hair is her signature white ribbon, and she rests her head on her arms atop the display case as she follows along where Levi’s eyes go. “What would you like today?”

“Could I get a slice of black forest cherry?”

She points to it from above. “This one?”

Levi nods.

The baker hums to herself as she slides open the backside of the display, the pair of tongs in her hands hovering over the assortment of slices before remaining still above the flavor he’s asked for. She squints as she looks at all of them before choosing one awkwardly in the middle of all the others, and she takes an unfolded package box from underneath the counter to put it into.

“Anything else for you? Did you want to buy out the entire display again?” She teases, a playful smile decorating her features.

Levi feels a faint flutter in his heart with her exuberance, but he ignores it and clears his throat, looking through the glass again. “Not today.”

She laughs. “I’ll look forward to when you will, then.”

“Do you have any suggestions? I’m having people over at my house later today.”

She hums, clicking the claws of her tongs together a few times as she crouches down and looks at everything. She accidentally makes eye contact with Levi through the glass here, and she smiles sweetly at him before going back to looking. Her eyes are downcast, blocked by her long eyelashes, yet they still trace sunlight as they move across the sweets on display.

“How about an orange sugar cake?” She suggests, eyes flitting up to meet his. “I think they’re in season right now, they were pretty cheap at the market when I went yesterday.”

They are. Jean had brought over a potted orange treeling just the other day.

“Sounds good,” he says.

She gently tugs on the cakeboard of a pale orange cake, dusted with powdered sugar and decorated with thyme, before pulling it completely off the display and over to the counter, getting a second box that’s much bigger and without cellophane top.

She motions him over to the register, and she goes through the same remembered motions that Levi remembers her making from the last time he’d watched her wrap up his things.

As she pulls out her scissors and ribbon, she tells him the total of the numbers he’d already read on the cakes’ accompanying price tags, and Levi reaches into his coat pocket for the wallet that Onyankopon had gifted him for his birthday (him and the rest of the 104th ended up hosting a birthday party for him when they’d all returned from the Island, those fucking bastards).

“So, what brings you here today?” She asks.

Levi opens up his wallet, careful not to spill anything from his lap as he tries to gather up all the bills he needs. “Passing through to run errands. I figured I’d stop by.”

“Do you live far from here?”

“A fair bit away, but I’ve managed.”

“Well,” the sound of a snip of her scissors, “I’m glad to see you back! I was worried I’d scared you off a bit,” she jokes.

He raises a brow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

At his usage of profanity, she giggles, amused. “I don’t know, I came off pretty strong when you were here. Sorry about that.”

That much might be true, but it’s not something that’d scare him anyway.

“No need to be sorry. You didn’t scare me.”

“That’s a relief,” she muses. reaching for a roll of tape. “Are you eating your slice here, or will you be taking that home?”

Looking over at the window, he sees too many people moving about. He’ll stay here to avoid the foot-traffic. “I’ll have it here.”

She hums in acknowledgement, and after a few snips, she continues. “No tea again?”

Levi lies through his teeth. “Not much of a tea drinker.”

She pauses to look at him briefly, but then goes back to lacing the ribbon through the folds of the box. “Right.”

. . .

“Do you garden?”

Levi blinks. “What?”

“Your gloves,” she says, pointing with her scissors at the new pair sitting on his lap. “I have the same ones.”

“Oh. Yes, I do.” His hands, already gloved to protect his palms from the grime of the street he wheels through, go to touch the newly bought gloves. He hadn’t ever gotten these specific ones before, but he hopes they’ll be alright.

“They’re a good brand, I like them a lot.”

“Never used these before, I hope they’re good,” Levi says, eyes following her swift hands as they cut tape. “None of them ever feel right.”

“Why do you say that?”

Well, it's kind of hard for gloves to feel comfortable when he’s missing two of his fingers.

The extra unused fabric just awkwardly hangs downwards as he works in the fields of his backyard, and even though he’s found that tucking them inside-out makes them less of a hassle, they still feel disgusting against the skin of the back of his right hand, so he usually prefers the inconvenience. He goes through his gloves quickly, though, as the overhanging pieces tend to get caught and tear on tools and trellis.

“They just don’t.”

Levi puts the money on the table, and he puts away his wallet as the baker counts it out and puts it into the register.  She hands him back his change, but before Levi can get to trying to figure out how to fit all this and his other items from the market on his lap, she pulls back the boxes closer to herself and picks them up.

When he looks up at her quizzically, she just smiles softly and tilts her head towards the tables. “Gonna show me where you want to sit, or do you want me to choose for you?”

He feels his ears flush red as he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything stupid, and he looks away from her.

He clicks his tongue to feign indifference, and he brings himself over to that same, unoccupied table at the corner of the room. The baker follows closely behind him, and she places the boxes on the table for him. She excuses herself quickly to go fetch him a fork, as she hadn’t taped one onto the side of his smaller slice box.

Levi pulls the packaged cake slice closer to himself, and he pulls gently on the ribbon underneath to undo the tape and unravel the box, just as he did when he was here on his birthday.

The baker returns, with a fork in hand, and she sets it down carefully on a napkin she’d taken out from her apron pocket. “Enjoy, Levi! Let me know when you’re leaving, so I can help get your cake ready for transport.”

“What?” He blinks.

“You can’t just carry a cake in your lap all the way home, can you?”

He hadn’t thought it’d be much of an inconvenience, but she’s probably right. Getting to and from this part of town is difficult enough as a person with mobility issues, and trying to balance an entire cake on his lap without his hands sounds even more hellish. 

“Alright, I’ll let you know, then.”

“Perfect! I’ll see you in a bit!” Right after she turns on her heel, though, she pauses and looks over her shoulder at him, and she turns around. “Actually…”

“What?”

She stretches out her hand to him, her palm-up. “Could I have your gardening gloves for a bit?”

He’s… confused.

“What do you mean, ‘can you have my gardening gloves?’ You said you had your own pair.”

She only smiles, the ribbon in her hair bouncing slightly as her spirit tries to convince him to believe her. “I promise, I’ll give them back to you.”

Well, he has nothing to lose here anyway. If she doesn’t give him back his gloves, he can just go over to the market and buy another pair, or just cut his losses entirely and accept that gardening gloves aren’t worth jack shit.

And, for whatever reason, he feels like he can trust her.

Whether or not he wants to think further about that, entirely up in the air, but for the time being, he picks up the gloves from his lap and hands them to the unnamed baker, who then excuses herself with another smile and leaves for the back part of the bakery.

What a strange woman.

He picks up the fork she’d brought back for him and starts digging into the cake, already knowing to prepare himself for the harmonious musings of flavors he’s about to take in, and he beams to himself when he’s finally got the cake in his mouth.

He’d expected as much, but he’s still going to be surprised anyway.

When he’s finished with the piece of cake, the small lace doily completely free of any residual crumbs, he cranes his head to look towards the kitchen where the baker had disappeared, hoping that she’ll meet his gaze halfway and just come out to help him as promised (and bring back his gloves, but honestly, he has no fucking clue what she’s doing with them, so maybe she doesn’t need to do that).

Lo and behold, as she’s crossing through the space visible from the front of the house, she looks out towards him, and when her eyes lock with his, she pauses, rushes back from the direction she came from, and skips over to Levi, gloves in her hand as well as a decently large cloth bag.

“You about ready to leave now?”

Levi nods.

The baker smiles as she holds out the gloves out to Levi, prompting him to take them back. “Try these on, okay? I’ll get your cake hooked up onto your chair, and you can be on your way.”

She picks up the larger box of orange sugar cake and places it carefully into the cloth bag she’s brought from the kitchen, and she disappears behind Levi to start attaching things to the back of his wheelchair. Levi cranes his neck to try and watch as she works behind him, but because he really can’t see anything even when his entire upper body stretches and turns, he resolves to just do as he’s told and try on his gloves.

He sighs as he lays them both out on the table to see which goes on which hand, but as his eyes regain focus under the morning sun, he’s surprised to see that the right side’s pointer and middle fingers are… gone?

He swears he had gotten gloves that were annoyingly both five-fingered.

He remembers having grimaced as he went to pay for them, knowing that he’d have to go back and try another brand at some point in the future when these would inevitably annoy the shit out of him. Onyankopon would try to cheer him up, the kids would make another joke about how he’s had to spend more money on gloves than on actual gardening supplies, and the cycle would repeat itself until Levi’s too old and brittle to keep tending to the fields.

He holds the glove up to his face, looking closer at the seam where the fabric should be, but he only finds a neatly stitched line which connects the panels of the palm and back of a hand.

It’s stitched in the same pale yellow thread as her apron.

“Did you…”

She laughs from behind him, and he hears a faint rustling of ribbon along with the sound. “Did I what?”

“Nevermind,” he utters softly, and using his left hand, he pulls off his right fingerless glove, picks up the gardening glove again, and tugs it onto his hand.

He closes his fist.

Opens it.

And closes it again.

The gentle compress of the thick fabric feels nice against his knuckles, as opposed to the loose feeling of air he was used to feeling there, of which would both irritate and overwhelm his senses.

“Okay, I’m done!”

Looking back again, he sees that the baker has now stood up, and there’s now a ribbon tied between both handles of his wheelchair, ornately kept together with knots he doesn’t know how to undo. The ribbons are interlaced with the handles of the cloth bag, and it seems to provide extra support for the cake to keep it from rocking about as Levi travels.

She points to the end of a piece of ribbon at the left handle. “Pull on that piece to untie everything, just be careful taking it off your chair because the bag isn’t the strongest without the ribbon to support it.”

Levi’s heart flutters at the gesture, but there’s a quiet sinking which keeps him from being as appreciative as he wants to be.

“Did you get that?” She asks, waving a hand in front of his face.

He blinks, and he dumbly nods. “Yeah, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says.

Before he can stop the words from spilling over, they come out. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

The baker looks at him with confused eyes. “What, do you think you aren’t worth it?”

Yes.

“No.”

She smiles warmly and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s really not any trouble, Levi. I’m more than happy to help out.”

The bell from the door of the bakery rings, alerting her of another customer coming into the building, and she sheepishly smooths out the front of her apron before excusing herself to attend to them.

Again, before he can stop himself, his right hand, still gloved in the dense fabric of the gardening material, reaches out to gently hold onto her wrist.

She looks down at him, seemingly and entirely unbothered by his touch, and she doesn’t move away from his grasp. “Do you need anything?”

Levi’s heart gets caught in his throat, but he manages to speak once more. “Could I ask for your name?”

The question feels fiercely intimate, just as it did when she’d asked for his name, but, here, it feels like such a far leap.

And, yet, she still smiles at him, and she moves her hand so that she’s able to squeeze his palm gently.

When she speaks her name— your name—to him, he catches a peek of sunshine from the corner of his eye, caught on the reflection of the bell.

And he wonders if this is how the sea feels when it meets the sky.

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

“You’re a lot faster than you usually are, Levi,” Onyankopon comments, passing by him on his way back to the house. “Something motivating you today?”

Levi shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

The taller man smiles good-naturedly and hoists up the shovel held over his shoulder. “Well, whatever it is, you’ve been working long enough, so you should come inside with us to have some of that cake you brought back with you. It’s gonna get dark soon.”

Levi sighs, taking the small towel draped over his shoulder to wipe at the sweat that’s built on his forehead. “Yeah, sure.”

Onyankopon picks up Levi’s cane from the ground and hands it to him, the latter thanking him for the help. As Levi reaches for it, Onyankopon takes notice of the gloves Levi’s wearing.

“New gloves?”

At the mention of them, Levi looks down, and he finds himself having to push away the flicker of sunbeam that replays in his mind.

Levi nods, and he slings his towel back onto his shoulder.

“Something like that.”

The next time he sees you, he really ought to thank you again.

It seems this year will have an even better harvest.

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

The next time he comes to the bakery is in another month’s time, just as winter begins to fade into the very early beginnings of spring.

Mikasa’s birthday is tomorrow, and it’s about that time of year that she routinely asks Levi to join her at the beach to mull over life’s happenings. Even worse, Eren’s birthday is just over the horizon, and that’s a tough time for everyone, but for her especially.

Because he knows that it’s hard for Mikasa to even bring herself to eat during these times, her mouth only opening to speak from the heart and weep for love’s past, Levi figures that bringing something sweet for her to pick at as she watches the sun fall is enough gesture to tell her that he wants her to take care of yourself, so that’s why he’s made the trip over here.

It’s also Falco’s birthday tomorrow, and Levi feels so inclined to get the brat a cake to celebrate another year of living. He’s been asking for something new to try from the bakery, anyway, so Levi might as well indulge the kid and let him and Gabi both bounce off the walls with energy.

While he’s here, he may as well extend his gratitude to you, too.

He doesn’t think he’ll need to buy any new pairs of gardening gloves soon.

When he comes through the opened door, there’s a long line, and Levi sighs.

With all these people, he’s bound to only have limited conversation with you, and even though he still doesn’t think himself deserving of the compassion which is extended alongside your time, he’d looked forward to it during the travel over.

He gets in the line, and as it moves fairly slowly, he watches as the display case becomes increasingly emptied. It feels like forever before he’s finally at the front, but once he’s there, he finds it all worth it to see the way your face shines when you see him, warmth radiating from you in spite of the gentle early spring wind.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while!”

He lets the very corners of his mouth upturn slightly, your aura too bright to even be dampened by Levi’s everpresent somber.

“Good afternoon to you, too.”

“Sorry about the wait, what can I get for you today?”

For Mikasa, “Do you have any strawberry cakes left?”

You nod, already starting to reach for one. “How’s this one?”

“That’ll do just fine,” Levi says. And for Falco, “Could I also get a cheesecake, if you have any?”

“You got it!”

“...And could you write Happy Birthday on both of them?”

You hum in confirmation, and while you get to doing that, already knowing to meet you at the counter to pay, Levi pushes himself forward and begins to take out his bills, eyes occasionally flitting upwards to watch as you tape together the box and lace ribbon throughout. Just as you’re finished packaging up everything, you take his money, bill out the change, and Levi’s now awkwardly looking between the boxes and his own lap.

“Hey, Levi,” you call to him, putting away your packing tools underneath the counter. “If you wait over by your usual table, I can get these on your chair in a few minutes. Let me just take care of this line first.”

His eyes widen. “It’s fine, you don’t have to-”

“Are you in a hurry out?” You ask.

No.

“Yes.”

Your face drops slightly, but you still keep the light expression on your features. “Oh, well, alright. Let me go grab a crate, then, that might be easier to manage than just holding onto these.”

You disappear into the back, and you return just as quickly as you’d left, a decently large crate in your hands. You put that on the table while you lower the cakes into it, and after slotting some ribbon through the panels of the wooden crate to keep the cakes from moving too much in transport and taping a few more things together, Levi’s on his way out the door with two birthday cakes secured on his lap, and you’re back to tending to customers with a bright smile, moving your hands as you speak. 

Maybe he’s better off not thanking you again. You don’t have the time to be talking to someone like him, especially right now while you tend to other patrons, and even at his grown age, Levi feels too awkward to try and find a way to cooly express gratitude for an action taking place an entire month ago.

As he watches for the leaves on the plant holding the bakery door open, a little pink slip catches his eye from the inner wall facing him of the crate, a short stream of ribbon underneath the tape that holds it in place. He raises a brow, and he wheels himself to a stop just outside the large windows of the building to look at it more closely.

Good for one free item!

Levi looks at you from through the glass, catching your gaze already on him and waiting for his reaction, and he points at the ticket taped to his crate. You sweetly wave at him, but when Levi starts to turn his wheelchair around to try and return it, you frantically wave your hands out in front of you to tell him to just keep it.

And, well.

Considering the fact that he does eventually want to return, this is a good enough excuse to.

He wonders if that’s also what you want, and he can’t help but feel like, maybe, it is; because after he turns to go back on his way home, he can practically feel the warmth of your smile from the sun itself, even when there is an incessant, unrelenting voice at the back of his mind telling him that he’s not allowed to be happy like this.

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

Not even a week later, in the middle of February, Levi is back in the bakery.

The sun is starting to still in the sky for a bit longer than it has been for the past several months, and that means that there’s soon to be many more insects crawling around, of which try to eat at the leaves of the plants Levi tends to in the fields. He’d came to the market with the excuse that he needs to buy insecticide spray that the kids always beg to use (and, no, they aren’t allowed to use it anymore because Levi knows they’ll get so carried away with watching the dispensed mist that they won’t properly use it, and lord knows the tomato plants have suffered enough).

With the pink ticket in the silk of his pants pocket, he comes in through the propped-open door, and he greets you with a wave when he catches your eye from behind the counter.

Thankfully, there’s not too much of a line right now, so maybe you’ll indulge him and keep him company for a bit.

“Good morning,” you greet, meeting him at the display, a bright smile on your face. “What brings you here today? Another birthday?”

“Not today, just stopping by to use that ticket you gave me.” He tears his eyes away from you to look at the assortment of slices available. “Are you busy right now?”

“Not really,” you muse. “Why, do you want company while you eat?”

Levi freezes.

. . .

Is it that obvious?

You laugh, resting your head on the glass top of the display case. “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”

Right.

“I’ll have a slice of the raspberry cake.”

“Sure thing!”

You hum to yourself as you pick out the prettiest piece for him, and Levi meets you at the register with the pink ticket. You take it from him, making a bit of a scene by checking its “validity” before laughing and putting it into the pocket of your apron, and you lean forward with your elbows on the counter.

“No tea for you today?” You ask.

“No tea. Sorry.”

“Would you mind, then, if I had some while I sat with you?”

His eyes widen.

“You’re actually…?”

You playfully roll your eyes as you turn to go back to the kitchen, presumably to fetch yourself a cup of tea. “You’re pretty easy to read, you know that?”

No, he didn’t know that.

“Sure.”

“I’ll meet you at your table, don’t wait up for me!”

Levi lets out a nervous breath as he picks up the packaged cake slice, and he wheels himself over to that corner table by the window. Once he’s there and has taken a seat in the plush chair, he undoes the ribbon wrapping on the box, and he peels away the fork from the side to rest it on the table as he waits for you to return.

When you come back, you bring back a tray to his table with two teacups in it, as well as a mint sprig between your fingers. You gently pull out the chair for yourself, and you follow Levi’s gaze out to the window as you take sips from your tea.

He looks down at the other teacup there, accompanied by that same small dish with sugar cubes and two small pitchers of cream and money.

“I’m not drinking that.”

You blow away the steam that wafts from your cup, looking up at him through your eyelashes. “I know, but just in case.”

Levi’s eyes turn to look at you, waiting for you to start talking as he expects you to, but when his gaze meets yours, you only smile at him before going back to looking out the window, a meaningful, yearning look on your face as you watch city life go about itself.

In the end, he does the same, sitting and soaking in sunlight through the glass. Leaves fall from upper canopies right outside, and Levi watches as they hit the ground softly. Some of them fall onto people’s hair and hats, in which case Levi will hear you giggling quietly to yourself at the charming ignorance of a new accessory, and he feels a quiet flame start in his heart when he sees the way the sunbeam brings glow to your bright eyes.

But that’s not really that important.

You do have to get up at times to quickly tend to customers and get tea brewing for those who order it, but it’s hardly even noticeable to Levi when you do leave because of the trance he’s in as he watches the sunglow.

When Levi finishes his cake and you’re finished with your tea, you get up from the table and smooth out of the front of your apron. “It was nice sitting with you, thank you for letting me.”

He looks up at you and nods. “Likewise.”

“I’ll leave you be, but even though I can’t always give you free inventory, I hope you’ll come back,” you tease, a knowing smile on your face.

Against all better judgment telling him that he’s not meant to be living his life like this, “I will.”

The answer seems to surprise you slightly, as you still for a second, but you just laugh and shake your head, leaning your hand on the table as the other goes to take away his trash and the undrunken tea. “I’ll hold you to it, then. See you around, Levi.”

“Bye,” he says softly.

You wave at him as you begin to leave, but there’s a nagging at Levi’s mind to do what he’d wanted to the last time he was here.

Well, no time better than the present.

“And thank you for altering my gloves!” He shouts after you.

At the sound of his voice, you twirl around to meet his eyes halfway, and his heart just about stops as he watches the ribbon in your hair reflect soft lampglow as it follows the spin of your head.

And it actually does when you beam at him, a dusty pink on your cheeks as your smile reaches your eyes. “You’re welcome!”

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

By the time April comes around, it’s practically routine for Levi to come to the bakery every week. 

(He chooses to come on Wednesdays because that’s when it’s the least busy in the week, and he knows you'll be able to sit with him.)

The weather’s been perfect for him to be awake for the entirety of the day, and now that the breeze and temperature have settled enough to afford him a stable harvest without needing much effort on his part, he’s free to do nothing with his time.

Though, he isn’t completely sure if it amounts to “nothing” if he spends his nights either silently sharing grief with Mikasa (and, nowadays, Arlert too) on the sand or turning about in the lounge chair in the corner of his room, trying to find way to bring himself to clear his thoughts to even lay in his bed.

But, he can’t say for sure whether or not it’s worth anything otherwise, so it’s nothing.

Nothing much has changed, anyway, so Levi’s fine with the monotony that follows him around. His weekly visits become intertwined with the routine he’s engaged with in this life, which, then, leads him to spending part of his free time in this little bakery, just barely an hour’s walk away (not that he’s tried to actually walk that distance yet, but the pain in his legs has gradually subsided over the past months, so he’s satisfied enough knowing that he probably could if he wanted to), yet seemingly in a world so different from his.

He sits, watching as the world passes by him in seeming slow motion as he relishes in the serenity of this room. The smell of herbs, freshly picked from the shelf near him, travels alongside sugar and spice, and he’s left to forget that he’s not entirely his own.

In similar manner, it’s practically routine for you to have a cup of tea with Levi with he eats whatever it is that he buys from the display case (or, sometimes you’ll bring out something from the back for him to try—you insist it’s on the house, but he always manages to shove the exact legal tender into your hands anyway).

You also always bring out two cups of tea—one for yourself, one that’s meant for him—but he never drinks from it. It changes every week. Never is the tea the same color as in the previous week, almost as if you’re trying to gauge what it is that he enjoys.

It’s too kind.

He hates it.

And what makes it worse is that you don’t even seem to mind, even though Levi does tell you that he isn’t going to have any, every single time. You wave him off, only to resume sharing the sunlight with him, waiting for your own tea to cool enough to sip.

And he hates that he’s touched by that.

On this particular day, he’s having a slice of apricot cake, you’re having a cup of citrus tea with mint leaves, and there’s that gentle silence that hangs overhead every time this happens.

And whether or not it’s because it’s become so painfully soothing to just sit in silence with you, he doesn’t care to know, but today, by the time he’s finished savoring his piece, there’s a gentle pouring of rain outside.

He’d came much later than usual, as he’d met up with the 104th in the late afternoon to have lunch for Kirstein’s birthday (Kirstein, who’d begged for Levi to stay fully into the evening to join the lot for a night out drinking, but everyone else in their right mind at that luncheon (meaning, everyone but Kirstein and Springer) scolded him for asking that a poor old man like Levi stay out late), so, by now, he knows that even if he were to start heading home right now (in the pouring rain, mind you), it’d be nearing nightfall until he reached his destination.

And, of course, it’s nearing closing time for the bakery, so he’s bound to get kicked out at some point soon.

You excuse yourself after you finish your tea, just as you always do, with a smile and a joke about him coming back the following week, and Levi’s left to awkwardly wait for his mind to come up with a solution to this… relatively minor dilemma, but one nonetheless. The rain only seems to get heavier with each passing second, and his decision to not just brave out the light downpour seems to be hurting him now. Levi’s the only person left in here, everyone else having already left to escape when the rain was light enough to bear without an umbrella.

He supposes that he could find a nearby hostel to stay at for the night. He’s brought his wallet with him, so he’d have enough to get a room for the night, maybe for a hotel if he’s so inconvenienced.

He’s just going to (try to) sleep in the room’s chair, anyway. Doesn’t really matter to him where he spends the night.

When the sun finally falls low enough in the sky to only be seen looking sideways, you come out from the back part of the bakery, go to flip the open sign, and move the potted plant keeping the door open. You wipe your hands, wet with the rain that’d dripped onto the rim of the plant pot, on the front of your apron, and look over at Levi, who feels like a deer caught in headlights.

“...I swear, I’ll be on my way out soon.”

You scrunch your eyebrows. “What’re you talking about? You can’t get home in this rain.”

“It’s not so hard to get a room for the night around here.”

“Sure, but that’s really stupid when you could just stay here.”

He scoffs halfheartedly. “Right, like I could do that.”

When you don’t bite back with another joke, he recoils into himself.

“Right?”

“You’re more than welcome to.”

“Actually?"

You nod, going over to behind the display case to start cleaning. “You’ve been coming here for the last four months, I don’t mind helping out a friend.”

A friend.

You consider him a friend?

His heart feels caught in the downpour, but in the way that it’s swept away without disregard for its intentions.

It doesn’t feel… right.

Is it even fair for him to let himself get entangled like this? To let someone like you , befriend someone like him?

What could he possibly give you?

And, yet, even with the flushing away of his heart, he wishes to find it again, if only to feel the gentle spark he’d felt in it.

“Don’t you need to get home yourself?”

“I live in the apartment upstairs. Not to mention, the nearest place to stay the night is a couple blocks away, I wouldn’t want you to get lost looking for it.”

Oh.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

“...But are you sure?”

You laugh from behind the display, and after having cleared everything from the shelves, you peer at him through the glass. “Yes, Levi, I’m sure.”

Levi balls up his fists in his lap, unsure of what to do.

In the first place, Levi doesn’t enjoy the rain, so walking through it for that long of a distance, especially under this heavy downpour, is entirely out of the question.

Prior to being named Captain, he liked it well enough, and its drip and drop was soothing enough to lull him to a half-sleep even if he was unable to clear his head. He’d experienced his first downpour with both Isabel and Furlan, out in the streets of Mitras scarcely after being coerced into the Survey Corps, so rain was precious to him in the sense that it’d represented what forces had pulled him from his doomed life in the Underground.

But after so many expeditions gone wrong in the rainstorms of Paradis, he’s avoided actually being in it for too long to avoid stirring up painful memories of those times. The splash of rain, the thundering of clouds overhead—they’re the rare pieces of that life that haunt him in this one, even with their objective and sentimental beauty.

But he’d rather that than have to be fussed over by a woman he’s come to enjoy the company of. He couldn’t stand giving the rain yet another moment to ruin.

““I really don’t mean to be an inconvenience, just point me in the direction of the nearest hostel.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Please, don’t worry about being an inconvenience.”

He frowns. “Really, I mean it.”

“I do too.” You get up from your position bent over to clean the display case, stretching your arms upwards.

“Do you seriously trust me not to completely ransack your home?”

“Hm? Where would I get that impression of you? You seem pretty normal to me.”

. . .

That’s right. You didn’t know him in that life.

You know him in this one.

The one he doesn’t feel is his to begin with.

“Nevermind.”

You yawn, and you crouch back down, cleaning cloth in your hand to wipe away condensation on the glass. “Tell you what, I’ll let you help clean the kitchen, and that’ll be worth my ‘trouble’ spent letting you stay the night here. Sound good?”

No.

Yes.

He doesn’t know.

“I’m not an indentured servant, you can’t barter like this.”

You laugh again, the ribbon in your hair bouncing as your body splutters. “Right, I shouldn’t.” Another wipe at the glass. “But, really, Levi. I’d rather you here than out in the rain.”

“You do realize that this means I’d be here the entire night, right?”

“Of course I do, what am I, a fool?”

“Maybe.”

Or, more likely, it’s him that’s the fool.

“Do you need to be somewhere tomorrow?”

For once, he’s honest.

“No.”

“Then what’s the harm in staying?”

Glancing out the window again, he sees that sunlight has nearly disappeared, blocked by both the horizon and the clouds thick in the sky. Looking back and forth between your humming figure and the door, its frame wet with the rain that leaks through the cracks, he realizes that you’re right.

He gets up from the cushioned seat and moves over to his wheelchair, admitting reluctant resolve as he wheels over to you, stopping between the front and back of the house.

He knows he’ll regret this later, when the moon has replaced the star in the sky, and he’s forced to confront the fact that he’s not deserving of this sort of compassion.

But, for reasons unrealized by both him and the gods above, he can’t bring himself to deny the sun, even if he is undeserving of its warmth.

“Where do I start?”

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

Quite surprisingly, the ensuing night is silent.

Levi supposes that he shouldn’t be startled that you don’t talk much; you are still working, to some capacity, and he’s already settled into the fact that you aren’t all that talkative when you’re in his company.

The kitchen is dirtied in fresh flour and dirty dishes—obviously, a mess regardless, but one that doesn’t particular irk Levi, especially considering the fact that you’re the only person who works here—so Levi gets to work on cleaning that, and you’re sat at a table in the front of the house, handling finances and other paper tasks. You have half a sandwich with you at the table, and Levi is given the other.

Thankfully, his legs decide that today isn’t the day to curse him with excruciating pain, so he’s quite quick in getting everything sorted out and cleaned. There’s some things he can’t do, like put away large basins of flour or sugar, but other than a few stray items which only need to be put back in their proper places, the dishes get done, the perishables are put neatly into the fridge, the floor is swept, and kitchen is spic-and-span.

When he finishes, he gets back down in his wheelchair, and he goes to report to you that nearly everything’s done. However, you don’t seem to notice the sound of his wheels as they glide across the tile flooring, seemingly enamored in whatever it is you’re reading while you tap your pen against your lip.

The way you’re sat, one leg bent over the other, face propped up with one hand as eyes follow arcane words on the page, reminds him of how he’d sit at his own desk when he was in the military.

Whatever it is that you’re looking at, you pull your pen away from your lip and sign on a line, then slumping forward and sighing as you turn your head to put it down comfortably.

And, of course, Levi just had to be already looking at you from that position, so when you open your eyes to sit yourself up again, you make eye contact with him through the window of your arm and the ceiling.

Not expecting him to be there, you’re slightly startled, and you immediately straighten your back and sit up. “Oh! Are you finished in the kitchen?”

Levi nods. “I didn’t know where some things were supposed to be kept, so I left them on the counter. Nothing perishable, though.”

“That’s alright. Thank you, Levi,” you yawn and twist your upper body back and forth, holding onto the back of the chair as you turn. “And good timing, I’m about done with bookkeeping, so I’ll head up with you.” You gather together your books and pens and papers, putting them all into a folder, and you motion for Levi to follow you back through the kitchen and through a door which leads to the larger building’s hallways. There’s a set of stairs at the end of the hall, and it seems that’s where you’re leading him.

Levi’s about to comment on the fact that he’s really not sure he’s willing to haul both himself and his wheelchair up an entire flight of stairs, but you stop before you can, and you turn to walk another corner, and the two of you find yourselves in front of an elevator.

You press the button to go up, and you smile down at Levi, your papers tucked underneath your arm. “Sorry I’m not all that talkative after hours, I’m probably not as fun as you thought I was.”

That’s not a problem at all.

“I don’t care.”

When the elevator doors open, you let him on the platform first, and you follow inside to stand beside him and click on the button for the 2nd floor.

You close your eyes on the ascent, and Levi takes this as chance to glance at you from where he is.

Your ribbon sways as you do, humming to yourself as you wait for the elevator to reach the upstairs. There’s a soft smile on your face, flour slightly caught on your nose, and a bit of ink staining the parts of your lip where it’d met pen.

The yellow of your apron is brightened here, white lights of the elevator much more harsh than the natural light of the downstairs bakery. The frills on the edge of its skirt are more starkly defined here, and with the slight movement of your hips, they seem to blow like they’re in the breeze.

In a way, watching you here, he feels the way he feels when the sun starts to go to sleep. 

When the system beeps to tell you that you’ve reached your level, Levi pulls his eyes away from you, and he listens carefully as you yawn once more and tip your head where he’s meant to follow you. 

When you’re at your apartment door, you take out a key from the pocket of your dress, undo the lock, and you hold it open for Levi to come in first. He does, nodding as thanks, and you close it behind you.

“Make yourself at home, I’m going to take a quick shower,” you tell him sweetly, slipping past him to head for the bathroom.

Levi nods, and he takes a second to just comprehend the fact that he’s even here at all.

Looking around, he sees that your apartment is very… you.

In the past four months that Levi’s known you, he’s hardly learned anything personal. Though he’s gradually become more comfortable in your presence, very little words are exchanged apart from poking fun at each other or talking about things more paramount than life itself. All he knows about you, at this singular point in time, is that you’re incessantly kind, wonderfully talented at baking, and hard-working, but that all seems to show up here, in this little capsule you call home.

From what he can see from his view at the entrance, everything is spotlessly clean. On the dining table, there’s a few potted herbs growing from sprouts, and on the counters of the kitchenette adjacent to the door, there’s an array of various teas, one of which is the kind he himself drinks at home, as well as a dish-drying rack latent with measuring cups and utensils.

Further inwards is a couch with a neatly folded blanket and several pillows, all dyed with pale colors of the sky. There’s a coffee table in the center of the living room, the glass seemingly well-loved with faint stains of hot metal and water spots that won’t fade.

And, just outside your window, there’s an assortment of all sorts of plants, strewn and wrapped around the railing of your balcony. That very first time he’d sat and had his cake while you had your tea, those very leaves fell from there and landed like slow on people strolling through the street below, and, underneath the rain, the greenery reflects moonlight onto the pale, wooden floor.

Levi, conscious of the fact that his wheelchair would ruin the floor if he used it to get around, gets up as best he can and walks over to the couch, planting himself in the cushions and staring up at the ceiling.

He breathes slowly, too cautious to make even a sound, and in the distance, he hears the stronger sound of shower water hitting porcelaine. His mind’s hazy as he’s still forced to listen to the falling rain, pitter-pattering just a few feet away from him, and he has to completely abandon his head to give himself way to not think too hard about what the rain carries with it.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, he’s mastered the art of turning minutes into seconds for himself, and he has no meaningful thoughts between the time you’ve started your shower and now returned with a towel draped over your shoulders.

You’re dressed much more casually here, in a loose-fitting shirt and shorts. It’s the first time that he’s seeing you with your hair down, always used to seeing you with a ribbon tying it away from your face.

He already thought you were pretty enough during the daytime, your hair ribbon blowing in the breeze and the thread of your apron matching that of the stitch on his right gardening glove, but even with how muddled his mind is here, his breath is stolen again by the sight of you here, fresh out of the shower, your hair wet and dripping water onto your garments.

He can only be thankful that you seem too nonchalant to pay any mind to him, blindly walking over to the couch from the bathroom. Once you reach him, you hand him a spare towel as you take a seat next to him, pushing your back up against the couch. “I’m so tired,” you yawn once more, stretching out your legs. “Did you want to freshen up before bed?”

He looks down at the towel, rubbing his thumb against the fibers.

Yes.

But he knows he’s already taken advantage enough of you even allowing him to stay the night.

“I’m alright. You should go to bed.”

You hum next to him, joining in his ceiling gazing. In his periphery, he sees you flutter your eyes closed and relax your face, but he refuses to look too hard.

“Is this about you not wanting to be an inconvenience again?”

Yes .

“No.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Is he that easy to read?

Levi gulps. “Really, you can just go to sleep already. I’ll be fine on the couch.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to offer that you take the bed if you weren’t going to shower,” you jest, chuckling next to him. There’s a shift in the weight on the couch as you slowly get up, and when you turn to face him before heading off to your room, there’s a quiet, shy smile on your face, framed perfectly with moonlight. “I’m going to bed, then. You’ll probably see me in the morning, but if you miss me, I’ll see you next week.”

And with that and a wave goodnight, you’re gone, and all that Levi feels is a soft towel underneath the pads of the fingers on his left hand.

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

After several hours of complete silence wherein Levi only stared up at the ceiling, trying to escape his mind as he forces himself to reassess the feeling of the couch fabric against his aching bones, he hears the opening of a door.

More specifically, your bedroom’s door.

That’s odd on its own. The sun isn’t anywhere near out, and he hadn’t heard any stir from your room to assume you’d had a bad dream.

Levi closes his eyes to feign sleep, but he’s (very) apparently bad at it when he feels a faint breeze as you wave your hand in front of his face. His eyes flutter open, and he’s met with the sight of you, hands now behind your back as you tie on your apron over a long dress. You haven’t turned the lights on, so there’s only pale moonglow to light your apartment, yet his eyes trace your features like a moth to a flame.

“What’re you doing up?” He whispers, his voice scratchy.

You raise a brow at him. “More like, why are you up?”

Couldn’t sleep.

“I asked first.”

You hum to yourself, looking between him and the door. “I have to head down to the bakery soon.”

He looks to the clock on the wall. 3:45 AM.

“This early?”

“Yeah, all those sweets don’t make themselves,” you sigh airily, leaving him at the couch to grab your bookkeeping items at the kitchen counter. “I’m used to it, though, so it’s alright.”

“It still sounds like torture.”

“Your turn now.”

He waits until you’re headed for the shoe rack by the door, faced away from him.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

There’s the faint sound of fabric on fabric as you slide on your shoes, then a slight jangling of keys as you go to the hook by the door to put them in your pocket. You open the front door, and you look back at him over your shoulder, smiling sadly for him.

“Want to come with me, then? I can get you something to eat, if you’re just going to be awake anyway.”

When Levi hesitates to answer, you immediately perk up and wave your hands out in front of you.

“You don’t have to, I just thought I’d offer!”

. . .

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

The when I’m who I am is left out of the question, just as it was the last time he’d asked this, but he’s still afraid you’d heard it anyway.

You groan, throwing back your head as you do so. “You’ve already asked this before.”

That’s because he still doesn’t understand.

“Then you can answer it again.”

“Ok, well now you have to come with me,” you sigh. “Come on, old man.”

He frowns halfheartedly, but he starts to pull himself up from the couch, unable to do away with your offer. “Who are you calling old?”

“Gee, I wonder,” you sass, scoffing. “You’re, like, what? A thousand?”

Maybe it’s because you can tell that he’s upset about something, or maybe it’s because he’s so exhausted that he thinks anything that anyone says is funny.

Whichever reason it is, he’s thankful that you’ve got him smiling, even if only in spirit, and that he’s got enough strength to walk over to you, lightly knock the back of your head, and go put on his shoes.

Might as well just tell you now. 

“40.”

“Wow, I knew you were old, but I didn’t think you were that old,” you playfully prod, reorienting his wheelchair so that he can sit in it easier from where he’s already standing. “You certainly don’t look 40, though. Good for you!”

You hold it in place for him, and he rolls his eyes as he sits down. “Yeah, right, and you were born yesterday.”

“If 36 years ago counts as ‘yesterday,’ then, yes, you’d be correct.”

Levi sighs. “Let’s just fucking go.”

You laugh, lighting up the room with sunshine as you shake your head and open the door wider for wider to go through. “Whatever you say, old man.”

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

In the kitchen, Levi’s earnestly caught in a daze as he watches you get everything in order for opening.

It’s calming in its own right, that he gets to watch you do what you love and see the passion with which you move with in your own space. There’s a window just above the sink, and the moon is right there where the sun will rise in a couple hours. 

True to your word, you give him something to eat. You set down a loaf of bread, some butter, and a bowl of fruit in front of him for Levi to have as a makeshift breakfast, and while he chips away at it, cautiously taking bites to be polite even if he isn’t all that hungry, he tries to think of how to ask you how he can help.

He wants to help. He really, really does. If for no other reason, his conscience is screaming at him to try and be of help, to find himself reason to say that this could be his in this life.

But you work quickly—too quickly—and Levi barely understands what’s happening as you pull out basins of all these ingredients he can’t name. Things get put in the oven, back in the freezer, covered in thin cloths. You mumble instructions to yourself as you hold what looks like an inventory card in your left hand, doing things with your right, and all Levi knows to do is watch and try to figure out what’s happening.

In a way, he’s not surprised to see that you’re not as talkative as he’d imagine, all with everything that’s seemingly on your shoulders—having to bake an entire day’s worth of inventory all on your own, taking care of bookkeeping, being swarmed with company all hours of the day.

And even though you don’t ask for anything, only smiling at him when you accidentally make eye contact with him between searching for appliances and ingredients, Levi can’t help but feel like he’s bothering you by being here, burdening you with an unuseful presence.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks, now having finished a decent amount of the bread and butter you’d given him. It tastes divine, even in its simplicity, but he doesn’t have the heart to finish it.

You hum, not looking up as you turn on the culinary scale on the counter and set a large bowl on it. “Nothing I can think of in particular. Antsy to keep your hands busy?”

No, he just doesn’t want to be dead weight.

“Sure.”

You turn your face away from the counter, yawning before looking behind where you’re standing at some labeled glass containers of tea. “Think you could make some tea for me?”

Would he even know how to make anything but the bitter, boring black tea he sips in the nighttime?

He ought to at least give it a try.

“Alright.”

Your eyes scan the containers before your hand reaches out to grab one, and you lean over the countertop on your tippy-toes to push it across to Levi.

He catches it, and he turns the glass around to read the label. White Peony.

Well, he’s fucked.

“There’s a kettle over by the stove,” you tell him, settling back on your feet and walking over to the refrigerator. “Make some for yourself, too, if you want. I have plenty of other blends on the shelf”

He most definitely isn’t going to brew anything for himself, but he appreciates that, even after all this time, you still extend the offer.

He hates the fact that he still can’t accept it, though.

And he hates that you’re still wasting your effort in getting him to.

He wheels himself over to the kettle, remembering where it’d been last night when he was cleaning the kitchen, and he fills it with water from a faucet marked for drinking. Going back to the stove, he places the kettle on the heated rings, and turning the dial, he lights the flame.

He waits, staring at the flame as it licks the underside of the metal, and he follows it upwards as the water steams from the spout and draws wisps in the cold, morning air of this kitchen. The kettle whistles, and he takes it from the heat to keep it from boiling over.

Near where he’d found the kettle, there’s your personal teaware set, composed with a teapot, two cups, and a tea infuser on a tray. He stands briefly to pull it closer to himself, and after lifting the lid to the pot, he opens the container of tea you’d given him, and he holds it over the pot and the infuser.

He hasn’t got any clue of how much you’d need to flavor a pot, so he takes his best guess and puts in about as much as he would at home with the black tea leaves he uses. He tips it into the infuser, careful not to let any dried petals spill, he closes it, and gently drops it to the bottom of the pot.

He pours the hot water from the kettle over the tea, tipping the spout slowly so as to not splash it onto himself, and he puts the lid back on. On the panel above the oven, just right next to the stove, there’s a small clock, so he watches and waits for the five minutes he thinks it’ll take for the tea to finish brewing.

He looks over his shoulder to see you now, shaping buttery dough and placing it onto trays on the countertop, biting your bottom lip in concentration. There’s a swipe of flour on your brow, as well as some that’s caught on your cheek, but you look so focused that he can only assume that you’re unbothered by it.

He clears his throat to get your attention, and the furrow at your brow disappears as you look up at him. “Your tea is ready.”

“Thank you! I’ll be there in a second,” you singsong, smiling at him. “I hate to ask, but could you pour it for me? My hands are a bit preoccupied.”

He nods. “Sure.”

As he moves the teacup closer to him to remove the infuser and pour it, he hears you finish up with the bun and go over to the sink near him to wash your hands, flicking off the excess water before reaching for a paper towel. Levi’s hands are careful to not spill any tea, and when the teacup is filled he slides it closer to where you are.

He watches as you pick it up to take a sip, and he crosses his fingers in his lap that you like it.

. . .

And, because the universe is out to get him, it’s painfully obvious from the sudden downturn of your smile that you don’t.

You pull the teacup from your lips and cough, putting it back on the counter and burying your face into your elbow.

Levi has no idea what to do, the horror of the situation freezing him in place, and all he can do once the initial shock passes is reach for a napkin on the counter to give to you. “Shit, I’m sorry!”

You take it hastily and wipe at your mouth, pulling it away from your face to see if it’s collected any color. You clear your throat aggressively, and you sniffle. “Wow.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you cough again, “it’s just really strong.”

“I’m sorry, I put in as much as I use when I-”

Fuck.

He catches himself in his lie, and he’s grateful that don’t seem to notice his pause.

“When I make it for houseguests.”

You sniffle again, and you slide the teapot to yourself, opening the lid to see the rest of the brew. “Well, you better stop putting so much, or no one’s ever going to come back,” you laugh.

You pick up your cup again, and before Levi can speak up to tell you that he’d be more than happy to try again under your instruction, you take another sip, wincing afterwards.

“Why are you still drinking it?”

You take another sip before taking it with you, going back to the dough and portioning off another piece to start shaping it, your hands delicately handling it as you pat it down on the countertop. “I might as well, right?”

“I can try again, you don’t have to drink it if you’re worried about me being offended. I know it tastes like shit.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “It’s not perfect, but I don’t mind.”

. . .

You don’t?

Surely, you do, and you’re just not telling him.

He can barely stomach the thought of anything but the tea he knows—the one that’s boring, painfully strong, always the same—how could you be fine with yours being brewed so completely wrong?

“Just tell me how to do it properly, and I will.”

“It’s alright, you already went to the trouble. I can tell you put some love in it, too,” you wink, putting another piece onto a baking tray. You split off another portion of dough. “I can always make another cup for myself later, anyway. It’s not a big deal.”

“But, still, if you could just have a better cup now-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, holding up your index finger at him. “ I am the king of this kitchen right now, not you, and what I say goes.”

“But your tea-”

“And I say that this tea is completely fine, so shut up, and come help me put these trays in the oven.”

Levi feels a hiccup bubbling up in his throat, telling him to fight harder to make sure that you’re actually fine with the tea he’d brewed for you in his morning stupor, but with the way you’re looking at him, eyes shining with playful willingness, he forces himself to swallow it and just accept that he can’t force humility onto you.

Fuck.

“Fine.”

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

It takes Levi nearly two cycles of the moon to come back to the bakery, meaning he returns in no more than two month’s time later.

Why he takes so long to return, you might ask?

Well, after having completely made a fool of himself by making your tea incorrectly (and the banter which took place in the thereafter), you and him worked in near silence as you got ready to finish getting ready for the day. It’s with conviction that he says he cannot remember most of it, in a rush as you gave him orders to do miscellaneous things around the kitchen and clean up little, unimportant messes.

That much of the morning was normal enough.

And, truthfully, the rest of it was too.

He’d helped you clean tables in the front, loaded up confectionaries in the display case, watered the potted herbs on the shelf with a small watering can you’d kept underneath an awning that collected rainwater. You’d given him a slice of plain cream cake, and he ate it at the table in the corner as you got to putting the potted plant by the door and finishing up with some things in the kitchen. When he’d left, you’d sent him off with a smile, a wave, and a box of chocolate tarts to bring home for the kids, secured to the back of his wheelchair in a cloth bag with white ribbon keeping it stable, and he’d tried his best to tell you in his own way that he was grateful for you affording him shelter for the evening. 

Of course, he’d been nervous as all hell all throughout, but he was fine.

Everything was fine.

And you’d never force it out of him, but it was the most at peace he’d felt in a long time, even if he did ruin your morning pot of tea.

So, really, it wasn’t anything that had happened that kept him from you.

What’d kept him from coming back was his own conscience, and its insistence that he needs to distance himself from you, for reasons he can’t name other than the nervous feeling which reaches the tips of his fingers when he thinks of you. He’d done a decent enough job at swatting away the feeling before, but it’s been gnawing at him recently in a way that’s too troublesome to ignore.

In that kitchen, with you, the clock had ticked slowly, just as it always did at that time of day, but it wasn’t at all forlorn in the way he’d learned it to be.

4 in the morning, in his world, is when his eyes will burn, and he has to force himself to search the labyrinth of his mind for happy memories to subside those less so. When his chair starts to feel uncomfortably stuffy, and he has to bear the pain until it’s too much. When he has to take a walk around the fields outside to clear his head, and he has to do it all over again when it’s 4 in the morning the next day.

4 in the morning, in your world, is when you fill the bakery with the homely smell of fresh bread, when cakes get decorated and pastries get put together. When your ribbon blows in the swift morning gale which comes through the lone window—when you’re most at peace, and, surprisingly so, when he is too—, and you get to do it all over again when it’s 4 in the morning the next day.

The evening following that time spent with you, when it’d became 4 in the morning, he had thought of you; tying on your apron with warm hands, watching the moon through glass that’s frosted over in cold, morning fog, wiping fingerprint smudges off of windowpane.

It comforted him—the thought that you were awake, too, only doing things that made you happy.

The thought that somewhere, not too far away from the world he resides in, you’re there in your own.

And he feels like he isn’t welcome there—in your world—even at your best protest.

He’s not supposed to be happy at 4 in the morning, for that’s nothing he’s ever known to be at that time of day.

Or at any time of day, really.

In the ensuing mornings, when the clock would click into place at 4:00, it was all he could think about, all he could remember, all he could feel.

And it feels wrong.

He’s supposed to be acting in remembrance—half-alive and fully-awake as he forces himself to remember his lives past lived, gripping the armrests of his chair and feeling the leather start to peel underneath his fingernails. The solace he’d found in the knowledge that you were also awake when he was eroded in the same manner the moon crescented, and it became something he’d felt shame for.

And he has no idea what to do about it—the comfort which gives way for light to reach his empty heart. He’d already experienced enough while in your presence alone; how could he allow you to do the same and worse to him even during the hours of the day reserved for only the darkest parts of himself?

Levi’s not an idiot. He knows all too well that he’s getting attached.

Which is why he chooses to stay away.

It doesn’t do much. He still thinks of you in the wee hours of the morning, how your hair had fallen over your shoulders when he’d seen it down, how you’d always leave a cup of tea out for him to try, how you’d smiled at him when he’d left that morning. He goes past the bakery every so often, seeing it in passing after going to the market for miscellaneous items he needs for the house.

But he keeps at it, willing himself to stay at his quiet little farmhouse, spending his days doing nothing of importance.

He has his tea, he gardens in the fields and sprays the insecticide he’d bought so long ago, he tries to find sleep in his chair. He makes spinach soup for the kids because they refuse to eat vegetables from anywhere but the garden they help pick from and water, and he’ll send Gabi off with some of the day’s harvest for her cousin. He’d celebrated Gabi’s birthday with her, Falco, Onyankopon, and those tarts you’d given him before he’d left, lit a candle for Moblit on his, and was forced to join the 104th at a bar for Springer’s.

So many things, all amounting to nothing.

But it’s not like he has anything else to do.

And it’s not like you would’ve missed him, anyway, now that he’s stopped coming.

What’s there about a man like him to miss?

But, in the end, he’s bound to routine and its troubles all the same, and his hands eventually find themselves pushing forward the wheels to take him back to the bakery. And maybe he could blame his heart, telling him that he needs to see you again, even if he’s sure he isn’t detached enough yet to brave the sight of you, but it’s truly without intention that he finds himself back here.

He’ll come, say a brief hello, order, and leave. That much should keep his mind at ease, his heart satisfied.

And, besides, today is his mother’s birthday.

In years past, he’d simply pour out an extra cup of tea to share with her spirit, but with how its seemingly become more commonpractice among himself and his friends to celebrate birthdays and other events more formally, he thinks he ought to get a cake for her, and he can’t imagine anywhere else he’d go to fetch that but your bakery.

As he approaches its spot at the corner of the road, he feels a squeeze in his chest, telling him for the thousandth time that he’s not supposed to be here, but there’s a tug on his heartstrings which tells him to suck it up and just brave the worse parts of his conscience.

But before he can even begin to question why, the windows are blocked with curtains he’s never seen closed before, the door isn’t propped open with an annoyingly large potted plant, and there’s not a trace of the life there’d been in the months prior before he’d stopped coming.

He remains still in his wheelchair in front of the closed door, staring up at a small sign hanging from it.

Temporarily Closed!

. . .

He feels no breeze as he rereads the words, over and over again. He knows there’s wind—his hair blows with it, prickling his eyes—but he feels none of it. He only feels as if he’s stuck there, trying to fool himself into thinking he’s misreading the sign.

It’s closed?

Maybe this is the universe telling him that he should’ve found another, more shitty bakery to get his mother’s birthday cake from.

That he should’ve stayed at home in the first place, and that he should’ve just steeled himself for long enough to lose the desire to come back.

That he wasn’t meant to come here at all.

That he’s not wanted here.

That he’s not supposed to be here.

The feeling is nearly as painful as the thought that you’ve closed shop.

What happened to the bakery?

How long is “temporarily?”

Where are you?

What’re you doing now?

How’re you doing now?

Are you okay?

He knows that he has no right to be asking in the first place, especially given the fact that he’s been absent for long enough for this to even transpire.

But-

Actually, no.

He does have no right to be asking those questions.

It’s none of his business anymore. He’s been gone for so long that he has no right to be worried.

He’ll go home, pour out two cups of that same boring black tea, and he’ll mull over all the ways he can try to salvage the faint heartbreak he feels here. It’s of his own doing that he’s found himself having missed opportunity to come here again, and it’s too late.

Just as he’s finally gotten back control of his body and is about to leave, there’s a leaf that falls in front of him, and he takes his hands off the grips of his wheelchair to catch it between his fingers. It feels crisp in his hands, like that pink ticket that’d brought him back here in the first place.

Looking up to see the plant from which the leaf had fallen, there’s long leaves of the plants above the awning and on your balcony that sway with the wind, drawing in sunlight and dripping with water. There’s a glare from a window from across the way, but because of the rust that’s lightly coating the railing, it doesn’t burn his eyes.

And he sees a white ribbon, moving alongside the zephyr.

And because his soul speaks for him, he calls your name.

The two tails of the ribbon get pulled in by hands that’re familiar to him, even after having not seen them since two moons past, and from over the raining, you appear, looking down at him.

There’s an expression he can’t read on your face as you and him make eye contact.

And you disappear, just as you’d came into view.

God fucking damn it.

He knew he never should’ve come here.

He should’ve listened to the better part of his conscience—the part that thinks with his brain, not his heart.

He should’ve kept at building the distance he’d try to foster between the two of you. The one-sided attachment he has to you should’ve been enough to tell him that he’s better off just trying to forget the last five months ever happened.

He should’ve known better.

He lets the leaf in his hands drop to the stone road, and he looks back at the door that’s still just as closed as it was seconds ago.

Well, there’s nothing else to do but go back in the direction from which he came.

He can’t even bring himself to sigh the breath of loss as he grabs hold of his wheels again, reorienting himself to head home.

He’s slow as he moves, pushing forward across stone that’s a bit bumpy and covered with strewn green. He keeps his eyes downward, shame surely evident on his features as he waits for himself to fully gain control of his body and mind again.

It’ll be okay.

He’ll find another shitty bakery to get his mother’s birthday cake.

He’ll stay home.

He’ll not come here again.

He’ll know he’s not wanted here.

He’ll know he’s not supposed to be here.

He’s broken out of his thoughts when he hears the echo of a bell ringing, and before he can look over his shoulder to see what’s the source of that sound, he feels warmth around his chest.

Arms from behind are wrapped around him, firm yet gentle, and there’s a weight on his left shoulder as a head gets placed there. He can hear labored breaths, as if someone had just come running down the stairs. There’s the faint smell of sugar and tea tickling his nose, and he feels the satin of a ribbon falling over into his lap.

”Levi!”

It’s you.

For just a second, his body tenses up, unsure of how to react to the feeling of yours against his.

And, just as soon as he’s finally begun to even comprehend the idea that he could relax into your embrace and let himself crumble under the weight of relief, you pull away from him and move to stand in front of him, your hands on your knees as you bend down to meet him at eye level.

He only knows how to stare dumbly at the you who now beams at him with a smile that reaches your eyes.

“It’s good to see you again, I missed you!”

. . .

You…

missed him?

Levi’s heart drops. “You did?”

“Of course I did!”

. . .

“Why?”

You look at him with confusion. “You came every Wednesday, why wouldn’t I miss you?”

“I’m sorry,” he manages to whisper.

You wave him off. “Don’t be, I’m just glad to see you. What’ve you been up to for the past two months?”

“...Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. An old man like you has nothing to do?” You tease playfully. “No grandkids to take care of?”

He deadpans. “Ha, ha, very funny.

“They liked the tarts you sent me off with, though. They said to say ‘thank you.’”

To the pretty lady who works at the bakery, they’d also said to pass along, but Levi isn’t going to say that.

“Tell them it’s no problem, I’m glad they liked them.”

“I will.”

You chuckle, shaking your head and standing up straight again. “So, what brings you back here today?”

“I was going to get a birthday cake, but the bakery is kind of,” he kisses his teeth, “closed.”

You hum, looking over to the blocked out windows. “Well, you’d be right about that.”

“What happened?”

“What happened to what?” You ask sarcastically. “You mean to the bakery?”

He nods.

You laugh, putting your hands into the pockets of your dress. “Funny story, it got broken into.”

Levi’s heart drops even further. “What?”

You wince, nodding. “Yeah, it was a while ago, not too long after your last visit. The bakery was closed, and some people came through and wrecked everything looking for money. Everything in the front is basically torn to shreds, and there’s still glass on the floor from when they broke the display case.”

“What fucking idiot breaks a dessert display to look for money?”

You chuckle. “The ones that robbed me, I guess. They did some real damage, though.”

“But did they find it?”

“What, the money?” You sadly smile. “Yeah.”

His heart falls to the pit of his stomach.

“...Are you okay?”

“Well, I’m here right now, aren’t I?” You laugh. “But I was out shopping for something when it happened, so I wasn’t hurt or anything.”

Thank fuck, but that's what he meant.

"But the money-"

"It wasn't all of it, just what I kept downstairs. Really, don't worry about me."

He's still going to, anyway.

He frowns. “I’m sorry. That's all horrible.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “I’ve cried about it plenty already, no real point in staying upset. I’ll be able to reopen eventually, so it’ll all be okay in the end.”

How could any of this be okay?

He frowns, hearing that you’d cried.

And it makes his heart heavier, knowing that he’d spent all this time thinking you’d been awake in the mornings baking when you weren’t doing that at all.

Knowing that he’d wasted his time being selfishly obsessed with distancing himself from you, to the point that you had missed him, even when you had plenty of other, more important things to worry about than him not coming back to the bakery.

And he only has himself to blame for him not being there for you when this’d all happened.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks cautiously.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Maybe because there’s a grief in losing your work?

“Having to close, even temporarily, sounds hard.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, I swear I’m fine,” you say, looking up at the sky.

You’re lying.

You don’t say anything else, so Levi’s eyes follow yours to the sky. He himself doesn’t really know what else there is to say, given the gravity of this, so there’s a silence, but it’s not the one that hangs overhead when Levi would come on Wednesdays. This quiet is only there because you don’t want to talk or even think about the bakery, and it’s painfully obvious to Levi that there’s something wrong.

It feels wrong, to say the least, but at least he’s not the one to confront that when, after what feels like a lifetime of cloudgazing, you clear your throat.

“Who’s birthday is it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He keeps his eyes trained above, speaking slowly. “My mother’s.”

You hum. “It’s nice of you to think to get a cake for her. You’re a good son.”

Is he?

“I should let you go. I wouldn’t want you to be late meeting her.”

Levi doesn’t want to go, but he knows he has to, if for no reason other than the fact that he knows he’s wasting your time by being here.

“Right,” he sighs. “Do you know any bakeries nearby?”

“I hope you know you aren’t allowed to be a regular customer anywhere else,” you joke. “When I reopen, you better come back and sit at that corner table every Wednesday again.”

He can’t say that he’ll be able to fend off the devil on his shoulder, but he’ll try his best if that’s what you’re asking of him. “No promises.”

“I guess that’s good enough for me,” you smile goodnaturedly, now looking at him. “Well, if you’re looking for a cake somewhere else, what flavors does she like?”

Did like.

In any case, he isn’t sure she’d ever had a cake in her life in the first place to have a flavor to call her favorite.

“I don’t really know. I suppose anything would be fine”

You hum. “You could try the shop three streets down. They have a bit of everything, but it’s kinda expensive.”

He hadn’t brought any more money than it’d cost to get a cake from your bakery because he didn’t want to be tempted to get something for himself while he was here.

“Anywhere else?”

“Um,” you look around, tapping your index finger on your cheek. “There’s a bakery by the clock tower at the center of the city, but I think they’re also pretty expensive because it’s owned by a company.”

He frowns. “Is anything around here affordable?”

You snort. “No, absolutely not.”

“And that’s all the bakeries?”

“...Yeah, at least all the good ones.”

Well, he certainly isn’t going to disrespect his mother and get her a bad cake.

He sighs. “It’s fine.”

Levi can just go back home and do what he always does when it’s his mother’s birthday.

He supposes that it’s tradition begging to be kept, if he can’t get a cake for her. Maybe he can stop on the way back home and grab some flowers instead-

“Actually, when do you have to meet with her?”

“What? Why’re you asking?”

“Ah, well,” you look up to your balcony, “if you could wait a few hours, I can make the cake for you. The bakery kitchen might not be available for business, but the one in my apartment works just as well.”

“What? You don’t have to do that.”

You have better things to do with your personal time than do this for him.

“Well, it’s not fair to your mother that she doesn’t have a cake on her birthday just because some small-time criminals decided to rob my bakery.”

It’s also not fair that your bakery was robbed in the first place. You don’t need to be downplaying how much it’s hurting you to have to close shop.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to-”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” you raise.

Because there is no answer. He’s not going to see his mother, and he’s never going to be able to again.

“...It’s subject to change.”

You smile. “Then it’s settled.”

“What is?”

“I’ll make you your cake.”

He frowns. “What choice do I have if you’re just going to insist anyway?”

“Well, I can’t force it into your hands, but if you came all this way already, then you must’ve really wanted a cake from me, right?”

And what’s he supposed to say to that?

No, I hate your baking, and I would rather go home empty-handed on my mother’s birthday than accept your help.

So he stays silent, and you take that as him giving in, and you flash a smile at him.

“That’s what I thought,” you start, making your way back over to the bakery door. You remain looking at him, one hand of the door handle after you’ve opened it, and he just stares back.

“What’re you looking at me for?”

“Do you want to come up and help? It’s okay if you don’t, I don’t mind delivering it to you.”

His heart breaks.

Why are you trying so hard?

“You’re really not going to change your mind, are you?”

You tilt your head in confusion, ever-oblivious to the storm in his mind. “Uh, it’d be really mean-spirited if I told you I’d make you a cake and then not give you one at all, so no, I’m not going to change my mind."

“I meant about-” he pauses, unsure.

About helping him all the time.

“Nevermind.”

“So… are you coming up or not? I can’t hold this door open forever.”

“You’re really going to waste your time like this?”

He’s sure you have other things you could be doing right now, you don’t have to do this for him.

“Levi, it’s just a cake. You don’t have to worry about the trouble.”

He finds any defense he can.

“But it’s cake for someone you don’t know.”

“I may not know her, but I know you. That’s enough reason on its own, isn’t it?”

“I just don’t think-”

“Levi,” you call, “enough of feeling sorry for me. Are you coming up, or do I need to collect your address to bring this to you later?”

Levi purses his lips.

He has no right to come up to your apartment again, to spend even more of your precious time.

Regardless of whether or not he wants to, he doesn’t know you.

All he does is stare outside a window with you, take advantage of your kindness, and will himself to come there every fourth-cycle of the moon to give himself some semblance of purpose in this life in the form of yearning and cake. He’d stopped, and now he’s back to only find himself begging his soul for the freedom to to feel his heart.

But, in the way you speak, you make it sound like you know him.

And even though he knows you don’t know him any more than he knows you, there’s nothing more he could ask for that could compare to the compassion of your heart, given to him forlorn in the way he’s never learnt it could be, even if his mind and soul are in such discord that they can’t decide whether or not that’s allowed of a person like him.

 And, in the way you’re looking at him here, practically holding out a hand to him, he can tell that you need someone.

Even if he doesn’t think he should be that someone, he’ll try his best.

It won’t be worth much, but it’s the least he can do to at least try and justify this decision to the part of himself that tells him he’s better off accepting the fact that he’s so unwholly a person deserving of even trying.

He puts his palms to metal and pushes forward, slipping past you through the gap in the door that you hold open.

He’ll put aside his own selfish, meaningless tendencies, but he can only hope to begin to accept the warmth of someone like you, who shines as brightly as the sun.

“I’ll help.”

｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ

continue chapter one!