#like why is he not the one running away? why does he have to beseech her to run away

[gowns]

this is the kind of 60s hit they used to play on the oldies station in the late 90s-early 00s all the time; i rarely hear it anymore, and i think it's quietly been demoted from station playlists due to how uh. weird it is. but it's really a kind of fascinating song... a man trapped within the patriarchy, realizing too late the uneven power dynamics of his relationship with a young girl. he has the upper hand, but he's trying to abjure it. it's like a vampire monologue, in love with someone 200 years younger than him, someone who he wouldn't dare to curse. he's sympathetic to her, but he's also like... watch out, don't get any closer, or i'm gonna lose my mind because you're crazy hot. but i feel so conflicted because i know it's bad because you're young. i dunno, it's a weird one. a lot of times these old rock/pop songs are like "hey hot teenager, you're lookin fine" and it's rare to hear one where a guy's like, losing his mind about the Implications and Dynamics.

[the-fluff-piece]

A heart for a heart

A sfw Trafalgar x fem!reader fluff story

Part 1

Part 2 out now

Part 3!

Also check my masterlist for more stories!

Part 1, where the polar tang stops at a small island for the night. Law wouldn't have expected that there, on this backwater island, he would treat a patient that would steal his heart

Note: I just wanted to write Law absolutely over the top falling in love

Ever since he had become a samurai of the seas and the world knew about his powers as a doctor, all kinds of people came before Trafalgar D. Water Law begging to heal them or prolong their life. There where kings, merchants, pirates and bandits - even a marine admiral - that sought him out and beseeched him to treat their ailments. His title "the surgeon of death" never deterred them.

He turned all of them away. He swore he would only use his power to heal for his crew - or if he felt like it, and a tyrant or a merciless merchant kneeling before him was not going to sway him. The stories of disease and pain quickly annoyed him, because all he saw was mighty men and women, uncaring for the world around them, asking him for more time to leave their heinous mark on the world. It had become such a nuisance that he didn't even answer anymore - he just flipped them his finger and let his crew dispose of them.

He didn't think it would ever be any different until they stopped at a small, uninteresting island where people were too poor to attract any sort of attention. They went to the only tavern in town for some fun and occupied the place for the evening. Law was residing in the most comfortable chair, enjoying a drink and meal with his crew - when it happened. Again. He already rolled his eyes when he heard the pleading "please...very sick...will die..." at the door. He trusted that Bepo would throw them out - it was doubtlessly some wealthy arsehole that tracked him down, begging to be saved - when the white bear stood before him, looking rather flustered.

"Captain, I think you should have a look at this" he said in a sad voice.

"Why?", Law grunted. His first mate should know better by now.

"I...this really is different, maybe we should make an exception?" the bear asked.

"We? I am the captain here and I have the power, I alone decide when I make an exception. If I just treat one, they'll all come running to me" Law said in a stern voice - and he saw his old friend bring out his biggest arguments: his sad eyes. Not many people know that the eyes of a mink bear where as strong as a 1000 puppy eyes, and even Trafalgar was not immune to them, although he wouldn't even admit that under torture.

The bear stared at him with such an incredibly adorable expression, he broke Law's will into a thousand pieces.

Dammit, if he does that it must be urgent. Law ground his teeth in frustration. "Let's have a look - and than I'll tell you why I won't do anything", Law said, not looking at the bear to conceal that he had melted.

Flashing Law a happy grin, Bepo waved a young man to them, and he was carrying something. Or rather: someone.

Law tried to give that intruder a cursory glance before denying his request to appease Bepo, but Laws demonstrably disinterested look froze when he saw the patient that was laid out before him on the table.

A young girl, about his own age, clad in a simple dress - nothing special one would say. But for him, the sight felt like he was just hit by the marines buster call. As soon as he saw her face, his heart skipped a beat, or two, he couldn't really tell anymore. The world beneath his feet dissolved until only he and that girl were left - and he fell, deeply. Something about her features, that he couldn't even explain to himself, captured him completely. He couldn't say if it was the beautiful eyes looking up at him, the noble shape of her nose or the elegant curve of her mouth, but he was already absolutely obsessed. As his greedy eyes drank her appearance in, he knew he would never be satisfied.

A powerful longing to possess her controlled his thoughts. The sudden onslaught of feeling overwhelmed him and it took all his willpower to reign himself back in and take control of his emotions again.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at her or what emotions he had shown. He closed his mouth to swallow. Everyone looked at him utterly confused. He cleared his throat and tried as best as he could to mimic the bored and relaxed posture he had had a moment before, even though he felt nothing like it through the adrenaline pumping through his body right now. What he wouldn't give to possess hormone-level control of his bodyfunctions right now to calm down.

"State your request", he prompted the man, his eyes fixed on the girl on the table. She seemed to be barely awake, looking around with hazed eyes.

The man fell to his knees and bowed down until he touched the ground with his forehead, his desperate pleading could be heard in the whole room: "Oh great Trafalgar Law, Samurei of the seas and greatest surgeon alive, this is my sister, she's very sick! The doctor said her heart was weak and she would not get old. We weren't able to find a doctor willing to treat her. She's gotten worse over the last week, you are our only hope, please save her! The me and the whole village will repay you anyway we can!"

Law only half listened to the probably worthless explanation and flattery of the brother and already began to examine her for symptoms.

Her skin looked pale and sweaty, the breath was rattling. A heart problem is plausible, although he would need to do some more tests. He took her small hand into his, the soft skin was cold and damp and her fingers seemed to be swollen. If it was only a heart defect he could easily cure her.

There was no careful weighing of options here, he knew that he would absolutely do anything to save her, no matter how much he told himself that he still had a choice. And that he would have to take her with him.

"How about we talk about the price after the surgery", Law said, his poker face back in place. The plan was formulated and he would go through with it. He picked her up easily, she felt and looked emaciated. The soft whimper that escaped from her blue lips was like a knife to his heart. He would have to begin treatment as soon as possible, luckily he had a stash of spare organs in excellent shape on the tang - for emergencies like this.

As he turned to go back to the submarine, the brother danced around him in joy, promising him everything if his sister lived. Law assured him that the village would absolutely be able to pay what he would ask.

Back on the polar tang, after a short confirming examination, he immediately began surgery with the assistance of his crewmembers. A heart transplant was easy for Law, the power of his devil fruit was designed for this purpose, the success rate at almost 100%.

She would get a strong heart that would safe her from certain death and carry through life.

Half of the village was camping in front of the polar tang in the harbour, awaiting the end of the surgery.

Of course, it was a success. He never doubted that. He would now wait at her bed until she woke up, monitoring her closely to ensure her safety.

As the anesthetic wore off, she opened her eyes and really looked at Law for the first time. Her lips had already regained a healthy colour, her skin looked rosy again and her gaze was focused - on him. He stared. He couldn't help it. She was even more irresistible now, he couldn't have anticipated how badly it would affect him.

He prided himself on being educated, eloquent and sophisticated - he wanted to tell her who he was, that she was in the best and most capable hands.

"Uhm...hey", was the only thing he could think of to say when he finally met her gaze for the first time. How embarrassing. Since he first saw her the question of who she was dominated his mind. While she slept he had built a hundred scenarios in his head how he would introduce himself to her. "Hey" was not among them.

"Hey", she answered, smiling at him. He couldn't have imagined a more perfect smile. It played around her pink lips, kind and warm. Home, he felt like he was coming home.

"You're...uhm...ok now, you know", he heard his idiot voice say. He could have impressed her by being every inch the doctor his father raised him to be, he could have told her how he saved her life. Instead, he told her "she was ok now". Well done Law, he thought.

"I feel...so much better! What happened?", her excited, melodic voice made his ears ring. It made him think of cozy winter evenings spend at a warm fire, it was the kind of voice that made him feel like being wrapped in a warm blanket. He felt a wide grin expand over his face.

"I g...gave you a new h...heart", he stuttered this most basic expression, incapable of retrieving his medical expressions from behind the blockade of hormones in his brain.

She stared at him for a moment, he stared at her. She touched her chest with her hand, just above the heart and looked as though she would cry.

"I'm cured?", she asked shakily. He nodded. "You cured me?" He nodded. "Yeah".

She fell around his neck, crying and thanking him. He wasn't prepared for this. Her soft hair was caressing his cheek, her arms tightly closed around him. Her scent and warmth washed over him, ripping down every emotion defence he had built, like an ocean surge destroying every dyke in its path. He didn't know what to do. Could he touch her? Should he? He lay one of his hands on her back to return the hug, but he just lightly padded her back. It was enough to make his whole body explode with a tingling sensation and send his heart on a wild race. Never let her go again. He would never, ever let her go again. He knew that now.

___________________

Stay tuned for part 2!

Now that you've read the whole thing, let me know what you think in the comments!

[blessyourhondahurley]

Suptober day 3 - Day Like Any Other

Today feels different somehow. Or maybe it's Cas who feels different.

Suptober prompt: Inspired Fictober prompt: “Okay, show me.” Flufftober prompt: “Wait, you love me?” - “I always have” Inktober prompt: Path

(Read on AO3)

He begins the day watching the sun rise from the Bunker's roof, a habit he's recently acquired as the weather turns crisp and autumnal. Afterwards, he sets the big industrial coffeepot brewing in the kitchen, another of his habitual behaviors. As the contraption starts to steam and hiss, Sam walks through and tosses a “morning, Cas” over his shoulder on his way out for his daily run.

Generally, at this point in the day, he would retire to the library to read for a few hours, or go outside to work in his garden. But today feels different somehow. There's a yearning itch under his skin, an inspired desire to act, to do. He's not quite sure yet how he wants to act, what he wants to do, but he heeds the metaphorical tickle in his brain. He grabs Dean's favorite mug (the oversized one shaped like a cowboy boot, “Saddle up!” written across it in letters made of twisting rope), fills it with fresh coffee, stirs in a spoonful of sugar and a dash of cream, and carries it down the hall.

He taps on Dean's door, waiting for a quiet “hmm? 'Sup?” from inside before entering.

“There's no case or anything. I've just brought you some coffee,” Cas says. He keeps his voice soft, unwilling to further disturb the dim quiet of the room. Thanks to a small nightlight in the corner and the light from the hallway that filters in through the vents of the door, he can see well enough to avoid tripping on a pair of discarded jeans on the floor as he brings the cup over to the bed.

Dean, heavy-lidded and tousle-haired, sits up and accepts the offering, patting the covers next to him in invitation for Cas to sit. He takes a deep inhale of the fragrant, rising steam and sighs in sleepy contentment. “How come I rate such a special delivery today?” he asks hoarsely. He harrumphs to clear his throat a bit, then takes a sip.

Cas shrugs, helpless to explain why he's there, helpless to put into words the feeling he's had since he watched dawn break across the meadow behind the Bunker this morning. “I felt like company,” is the best he can do.

“'M not usually the best company in the mornings, dude,” Dean remarks dryly. He's drained half the mug by now, and his bleary gaze is beginning to clear. “Aren't you and Sam still working on that lore project on our off days?”

And there's that itch again, urging him on. It pushes him to say something that, on any other day, he'd swallow. “I don't love Sam the same way I love you,” he says. The words are raw, deeply felt, searingly true, but he does his best to deliver them in an offhanded manner, as if he's doing nothing more exciting than remarking on the weather.

Despite his feigned nonchalance, he watches Dean startle when those ten little words land. The hunter reels for a moment, seems almost dizzy, and it takes him three tries to place his now-empty mug on his nightstand. He turns wide green eyes towards him, face beseeching and open, and asks, “Wait, you love me?” His voice is little more than a wheeze, as if he's had the wind knocked clear out of him.

Cas marvels. I did that, he thinks. His words have discombobulated his friend as thoroughly as a bat to the head. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. There's no going back from this now.

“I do. I always have,” he replies, and then he waits. He waits for Dean to yell, to laugh, to walk away, to proffer a distraction, to punch him.

Dean does none of these. He smiles. It's a shy, uncertain smile, but his eyes shine in the low light of the room. He clears his throat, quirks his mouth like he's fighting a sob, then huffs a soft laugh and asks, “Why, Cas? How??”

Emboldened, Cas lays himself emotionally bare. “Beloved,” he begins, and what ecstasy he feels when that word leaves his lips! “Beloved,” he says again, “I could trace the winding path of my ever-growing devotion, recite back every precious moment between us, talk about how wonderful you are until the sun sets tonight and rises again tomorrow morning. Or I could show you everything you need to know.”

Dean, ever a man of action, leans forward. “Okay, show me.”

Their first kiss tastes of coffee, with a spoonful of sugar and a dash of cream.

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: The One That Got Away

Blanche has another chance with the one man who ever rejected her, but does she want it? Rose and Dorothy see a strange light in the sky, which Rose believes to be a UFO.

Picture It...

Dorothy, Rose and Sophia are playing poker on the lanai -- Sophia flees when she's caught cheating. After she goes, a flashing light soars across the sky, startling Rose. She thinks they just saw a UFO, but Dorothy insists it was a plane. Rose is over the moon, as it were, insisting she wants to go up into their spaceship. Dorothy leaves her out on the lanai.

DOROTHY: Blanche, are you in a good mood? BLANCHE: Dorothy, you always could see right through me. SOPHIA: Keep it up with those Chips Ahoy, and Superman couldn't see right through you.

In the living room, Blanche is practically vibrating with glee. Dorothy finally bites and asks her why she's in such a good mood, and she says it's because she got a call from her old college friend Ham Lushbough. He's in town on business, freshly divorced and her date for her Saturday work function. Blanche says she and Virginia competed for him, and she asked him out at homecoming their senior year. He said, "Maybe some other time, Blanche." He's the only man who's ever rejected her, and she's gonna for him again.

On Saturday, Dorothy finds Rose out on the lanai, trying futilely to signal the UFO. Dorothy once again insists that what they saw wasn't a UFO, but Rose insists it wasn't a plane -- and Major Barker, the military officer she contacted to report it, agrees. Dorothy is mortified that she's taking it that far. Blanche, meanwhile, is all a-twitter when the bell rings: A very large gentleman in a tuxedo comes through the door. Blanche is shocked at the changes to Ham Lushbough since their college days, but quickly recovers and they depart.

BLANCHE: Girls, look. How do I look? ROSE: Great, Blanche. BLANCHE: Great? Or gorgeous. ROSE: Gorgeous. BLANCHE: Well, what about sexy? ROSE: Yes! BLANCHE: Enticing? DOROTHY: I'll handle this. Blanche, no woman ever looked better than you look right now, and no one ever will. BLANCHE: Thank you, Dorothy! Honestly, Rose, sometimes it's like pulling teeth just to get a little compliment out of you.

The Girls are as surprised as Blanche is that he looks so different from his yearbook photo (Sophia making her usual cracks). Rose runs back out to the lanai and after Sophia also exits, the bell rings. In walks Major Barker, in full uniform. He questions Dorothy about what she and Rose saw, with Dorothy confirming the details. He assures here there's a logical explanation. Dorothy's relief quickly turns to horror as he drops the bomb: What they saw was a UFO.

Later that night, Blanche and Ham return. They spend a few minutes catching up, and Ham showers Blanche with compliments. She finally asks him the same question she asked 30 years prior: Does he want company tonight? His answer: "Maybe some other time, Blanche." The same night, Dorothy is out on the lanai with binoculars when Rose joins her. She breaks and confirms to Rose that what they saw was a real UFO.

BLANCHE: There's only one thing for me to do. I'm going to call him up, and tomorrow night I'm going out with that man again. And I don't care what amount of seducing it takes. But as God as my witness, I am not returning to this house until he has begged, beseeched, and pleaded with me to go to bed with him! *she marches out* SOPHIA: . . . you know, that was the original ending to Gone with the Wind.

They run into the kitchen, Rose ecstatic and Dorothy on the brink of an anxiety attack. Dorothy says she promised Major Barker that they would keep this a secret. Blanche and Sophia enter the kitchen -- Rose almost gives the game away within seconds -- and laments how humiliating her date was. It's not even that she's attracted to Ham anymore -- there cannot be a man that Blanche cannot have. She's going to take him on one more date and won't come home until she's successfully seduced him.

The next night, she and Ham are having dinner, and the waiter comes over to pour the champagne. Blanche starts talking about how the champagne may lower her inhibitions, and starts putting the moves on as strong as she can -- the waiter eventually has to excuse himself -- before finally propositioning Ham one more time. What does he say? "Maybe some other time, Blanche." Furious, she gets up and berates him for embarrassing her, then storms out with a conga line of men following her.

She returns home and initially lies to Dorothy and Sophia that she succeeded, but Ham himself shows up and wants to explain. He says the reason he turns her down is because he doesn't want a repeat of their tryst in college. Blanche is confused, until he goes into detail and she realizes it wasn't her he slept with -- it was her sister, Virginia. Ham flips immediately and wants to take Blanche up on her offer, but Blanche, satisfied that no man actually can resist her, withdraws the offer and kicks him out, then goes to call Virginia.

Sophia mentions an article she's reading in the newspaper: About a top secret military bomber plane that flew off-course and over Miami, which the military tried to cover up. Dorothy immediately heads out to the lanai and tells Rose that this means there was no UFO. Rose, disappointed, talks about how much fun it is to still believe and Dorothy falls asleep in the lounge chair. Then, with a thrilled Rose as the only witness, another flashing light soars across the sky.

"That's a Sicily you don't see on postcards."

Here's a sentence I never thought I'd write: Of the two "fat joke" episodes of The Golden Girls, I prefer the one where Blanche fails to seduce an old flame over the one where she tries to convince her daughter to leave her abusive fiancé. The jokes land a little bit better this time around, if only because it feels less like Sophia is punching down every time she opens her mouth. This episode is a bit hit-or-miss for me, and I'm not a fan of the B-plot, but it's got some good lines in there.

I think the difference between the jokes this time is that, when Becky was the guest of the episode, it was treated as some kind of grave tragedy that she'd put on weight, especially when her abusive fiancé used it against her. In this episode, it's treated much more lightly that Ham lost the physique of a college football player over the course of 30 years -- Dorothy even outright says that these things happen. And Blanche doesn't seem to mind once she gets over the surprise. She's only furious that the "one man [she] cannot have" is not even someone she'd typically be attracted to.

If I were a bit more of a wet blanket, I feel I might criticize Blanche for thinking that all men must want her -- surely she knows how to take "no" for an answer, right? But I don't criticize her for that because it's pretty well-established that all men do want Blanche Devereaux. After she publicly excoriates Ham for rejecting her and saying she'll find a man who does want her, five men immediately follow her out of the restaurant, trying to get her attention -- one even leaves his date to chase after her.

I also get it from Blanche's perspective. She says, in this episode and many others, that she bases a lot of her self-image and confidence on her ability to pull any man she desires, so to be so brutally and publicly rejected by the heartthrob of her college -- valedictorian and captain of the football team -- must be something that still rankles. Hell, if a man had a marching band spell out his rejection of me on a field and I had the option to get some petty revenge on him, even 30 years later, I'd do it without question.

BLANCHE: Ham Lushbough! Just look at you! SOPHIA: What else can we look at? The man's covering half the pictures on our wall!

Also, let's be real, here: Ham repeatedly rejecting Blanche -- who pulls out all the stops to try and seduce him, to the point the waiter has to leave before he embarrasses himself -- because they had one crummy roll in the hay (he thinks) in college 30 years prior is more than a little dumb on his part. People can change, even in bed! It begs the question: What could Virginia possibly have done in Grady's Motor Lodge that put Ham off of the woman he thought she was all those years?

Moving over to the B-plot, I think the whole "Rose goes alien-crazy after she thinks she sees a UFO" story was a lot more appealing to me as a child than it is to me as an adult. Rose appears wholly incapable of listening to reason, as she's hopefully pontificating ascension to an alien spacecraft within literal seconds of seeing a flashing light in the sky. That's not off-brand for Rose, but I think it's almost a little too Rose, if you know what I mean.

BLANCHE: Oh, I wonder what would happen if somebody called up my sister Virginia and told her this terribly embarrassing story? *with a big grin* I guess there's only one way to find out!

When Major Barker seemingly confirms that what they saw was a UFO, Dorothy gets a bit panicky as she grapples with the concept of aliens. Rose is much more chill about the situation, though she's disappointed when it turns out to be an attempted cover-up. That moment at the end of the episode where she sees another flashing light and is content to believe it's the real McCoy is still cute. Now, however, all I can think about is what it would be like if the Girls ever actually did meet aliens -- how much do you want to bet Blanche would try to seduce them, too?

The revelation that the UFO sighting was really a top-secret plane that flew off-course has some basis in history, as that was a real explanation behind several supposed sightings. According to documents declassified a few years ago, the U.S. military flew several top-secret planes a little too close to civilian eyes. And it makes sense why someone would think they were alien -- one was literally based on the Klingon Bird of Prey, because evidently Area 51 has been infested with nerds for quite some time.

DOROTHY: *trying to give Blanche privacy* Ma, listen, maybe watching some TV in another room might be a good idea. SOPHIA: Fine, Dorothy, but keep the volume down.

This is one of those episodes where Sophia sort of hangs around the periphery, which I'm fine with because she got so much focus last week. She gets a brief moment in the spotlight at the beginning of the episode when she attempts to cheat at poker, only to get caught. But she does tell one brief story about a would-be lover of hers, and it's a bit darker than some of her usual stories, as the lover was seemingly murdered by his jealous wife. As she says, that's a Sicily you don't see on postcards.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰 (three cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

Dorothy and Rose confront the possibility of other life in the cosmos in the only way either one of them knows how.

[itwoodbeprefect]

i bow before the length of your wip list but all of them sound absolutely incredible oh my god. half the titles alone had me laughing out loud. can i. uh. trying to narrow myself down here. On Blond Blintzes and How To Sweeten Them & Greg is a four letter word (??) & Steve's becomes.... themed (sounds like a hilariously terrible idea i need to know more) & MASH marriage fic?

fjdkjk thank you. <3 i answered the steve’s becomes themed one here!

-

On blond blintzes, and how to sweeten them: easy 5-step recipe!

set somewhat early on in their partnership, and starsky has recently introduced a new nickname without giving it any real thought, but then he discovers that it seems hutch has:

“I looked it up.”

“What?”

“Blintz.”

“You had to look that up?” Starsky can’t imagine not knowing what a blintz is, but even if he hadn’t, he would never have thought to reach for a dictionary. Sometimes Hutch complicates things so much that he forgets to just ask.

Which is funny, because it seems he has figured out how to ask, “How would you feel if I went around calling you a little pancake, huh?”

Starsky blinks. Hutch is such a weird guy. “Pretty good. I like pancakes.”

cue hutch overcomplicating everything (“And it’s full of sweet cheese,” Hutch continues, like that part is some grave insult.), a misunderstanding about hutch calling starsky a crêpe, a few other food-based jokes, and eventual blintz acceptance. this fic is currently not even strictly starsky/hutch, but it does feel very shippy for gen fic.

-

Greg is a four letter word

this is pretty much purely dialogue as of right now, but it’s also so delightfully stupid that it has a much higher than average chance of getting finished at some point. it’s the morning after starsky and hutch sleep together for the first time, they’re both a little high on life, and over breakfast starsky goes “so what do we call this?” and hutch, with no idea what starsky is talking about, jokingly goes “greg” - which he regrets an instant later when starsky is a little clearer about his meaning, but of course at that point starsky has already taken greg by the hand and is running away with him, so it becomes a shorthand for sex, essentially. they’re passing notes at work suggesting dinner w/ greg, huggy tells them to invite this mysterious friend to a party and they have to tell him greg is a pretty private person (“Doesn’t like crowds.” / “Or to be seen by anyone, really.”), and at some point of course they run into a guy whose name is actually greg. this one is not deep - it’s just silly and fun, and taking a ridiculous idea and trying to make something readable out of it.

-

MASH marriage fic

this one starts with hawkeye and trapper bored and drinking in the swamp, and hawkeye asks trapper if he’s told him lately that he loves him (because he’s being handed a ready-made drink), so frank is extremely witty and clever and says “if you like him so much, why don’t you marry him?”, which. obviously you can’t say that to a bored hawkeye (and trapper) without having to attend a mock(???) wedding party a few hours later. they go to henry:

Henry retracts his chin into his neck like a confusedly indignant turtle in a fishing hat. “Hawkeye,” he says, clearly going for either beseeching or commanding, but ending up nervous. “C’mon. You know you can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Hawkeye asks, swinging his feet up on Henry’s desk. Henry frowns in mild disapproval and pokes the sole of Hawkeye’s boot a few times with the tip of a pencil he’s been nervously rolling between his fingers, but it doesn’t do much, or anything at all, for that matter. “Frank told us to. And he’s of Major importance, so we have to listen to him.” And then, as an aside, “Henry, that tickles.”

Trapper, whose boots were already on the desk but who didn’t utter the words “don’t worry, of course we want you to be our best man” less than a minute ago and therefore skates by unpoked, nods very seriously. “Yes, Henry, don’t you understand? We’re forced to do as Frank says, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.”

“Yeah. Which is pretty likely around here, you know.”

Henry, though clearly uncomfortable, needs a second to come up with a reason why. “Well- McIntyre’s already married, for one thing.”

Trapper smacks his own leg like he just thought of something. “Oh! That’s right, a person can only have one wife.”

“And a person can only have one husband,” Hawkeye supplies, not missing a beat.

Trapper nods. “Correct. Right, Henry?”

Henry is nodding along before his opinion is even asked for, but he gets into it more vigorously. The fishing hooks on his hat dance to unheard music with a very erratic beat. “Yes. Exactly right.”

“I’m glad you agree.” Hawkeye refuses to nod, but he does lay a hand on Trapper’s shoulder. “You see, Trapper here has one wife, but he doesn’t have one husband.”

Trapper pats Hawkeye’s hand. “Yet.”

Henry stops nodding abruptly. He does some more of his turtling, and gives bristling a go, but finds that it takes a lot out of a sober man. He uses that energy to rub his eyes instead. “Please tell me you’re not going to file any paperwork with the Army about this.”

Hawkeye puts his hand to his heart. “We’re not bucking for anything dishonorable, Henry. Disreputable at worst.”

“Well, alright then. It’s not like I could stop you anyway, and we could all use a party. It might be good for morale.”

Trapper swings his feet to the floor. The front legs of his previously tilted chair hit with a bang like a judge’s gavel. “You’re a wise man, Henry Blake,” he says, and ignores Henry’s pained sigh when he offers Hawkeye a hand up from his chair and out of the office.

and from there it’s a lot of wedding prep à la 4077th MASH (it involves toilet paper decorations and klinger going hey, you’re not stealing my schtick, are you? and winning margaret over by offering her the position of best man because obviously none of the guys in camp deserve that title) and it’s all comedy fluff, insofar as that’s ever possible for MASH fic.

-

send me the title of one of my WIPs and i’ll tell you something about it or post a snippet!  

[gyubby99]

@disneyanddisneyships second chapter 😃

Trigger warning: Domestic abuse

~ill-fated reality~

Chapter 2 - A butterfly!

{Two years earlier..}

[Damian]

Marianne.

Princess Marianne.

She'd been smarter than I thought she was. And here I thought her mother taught her to be an air-headed princess who was only there to sit still and entertain the guests with her "charm".

I see the disgust on her face one last time before making her way to the front.

I saw it. And I loathed it. Just who does she think she is?! Ofcourse, a gorgeous princess with fine riches from the kingdom's alliances, but that's no matter. I am on the same highly royal position as her yet she thinks she's always five steps ahead of me. That's how I've always known her. She thinks too highly of herself to even care about genuinely being with her people. She's an item for queen Catherine to show off whenever she wanted to mock my father and my kingdom. She's no good.

I shake her away from my thoughts as every moment passes it disgusted me. Her seemingly-angelic face hid something wicked inside, and she's walking around in a facade-- damn it, Damian!

Scratch that. She's never any good. If I can get another chance to get here, I will be sure to prove her wrong, and that she was the fraud.

I glare at nothingness, until I spotted Jake being dragged away as well, giving me a look that told me he was disgruntled, and that princess Elizabeth was never going to find him approachable seeing he was an enemy.

Ofcourse. It was my stupid idea to sneak in with disguises I never considered the princess. That damn princess. No woman has ever infuriated me like this before.

Alright, she wants to play a little smarter, then I'll--

"Damian!" Jake snapped me out of my thoughts, waving his hand as we got onto the ship. "Hello??"

"Jake." I blurted out. "Let's get going." I say, sitting on one of the chairs as the pint of mead tempted me. I guess after all I was still a man.

"Go ahead. Just don't get too drunk." Jake gestured to the pint of mead. After everything that's happened he still refuses to look at me. I sat with him in complete silence as I drink a small portion.

"Look, I told you this wasn't a great idea and you insisted we go!" Jake started to play the blame game, as I just sat here glaring at the kingdom that was, as seconds go by, getting far out of sight as we sail off.

"If your father finds out about this, I'm not doing anything to help you!" He scolded like I'd been a kid misbehaving. I gave him a small scoff. "Since when have you done anything to help me?"

Jake was taken aback, and from what it seemed like, he was extremely offended by my statement of fact. The last time he's ever helped me was when he got dragged into a mess that was partly his fault. And it was one time.

"Oh, you know that one time-"

"-one time that lying has benefitted you." I stood up and walked towards the window, not hearing any more of his whining. If anything, I would rather have some measely little princess boasting to me about her make-believe laws and restrictions. Atleast she wouldn't be stupid enough to have the intelectual capacity of Jake.

Why was I even thinking of her anyway? I hate that she got into me fast, and no one's ever been like that to me. Not only my knowledge has been trampled upon, but she had the nerve to call the guards on me and humiliate me in front of everyone. And everyone, meant everyone. Which means, my father is most definitely going to hear about this when we get home.

Dear Gods.. for once in my life, let me run away from the consequences of my actions. I will solemnly swear not to complain about going to church and being one of the offerors. I beseech you.

"Deep thought, huh?" Jake had almost mocked me. No, he was definitely mocking me, given the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes I could sense even if he was far behind me. Every word he says must have a trace of sarcasm and pure mockery, especially in times like these.

"You have no idea." I say monotonely, crossing my arms. I sigh, rubbing my temples. If there was one person whose fury I should never tempt, it was my father. Seeing him in a state where he could almost pull his sword out and tell me to run twenty paces in a field or else there'd be consequences is something I'd never imagine.

Something suddenly struck my nerve as I started fiddling through my pockets. My heart started racing as my eyes widen in panic when I sensed nothing inside of it.

Jake gave my shoulder a pat and laughed. He held up something, something that resembled a butterfly accessory in the palm of his hand. "Oh, you should have seen your face!"

Just.. how could he think this was hilarious? Maybe I don't understand it well enough. My thoughts were almost heading to a self-deprecating note as I think about what might happen once we step foot in my kingdom.. and yet he took the only solace I could find at the moment.

I glare at him and snatched it from his hand. "Give it back!" I almost yelled at him in my anger. He was taken aback as he never thought it had been such a big deal to me. After all, when does he ever care? He never did.

"Come on! It's just a butterfly pin!" Jake tried to reason, but I kept quiet. I traced the surface of the old accessory, the colors of orange, gold and black meting my eyes and giving me a sense of relief nothing else has ever given me. I take a breath like I always did, caressing the cold hard metal like I've known it my whole life.

Well, I did.

"Let's just- get home. How many hours til' we get there?" I tried to change the subject. For someone as incapable of emotional maturity as Jake, he would fall for it.

"Um.. In an hour or so.."

Ha! He did.

I give him a small chuckle, heading down to my room before I nod to the captain. "Then I guess we better get a rest when we're here." I say to him, heading upstairs to my chamber. Father picked it out just for me, which is probably why it was full of swords and a dark aura, not many books which I find deeply upsetting. I often get tired reading the same books all over again, but this one in particular..

The Forest Beast - Alastair

It was a children's book, peculiar for me to read at my grown age. But something about it is just a lot more intriguing than any other ones I've read as a child.

It was a woman named Stella, wandering around the woods.. rescuing a hurt beast. Yet no matter how foul it looked like, she never judged by the sight of its face.. or the sharp fangs and claws.. she decided that she'd be helping anyone no matter what they looked like. They've found great friendship along their journey, and she learned that these creatures were no different than any other being.. they can adore.. and they can feel. I guess it was a metaphorical thing how someone can be deemed as a beast to society.. yet inside lies the opposite of what vile accusations they may have gotten from others. This may just be a typical fantasy story yet it feels realistic. There was no great curse.. or an enchantress appearing in the end. It was simply the friendship of a beast and a human, conquering the world through their adventures, furthermore proving that being different is no curse. It was truly heartwarming.. and I would have loved reading this as a child..

But reading wasn't a plan of mine for the evening. Just a rest to prepare for tonight.. when I finally get there, and what my father would have thought of. What I think he would think, if he knew me sneaking into the enemy's lair. Without his permission. Rumors only grow, and when it does, heaven forbit it gets to him.

I sigh and put the pin back in my pocket, and I laid down hoping to dream of something... something that wasn't very obnoxious or terrifying. Just.. just a normal dream. Just for an hour.

~~~~~

"Damian!" A sweet voice called out to me, its tenderness giving me a sense of joy and adrenaline just enough for me to run to that person.

"Mama!" I call out, and I was engulfed in a warm embrace. I nuzzled my face into her clothing, smelling the scent of the perfume she's wearing today. She lets out a soft laugh, as I can feel her hands reaching for my hair, running her fingers through it. "My love.." she murmurs onto the top of my head.

I look up to her with a cheeky smile, admiring her flashing green eyes and her sweet smile. Both identical to mine. I giggle as she tapped my nose with her pointer finger, and her embrace felt so warm it was an unexplainable abyss of happiness.

"How's my little boy?" She ran her fingers through my hair as she asked me.

"I'm good!" I respond, almost imitating a bird's happy chirp. I gasp softly at the sight of her hair pin. It was a beautiful creature.. a tiny one with magnificent wings, said to be a symbol of a lost loved as some poets and storybooks have said. What was the name..

"A butterfly!" I pointed at the pin, looking up to her face for an approval.

"That's right!" There it was! The response had made me feel like I could capture a bunch of them.

"Mama.. is it true that butterflies can't see their wings? I've read that once.." I wondered aloud, and she leaned into a tree, not letting go of me as I sit on her lap.

She seems to think about it for a moment, before responding. "That's not true. They can! They have compound eyes which gives them a wide field of vision!"

"Hm.. so books can lie." I tap my chin, thinking about it.

"A lot of things can lie. You can fall for it just once, but once you discover the truth, it can be hard to comprehend why the lie has to be there in the first place. Maybe storybooks misinterpret things a lot! Maybe it's still a running lie many people believe." She responds.

"Mama.. why do people lie?" I ask her.

She looked up at the sky, and as she gets into a pensive mood she responds. "Because most of the time, it hurts to say the truth, so they ease that by coming up with a lie. The truth is often very hurtful, but it's the one thing that can set you free, as the poets say!"  She said. "Though, sometimes.. the truth can be a threat to others as it can ruin something someone protects dearly.. like.. their reputation. That's why famous people keep secrets!"

I giggle at her. She has always loved reading books, and she would read to me often, in this tree, or in my room.. she admires poetry. She said if she wasn't a queen, she would become a philosopher.. or a writer! She has a lot of great ideas to come up with, and she never puts down an ink-filled quill!

Someone with creativity in both writing and arts.. is someone I truly admire.

"Mary!" I hear my father call out. Mother took a deep breath, and I feel her illusion-like grip tightening around my wrist for a split second before putting me down and going to him. I watch as her figure fades away from my sight, leaving me alone under the shade of a tree that grew cold by the moment passes.

~~~~~

"Damian." I felt Jake's hands snapping me into reality. I flutter my eyes open, rubbing the right one as I get up with a small grunt. "We're almost there." He spoke once again. I give him a small nod.

I peered through the window, seeing the familiar lights of my kingdom flash through my eyes, and my brain was still giving itself time to process what happened between dreaming, waking up, and looking out the town.

I got up as the captain signaled we were nearing the docks. I looked at the table and picked up the book that sat there for a long time, untouched and seemingly-brand new. I grabbed it before heading out of the ship with Jake.

We walked down the town of Avarron, which hasn't changed much through the years. Father's reign was still running its course, and with only me as the crown prince, ofcourse I'd do what could be best for my people. It was my one duty in my life that's been written in stars. And I'll die beside the woman I marry, preferably chosen to marry for love.

"Son."

A voice made us stop in our tracks, and I could feel Jake's gaze fixing onto me.

I try to speak. "Father-"

"A word."

Jake attempted to leave, but father stopped him also. "You too, boy." He said, as though he was ordering some hound. Jake stayed with me, in put and tense. I can imagine the most gruesome ways he could strangle me or bury me alive in his head.

Don't worry, I'm thinking the same, my friend.

He signaled us to follow him, and like the good little hounds we were, we did. I put my hands in my pockets, gazing into my sword with the look of horror. I take deep, shaky breaths as I follow him, and the light of the kingdom fades out like a strong wind breeze blowing the fire out.

We got inside, the crisp air fading out in warm embers, and I look at my father with the intent of wanting to get out of here as soon as I possibly could.

"We need to talk about the rumors that went on.. and the talk in a certain kingdom.." I gulped as he begins to speak, my eyes dancing around the room switching from corner to corner.

"Damian insisted on the idea."

My heart dropped to my stomach. The last thing I wanted in this world was to get myself into trouble where I know Jake could get the upper hand in everything. Blame was the game I started, and he was winning.

"Son?"

He calls out to me, but my head moved elsewhere..

"Damian."

All I could think of was how I'm going to talk my way out. He never gave me rules growing up and I was a free man. If I could persuade him this time--

"Damian." He abruptly grabbed my face, making me grunt in sudden pain at his roughness. He squeezed my cheeks together, and to his fury's satisfaction, I looked him in the eye. "You look at me when I say you look at me.."

He let go of me, like pushing me down the ground. I brushed it off, swallowing a lump in my throat as I finally looked at him.

"Did you insist on going there?" He once again asked. Due to his fury, he was impatient, and so he would not waste any time of silence as he cut me off before I could speak. "Answer me, boy!"

"Yes."

He simply gave me a nod, walking towards me. "I simply told you not to sail off to Elona. Yet what happened? Do you think the queen will be happy to hear this? Do you think she won't come barging into my throne room accusing me of something you did?"

I never responded. I couldn't process any thoughts. It was empty and numb inside, instilled with nothing but fear.

Father grabs my arm, and in all of this my so-called "friend" had been watching. It made some sense he would stay silent, but couldn't he atleast try?

"This doesn't end without a moral lesson to be taught." He grips my arm tightly, I had to look away and wince. He could've crushed my bones if he wanted to, but he aimed for something even higher this night.

Like he always did, he pulled the sword out from my side.

He grunted as he pulled the sleeve of my shirt, and I tried to pull my arm back. My eyes shifted from him, to my arm, and Jake..

He was crossing his arms, looking away from the scene. My heart raced as father kept pulling my arm back. One thing was for sure, I needed to get out of here.

I just wanted to encourage Jake to follow his heart despite the walls surrounding the kingdoms, and I was stupid enough to expect he would help me in a situation like this. I was a fool who thought he'd win anything.

"Father- agh!" I shouted through the castle halls as he sliced a scar on my forearm, a deep one that would take some time to heal. I whimper in pain as the blood dropped onto the floor. It hurt.. it hurt like hell.. I've expected this yet it still hurt. I tried to breathe, and I tried to regain my composure like a man, but it seemed like I was the inferior one in this situation..

Scratch that. I was always inferior.

"Father.." I cried out weakly. And as he deeply pressed his thumb onto the very wound itself, I groaned, my lips quivering from the pain. My hand was shaking, feeling like he just drained the blood out of it. I couldn't move it, and I couldn't make out the words to make it stop.

"Look at you. You've made a mess." He spoke, but it never mattered. His words were a blur compared to the sharp sting of my new wound, that would soon turn into a scar like it always did.

He lifted my face up again, a glare in his eyes directed onto the pain in mine. He took a sharo breath of fury. "Everytime. All I see is that woman pampering and spoiling you. Everytime I do what's right to make you behave.. I see her eyes everytime. Maybe you're no good after all.." he dropped me onto the ground, along with my severely bleeding arm.

"You know you're our only hope, Damian. You should've known better." It felt like he stood over me, mocking me and talking me down. "Clean yourself up. Jake, follow me." He ordered, and as the good little hound Jake was, he followed.

As they left, I was left alone.

I breathed in heavily, my entire being still intensely shaken by what happened. It was getting hard, and I couldn't move an inch. I was expected to walk towards my room and fix things, but I didn't have the energy for that.

Sudden voices clouded my mind.

"Frederick, he's a child!"

"What am I supposed to do with that? Baby him? He's a man, Mary!"

"A man?! He's five!"

"He will figure things out on his own! He doesn't need to be carried around all the time!"

"We're parents! We're supposed to raise--"

A thud.

"I do whatever damn thing I wanna do with the kid, alright? If you wanna spoil him, he'll never learn.."

.....

"Damian.. please never forget how much Mama loves you.. my little prince.."

"Mama, what's going on?"

"Shh.. nothing's going on. Mama's just going for a very long trip."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know, darling.. but it's going to be fine.."

"Ofcourse! As long as you'll be back!"

"Yes.. Yes I will.."

.....

"No one has to know about the execution of the queen."

.....

"Mama? Where do people go when they die?"

"Well.. I like to believe that when people die, their presence will be found in something they cherish the most.. or their favorite things.."

"What if you die and I'm still here?"

"...then you will have to look for me in something I cherish greatly."

.....

"Damn it, child!"

"I want my mommy!"

"She's gone, Damian! She died on a trip, remember?"

"I want mama!!"

.....

"King Frederic--"

"I want her dead! I want it over with, finished!"

"..yes, Your Majesty."

.....

"Papa? When is mama coming back? ...papa?"

"She's gone, kid."

.....

I scorched through my pocket, and the butterfly pin inside it made itself known in the palm of my hand.. I clutched it in my hands, holding it close to me. It was the only thing that gave me a sense of solace. A sense of comfort admist the darkness and emptiness of the castle I call my home.

This was the object my mother cherished her entire life.. and though I've grown up, I still look for her presence..

If she's still here..

"I want my mama!!"

If somehow.. she was still here..

"Damian.."

Then I know where she would be.

[lys-9-10]

Kagehina Fanfic: Ch 12

On AO3

Kageyama

There are three light knocks at my door and my mother’s voice calls out.

“Tobio? Are you in there?”

“I’m busy, mom.” I’m not busy. I’m lying listlessly on my bed.

“You have a visitor, honey.”

“What? Who –” My door swings open, revealing my mother’s tall frame. And behind her... a much smaller frame, topped with a shock of bright orange hair. “Jeez!” I spring off my bed, my feet tangling in the unmade blankets and tripping me. “What’s the point in knocking if you just open the door?” I growl at my mother as I right myself. It’s easier to focus on her...

“Relax, honey,” she says calmly. “Don’t be rude in front of your friend. Bye now.”

She turns and heads down the hall, leaving Hinata alone in the doorway. 

I look away.

“Are you going to invite me in?” Hinata asks after a few seconds have passed.

I grunt. “Come in, then.”

He does so. Through my peripheral vision (I'm still avoiding looking at him directly), I see him walk up to my bed and sit down on it. I remain standing.

“What the heck is up with you, Kageyama?” Hinata asks, blunt and to the point. 

My shoulders stiffen but I don’t respond.  

“Why did you just run away like that?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you,” I mutter. I loathe every jerk sentence that comes out of my mouth...

“Kageyama, do you regret saying you’d try this with me?”

I finally turn and face him. I’m sure my eyes are betraying the searing pain I feel at this question.

I could say yes. I could end this now if I wanted to.... Take matters into my own hands and deal myself the blow. Before it gets so much worse.... Is there any point in prolonging it? Making the disappointment that much more bitter, for the flashes of sweetness that come before it?

“No.”

I wince as soon as I speak the word. God, I’m so helpless...

Hinata leans forward on the bed. Reaching out, he takes hold of both my hands and tugs me down into a seated position next to him. “Then what’s wrong? ” His tone and face are beseeching. “Talk to me, Kageyama. This isn’t going to work if you can’t talk to me... I don’t really know anything about dating, but I'm pretty sure that's true.”

I’m trembling. My gaze is fixed on our interlocked hands, lying on the bed between us. “I... I...”

Hinata tightens his grip on my hands. I can feel him encouraging me, urging me to go on. My own hands tighten briefly, convulsively, in response.

“It’s just that...” A bead of sweat rolls down my temple. “I’ve wanted this for longer than you.” I finally force myself to meet his eyes. A spark of curiosity has lit in them at my admission, but he remains silent and continues listening. Drawing a shaky breath, I carry on. “I’ve wanted it since... since a while. But I never thought it was possible. And now that it is possible, I just... I’m terrified to mess it up. I’m terrified to lose it. I’m sure I can’t be what you need. Like you said, I’m just an asshole... Everybody knows that. How could I... how could I...” 

I don’t even realize I’m crying until a large tear splashes onto one of my hands. I start and quickly withdraw my hand from Hinata’s grasp, wiping the back of it on my bed sheets. When I venture to make eye contact again, I see Hinata is staring at me with a tender, compassionate expression.

“You’re not an asshole, Kageyama,” he says softly.

I grimace and shake my head. “Don’t. Don’t just say stuff to make me feel better.”

“I’m not. Kageyama, you’re not an asshole.”

“You said earlier today that I was.”

I said that you sometimes act like an asshole, but you’re actually super sweet and sensitive. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even said that. Because you don’t even really act like an asshole anymore. I mean, sure, you can be a little sharp sometimes. And you definitely come across as like...” he pauses, his eyes flicking up to the side as he searches for the correct words. “Stony. And just, not very inviting. If someone doesn't know you well.” He fixes me again with an intense gaze. “But I know you better than that. And you are not an asshole. You haven’t been for a long time.” The intensity in his expression relaxes and he flashes me a sudden grin. “Karasuno beat the asshole out of you.”

I close my eyes, weakly. “I still don’t like the way I treat people sometimes. Especially you. I... I have a hard time... coping, you know? I feel so much when I’m with you and I don’t know how to handle it, and so I lash out at you and say mean things...”

I jump as Hinata bursts into exuberant laughter. Stunned, I watch him wipe a tear of mirth from his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “It’s just... the thought of Kageyama being overrun with his emotions is so freakin’ hilarious...”

I flush, then scowl at the floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says again, this time more sincerely. He stops laughing and adopts a more sober expression. “I shouldn’t have laughed at you sharing that. See, Kageyama? We’re both assholes once in a while. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make this work. And it doesn’t mean we can’t treat each other better if we try. I mean... It’s probably like volleyball.”

I frown, perplexed. “Volleyball?”

“Yeah. You have to train to get good, you know? And we can train together, figuring out what works for us. Like, I was a crap player when I first arrived at Karasuno. But we figured out a system that worked for the two of us, with our closed-eyes quicks... And then eventually, as I trained more, we didn’t need the closed eyes anymore. 'Cause I got better. I learned how to fight in the air on my own. And you learned new skills too. You learned different tempos. You learned to do sets that stop. And so we both got better, as individual players and as partners. I think us being together might be a little bit like that. We’ll learn and train. And we’ll get better.”

My mouth is hanging slightly open. I didn’t know Hinata could rattle off words of wisdom like this... I almost wish Tsukishima was here so I could dare him to call Hinata simple-minded...

Hinata reaches out and retrieves the hand that I’d pulled away. He stares up at me with hopeful, earnest eyes, clasping both my hands in his.

“So? What do you say, Kageyama? Do you want to try to get good at this together?”

I stare at Hinata, my mind whirring and processing.

Hinata drew out of me the best volleyball player I could be... Maybe he can also draw out of me the best person I can be. The best... the best boyfriend I can be.

.....

Bloody hell. Haven't I always fought to be the best on the court? Not just my best but the best?

'Like volleyball,' Hinata says...

Well just watch me then. Just watch me become the best f—king boyfriend in all of human history.

“Yeah,” I finally reply, my chin lifted and my eyes locked firmly on Hinata's. My voice is not trembling. The set is in my control. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

Read more on AO3

[pleniloon]

Hello, i hope i find you having an enjoyable time; and if not, i hope you will be able to have a better one soon. But if you are taking request at any given point, might i request a part two to your royal! Kaeya au. And if it isn't much trouble already may it be a gn! reader please. Don't forget to hydrate and to take care of yourself.

Thank you for your time, an anonymous enjoyer of literature

The Damask Rose (GN! Version)

part one / fem version

characters: kaeya

warnings: none!

word count: ~3.5k

note: lucky for you, dear anon, i was already planning a part 2 AND posting the gn version alongside the fem version! enjoy :)

A king sat atop his throne, in his hands a piece of parchment that curved at the edges. A queen sat to his left and whispered to an attendant about an old novel hidden away in the hall of records. A duo of advisors stood in front of the royals, with soldiers belonging to the kingdom’s elite guard at their side.

“I see,” the king began, lifting his gaze from the scroll. “If the commander is in need of men on the front line, then we shall provide just that. The current class of squires is proving fruitful thus far, and they should be ready to march north by the month’s end.”

The first advisor was quick to stutter a response. “Your Majesty, if I may- no matter how talented the current class may be, we are running into the issue of…” he trailed off suddenly, his expression twisting into a grimace.

“The issue of… what, exactly?” The king beseeched. His relaxed, almost bored, demeanor betrayed their discussion. The average denizen would expect a war king to look fierce, with countless scars that tell stories of battle, a booming voice that pierced even the heavens when he issued a command, and an expression as cold as the iron that forged his blade.

King Alberich was often a subject of deliberation due to lacking such traits. He possessed but a single visible scar: a long, jagged line down the left side of his face, from below his ear to the front of his jaw. His hair was navy blue and cropped at his shoulders, and his eyes a soft shade of periwinkle. His wife, the queen, was quite the opposite, with amber eyes and long waves of golden hair. The only obvious evidence that the crown prince was indeed her son was the fair countenance they shared - the prince looked like a younger version of his father, otherwise.

The advisor cleared his throat. “The issue of… morale, Your Majesty.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other when the king’s gaze narrowed. “There are plenty of gifted soldiers on the front line, but many are without hope due to these conflicts being dragged on for so long. The camps are melancholic, at best. I don’t believe the soldiers can carry on much longer in these conditions.”

“My, my… that sounds troubling,” the prince’s voice interrupted their discussion, his tone as light and silvery as ever. He walked past the pair of advisors and greeted his mother with a kiss on the back of her hand, standing between the monarchs’ thrones. “If it’s morale that we require, perhaps we should take a festive approach, as opposed to enforcing a draft.”

“A festive approach? How do you suppose this will garner support, my dear?” The queen gave her son a curious look - it was widely agreed upon that the prince inherited his charm and wit from his mother. “Well, I believe that showing our kingdom how much the Eclipse Dynasty cares for them will encourage our citizens to defend their homeland. Why would a person put their life on the line for a ruler who does not value such sacrifice?”

The king hummed to himself as he considered the idea. “You’re suggesting we open the castle gates and throw a banquet to convince the masses of our concern for them?” He pondered for a few silent moments, before chuckling in amusement. “Well, you are right to believe that such a grand event would attract attention. It has been over four years since we last opened the gates.”

Kaeya rested his hand on the corner of the king’s throne and leaned down to his level. “Precisely my point, father. The people will recognize the importance of this banquet, and they will want to protect the kingdom. Is this not similar to what our ancestors did half a millenium ago, when we were at war with the heavenly principles?”

King Alberich shared a knowing stare with his son, then leaned past him to do the same with his queen. After silent deliberation between the three rulers, the king released a defeated sigh. “You two really do share the same mind, then. Very well, I will discuss this with the curia regis later today. Until then–” he turned back to the advisors. “–please inform the commander to pull his men back indefinitely.”

The pair nodded and, upon bowing and saying their goodbyes, hurriedly exited the throne room.

Kaeya hummed as a satisfied smirk made its way to his face. “If we’re going to be hosting a banquet, I must make another request.”

“What could it be?” His mother rested her chin on her hand, leaning on her elbow towards her son with an interested smile.

“Well, I’m sure a display of the dynasty’s power would be a wonderful way of solidifying our people’s trust and obedience. I believe that our greatest power lies in the alchemical art of Khemia. There is a barren courtyard just outside of the banquet hall - we could hire a practitioner to bring life to it.”

“I see your point, but why would we hire an esteemed Khemia practitioner to do something ornamental?” His father responded. “Our greatest minds are occupied with providing the kingdom with nourishment and teaching their successors. I do not think a single alchemist would have the time for it.”

“What if I said that I already have someone in mind?” Kaeya leaned in once more, recalling the image of his admirer from the week prior.

The king quirked his brow in a silent question. “Just leave the matter of the courtyard to me. The person I’m thinking of will not disappoint, nor will they run a hefty price.” Kaeya assured with a honeyed smile and a pat on his father’s shoulder.

The crown prince and queen possessed the same glint in their eyes, one that said, ‘Do not ask if you do not wish to know.’ King Alberich had learned to respect that glint, for he truly didn’t wish to know.

“Very well, then I’ll leave that to you,” he said with a few taps on the top of his son’s hand. “I expect great things of this mysterious alchemist of yours. And, do remember your other duties, as well.”

“Of course, father. I’ll get started right away.”

Kaeya retracted and made quick strides out of the throne room, his newfound eagerness not going unnoticed by those remaining. King Alberich turned to his wife, who watched her son with a serene smile.

“You two aren’t keeping secrets from me again, right?”

The queen met his gaze and giggled all-too-knowingly. “Of course not, dear.” She rose to her feet with a trained elegance and beckoned her servant to follow as she exited the room. “I’m sure you would be none the wiser if we were to deceive you withal.”

Now alone in the spacious room, save for the guards stationed within, the king turned to the Twilight Sword at his side. “You would tell me if they were deceiving me, right, Dainsleif?”

The knight released a heavy sigh and nodded. “Of course I would, Your Majesty. I’ve not kept a secret from you yet.”

・・・・・・

A lone figure stood below the imposing gates, the carefully crafted parchment in their grasp starting to wrinkle due to their fidgeting. A guard approached with a stern look; before he could inquire about their business, the person held the letter out towards him.

“I, uh- the crown prince summoned me, sir.” They said, defensively, as the guard examined the letter.

An eternity - or, perhaps a few moments - of silence passed by before he spoke up. “So it would seem,” he looked at them once more and placed the letter on their waiting palm. “The crown prince is unavailable currently, the royal alchemist is here to receive you in his stead. Follow me.”

Without waiting for a response, the guard turned on his heel and headed for the palace gates. The individual hurried to follow, equally disappointed and relieved at the prince’s absence. Now is not the right time, they reassured themself.

The castle was expansive, to say the least - certainly fit for a dynasty that has stood longer than the seven nations. It was all-too easy to get distracted by the baroque decor that lined the halls, so much so that they needed to focus to follow the guard. The winding halls carried on for what felt like forever, until the pair reached a courtyard equally as grand as the rest of the palace. A man stood near the entrance, his eyes fixed on the fallow field before himself.

“Sir,” The knight greeted with a bow. “The crown prince’s guest has arrived.” The man turned, facing the newcomers with a neutral expression.

“Of course, you must be the alchemist Kaeya talked so highly of.” He stepped forward, greeting the person with a nod and motioning for the guard to leave. “My name is Albedo. I am the royal alchemist.”

“I know who you are, sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” They bowed a bit clumsily, nervous at the prospect of meeting an esteemed member of the royal court. At their gesture, Albedo smiled ever-so-slightly. “And… your name?” He trailed off.

They felt a flush creep up their neck from their own negligence. “Oh, my apologies!” They quickly uttered before giving their name. Albedo nodded once more and, much like the knight from before, turned on his heel. “No need to apologize, I’m not strict about formalities. The prince asked me to welcome you on his behalf. I’ll explain what you need to do.”

The person nodded, following the alchemist when he beckoned them to accompany him down the stone path. “The prince tells me that you’re a Khemia practitioner. Who was your master?” Albedo asks, barely sparing them a sideways glance. “Oh, I, um… I never had a master, sir. I learned the art by watching the horticulturists work in the greenhouses.”

At this, the alchemist stops dead in his tracks. Equal parts regret and fear creeped up their spine, forcing the individual to recant. “That- That’s not to say that I haven’t been formally trained! I’m not inexperienced or a- or a fraud, sir!” A nervous chuckle escaped their lips as they planted their heels in this lie. “I would never risk harming the esteemed reputation of the Art of Khemia for monetary gain, sir.”

Before their rambling could continue, Albedo lifted his hand to silence them. “I do not believe that you’re a fraud,” he began, lowering his palm to his side. “I was merely… intrigued, is all. I’ve yet to encounter a self-taught Khemia practitioner. That’s quite telling of your innate talent as an alchemist.” A polite smile found its way to his face as he curiously tilted his head to the right. “Why did you never pursue a position within the palace? Talented alchemists are treated quite generously by the dynasty.”

The individual worried at their bottom lip at both the praise and the question. Yes, why didn’t she pursue a career within the palace?

“I cannot say that the prospect never crossed my mind. However, I believe my talents are limited to… ornamental projects, rather than projects that would aid the kingdom in any significant way,” They felt the perspiration on their palms and rubbed them against their outer thighs. “That is why I chose to own a flower shop. It allows me to put my talents to use, and it gives me the chance to bring those around me joy.”

“I see,” Albedo nodded once more, seemingly satisfied with their answer. “Your talent has already been noticed by the prince - if all goes well, perhaps you’ll get the chance to bring joy to many more people within the kingdom.”

The pair began down the path again, soon reaching the fountain at the center of the court. “As you can tell, this courtyard is quite… barren,” Albedo leaned against the stone edge and folded his arms across his chest. “The prince believes that a grand display is the only thing fit for the area. Seeing as all of the alchemists employed by the dynasty are currently preoccupied, the prince has selected you for the task.” He met their shifting gaze and tilted his head to the side once more.

“Are you up to the challenge?”

・・・・・・

I may have bit off more than I could chew.

The alchemist heaved a sigh as they examined their floral directory for the umpteenth time. The air had grown cold as the artificial sun had set, leaving them to shiver at the fountain’s cold stone against their back. Nothing felt grand enough for the palace.

“Liyue’s Glaze Lily is quite the rare sight, surely the nobles who have visited Teyvat will be impressed…” They muttered to themself. Another page flip, another sigh. “It’s still not enough. Maybe some lamp grass from Mondstadt? Those will look quite lovely past dusk. Ah, but those will clash with the Fluorescent Pearlbells…”

“Have you heard of the Rafflesia arnoldii?”

The new voice made the person jump and nearly drop their book in the fountain. When they regained their composure, they quickly got to their feet and spun around to face the man somewhat inelegantly. Upon realizing his identity, they found themself frozen in place, their mouth left open in a forgotten response.

“It’s a flowering plant native to Sumeru’s rainforest,” He - the prince - continued. “Many say it’s one of the largest in all of Teyvat, second only to the Regisvine. They also say that it smells like decaying flesh, hence why it’s commonly known as the ‘corpse lily.’”

“I- uh- you,” They stuttered for a few seconds, much to the prince’s amusement. “Have… Have you ever seen one? In person?”

Kaeya hummed and took a seat on the edge of the fountain. “Unfortunately, I haven’t. I’ve only visited Sumeru personally a handful of times, and I seldom have time to myself on those trips.” He rested his palms on his thighs and leaned forward to admire the individual standing in front of himself. The first thing he took notice of was the pink dusting their cheeks and neck. The second thing he noticed was the pink darkening to a pretty red under his periwinkle gaze.

The pair fell into a silence as they internally debated on the very same topic. The alchemist, the one far more nervous in this situation, worried their bottom lip once more, ‘Should I bring up the letters?’ being the only thought to break through their mind’s fog. Kaeya, on the other hand, was daring them to bring the letters up, if for nothing more than to watch the pretty red spread to the tips of their ears.

Unfortunately, fate - also known as Dainsleif - had other plans in this moment. The Twilight Sword announced his presence with an awkward clearing of his throat, catching both of their attention.

“Apologies for the interruption, but the Seneschal is requesting you, Your Majesty.”

The prince sent a glare towards the Twilight Sword. “Is it so important that he cannot wait?” His light tone had all but disappeared, replaced by a tone dripping with annoyance. “With how busy you’ve been as of late, I wouldn’t have come to you if I wasn’t sure of its importance.”

Kaeya let a sigh and a mumble of “very well” escape from him, as he rose from his seat and passed by his admirer. Dainsleif turned to follow him out, until the former spun around to face his companion again. “Oh, one last thing before I go.”

He approached his admirer until the space between them was far too little to be deemed appropriate. He leaned forward still, delighted by the flush creeping up their neck like before. “I’d very much like to meet again, just the two of us. Can I hope to see you here for the banquet?” Kaeya’s tone shifted once more, his words now coated with honey and silver.

The person was rendered defenseless against the prince’s charm. They simply nodded ‘yes’ in reply, no longer trusting in their ability to speak. Kaeya took their hand in his own, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of it, letting a light chuckle grace the skin.

“Good, then we’ll meet again soon,” he spoke upon lifting his head, his voice hardly above a whisper. He didn’t dare let go of their hand. “Until then, my rose.”

As they watched him leave the courtyard with the knight, a single emotion tugged at their heartstrings.

Love.

All-consuming love.

・・・・・・

As far as Kaeya was concerned, the banquet was a success. With citizens of all classes congregating, practically every corner of the palace was abuzz. The prince found himself pulled into a new conversation wherever he looked, his charming smile never getting the chance to fade. In truth, despite this event being his very own idea, his intent was not to spend the entire night socializing.

After a conversation with a few members of the clergy – he didn’t care to remember their names – Kaeya managed to reach a balcony that overlooked the courtyard. What was once barren had been restored to life, with a flower from every nation lining the stone pathways and creating a garden greater than that of Celestia. It wasn’t the plants caught under his scrutinizing gaze, however.

The individual carefully examining the horticulture and perfecting any imperfections was his inamorato.

“There we go,” the alchemist gently caressed the petals of the casa blanca lily. “Everything should be perfect. I hope the crown prince will be pleased.”

“I’d wager that he’s more than pleased,” Kaeya spoke up from the entrance, causing the person to jump and stumble, just like they did at their first meeting. He didn’t bother to hide his amused laugh. “Ah, I see you received my gift. Is the outfit to your liking?”

They flattened their palms against the silk – no doubt imported from Liyue – and smoothed out any wrinkles. “Oh, yes, it’s lovely! I just worry that such beautiful clothing will go to waste in my care, since I’ll seldom have the chance to wear it.”

“Nonsense. You deserve only the finest quality, my rose,” He took their hands in his own and admired them without shame. “The silk of Liyue is the best in all of Teyvat and the lands beyond. I never understood why until this very moment.”

How can he say such things so casually?, was what the person thought as they lowered their head in an attempt to hide their enamored smile. “I… thank you, Your Majesty. You’re too kind.” Kaeya released one of their hands to place his index finger under their chin, lifting their head and forcing them to meet his gaze. “No need for titles. I’d prefer to hear you say my name.”

They blinked once, twice, thrice, before gathering the courage to comply with his request. With a smile of their own, they replied, “Thank you, Kaeya.”

Now, it was the prince’s turn to flush. The tips of his ears turning red were the only clear difference, if one didn’t notice the way his smile broadened and his eyes nearly shut to indulge in the way they spoke his name; he never wanted to hear it another way.

“You… continue to captivate me with the simplest actions,” He chuckled and released their chin, offering his arm to hold as they started down the stone path. “More and more am I convinced that you are a gift from the divine, my rose. There is simply no other explanation of your ability to leave me helpless by uttering my name.

“Perhaps you’re a sorcerer, and you’ve secretly enchanted me. I don’t believe that I would complain,” He looked towards them with a playful smirk. “Or, you are simply the dream that I’ve always longed for, here in corporeal form.”

They came to a stop in front of the familiar fountain. Kaeya rested his hand atop their arm entwined with his own, refusing to let them go out of arm’s reach. For multiple minutes, the only sounds were that of the water splashing and the distant mirthful chatter. It was a comfortable silence that they shared.

Their head lowered to rest against his shoulder, startling the prince out of his thoughts. “I very much prefer this over sending letters,” They sighed, closing their eyes in contentment. “I may lack your honeyed words, but I am more than happy to remain here with you, so long as you’ll have me.”

Kaeya leaned down to press a kiss to their forehead, allowing himself to linger and indulge himself again. His lips brushed against their skin as he spoke in a hushed tone.

“I would want nothing more, my dear rose.”

a/n: i’m pretty sure i caught every gendered pronoun, but in case i didn’t, feel free to beat me with a squeaky mallet <3

-

[siriuslydimwitted]

If you love me, let me go

a/n: it’s for @mrzweasley’s writing challenge and i’m so sorry because i got a huge writer’s block

warnings: sexual tension, kissing, injury

word count: 1.2k

summary: draco decided to let you go from an arranged marriage

draco malfoy x pureblood!slytherin!reader

~~~~~

No one wants to marry a Malfoy- at least none of your family does, right? but your financial problems are telling otherwise. When you were a kid, your family and the Malfoys had a deal to restore your family’s fortune. If you and Draco come of age, you’re going to marry each other

That ‘age’ is certainly near from now that you both are by now fifteen, You have to put a smile on your face every time you’re having dinner with them even if your blood is boiling. You couldn’t imagine marrying a pureblood supremacist like him and you don’t want them to hold the future of your soon-to-be family

“why can’t you just accept that I’m going to be your husband,” Draco said, his cold ring is sending shivers through your spine while he grips tightly on your waist and his other hand is rested on your cheeks. You’re standing in a dim-lit deserted corridor with him

“never,” you spat angrily, containing your serious face so he can’t hear the loud thumping of your heart. He scoffed cockily as he tightens his hold

“We all know you can’t escape,” he muttered eagerly as he slowly leans his face towards yours, his hot breath is fanning your lips. You pushed him aggressively, he lost his tight grip on you and started to chuckle

“in your dreams, Malfoy,” your voice echoed, you ran away from him leaving him empty. He’s not going to lie, he kinda likes the way you’re playing hard to get but his feeling are only growing deep inside and he couldn’t accept that his presence is always making you mad

Christmas is one of the holidays you hate, not because it’s boring or unhappy but because of the fact that it’s either you’re going to spend it at Malfoy Manor or Draco’s going to spend it at your house

“Are you two doing well with each other?” here you are again, in the Malfoy Manor and all you can hear is the clanking of fork and knife when no one is speaking

“yes father,” Draco said maniacally as he roughly holds your free hand and shove them on the table “and she wanted a beach wedding,” how did he know that you like a beach wedding? You’re not telling that to anyone

You widened your eyes in shock as you shifted your gaze from your food to him

“Please can you just let me go?” you plead with him, you’re standing beside your bed while he’s looking at you standing leaning his back on the door frame. He just laughs a bit

“and why would I?” he asked furrowing his eyebrows

“I don’t love you!” you spat hardly making him jolt a bit but didn’t show it. Although he’s hurt, he tried to act threatening and dominate you. He walked forward to your bedside and hold your arms a bit rough

“oh yeah?” he spoke, his hot breath hitch whiffing over your ears “I know you do,” his lips started to travel from your ear to your bare neck, his other hand is holding the small of your back and the other is still holding your arm

His deep mysterious thick voice spoke again “and you will do. Forever” you let out a small whimper and instantly regret it because he heard it, he smirked. You’ll be lying if you said that you’re not enjoying every second of it

“let me go!” you whisper playing hard to get, but his lips landed on your unclothed neck and suck it harshly to make sure he would leave a mark. Tears flooded from your eyes, not from dread but from pleasure

You used that tears to beseech him “please stop it, Draco” his gaze soften and started to loosen his grip from you

“I’m sorry I-” he stated as if the demon inside him got out “if you wanted to cancel the wedding I will tell mum,” he said softly, so different from the blond Malfoy boy a minute ago

“thank you,” you don’t know if you’re thankful that he’s not going to be your husband or you regret it a bit because you have to admit it, you already developed some affection for the boy and you just don’t want it to be huge

After Christmas, your father disappointedly said that his partnership with Malfoys was cut off and the marriage is canceled. Now you’re starting to regret it, your father’s face caused you to pity him because his business is everything for him. Lucius is too cold-hearted to let Narcissa meet your mother even for one dinner together

Going back to Hogwarts was too hard for you, Draco is ignoring you every time you tried to talk to him

You never imagined that you’re going to be jealous every time Draco talks to other girls, but what’s your authority to get jealous when you’re not his fiancé anymore? Is it wrong for you to envy your own friend, Daphne every time he’s with him?

“You’re going to watch Quidditch?” Daphne asked happily after bidding goodbye to Draco and the rest of the Quidditch team

“why would I? I have no one to support anyway,” you said bluntly rolling your eyes at her

“yes you have,” she said, smile not leaving her lips as she holds your left hand and starts walking outside the pitch. Your face frowned in confusion “Draco,”

“for Salazar’s sake Daphne, how many times do I have to tell you that our marriage is canceled?” you said rapidly defending yourself guiltily

“oh yeah? That’s why you’re glaring at us when we were talking?” Daphne teased, still holding your hand and sitting on the chosen bench

“I’m not!” before Daphne could answer you, Lee Jordan spoke loudly from the commentator’s box indicating that the game is already starting

You saw the Slytherin and Ravenclaw team flew above the field, your eyes are constantly landing on a certain blond Slytherin boy who seems to gander around the pitch to find the tiny golden round object

“110-170 Slytherin on the lead,” Lee Jordan announced after saying jokes after joke which pisses Professor McGonagall off

All you can hear is the voice of all the students cheering for their house “Malfoy caught the snitch,” said Lee Jordan but before your eyes land on the boy, you heard some students’ gasp. You saw Draco was falling from above the pitch

He landed with a loud thud, you can’t think straight, and started running down from your sit

“what the hell, Malfoy” tears spilling from your eyes whilst hugging the boy “you could’ve killed yourself,” you continued, his eyes slowly dripping close but he still manages to laugh

They brought him to the Hospital Wing and all day you stayed beside him “what are you doing here?” he asked softly

“waiting for you to wake up, and tell you something,” you replied irritably but with a hint of a smile

“tell me that you love me?” he teasingly said

“I do, but I’m here to tell you that don’t ever put yourself in danger again,”

“you really love me?” he asked ignoring the last paragraph you said instead he focused on the words ‘I do’

“I said what I said and I’m not going to repeat it,” instead of replying, he grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, and smashed his lips to yours. The pleasure, the love, and the butterflies you’re eager to feel is already happening but this time, no arrangements and pretending, your lips danced together as if you’re in a cloud 9, he pulled away and rested his head to yours began smiling

“I love you too, dumbass”

[theclassiccake]

i always loved the trope Friend to lovers, when the characters shows they love the reader bc they are more or only soft with them, so if it's okay to ask, how about some Characters (Choose the ones you like to write most,, don't worry ^^) being only soft with a Gender neutral reader? maybe they don't date yet but are sure about how they feels about reader

How about we do Hades and Facilier this time around

No warnings on this one

Hades

With the lord of the dead, let's say you two met after his altercation with Herc. He may have gotten out of that river, but he's still stuck with his dead-end job as the underworld's overseer.

Overtime, he's reminded why he dreaded staying down there in the first place. Nothing not one thing has changed since he's been there. It didn't take long to realize that it never will.

Then he met you.

You might have crossed his path as just some civilian trying to beseech him for guidance. Or you ended up in his debt. Either way, you find yourself intrigued by the god and run into him very often.

More often than he'd like actually. Hades is annoyed at first, unsurprisingly. Yet he doesn't really do much to make you go away oddly enough. It's like he's too exhausted to just lash out and scare you off or even smite/curse you.

After a few more visits from you, he realizes that he.. doesn't have alot going for him right now. He was lucky enough to get out of that river and he's not planning another takeover anytime soon.

Oh what the hell, he's got an eternity might as well do something with it

And so your meetings together become the norm, with you asking questions about him and with Hades answering most of them at times.

He wouldn't admit it out loud, but as the years pass he starts to enjoy your company. Hell it's nice to have any company to be honest. It's not like he has alot of worshipers as it is and he doesn't have anyone close enough to consider a "friend" in the first place.

So to him, it's kinda nice to have someone to talk with for once (y'know someone that won't criticize or belittle him).

You're also a really good listener too. There are times when Hades will just vent to you and you let him. All of the shit he's been wanting to tell someone, anyone finally comes out. You can't imagine how long it's been since a person actually sat down and listened to him.

As you two hang out more frequently, he takes you to different parts of Greece to see the sights. He only does so after you kept reminding him about how he needs to take a break from the underworld (for a little while at least).

It doesn't take long for him to start catching feelings. He'll try to suppress it, really it comes out of nowhere so he doesn't know how to handle it. And he can't bring himself to just ignore you, so he keeps it to himself for awhile.

You start to notice a shift in his behavior recently. It's like he's.. more nervous when he's with you. Not to mention, that he rarely loses his temper when you're around. On a normal day, he'll gladly maim Pain and Panic. But if you're in the same room, he doesn't find himself as angry.

When it starts getting too much for him, he seeks out the fates for help. He asks them if there's even a slim chance of having a future with you. Even though he cares for you, you're still mortal and the fact that he loves you... really fucking scares him. It might not be possible to be with you, but he wants to make sure you'll be okay.

The fates answer in vague verses and only tell him to be patient. He's more lucky than he thinks. It's not like turning you immortal is completely impossible, after all.

They don't tell that to Hades directly though

Dr. Facilier

Now with the doctor, you both meet before the events of the film take place. Being in New Orleans long enough, Doc tends to meet all walks of life in the city.

He spends his days going to different parts of town, seeing who he can swindle to make quick cash. It's not always practical, but it puts food on the table at least. Though he can admit that it gets rather repetitive at times.

But one day he spots a new face.

You meet him as you're working in a quiet little bookstore just off of the quarter. Whether it was by fate or coincidence, he'll never know. During your first meeting, you found him quite fascinating.

He would offer to give you a reading and even tried to get you to visit the emporium. To his surprise, you politely turned him down every time. That made him slightly annoyed and he would find himself visiting the bookstore often just to persuade you.

When his plans to convince you would fall flat, he would eventually give up the act. Doc would make light conversation with you instead since he had nothing else going on that day.

Facilier found the company of a stranger rather pleasant actually

From then on he stops by the bookstore almost everyday, and you're there to greet him with a friendly smile when he does.

If he's perfectly honest, he thinks that being with you is a nice change of pace. Getting to do something besides work all day is pretty great. It's not like he often gets to have a nice chat with someone that wasn't afraid of him or didn't know who he was.

He didn't even realize how much he missed having a real friend until he met you.

You don't seem bothered by him at all. Doc likes to swap some light banter with you and you manage to retort back quickly. He finds that part of you appealing, you're someone he can genuinely joke around with. He feels much more like himself whenever he's talking to you.

Since you're new to town, he takes that as an opportunity to give you a tour of New Orleans. There's never a dull moment with Facilier as he shows you everything the city has to offer.

It hits him like a train when he catches feelings for you. He tries not to think about it, worried that he'll just drive you away if you found out. So he doesn't say anything, yet he can't stop that feeling plaguing him.

You notice that something seems off with the doctor. He's become more and more quiet around you recently. It's starting to worry you at this point. You're most likely the only person in town that he actually talks to on a regular basis. So you can't help but think something's wrong..

As the days go by, he turns to his shadow for advice. He at least needs a second opinion if he should tell you or not. You're probably the best thing that's happened to him in a long time, the last thing he'd want to do is scare you off. He's going about this without a solid plan which just makes him more anxious.

His shadow is just as lost as he is and just gives Doc a shrug in response. He is a reflection of Facilier's feelings after all. Maybe he should quit while he's ahead.

Or maybe his other "friends" could help..

[syneilesis]

[fic, wip] the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water | chapter one

the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water

Ikemen Vampire | Comte de Saint-Germain x Reader | T (rating will go up in the future) ao3 link

It's your first time meeting Comte; Comte disagrees.

prologue

chapter one

It all began when he was thirteen, rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed with the world around him. Radiant, unfurling with splendor. It was as if every day was a feast, dazzling colors and harmonious songs that stream through his senses. His love for humans had already sprouted and bloomed by then, clustering into a resplendent garden.

There was a girl, too. Human and seventeen, the flesh of her cheeks supple and glistening with sweat as she helped her father tend to his family’s garden, her long fingers spattered with thorn-cuts, red lines underneath thin skin. She would glance at his father and smile, the faint curve of her mouth like a ghost-touch that could only be noticed in the periphery, an unfocused detail. Whenever she smiled like this, Abel’s vision would blur, then refocus, and her smile would be the only crisp, clear thing in his sight.

It earned him multiple reprimands from his tutor—getting distracted by the smallest things was not a good look for the son of a noble family, the tutor would say. But to Abel, it wasn’t small: it was a reorientation of a world festooned with so many beautiful things, heightened like a revelation, an awakening.

She was the daughter of the estate’s gardener, an additional headcount when Abel’s parents hired the man, almost a decade ago. But her assistance extended to other kinds of errands, and that was appreciated. For a young girl, she knew of their station, and she was grateful for his family’s kindness. Whenever she and Abel passed by each other, she would pull her head down and mutter Young Master and scurry away, missing the way Abel’s gaze would follow her with wide, beseeching eyes, imagined conversations trapped behind slightly parted lips.

He wished to get closer to her.

“Have you actually tried talking to her?” Vlad asked Abel during one of his visits, both of them splayed out on the grass, shaded by a tree, the scent of summer sharp against their noses.

There was a tea party in the garden, attended by pureblood vampire clans. And there she was, serving tea to Abel’s and Vlad’s mothers, who were engaged in a lively discussion. Abel could trace the delicate line of her wrist as she tilted the teapot away from the cup.

He hesitated. “Every time I approach her, she runs away.”

“Does she know what we are—is that it? Is she afraid?” Vlad squinted at the party. “I don’t think she knows. She seems fine around our parents.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t know.”

“Then perhaps …” His contemplative frown dawning into comprehension, Vlad brought his gaze to Abel and continued, with weighty earnestness: “Perhaps she hates you.”

Abel recoiled from that conclusion, hard. “No! Why would you say that?”

Vlad shrugged. “What else could be the reason?”

“She can’t possibly hate me,” Abel insisted. It was devastating even just thinking about it. “I haven’t done anything to her!”

He confronted her after the tea party was over and the visitors had left. She was in the middle of setting the chairs aside when he called her. The day was almost over, and the sky burned with the setting sun, casting the garden with fiery glimmer. In this warm glow her eyes lit like precious stones. Abel’s heart tripped on itself.

“Young Master?”

Though she had responded, her eyes were fixed onto the ground, the tense set of her mouth giving away her nerves. Abel wanted to smoothen it with his fingers.

“You always avoid me whenever I come by,” he said, and it made her look up in surprise. “Vlad thinks it’s because you hate me. Do you hate me?”

“Of course not, Young Master!” The distress was apparent on her face, so Abel believed her. “I dare not hate you. I just … I do not understand why you would bother talking to me.”

Bother talking to him? Abel blinked at the silliness of such thought. “Why do you think that? Of course I want to talk to you! I want to know you better! I want—” He faltered, as his ribcage could not contain his wildly beating heart. “—to know your favorite flower.”

His voice tapered off, and Abel felt silly himself. There they were, encircled by many flowers, gilded by the light of the leonine sun, their shadows tinged red. Everything became smudged out, the colors bleeding together, until the thump of a chair being placed on the ground jostled Abel out of his spiral. She was looking at him, and there was a faint smile on her face. Crisp. Clear. Abel inhaled sharply.

“It’s rose,” she said. The shadows dancing across her face made her lips seem fuller. “My favorite flower is rose.”

+

Saturday arrives, and you’re vibrating out of your skin.

There’s nothing to be nervous about, except of course you’re going to a stranger’s house, located at the outskirts of the city, the specifics of which you’re not privy to. The day before, you were so frenetic with your zooming and scrolling in Google Maps, hunting for Comte’s exact address. You didn’t find anything, and that alarmed you so much you weren’t able to finish any of your tasks for the day.

And now, standing awkwardly at Boulevard Saint-Germain, you’re waiting for your ride, courtesy of one mysterious Comte.

It occurs to you that you don’t know what kind of car Comte will pick you up with. You don’t know his contact info, and the only thing you can do is loiter at the edge of the pavement, so when Comte drives by he can see you easily. Even if some people are side-eyeing you with suspicion, you’ll endure.

A beautiful black car that you realize is a Rolls-Royce parks in front of you, and you have half the mind to move aside to allow whoever they’re letting off or in unencumbered. As you take a few steps to the side, the backseat window rolls down to reveal Comte leaning across the vacant seat and calling your name.

No, you think with nascent horror, limbs locking in place and facial muscles being pulled from both sides, no fucking way. This guy’s loaded. Jesus Christ. You should’ve seen it coming, really, what with his flawless sartorial choices. But come the fuck on. Suddenly, there’s a world-crushing pressure on your shoulders.

He calls you again, his face beginning to crease with worry. “Aren’t you getting in?”

You can practically hear your joints creaking as you make your way inside the beautiful, magnificent, jaw-dropping car. You’ll never be able to ride a car like this again—may as well savor the moment.

“Have you been waiting long?” Comte asks with his ever-present, ever-pleasant smile. Today he’s wearing turtleneck and cashmere jacket; his hands entwined, resting on his folded legs, his back a languid line against the tailored upholstery. Behind his statuesque profile, the window displays the Parisian scenery like a film reel, all soft colors and vintage tones. 

“N-No …” While inside your head old money old money he’s old money buzz around like stubborn bees.

He glances at your messenger bag, worn and fondly overused, and blinks, confused.

“Is that all you have to bring?”

“Oh.” Your hand finds itself patting the bag. “Yeah, just my laptop and my notes. I’m going to do a preliminary reading of the books first before I dive in deeply.”

“I see.” He turns his head towards the window, silently contemplating, then turns back. He says, “Does that mean you’ll take a long time with your research?”

He asks as if there’s only one correct answer—or at least his next action entirely depends on your answer, the carefully enunciated words corresponding to a specific implication, the meaning of which you can’t discern.

The pause stretches for longer than five seconds, which Comte interprets as something negative; he adds, in haste: “I’m just curious about your research, that’s all. I don’t mind if you take a while with my books. I won’t be displeased, if that’s what worries you.”

“Thanks for the reassurance.” You show him a polite smile. “Right now I can’t come up with an estimated timeline, but maybe after I get to see the books I can. This is just one part of my research; I’m also doing a comparative study of literature in other languages.”

“That sounds like no easy task. I’d love to hear more about it.”

Maybe some other time; rather, you’d like to redirect the subject into something less about yourself and more about someone you and Comte know.

So you nod and smile. Pause. And then prevaricate: “By the way, how did you and Professor Vollant meet?”

“We met at the Louvre,” Comte recounts, amusement gracing his features, reminiscing. “He was passionately arguing with another scholar about François Gérard’s painting of Napoleon’s coronation. He was prepared, waving a lot of research printouts that his companion gave up and let him win the argument.”

“That sounds like him all right.”

“After that I introduced myself to him and asked what he thought about other paintings, such as … Vincent van Gogh’s. His answer ended up thirty minutes long. People around us thought he was giving a lecture. When he finished there was even an applause! We’ve been friends ever since.”

You can easily imagine that happening. Vollant is such a character; it’s great that he’s one of your supervisors because you’re also entertained by his personality. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

The road gives way to an increasing number of trees until you don’t recognize the route anymore, and your shelved wariness towards Comte surfaces again. He senses your unease, and lays a soothing hand on top of yours.

“I live in an old house, which is why it’s out of the way.”

His hand fits the width of your hand with an easy lightness and warmth that it undoes your growing discomfort. His smile is kind and devoid of any doubtful intention. And besides, even if he carries a dark purpose, he would gain nothing from you; he’s already rich, anyway.

When you reach your destination, your concerns are obliterated, and you feel your jaw dropping. Comte’s beside you and he may see you embarrass yourself yet again, but you don’t care, because at the end of the path is his house—except it’s not really a house. It's a fucking castle, complete with a garden and a fountain and practically everything.

Yep, definitely old money.

“We’re here,” Comte says, once the car stops in front of the mansion’s gate. They’re still a few ways away from the mansion entrance, the cobblestone path lined with groomed flowers and shrubbery. Comte gets out of the car by himself as the chauffeur opens the gate, and you’re stuck observing the smooth swing of his legs, the motion economical yet fluid. There’s a certain elegance to it, like centuries of grandeur weathered into its fundamentals. So arrested by the picture that you don’t realize Comte’s circling around the car to open your side of the door and offer his hand to you.

“O-Oh,” you stammer, once you’re confronted with his gallant, smiling face. You stare at his hand, mortified. “Is this necessary?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. Only the best for my guests.”

His hold on your hand is firm as you exit the car, letting go as soon as both your feet are planted onto the ground. Nodding at the chauffeur, he passes through the gate, glancing at you as a signal to follow him.

+

At thirteen, Abel was in love.

An exhilarating feeling that took his breath away, like falling from the sky and never hitting the ground, an endless soaring that rippled his skin, accelerating his heartbeat. He would look for her in the garden, framed by the flurry of many flowers, edging her outline like a secret. When she turned his way she would startle a little, but her faint smile would emerge, as if it was reserved for him and him only.

Abel’s heart then would long for hers, and while he knew the difference between them was vast and insurmountable—he a pureblood vampire, she a human—he would still gravitate towards her, an invisible pull, irresistible and inescapable.

“Young Master,” she called, the words sunlight between her lips.

It was not only what they were that separated them; there was also the distance of age. She was seventeen—an adult in Abel’s young, guileless eyes. With her every movement was a grace that Abel could only attribute to experience and patient maturity. The swan tilt of her head. The river-flow curl of her fingers.

“You’re too young for her,” Vlad had told him, watching Abel watch her carrying her father’s gardening tools. Her skirt billowed after her like ocean tides.

“Does it matter?” said Abel testily. “I love her.”

“Does she love you back?”

That stopped Abel short.

Her voice was rose petals and her smile was the world coming back into focus. She was soft and kind around him, and whenever he talked to her about anything he could think of she listened with her eyes crinkled, answering his every question and responding to his every tale. Her generosity and openness eclipsed his parents’, who sidestepped some of his inquiries about the relationship between vampires and humans.

She didn’t know what he was, what they were, and would that matter? Abel could see it: in a few decades she would wonder why he would still look youthful, on the cusp of adulthood, despite living for almost half of a human’s lifespan. And that buoyant affection would morph into heart-shattering fear, and Abel could not take that, the pain a bud within his heart, the inevitability of it.

“I haven’t confessed yet, but I will.” Abel turned to Vlad, and whatever he saw in Abel’s face made his eyebrows rise. “And the fact that I’m a vampire.”

“Abel, you shouldn’t do that. Humans are not supposed to know.”

“Don’t worry, Vlad. It’s going to be okay. She will understand.”

He brought his gaze back to her; she had left the garden and was now heading to the storage house, the crown of her hair glinting against the glare of the sun.

He repeats, “It’s going to be okay.”

+

It’s like you’re transported into the past. All those period dramas that you’ve watched—the lush red carpeted floors catching the sunlight spilling from the tall, arched windows; the mahogany walls that contrast against the creamy white ceiling, where golden chandeliers hang like accents; the dark ornate designs on each door, an interesting touch to this elegantly arranged interior. All of these resonate with your first impression of Comte: dignified, wealthy, all graceful angles.

“If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask me,” he’s saying as he guides you to the library. For every window you pass by the light haloes his profile, highlighting his smooth and aristocratic features with an otherworldly glow.

“I … hm,” you murmur, thoughts still in the process of solidifying, but he seizes that as a conversational overture.

“Please, don’t be shy.”

“I was just thinking how old this house is.”

“Ah, yes.” Comte brightens. “Centuries old. I believe that this was built by my, ah, ancestors around the seventeenth century. It’s been studiously maintained, despite signs of old age outside. How are you finding it?”

He seems really interested in your answer: slightly narrowed eyes that await your response, the open curves of his brows, his eager smile. Initially you’ve planned to give a polite answer, but what’s the harm of answering this innocuous question honestly?

“It’s my first time in a very old house, actually, so I’m really amazed. I’ve only seen houses like this in TV and movies. I’m still processing it all in.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Back in my hometown the oldest house is just two hundred years old.”

Comte’s smile turns warm, fascinated.

“Two centuries—that’s also impressive. Do tell me more about it.”

As you’re still walking along the gorgeous hallway, Comte eventually raises the matter with the books: “You said that your university doesn’t have the books you need for your dissertation, but that couldn’t have been the case, could it?”

“I actually need specific editions, and those are the ones that they don't have,” you explain. “They have the latest editions, but what I need are the first or the second because they have the chapters that the third and the later ones have edited out. I need the unabridged versions of the texts, so to speak.”

“I see. That makes sense.”

It takes a few more corners before they arrive at the library, and you have to bite a gasp at the sheer scale of it. Shelves from floor to ceiling, wall to wall; excess books stacked on the floor, on chairs, on tables. A bibliophile’s wet dream, the smell of books permeating in this condensed space in the mansion. You can live the rest of your life in this one room. You sneak a glance at Comte—who is heading towards a particular shelf—with barely restrained envy.

“The books you’re looking for—” he pulls one out of the shelf “—are here.” He presents it to you as you make your way over to him. “The rest are in the same row. You can work at the table there, where the natural light hits best. I’ll just be at the longue if you ever need anything.”

“Got it. Thank you again for allowing me to work here.”

“As I’ve said, I’m only happy to help.” He lingers for a bit as if he wants to say more, but those seconds of hesitation are dispelled and he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Comte exits the library quietly, closing the door with a careful click, and you’re left alone with mountains of books surrounding you. You would’ve feasted on this opportunity, but you only exhale, and set your things on the rectangular table positioned by the window.

The library is overlooking the garden, and you can identify an array of roses, violets, poppies, and dahlias. It must feel nice walking along the stone steps, bathed in scent and color.

But you know your priority, and it’s held in your hand. You remind yourself that you’re operating under someone’s generosity, and in that generosity, trust. Work first, everything else falls later.

You settle on your seat, place the book on the table, and begin to read.

+

In the end, he wasn’t able to confess; his parents had helped her father arrange a marriage for her. A baron in the south, with a steady income that could sustain her and her father. It was more than they could ask for.

Abel ran. He ran as far as his adolescent legs could take him, ran until the wind felt like ripples on his skin. When Vlad found him hours later, he was folded underneath a large tree, knees encased by trembling arms, head dipped low.

“Come, Abel,” Vlad said, a hand outstretched. “Your parents are worried sick.”

The day after was the day of her departure, and at first Abel didn’t want to see her step past the gate, the final action that would cement the fact that she would no longer return. He tried to resist the tears that threatened to burst out of him, but it was futile, and when she found him (she sought him!) messily wiping his face, she immediately conjured a handkerchief and helped him clean himself up, one steady hand on his convulsing shoulder.

It was the first time they touched.

“Young Master, why are you crying?”

“Because—” he hiccuped “—you’re leaving.”

She paused, and on her bent position she peered up at him. “You are sad that I will leave?”

“Of course! You’re leaving me, and it’s unbearable.”

The smile on her now was asymmetrical, troubled.

“I’m glad that Young Master values me enough to make you sad when I leave. Please don’t cry.”

Values her enough? Abel wanted to correct her, to insist that she was more than valued, the overflowing emotions his little body cannot hold indicative of her significance. But the gentle strokes beneath his puffy eyes and over his tear-stained cheeks were a tranquil rhythm that his breathing evened out, and the impassioned words died partway through his lips.

As soon as he calmed down, she straightened herself, the hands leaving him, her warmth receding.

Abel sniffed. “Why do you have to go?”

“I have to, eventually.”

“But not now.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Your family has been kind and generous to my father and me. This opportunity they've given me—I cannot refuse it.”

“But you can! There will be someone in the future! Just wait for—”

For me, he wasn’t able to say, his throat suddenly constricting, a slice of pain that nearly summoned his tears once again.

I love you, he wanted to say, please choose me. But deep within him, he knew, achingly so, that nothing would come out of his affection. He had seen the cycle of relationships between pureblood vampires and humans. Secrets and regrets. Letting go. Either way the result was always the same: hurt and loneliness. And this wasn’t different from the others; eventually he would say goodbye, and that would be the end of it.

Abel clamped his mouth shut.

“I’ll write you letters if you want.” Her tone was appeasing, as was her expression. It was only now that Abel realized that a few paces away her luggage lay abandoned in favor of consoling him. It was large and old, cracked in some places, laid on the floor askew as if it was abruptly dropped from her grip.

He was delaying her, and shame filled him. But wasn’t that the mark of pure love? The scrabbling desperation that was quaking in his voice, the ringing desire to beg her to stay. He wanted not the palliating words branded on paper but her presence itself beside him. Alas, it would never happen, no matter how much he dreamed of it.

“Okay,” he said in a small voice, almost forced out.

Her smile was all he could see, radiant and beautiful, but it hurt.

Her father stood by the gate, waiting for her, their carriage pulled not far from him. They gave their last gratitude to Abel’s parents, and then she bade Abel goodbye. Abel held his breath to stop himself from another bout of crying. He stayed outside until the carriage disappeared from his vision.

So that was his first love—a connection severed even before it truly began. It ached like a hidden wound, and for years he would nurse it alone and in silence, the memory-image of her faint smile bittersweet in its sheen. Abel would keep it close to his heart, as he would of her other lives in the centuries to come. Because what was love, if not an unvanquishable yearning?

+

You’re so absorbed with the book that you jump when a pressure digs onto your shoulder and shakes you once.

“I’m sorry,” Comte says. “You weren’t answering after I called you a few times. That book is riveting, I assume?”

“A-Ah …” You blink up at him once, twice, your world recentering from the disruption. It’s a bit difficult to transition from being engaged in reading to jumping back outside the pages. “Yes, I’m enjoying it so far.”

He glances at the book, humming in surprise. “You’re almost done with it.”

“I’m a fast reader.” You look around the library, and finding no clock, you check your phone. “Have I exceeded the time?”

“Oh, no, no.” Comte leans back, one hand resting on the table, his hip touching its edge. “That’s not it. I’m just inviting you for tea. You’ve been here for a few hours now; you need to take a break.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine, Comte. I don’t want to impose more than I have.”

“Nonsense. The tea and cake are already prepared outside. You only need to come.”

“Outside?”

There’s a kiosk further inside the garden, flowering vines slithered around the pillars. When you take a step inside, it feels like you're entering a high fantasy world. At the center is a table with tea and pastries, their sweet smell wafting along your nose, tickling it. Comte pulls the chair for you, and you awkwardly thank him for the gesture. 

“You didn’t have to do this, Comte. I’m already grateful as it is.”

“Then think of this as your way of paying me back. You get to use my library; I get to have a few minutes of your lovely company.”

“Well, when you put it like that …”

Comte smiles.

He asks you many things, from your reading progress to your research topic. You explain the conception of your dissertation, tracing the root of your idea from the time you’ve read a particular book that made an indelible mark in your mind, the themes of which compelled you to devour other similar literature. There’s just something inherently alluring in them, calling out to you like a siren song, the preternatural shift that pulls you under, unable to escape. Comte watches you enumerate point by point the significant moments, your hands undulating like tides as you recount a particular imagery, his gaze never leaving you, even as he lifts his cup to take a sip.

“And those themes you like?”

“Time, memory, and remembering.”

And just like that—there’s a change that shimmers through Comte, like waking up from a dream, a sun-flecked veil that disperses around him, and you’re now seeing him differently, the shadows on his skin and on his clothes flickering and darkening, as if he’s being revealed, truly, for the first time. His eyes are slightly wide, indicating disbelief, and like you it seems that he’s seeing you for the first time, lips on the verge of parting as though he’s been engulfed with the need to say something. Something crucial, perhaps.

“Comte?”

He snaps out of it. Shaking his head, he says, “I’m just wondering why they fascinate you.”

“Oh, hm. I’m interested in how we remember things and how we process them. Why do we treasure certain memories—yearn for them, even? And how does time affect our relationship with memories and remembering? I chose literature because they can be visceral but at the same time processed in the sense that you explore that raw feeling and make it tangible through words.”

“Treasure certain memories, yearn for them …” he murmurs, seemingly arrested by the idea. Then: “Do you treasure a particular memory and yearn for it?”

It’s a personal question—asked out of curiosity, you think, from the way his tone hints of the thought uttered aloud. Nevertheless you think about it, drinking your tea, which has a sweet aftertaste, taking your time on how to answer without revealing too much of yourself.

“I do, of course,” you say. “Mostly memories of family and friends. Places that I’ve been. Nothing too grand, though. Just … small and intimate.”

“The most treasured memories are always small and intimate.” He smiles like he’s remembering something. “Do you yearn for them?”

Do you? Yearning and nostalgia for the past imply that something has changed in between, something that cannot be reverted into what it once was. In some cases, this is paired with regret, that final emotion with no recourse, without release. In many ways you’re lucky that you don’t cultivate regret from the decisions you have made during your life, but there have been times when you wish you could experience them again, capturing that moment’s emotional resonance that’s lingered in you for years.

“Not … exactly.” For a couple of seconds you debate whether to elucidate further. “I’m not wanting for anything right now. I’m where I want to be at this point in my life.”

Comte’s lips quirk just a tiny bit. “It must be nice to feel content.”

“I don’t dwell too much on regrets. I just treat them as learning experiences.”

“Learning experiences …” he repeats as if it’s a foreign concept. Remarkably, that catches your attention. Looking at Comte right now, one would think that his life is as smooth as his movements, but you remember the way his face crumbled when he asked you if you’ve met before and you said no. As though yes means everything to him, and for that you wonder how many regrets he’s carried within him and how much they've weighed him down.

“It’s like,” you begin to explain, bolstered by what you see in his face, “if I keep on thinking about things I’ve done in the past or about things that didn’t go the way I wanted them to, I’d be paralyzed by regrets and thoughts of wanting to change them. I don’t want that because I can’t move forward, and I want to move forward. I’ll just tell myself then: at least I’m a little wiser because of my experiences.”

He mulls over your answer, and for a few moments it’s silent, the wind rustling the leaves and the flowers the only sound you hear. “Does it actually help?” he finally says.

“As a graduate student, it definitely helps.”

Comte laughs at that. “You have such an admirable philosophy.”

“Well—it’s born out of necessity.”

“Forgive me, my dear,” he suddenly says, and you latch onto my dear. By now the profile you’ve sketched of Comte describes him as elegant, affectionate, and avuncular. Even though you think that he’s only a few years older than you (five years at the very least, a decade at most), Comte has that air about him, a patrician who takes care of everyone under his wing, and you think you’re not too far off the mark, what with his insane castle for a house. “It’s our second meeting, and I’m already burdening you with serious topics.”

“It’s all right, Comte,” you assure him. “I don’t mind.”

“We should keep it light for now. How about your favorite book?”

“Oh, no, that’s way worse. Don’t make me start.”

It gets easier after that, everything finally slotting into place. Your tense shoulders loosening, and you feel that you’re smiling openly this time. The few minutes he’s claimed earlier lengthens to a full hour. You come back to the library invigorated, ready to tackle the next book on the list; you even finish it in just under a couple of hours. Later, when Comte sends you off, the seat inside the Rolls-Royce no longer induces a stiffness in you; it now brings comfort, the way it should be for an absolutely expensive car.

By the time you hit the bed and mentally review the day, you think to yourself, Yeah, I can handle this.

When you meet with Vollant two days later, he greets you with: “How was your research at Comte’s home?”

Between you are your notes you wrote down after you’d read the books, haphazard ideas that will gain shape eventually, seeds waiting to grow. Vollant browses them page by page, humming when he finds something of interest.

“Honestly, I was expecting a large house because he seemed upper class,” you say, cautiously watching Vollant’s dynamic expressions. “But I didn’t anticipate a mansion.”

He pauses at that, and you’ve never seen him make such an intrigued face before.

“I haven’t been to Comte’s house, so you’re very lucky. Is it true that he has nine sons but no wife?”

And now it’s your turn to have your eyebrows fly off your forehead.

“What? I have not seen any—how old do you think he is?” At the very least Comte appears to be in his thirties. Did he sire children from different mothers?

“We’ve been friends for ten years.” Vollant frowns suddenly. “Come to think of it, he doesn’t look like he aged a day. My hair’s starting to turn white but he still looks young. I’m pretty sure we’re around the same age.”

“Huh, interesting …” That, indeed, sounds strange, but you don’t think about it too deeply. “Maybe he has a good skincare regimen?”

“Well, I want to know what he applies to his skin. Do you think he’s using a luxury skincare brand?”

You’re tempted to laugh, but Vollant’s eyes never leave your notes. His lips, though, are curved in accordance with his opinions on Comte’s allegedly unageing face.

“Maybe. I have no idea.” Then, feeling bold, you continue, “Do you want me to ask him?”

It’s hilarious how Vollant lifts his face to direct you a most unimpressed stare: all flat lines, absolute deadpan. You respond with a sheepish grin.

“What? I’m curious too.”

The stare continues. And then: “You should pursue this line of thought.” He points to a page where you almost can’t read your own writing; how he’s able to comprehend your loopy cursive is both awe-inspiring and frightening at the same time. “And read more Proust and Kristeva.”

“Fine, fine. More homework for me.”

+

He never received any letters from her, and maybe that was for the best. It was better for him to wonder what her life was like with the baron—always guessing, afraid of the answers—than to know that she did have a better life without him. And even if she hadn’t, was he even able to whisk her away from her own life and into his? His fangs ached to puncture her flesh, to call for her blood.

And for the second time, he was too late. When Abel turned seventeen, he finally got a letter from the baron’s household, announcing her death. It was due to an illness, conquering her before they even knew what it was.

His memories of her were clouded with dust and time, but they were a treasure, closely held and protected. But the pain he felt now was fresh and lancing, another wound on top of the old one. Abel’s used to parting and the loneliness accompanied by it, but this was grief, raw and all-consuming, a maw that was devouring him whole.

He would never see her again. And while she might only be a fleeting spark in his long, vast, and lonely life; regret was permanent, a steady and loyal companion he was beginning to learn to live with.

chapter two

[austajunk]

(Heyo, I hope you don't mind me sharing my thoughts in your inbox. I just think you're cool and have good opinions, so here I am.)

OK, so I love Komahinanami as an OT3. As friends, or romantically, or whatever. I just love them a lot.

What I reeeeally don't like about it, though, is (some of) the fans' portrayal of it. For some people, it's never Komahinanami as a three-way relationship, with them all caring for and loving each other equally.

It's either Komahina with Chiaki just "added on", or it's Hinanami with Nagito just "added on", or it's Komahina + Hinanami with no interaction between Nagito and Chiaki at all.

(Like... where's the Komanami love?)

And if they do interact, then it's almost always negative. Chiaki's made out to be the girl who Nagito hates more than anything else, the girl who gets in the way of Komahina. And Nagito's made out to be this jealous, possessive asshole who is disgusted by Chiaki and only cares about Hajime. Which is just 1) not true to the characters at all, and 2) really confusing to me, because I don't know where it comes from other than just projection.

People do realise that Nagito never showed one single hint of either hatred towards Chiaki or posessiveness towards Hajime, right? I don't know where this whole "Nagito hates Chiaki, is jealous of her, and wanted to kill her for the sake of Hajime" thing comes from. Maybe it's just some fans' projection, but... it's just not canon, and it's not part of Nagito's character at all.

And Hajime isn't the only person who Nagito is capable of caring about or developing a positive relationship with. Let him have friends and people he cares about other than Hajime, even if you only ship Komahina.

Bottom line: I love Nagito, Chiaki and Hajime, I love fan works where they interact, and I love it when they're actually in character, and not made totally OOC to satisfy fans' bad character interpretations and hatred of female characters.

(Sorry again about the inbox rant - just wanted to share my thoughts!)

Hooo boi. Hoooo boi. Oh anon, you just tackled one of my biggest pet peeves of this fandom right to its core. Also thanks for saying I’m cool. :3

Firstly, the denial of the Komanami side of KomaHinaNami, but honestly… that I could deal with. This is why I focus on a lot of the KomaNami side of things on my blog but I don’t mind so much the “Hajime has two hands” side of this ship because usually from what I’ve seen, people have Chiaki be Nagito’s best friend or wing lady with Hajime and he appreciates and adores her and confides in her about Hajime and shares Hajime with her and all three are happy. Like.. in a way, that’s still ultra pippity poppity cute!

But yeah, the KomaHina fans who like to portray Chiaki as just the girl who is in the way of their relationship, as if Nagito hates or is jealous of Chiaki… no, just no. It has never once been like that! Before he really got to know Hajime, Chiaki was the only person who accepted and tried to understand Nagito. She was kind to him and he seemed to appreciate her in turn, insisting that her being their class rep made her their biggest light of Hope. He even pleads with her not to take on Junko, that he knew they were no chance against them but believes in Chiaki anyways and is devastated to the point of breaking down and sobbing at her death. Of course, he twists things and beseeches Chiaki’s name, insisting that she can lift them up with her death… but only because he’s coping. In his own world in the Neo World Program, she is missing because the memory of her (and Hajime) hurt him so much that he had to block it out. His desire to see her along with the rest of the class brings her back to them as an AI that leads them all back to the right path.

As for the idea that Nagito is jealous of Chiaki… I think they get that from one scene in DR2 where Chiaki says she’s gonna go find Fuyuhiko in Chapter 2 to question him. She leaves and Hajime is irked about being left alone with Nagito, to which Nagito is like “Oh I’m sorry! You wanted her to stay?!” Honestly… people seem to ignore that before Chiaki left, Nagito expressed concern about her questioning Fuyuhiko and told her to not let him “get rough” with her. So… Nagito clearly cares. Out of everyone (including Hajime) in the main storyline, Nagito openly praises Chiaki and her talents the most. He will also politely oblige her and be quiet when she asks while he does not for anyone else. Also the thing is… Nagito is pretty protective of Chiaki. In Chapter 4, when Chiaki gets overwhelmed by Nagito being clingy, she runs away from him only for him to appear behind her five minutes later and urging her to remember that she could get hurt on her own and that she shouldn’t have run off.

More to the point, let’s pretend Chiaki and Nagito were like… rivals for Hajime’s affection like Chisa and Juzo were. That they directly mirror them (they don’t as much as we think). Even Juzo and Chisa loved and appreciated each other platonically. They were incredibly important to each other in this show while being in love with the same person. In the mangas furthermore, we have these scenes (So tell me, tell me to my face that Chiaki is the girl that Nagito somehow hates, that he never cared for her beyond a romantic rival. Just tell me. And yes yes I know the mangas are secondary canon, but when like two or three of them show all these moments of Chiaki and Nagito supporting each other, come the fuck on. I stand by that it enriches our current canon.):

[koutarouthighs]

『 soft cotton 』

S U M M A R Y ― sometimes out of necessity, sometimes out of desire, and other times out of convenience, you end up wearing their clothes.

post type ➺ headcanons fandom  ➺ haikyuu!! characters  ➺ tsukishima ⧾ iwaizumi ⧾ terushima  genre ➺ fluff rating ➺ t+  tags ➺ established relationship; clothes share/swap; nudity if you squint (bare thighs); party environment described but not in explicit detail; word count ➺ 2.8k request ➺ [YES/NO]      ↳ request status: OPEN

⤭ tsukishima is confused the first time he finds you in one of his shirts. before his brow wrinkles in that telltale way of frustration, you hold your hands up in surrender and explain that while you were helping his mother in the kitchen, you spilled soy sauce on your white top and she offered to clean it for you while dinner was in the oven. ⤭ after that, you don’t end up giving him that shirt back. it’s an old one, that doesn’t have much sentimental value, but there’s something jarring about tsukki seeing you in his clothes; an out of body experience, almost. he doesn’t understand why anyone else would want to wear anyone else’s things - isn’t that why you buy your own clothes? ⤭ and he has to ask the other guys about it. why does she wear my shirt to bed? why doesn’t she just give it back? and boy, do they have a field day with him. he can be so dense sometimes. doesn’t he see? you wearing that shirt is like you carrying a piece of him with you, even when you’re far away.  ⤭ his clothes engulf you, absolutely dwarfing your frame due to the height difference between you. tsukki has always thought of you as tiny, not fragile, but now, seeing you swimming in the fabric that makes up his ratty old tee, he thinks he has begun to understand why you like to wear this shirt over any of your more expensive, more fashionable ones. ⤭ he might be an asshole about it, but tsukki finds ways to gift you more of his clothes indirectly. he accidentally spills soda on your shirt one night when you’re staying in, watching a movie and eating pizza. another day he grabs at the hem of your shirt when you’re walking away and tears a hole in it. somehow, you still haven’t caught on, but he doesn’t ask you for the shirts back anymore. in fact, when you start to return them, he gets almost as irritated as he did when you had to ask for the first one out of pure necessity.

more below the cut ↴

“i’m sorry, kei,” you brush the fabric free of wrinkles as it settles at your mid thigh, covering the shorts that are currently adorning your lower half. you slowly look up at him, a warmth on your cheeks that signals your shyness, “i’ll bring back this one with the others next time i see you, okay?”

a scoff leaves his lips and he’s tugging at your wrist, pulling you forward on the couch until you’re tumbling down to meet him. your knees settle on either side of his waist and he watches as the fabric of the shirt pools around your thighs, “don’t worry about it. your washer makes them smell like old lady anyway. i don’t want them back.”

the way you tilt your head to the side, cocking an eyebrow and dropping your lower lip in confusion never ceases to amuse him. tsukishima reaches up and brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, inhibiting your speech even as you ask, “i-i can wash them over here, if you want, kei.”

he’s shaking his head again, snagging at you until you’re flush with his chest, your face tucked against his neck. it’s not necessarily odd behavior for him to want you so close, however it is strange that he’s not asking for his clothes back. he used to put up so much harder of a fight.

“nah, they were shitty shirts anyway,” he sloughs off the string of words like they were meaningless, however you know the weight they hold. you also know better than to tease him too far, rather to take the prize you’ve silently won through heckling and hard work. the shirt on your shoulders feels warmer, somehow, with the knowledge that you have his blessing to keep it as if it were a gift from him in the first place.

your hands run up the length of his shoulders until you are hooked around him entirely, clinging to his lanky body like a koala. he smells so good, especially after a shower and a shave, which you suspect he’s done earlier today based on the scent of his aftershave still lingering on his neck. you nuzzle your nose further against his jugular, feeling the way his heartbeat pounds the blood in his veins. a low hum escapes your lips without your permission, but tsukishima must not mind your slip of the tongue, but instead is encouraged by it, sneaking his chilly fingertips underneath the hem of the familiar item of clothing until he finds your ribs.

he’s practically lulled you to sleep with the ministrations of his fingerprints mapping out each of your ribs, in tandem with the warmth he provides and the skin-on-skin contact you’ve beseeched with your own hands. your eyelids cannot stay pried open any longer, and so you allow them to shut. somewhere between now and then, tsukki drags a blanket over your shoulders, angling his body to be in a more comfortable position without jostling you too much to the point you’re far too awake to fall back asleep.

just before your mind is consumed by that dark realm of slumber, you hear a low murmur in your ear, “they looked better on you anyway.”

⤭ iwaizumi would not admit it in the beginning of your relationship, but there was something about seeing you in his clothes, namely a t-shirt with his old high school jersey number on it, that just made him feel a certain way that he could not explain. ⤭ it starts with you forgetting to wear a jacket on a date one night, but you don’t ask. iwaizumi sees you shivering and wordlessly removes the bomber jacket from around his shoulders and places it on your own, waiting until you’ve slipped your hands into the sleeves before he grabs for your hand again, interlocking your fingers at the knuckles.  ⤭ after that, you start to become more comfortable asking him for his hoodies and even though he gives you a bit of a frustrated comment after you accidentally take one home, when you stop asking for his jackets, he gets confused and concerned.  ⤭ with iwaizumi’s job, he gets a lot of free merchandise from the team(s) he works with. and by proxy, you get a lot of t-shirts and hoodies and other items passed down to you because he would accumulate too many things otherwise.  ⤭ you refuse to wear anything the first time, though. because without iwa wearing it around the house at least once, it won’t smell like him. he thought it was weird at first, but eventually you started noticing more clothes piling in on your side of the dresser that you’d seen him wearing a few times. and then, when he sees you step out of the bathroom after your shower with that team japan long sleeve shirt on, if you catch him quickly enough, you’ll notice a small, fleeting smile on his lips.

﹢

“hajime?” your call comes from the kitchen, and iwaizumi can hardly hear you from his place in the bathroom, showering after a long saturday of practice games. he rubs the towel against the top of his head, drying his hair before responding, “yeah, just a minute, babe!”

when he steps into the kitchen, you take him by surprise. you always do, even now, years after your first date. settled on your shoulders is an old seijoh promotional t-shirt he remembers having to wear to a fundraiser. but the seafoam green fabric settles against the tops of your thighs, exposing the remainder of your legs to the chilly breeze coming through the apartment windows. you always crack the windows when you’re cooking or baking; something iwaizumi noticed when you first moved in.

“iwa-chan?”

iwaizumi has to blink once, so harshly that he sees stars on the backs of his lids, before he can focus on you. he tilts his head and licks his lips, “yeah, sorry. what did you say?”

that laugh that rings in his dreams floats across the space between the two of you, and he fights a smile so he doesn’t look like a dope while you’re trying to ask him a question. he steps forward on the guise of hearing you more clearly, and then reaches out to push your hair behind your ear, his fingers itching to brush against the stitches of the fabric holding the shirt together on your pretty frame.

“i asked if you wanted the spicy steak tonight, or if you wanted me to reign in the heat,” your voice comes easy, simple and soft, and iwaizumi catches himself turning gentle at the sound of you. your palms abandon the cookware for a moment to extend towards his body, slipping beneath his top to rests on his hips. your thumbs brush over the warm skin, still slightly reddened from his time in the shower.

he’s so lost in the primal, territorial sensation he gets that starts as a prickling in the base of his neck, seeping down his spine and curling around every bone in his body. he wants to kiss you, to show you how he feels rather than telling you, and so he does. 

iwaizumi has never been one to deny how he feels.

your breath is stolen from your lungs when he lurches forward to capture your mouth with his own. his palms are rough as they search your torso for somewhere to land, settling on your shoulders so he can keep your upper body pinned to him. you release a small squeaking sound from the back of your throat, but he’s already swallowed it before you can feel self-conscious. 

“haji,” you gasp when you feel his fingertips dig into the muscle of your shoulders, and a laugh follows suit when his lips withdraw from yours and you can see the intensity in his gaze, “wh-what’s gotten into you?”

he’s not really sure, if he were to be honest with you. maybe it’s the nostalgia of the color fabric of the tee that you’re wearing. maybe it’s the way he wishes that he’d continued to play volleyball in a more direct way. maybe it’s the way the shirt falls just far enough to keep you from exposing anything too tantalizing.

or maybe...

“it’s just you,” he answers, pulling you by the thighs so he can pick you up and deposit you on the counter top. your legs sashay, ankles brushing his legs, and you can’t help yourself from twirling your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. iwaizumi takes a deep breath before repeating himself, as if saying the phrase again might solidify the statement, but this time he adds: “it’s just you, in my shirt. you’re absolutely beautiful.”

your whole body burns at the compliment, and you bashfully blink downward, but iwaizumi is quick to lean in for another kiss. before too long, he’s got you drowning in his affections, his palms beneath your shirt to map out your skin, and the dinner you were previously preparing has been completely forgotten.

“iwa,” you murmur between the clacking sounds your teeth are making as they collide, “d-dinner, what...”

you feel his chest reverberate with a growl and then his mouth is on your neck and his fingers are tugging at the hem of your shirt, “forget dinner.” his voice is rough and his touch is gentle, “we’ll just order out tonight.”

⤭ terushima is the one to ask you if you want to wear his clothes from the very beginning. he loves seeing you wearing his flannels and tees and hoodies. he always tries to find one that pairs well with your outfit so that way he can reason you into wearing his clothes whenever you go out.  ⤭ if he comes home to see you curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, just absolutely engulfed in the warm fabric, it makes his whole body tingle. he goes and changes after work and will definitely slip underneath the blanket you’re hidden under to wrap his arms and legs around you. ⤭ when he asks you for clothing advice, at first you wonder if it’s because he’s trying to change up his look. but, after a few strangely specific questions, you finally realize that he’s trying to tailor his wardrobe to be something that you could always find easy to wear. ⤭ the desire to see you in his clothes is partially from being territorial, but mostly because he just thinks you look hot as hell when you’re wearing his clothes. you always manage to make his clothes look ten thousand times better, mainly because it’s you wearing them. it never fails, he will always make a comment about how good you look wearing just his big tee to bed, even if your hair is all mussed and your face is still shiny from your skincare. ⤭ sometimes you’ll catch him stealing your clothes, too. you wear big tee shirts that are comfortable, and sharing is caring! he loves to pick on you when he wears your clothes, pointing out the designs printed on the shirts and how adorable you are for wanting to wear such cute little things. 

﹢

“god, pretty girl,” his voice is rough as it runs ragged against your ears, his hands on your waist from behind, “you know how it makes me feel to see you in my clothes.”

and of course you do. yuuji is no quiet thing when it comes to how you make him feel. so, you lean into him, if only to egg him on until he’s begging you to head out of this little house party. his fingers slip into the back pockets of your jeans and you find yourself stumbling into his chest, palms fumbling over his torso to try and clutch at his shirt to steady yourself.

“teru,” you chide, pinching his cheek before leaning up to kiss him. you pull away before he’s gotten warmed up, leaving him following you by craning his neck. a chuckle escapes your lips and you press your index finger against his pursed mouth, “we came here to celebrate kiyoko and tanaka. can you keep your hands to yourself for just a few more hours?”

“baby,” he’s whining in your ear now, all needy with his lips pouted and his irises widening, “you can’t be serious! you know that’s my favorite shirt to see you in! i think you did this on purpose!”

his fingers tug on the material of the flannel that’s draped over your shoulders, pooling around your hips and framing your body just perfectly. you watch as his irises struggle to focus, pupils dilating as he looks down at you. his mouth twitches in expectant words, but he’s interrupted by someone else who steals your attention.

while you’re busy talking to one of your old friends from high school, terushima is given the opportunity to take in your appearance for the first time since he met you at the party earlier, and the sight of you engulfed in his flannel and a pair of his crazy socks that peek out from the cuffs of your jeans makes his chest constrict so much so that he grasps at his shirt with his fingertips, barely curling his digits around the fabric of his tee before he realizes what he’s doing.

a slow, gentle blinking of his lashes brings him back to earth, where he can stare at you some more, all unbeknownst to you. he doesn’t mind admitting to anyone who wants to know that he loves to watch you when you’re just existing. he likes to notice the little things about you, to catalog them in the back of his mind so he can remember them on days when you have to be apart for longer than he wants to be.

your attention is diverted when you feel his palms against your hips, his chest brushing your back as he leans forward to kiss your shoulder, “i’m gonna get a drink, yeah? you want anything?”

“water,” you nod, reaching back with one hand to run your fingers against his undercut, “thank you, teru.”

another kiss is deposited to your cheek before he unravels himself from you and heads towards the kitchen, hands shoved deeply into his pockets. and you tilt your head so you can take in a deep breath of the collar of the flannel that you’re wearing, and somehow it feels like you’re there with him despite the distance between you. 

[babylooneytoonz]

The Black Hand

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Violence, blood and gore || Angst with a happy ending ||

[My Masterlist]

Just like a hundred odd marriages that had managed to break apart, yours was one of them but it was a long time ago— two years to be exact. Although it did hurt a lot the first few months, when you went over it countless times as to where had you gone wrong, what had you done for Tommy to fall out of love with you, or maybe it was the other way round, although you were sure it wasn't. It wasn't easy especially when the two of you shared something beautiful together— your three year old daughter, Avery. But like someone's rightly said, time does heal all wounds. And just like that, in the blink of an eye, or you would rather say, a whole year, you did finally get over it, get over him and move on.

You and Avery moved to London city after your divorce with Tommy, for you wanted the best for the little girl, and Tommy agreed, that Birmingham wasn't the best place for you to raise the girl alone, although Tommy was still in your life, and hers. But it wasn't just the same post the divorce, he would only be able to find the time to come visit her once every two weeks or so, although he did make sure that he was sending you money, although you could very well make your own living.

"Why can't you fucking stay at home and be with her? I'm sending you enough for the two of you, ay." You once remembered him saying, almost two months post the two of you had separated.

That night had been yet another night when you had found yourself screaming at the top of your lungs, not that he didn't yell back at you. It was as if he was giving you his own fire in retaliation to yours, "Why? Why do I stop living my life just because you fucking decided you don't want to fucking be a part of this family anymore?" You screeched, jabbing him in the heart with your hate filled eyes.

He shook his head, annoyed as he moved away from you, in a desperate attempt to shield him from your lethal gaze. "Not this again, [Y/N]. I'm not fucking going to go over this again with you."

"Really? The last time I remember, and the time before that, you never really told me why you wanted to call out, did you Thomas?" Tommy flinched every time you called him from his first name, it felt ruthless and hateful but he knew he deserved it. He swallowed thickly, and looked away, his fingers instinctively pulling out a box of cigarettes as he began to steer you away from this discussion again, "Well since you so clearly don't want to fucking do what I ask you to do, you might as well move to London, with Ada. At least I can stop worrying about her that way—" He turned towards Avery's room, glancing at the shut door as though he could see her through the wood inside and then turned back to you.

You weren't so opposed to that idea to be honest and did end up moving to London, moving into the apartment just next to Ada, because you didn't want to invade into her privacy, and let her invade into your own. She had a son, and she didn't need her nesting the two of you on top of it. You began working for a kind old man who sold paintings for a living. He was too old now, so he chose not to sit in the shop anymore, having hired you to do it.

Business had been running low for a while, and the fact that London city was all wet and in puddles, and the rains won't stop was another contributing factor to it. You sat idly in the shop, staring at the rain smeared windows, the heavy sound of rain the only source of noise in the otherwise calm shop.

It was as though it took you a second to make your mind, you stood up, the chair croaking as it was pushed back and you stretched your arms in the air. There was no point in staying at the shop anymore, and you wanted nothing more than to sit by the fireplace at your home, your daughter perched on your lap playing with her doll, while you drank a warm, soothing cup of tea. Pulling your coat on, you took your umbrella, using it to shield you from the merciless lashes out on the street as you locked the shop and began walking home.

You reached the front door, and climbing the front steps, you closed the dripping umbrella, letting it rest by the doorstep so it wouldn't leak into your new carpet. You shuffled through your purse, looking for your keys when your eyes fell on your door, and you realized it wasn't locked. You frowned, your eyebrows creasing into a thin line as you opened the door and stepped inside, a sudden pit of horror inkling through your blood. You were never as careless as to not lock the door, although you always left Avery with Ada and Karl so the worry didn't revolve around her, it was more around your own recklessness.

You were about to start striding towards the parlour when you heard the footsteps approach you, only to finally be able to see your ex husband, your daughter trotting behind him, her hand securely held into his own, his eyes scanning yours. You parted your lips, confused when Tommy began speaking, "I came over at Ada's. Found her there." He then turned towards Avery and almost bent so he was face level with her, her tiny blue eyes staring into her father's, "Why don't you go into your room, love? Once I'm done speaking to your mum, I'll be back with you."

She nodded, giving you a tiny smile that you returned and she ran off, her tiny feet thudding against the wooden flooring of your apartment. The two of you waited until she had run up the flight of stairs and then he pulled up a card, raising it in the air for you to see, "Do you ever fucking bother going through your mail?"

Your eyes flew to the card he was holding, and you tilted your neck, shaking your head in confusion, when Tommy sighed, clearly annoyed and walked up to you, placing the card in your palm for you to see.

"It's a fucking black hand, came for all of us. I assumed they would have sent one to you too, and I was right. They bloody did." Tommy's hand flew to his head, his fingers entangling through his hair as he pulled onto them for a brief second, his exasperation obvious. You had lived with Tommy, had been married to him long enough to know what a Black Hand meant. Your hand flew to your chest as panic arose inside of you and you instantly forced yourself to the wall, afraid your legs would betray you and you would fall.

Tommy grunted, and then his eyes softened a bit as he took a step closer, looking at you as he sighed, taking a drag of his cigarette, "They won't touch you, or Avery. I won't let them."

"How the fuck did they find us?" You gasped, still in shock, and a bit of denial.

"Just like they found Ada, which is why the two of you come back home with me—"

"But this is my fucking home, Tommy. Not Birmingham, because I clearly remember you being the one shunning me out and suggesting London," You snapped, cutting him off.

You felt him stiffen, and your eyes darted down to where his hands were, clutched to his sides, clenched into tight fists, his white knuckles peeking out, making you aware of his growing temper.

"I don't— You don't and will not let it go? Yes I fucking walked out of your life and sent you to London because I thought this was the only fucking way to keep you two safe, for fucks sake—"

You paused, taking in his words that had managed to flow out of his lips that instant. He saw the look on your face and he immediately stopped speaking, moving away until he fixed himself by your window and began staring at the rain, trying to avoid the questions that were growing now in your mind.

"Is that why you decided to end this—"

Your voice was reduced to a mere whisper, and it was suddenly so quiet, you were scared that even Tommy will be able to hear the sound of your heart cracking into two. Your lips trembled, your eyes suddenly cloudy as you waited for a few seconds for Tommy to say something. Anything. One. Two. Three. Four seconds. Nothing.

"Tommy, why? I need to know. I fucking deserve to know." Your voice beseeched him, breaking his own heart once again.

"It was a long time back," he mumbled.

"It wasn't, two years isn't long enough," you retorted.

You watched as he turned towards you slowly, but instead of looking at you, his gaze fell on a photograph on by the fireplace, a photograph of when Avery was a baby. He walked up to it, slowly grabbing it and lifting it into his hand as he began staring at the smiling baby, his expressions not betraying how broken he really felt.

"Father Hughes had said something years back, that he knows a way to get back at me, he knows my fucking weakness and he was going to bloody act on it —" His palm swiped over his daughter's face, a low smile breaking out against his lips as he imagined, just for a brief second, the first cries of his daughter and how happy he had felt in that moment when he had first held her in his arms, promising to himself that he was going to protect her with his life if it required. "I couldn't let him get his hands on you. Avery wasn't born yet that time, and that made you even worse of a target— my pregnant wife."

"You waited for her to be born, so you could.. send us away. To keep us safe. That's what you thought? That's what you thought would keep us safe?"

Tommy looked up finally, his irises meeting yours, and you could see the hurt hidden in those eyes, an art he was so well versed with, hiding his emotions— pretending that he had none. He was about to reply when Avery walked into the room, her palm rubbing over her eyelids, her doll clutched tightly in her other hand.

"Daddy, you promised you'll read me a bedtime story."

You hurriedly brought your palm up to your face and turned away, using the temporary distraction to wipe your tears away and walked up to Avery, kneeling down in front of her before you quickly planted a kiss to her forehead. You then straightened up again and nodded at Tommy, who lifted Avery up in his arms. Avery clung on to him, and his arm was wrapped around her waist, having held her propped up against his hip but his eyes didn't leave yours until you were forced to be the one to leave the parlour first and lock yourself on your room again.

It felt surreal to be back in Birmingham again. This was the city where you were born, where you grew up and where you fell in love, with both, Thomas Shelby and the daughter you shared with him. And now, you were back at the Arrowe House once more.

The smile on Avery's face was heartwarming— you couldn't deny how her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree when she sat on her father's lap in the evenings after Tommy came back from work while you busied yourself with Ada, and Karl, who was almost two years older than her, ran around with his toys, trying to get Avery's attention.

Today was just another day that had turned into a normal routine for you. Ada sat on the dining table, reading an old journal of some sorts while you stood by the stove, boiling some water for some tea. Just next to the breezy kitchen was Tommy's study, and you could practically hear your daughter's mindless babbles from here.

"But daddy, mummy says that if I eat more chotolate, all my teeth are going to fall off, and..and never grow back."

"Well, love. Mummies are always right, no matter what your mum says, my girl will always do it. Yeah?" Tommy's voice reached your ears making your lips curve into a weak smile that Ada happened to catch.

"[Y/N] —" Ada began, but you cut her off.

"Ada, I think I have a hunch about what you will say. Please don't. I'm not ready for it."

She sighed, while you poured the tea into two cups and walked up to her, placing one in front of her. Karl walked into the kitchen, grabbing a biscuit, shooting the two of you a warm smile before he rushed off to play.

"I'm not going to defend my brother, love. He is a fucking grown man and he did some bloody stupid things. But I still think that the two of you should talk. I mean, atleast for Avery."

You nodded and pulled out a chair for yourself, bringing the tea cup up to your lips so you could blow on it and take a sip, intentionally deciding not to reply to Ada because you didn't want to talk about this, or about Tommy. You were about to pull out a box of cigarettes from the pocket in your dress, when you heard a loud crash somewhere outside.

Your eyes widened at the sound and your head snapped towards Ada as the two of you rushed to the window, trying to peek out of it— but in the dark of the night, neither of you could see anything. You turned to Ada, giving her a confused look when the door kicked open behind you, causing the two of you to jump in a scare, only to find Tommy standing there, holding both Karl and Avery by either of their hands.

Upon seeing their mothers, the two children ran up to them, Avery now clinging to your leg as Tommy walked up to the two of you, his eyes tensed and his face showing worry.

"What's going on, Tommy?" Ada asked, Karl now hoisted up against her waist.

"Listen—" Tommy looked back towards the door, swiping his palm over his face. You could sense that something wasn't right, by the way your ex husband's body was tense and rigid, his eyes hollow and void as he looked from Ada to you and his eyes finally grew dark with rage, "Keep the children in and don't leave the parlour until I come and get you."

"Tommy, tell us what's—" you began.

"They are outside. The Italians," His gaze fell on Avery, and you swear you saw a glaze in Tommy's eyes before he turned towards the both of you, " Stay away from the fucking windows , draw the curtains shut and don't step out of the parlour no matter what you hear. Ey? There are guns in the topmost drawer of the cabinet, here's the key—" You watched in horror and numbness as Tommy slid you a key. Without uttering a word, you tightened your grip around the key and swallowed the lump forming in your throat.

"Come on, Avery, [Y/N]," Ada's voice pulled you out of your daze and the four of you began running towards the parlour. Upon reaching the parlour door, Tommy instead of following you turned into another hallway and your breathing hitched on the realization that he wasn't following you anymore, and your heart sank in despair, racing in worry. Hot chunks of tears started falling off your eyes, making you pull Avery to your chest, holding her tight as you sat down on an armchair, your legs trembling and your knees wobbling, your daughter held securely in your arms.

"Will he come back Ada?" You whispered, slowly lifting your gaze until you had fixed it on her and she gave you a sad look and turned away.

You don't remember why the time stood still after that. The two of you sat huddled in the parlour for hours perhaps or were they just minutes that kept stretching on, you weren't sure. The sounds of the bullets and the guns had finally died down, but Tommy wasn't back yet. You looked down at Avery, who had fallen asleep in your arms and then you looked at Ada, and Karl, giving them a weak smile.

Gently, you stood up, scooping her in your arms and not wanting to wake her up before you placed her into the chair.

"What are you doing, [Y/N]?" Ada asked weakly.

Before you could find yourself replying to her, you found yourself striding towards the door of the parlour that you had locked from the inside.

"[Y/N]! For fucks sake don't. Tommy asked us not to leave—" Ada began but you cut her off and unlocked the door, hurriedly stepping out.

"Ada, please watch Avery, I'll be back I promise."

"[Y/N]!!"

Her cries fell on deaf ears after that for you were already running down the hall of the Arrowe House, ignoring her pleas to not go out. You held the gun securely in your hand, just in case as you ran out of the front door and were immediately greeted by a harrowing scene. Bodies littered the front garden, blood seeping through the grass and having turned it red. Men in Blinder caps walked about here and there, and the air smelled of death and gunpowder. Some of them were clearing the mess they had made, while other roamed aimlessly , perhaps waiting for an instruction from Tommy.

Tommy—

Panic was suddenly drilling into your ears as your eyes began darting around, looking for him. You grabbed one of the Peaky boys using the fabric of their coat and he turned towards you, frowning, "Mrs. Shelby, you are not supposed to be here, please get back inside —"

"Where is he? Take me to Tommy. Now." You were hyperventilating, practically gasping for air.

"Mrs. Shelby we can't—" Words got caught in his mouth and his eyes widened when you drew out the gun and cocked it, aiming it right to his face. You didn't know what you were doing and delirium had taken over you completely.

"I don't care what orders he might have given you. You are going to fucking take me to Thomas and you are going to do it now, lad," you growled.

"It's okay lad, get the fuck off and clear the fucking bodies—" Arthur suddenly stepped next to you and he admonished the young lad, watching him scamper off, his head in his tail. Arthur then turned towards you.

"Put the fucking gun down, [Y/N] because that is not a fucking toy," he threw out his hand towards you and you glanced down at it, your body still burning from worry mixed with rage. Reluctantly, you placed the gun into his hand that he swiftly pocketed.

"Where's Tommy, Arthur?"

"Yeah, alright, I'll take you to him, but you won't like the bloody sight—"

"Take me to him, I won't have it any other way." You mumbled.

Arthur and you walked side by side towards the stables, and all through that thirty second walk, you couldn't stop your heart from racing with nervousness. The minute you stepped into the stables, all colour drained from your face at the sight before you.

Tommy was laid back on a makeshift bedding by propping up the sacks of hay together. His shirt was off, crumpled to the floor, red and stained with his own blood. A massive bullet wound spurted out blood from his gut and his eyes were weak, his face sweaty. He lifted his eyes just when you entered, and even in his condition, a frown managed to cake its way over his otherwise pained features.

"I fucking asked you—" he breathed in a punctured way, his lower lip trembling from the blood loss, while one of the men hunched over him, pulling out the bullet from his torso, "— Not to step out of the fucking house unless I get to you."

You gave him a cold, ghostly stare, your lips pressing into a firm line as you ignored him and walked up to the man that was now beginning to patch him up. You patted him twice on his shoulder and he looked up at you, and then down to your hand that was stretched out facing the ceiling, "I'll take it from here. All of you, just fucking get out. Leave us alone."

The men looked at Tommy, who pressed his lips into a thin line, and then at Arthur who nodded and motioned for them to move out. The man placed the needle in your hand and you blinked, watching the men leave until you were alone with Tommy.

All the while, you hunched over him, working over his wound to patch him up, he kept glaring at you, his breathing heavy. Finally, when you were done, you tossed the needle away, looking down at your blood coated hands before glaring at him, your nostrils flared, "You fucking bastard, you fucking piece of shit, you could have fucking died and I wouldn't have had the chance to fucking say goodbye."

"[Y/N]—"

"No Tommy, I'm done. You could have died, leaving Avery behind, and that child doesn't deserve going through the fucking pain, you bloody don't get it do you? You like to fucking play with fire, it's like you have a death wish or something—" You fired, holding on to Tommy's thigh to keep yourself steady, as your vision had clouded and tears had managed to seep down your cheeks, staining the neck of your dress.

"You think I don't fucking know that? Fucks sake—" he sat up, wincing and his palm flying to his wound as you smacked his hand roughly and he hissed, his eyes glaring at you with fury. You grabbed the bandage and tied it securely around his wound, your eyes finally softening when you saw the colour slowly begin to return to his cheeks, "I told you to bloody stay in for a reason, so you two could be safe, but you don't ever fucking listen to me."

"Forgive me Tommy if I can't bear the fucking thought of losing you to death, because you're not a fucking God and you can't cheat death. Forgive me for being scared for our daughter, thinking and worrying everyday as to what will become of her when you're fucking gone—" you threw your hands exasperatedly into the air before you took a step away from him, and another, and another until you were met by the wooden walls of the barn and there was no place left for you to step towards. You brought your fisted palm up to your mouth, pressing it hard against it to muffle the sobs that were beginning to rack through your body as you looked at him with menacing, accusing eyes, "Forgive me if I can't get myself to fucking stop loving you, even though loving you is like death to me, and I die every single time this happens, forgive me."

"Fuck," Tommy cursed under his breath when he looked at you, almost shaking his head as he weakly lifted his hand and threw it out towards you, motioning to you to come back to him, "Come here, love." He finally sat to his side, wincing slightly, his feet now resting against the ground, making space for you to sit down next to him. You blinked, wiping your tears away with your blood coated hands, smudging your face with it, but not bothering as you, with slow steps, walked to where Tommy was and sat down next to him, staring at your hands. He reached out, taking your hand in his, his fingers clasping around yours, but didn't speak. The two of you sat there in silence for the next few minutes, just listening to each other breathe, both of you tormented by your own set of thoughts, until he finally broke the silence.

"I never stopped loving you, not then, and not now. You think it was easy for me watching you leave? The fucking shovels were back again when you left, and I was bloody left to fight them alone."

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, not daring to look into his eyes for you were afraid of breaking down again. So you just kept listening as he spoke, finally after all those months of keeping you in the dark.

"There were nights I was dying to come back to you, and to Avery, but I fucking stopped myself, love because I didn't want this to happen, for you and her to be caught in this mess, because of me—"

"Tommy, my love, this is where you went wrong," you cut him off, pulling your hands away from his, curling them against the fabric of your now bloody dress, "I married you knowing what I was getting myself into. And we were supposed to get through this together. What good came out of you leaving us just to keep us safe? We still got that bloody Black Hand."

He smiled humourlessly, turning away from you and began staring into the thin air, before you took his hand again, holding it tight so he couldn't pull out.

"You know—" Tommy mumbled, in a voice low, but loud enough for you to make out his words, "two fucking years and I haven't been with a woman."

You parted your lips, turning to him and blinked, before giving him a weak, teasing smile, "Tommy Shelby turned into a hermit, well that's just not believable."

"Neither did I kiss one."

"Is that your way of asking me if you can kiss me, Mr. Shelby?" You smiled and turned towards him, staring at his form, letting your tongue trail over your lower lip as you arched your body closer towards him, so you were close to his lips, feeling his breath over you.

"What would you do if I said yes?" He breathed.

"I would fucking do this," you leaned in, fluttering your lashes until you pressed your lips against his plump ones, kissing him.

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[myrulia]

An Oiran's Sacrifice - Kokushibou x Oiran!Reader

Oiran

Oiran (花魁) was a specific category of high ranking courtesan in Japanese history. Divided into a number of ranks within this category, oiran were considered – both in social terms and in the entertainment they provided – to be above common prostitutes, known as yūjo (遊女, lit. 'woman of pleasure')

Warnings: Strong language, prostitution

Word count: 3758

Next chapter

`` Why must you do this to yourself? ``

`` For my family. ``

`` Family means nothing if you are working as a self degrading prostitute. ``

`` It is what I must do if I wish to live. ``

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It was yet another late evening, alone in your compact minka, yet it never was a bother, for this was how you usually spent your nights. Due to your poor living style, your father was driven to thievery. It was the only way to keep the two of you somewhat fed, clothes on your back, and a roof over your heads. Your living style has helped you become more grateful of any small blessing that came along your way. Even the smallest fortune would put a smile on your face because it ended the little sorrow in your heart at the realization of your poverty.

``[Y/N],`` You heard a voice beckon to you. The voice you knew all too well at this time of night that originated from the only person who would even dare leave do commit such crimes. `` Coming father. ``

Getting up slowly from your dimly candle lit chabudai, you scurried your way to the wooden door of your minka, letting inside the only other family member you had, your father. Watching how he takes slow strides inside the bleak, wooden-paneled small space of your home, you mentally cursed yourself for ever allowing yourself to come to terms with your reality. Deep down you hated how the man in front of you risked his life nearly every night just to make sure the two of you were fed, yet, it is not like you could do much to change your misfortune, for it is your depressing reality.

`` Miracles do happen [Y/N]. I promise you, with this, we can finally turn our life around, and leave this dreadful place. `` Being intrigued by your father's words, you eyed the gleaming object in his hands that you unfortunately recognized. `` Father, why? From the Suzuki family no less? They will have our heads if we are to be caught..! ``

Your worry was bothersome to your father. He knew just as much as you what the consequences are if he was ever to be caught. It wasn't easy for the male to successfully loot the expensive statue in hand, so you didn't doubt he'd do his best to hide any evidence of his caper. You couldn't help but worry of your future, because the Suzuki family was the most wealthiest family in your little mountain-side village. Known for being ruthless to anyone that disrupts their peace and fortune, the Suzukis will not tolerate such thievery inflicted upon them, which is why your worry only increased even more because you did love your father of course, and to see his head served on a silver platter was gut wrenching.

`` [Y/N], rest assured that we will not be caught. We will use this to escape this little village and live somewhere safer, maybe in the forest like your mother always wanted. We can live a peaceful life without relying on thievery. Please, my beautiful blessing of a daughter, place your trust into me. `` You merely sighed at your father's declaration. You knew he'd pull the mother card on you just to persuade your emotions even more to agree with his actions. Obviously you do not, because at the end of the day stealing is bad and punishable by death, so the constant worry always lingered in your heart.

`` I do not care if we are the lesser fortunate of our village, I just want to you to stop stealing. I already have a job- ``

`` That barely pays you enough. This is why I do what I must to keep us alive. I am ending this conversation here, I do not want to hear another word from you [Y/N]. Now, please get your much needed rest, you are developing eye bags. `` With those somewhat encouraging words to actually get some rest, you trudge your way to your comfortable futon, which wasn't too much of a distance because everything was set in the same confinded room of your one room house.

Your father blew out the warm colored candle before getting comfortable in the similar futon next to you, letting out a small groan as his muscles seemed to relax. Letting a small sigh escape your lips, you turned over so that you were laying on your side. Whilst closing your eyes, you finally allowed yourself to escape into a somewhat peaceful slumber, since you strongly believed you were in the clear from being beheaded in public since your father managed to get away unscathed.

Just as quickly as you fell asleep, you found yourself waking up to the bright light of the sunrise that glistened through the only window of your home. Yawning, you covered your mouth while slipping out of the warm fabrics of your futon, peeling open your eyes slowly. From how quickly you woke up, you felt as though it was going to be a rather long day. Truth be told you wish you had the urge to sleep longer, for you did not wish to face the day with a guilty conscience lingering over your head as a constant reminder of what your father does in the wake of the night.

`` Father, we have lots to do today, please wake up. `` Expecting to hear a soft groan in return, you turn your head to the now empty futon before you. Shock was all that was found on your face, because your usual routine was to wake up your father and start the day by finding any food to buy from the market place, but that is not the case today. Your father was gone.

`` Father? FATHER?! ``

Worry took over your emotions just as fast as your shock did. The man who was usually still in bed was no longer there so obviously you'd do your best to look all over for him. Getting out of your futon just as speedily as you woke up, you slipped on your geta shoes and bolted out of your living space and onto the busy street of your village. It was all too sickening when you tried to make sense of the situation, but only one solution came to mind. That solution only seemed to make more sense as you ran through the people-covered streets, pulling up your kimono just a bit so it'd be easier to run around until a loud boisterous voice was heard from the townsquare that confirmed every suspicion you had.

`` This pitiful man chose to steal from me! How sad that his life must end like this. It is only fair that death is his punishment for taking a precious family artifact right? `` The cheers of those in the audience caused a ringing in your ears. That was your father they were wishing death upon, and yet nobody seemed to care. As long as their own heads were on their shoulders, they were fine.

Pushing past the multiple men and women in front of you, you managed to escape from the crowd, yet to your disapproval, you were now directly in front of the cause of all the commotion, Suzuki Kenta. Your act of boldness triggered all eyes to be on you, but you could care less. You did not want to lose yet another family member in the arms of selfish people. So, bowing down quickly, you mustered up the confidence to beckon out to the head of the Suzuki family. `` Suzuki-san, as this pitiful mans daughter, I beseech of you to please, spare his life. He knew it was wrong yet it was only to save us both from the misfortune inflicted upon us!! Please, I beg of you..! ``

In your desperate plea, your eyes became bloodshot since tears were welling up on your bottom eyelid. Now looking up from your bowing stance, Suzuki Kenta had prominent veins on his face that showed his distasteful attitude towards your cry of desperation. It was obvious the angered male did not want an interruption, especially from a poor female no less, so obvious agitation was expected.

`` This woman.. really believes she can save this scum of a man... how cute. `` Kenta took slow strides to your smaller, still beneath him, form. You could practically feel him looming over you in utter disgust for ever believing you could persuade such a powerful man himself. Deep down you had a feeling that both your heads would be severed off, or hanged and humiliated publicly for your foolish actions. Who would believe this is how you unfortunately came to your end. Desperately trying to save your thieving father, knowing what he did was wrong? Bitter. The Bitter truth always hurts.

`` Look at me. ``

And as just as quick as he said his order, you gave in and risen your head from the ground, your cheeks being stained by hot tears rolling down your face, looking even more pathetic than what you had wished. Although if it was going to save your father's life, then so be it. If you were going to look like the dirt that everybody walked on, then that is what you will do. Sacrifices like these were common you, especially saving your own fathers life multiple times before this so this was nothing new.

`` You are just as pitiful as your father. You wish to save this low life man who had the audacity to steal from me? `` Kenta snarled in distaste. You had no choice but to stay silent, for there was a blade in the male's hand that he could use any second to take your life, and if you wanted to live, you needed to be careful and word your sentences just as carefully. `` I apologize on his behalf, I wish to make it up to you Sakimi-san. ``

`` Clever girl.. I have taken rather a liking to you. You are smart and you know your place, I will respect that. `` Letting out a relieved sigh, you eye the weapon in his hand before averting your gaze back to his twisted and still somewhat agrivated face. Kenta looked as if he was contemplating something in his head, all the while his bodyguards made your bloodied father watch everything unfold before him without a say in anything.

`` You do have quite the beautiful face, and a body that compliments you oh so well. I will give you two options Miss Fujisaki, you either return the stolen item and watch your father die here and now, or, you become an oiran for my lovely son. Pick wisely, and immediately. I expect an answer now. ``

Murmers were heard from the crowd who also stayed to watch the commotion unravel before them. Of course everyone knew all too well what the life of a low ranking oiran is, and knowing that the options given were supposed to be a punishment, you were going to be no more than a yujo, working as a sex slave for Sakimi's sex hungry son. But, if it meant saving your father's life, then so be it. `` I will accept the life as an oiran.. Sakimi-san.. ``

`` Perfect! I didn't want to get this perfectly good suit dirty so gentlemen, let the scum go. `` Just as quickly as Kenta snapped his fingers, the bodyguards let your father go. Seeing his bloodied and beaten to a pulp body ignited a fire in your heart as he tried his best to make his way over to you. `` Father please save your energy, we'll get you some help.. `` you addressed as he pulled you into a tight embrace.

`` Oh do not worry! My men will get him the help he needs in due time, for now please allow yourself to be escorted to my estate for further details of your new living space. ``

`` I thought I was an oiran, do I not have the decision of going back home. ``

`` My lotus, please do not talk ba- ``

`` You will be nothing more than a yujo. Your face is sweet but your tongue is bitter, and so as a punishment you will be completely submissive for my son. ``

Your eyes practically doubled in size. The fact that Kenta believes you are so willing to not at least have a shred of your dignity left is beyond anything you ever thought of. After being publicly humiliated, you'd at least expect for him to understand how you felt, but at the end of the day, selfish rich people know no boundaries. Sighing once more with your father in your arms, you slowly stand on both your dusty legs, all the while helping your father keep his balance. ''Fine then..'' was all you said.

You found yourself now following the Sakimi bodyguards, for they were escorting you to the one and only Sakimi estate. It was rather large and sat on an even larger hill, so the trail up the grand staircase was a bit of a hike for the beaten man that you loved so dearly. During the entire walk it truly allowed you to comprehend your reality for the rest of your life. You were going to be a oiran, the lowest ranking form of oiran no less. It had your blood boiling with how easily you are so willing to save your father from death time and time again.

Since the small little hike would end soon, you took the chance to take in your surroundings. It wasn't like your previous way of living in the village, but a more extravagant way of living. There were statues with small-scale ponds in front of them that had different colored koi fish inside. The afternoon brightness of the sun reflected upon the water, but that was not the only thing because you could catch a glimpse of your dirtier form from your bow of respect from earlier. Looking back you realize the man who you will be working for deserved now ounce of respect, for your body was yours, even if you were to be a yujo you'd still keep your dignity.

Other than that, in your barely noticeable reflection, even under all the small specs of dirt and filth, your face resembled your mother. You pretty much looked like a copy and paste version of the woman so it was no surprise that you had her beautiful features. Above all that it still saddened you that from above, she'd be watching her daughter become a self degrading prostitute if it meant saving her dear father from execution. A reality, that was so tart to even look at in the eyes of others.

`` Ahem.. Fujisaki, ``you heard a feminine voice call out to you. It was shocking so your head whipped to the side to whoever called out to you. To your misfortune, it was the head oiran of the Sakimi estate. Lowering your head out of respect, you partially gripped your father's shirt out of nervousness because it would be the start of a new chapter in your life that you never wanted to reach. `` Now that I have your attention, let me look at you. ``

Before you knew it your father was ripped from your arms by the same bodyguards who held him at knife point. Your face of worry was noticed by those around you, so to direct your attention the head oiran, who you had yet to introduce herself to you, held your face in her amazingly soft hands. `` Ignore them, they're going to patch him up and send him home. You, my beautiful underling, will be coming with me and my ladies. ``

Her boldness wasn't shocking, so following her didn't make you as uncomfortable as you perceived it would be. The beautiful woman who held your wrist as you finally entered the large minka, had started speaking so quickly that your mind took a bit to process. `` I am the head oiran known as the tayu and you are my precious little yujo. I'm Sakura, over there is Jade, that's Blossom, and there is Waterlily. You will address us by our oiran names only and the same goes for you. You will no longer be "Fujisaki," but rather a lovely name, Lotus. ``

The irony in that moment made you want to cringe. You only permitted your father to call you such a thing, but now that it is what others shall be addressing you, it caused an obvious look of discomfort to be plastered on your face. Just as suddenly as Sakura stopped talking, she just as suddenly dragged you to another, more secluded, area of the minka. Inside the room she pulled you in looked like an oversized closet, easily bigger than your one room home.

`` In here is where you shall prepare yourself to look proper, right now you look like actual filth, so please, make yourself look presentable for Master. ``

Before you could utter out a single word, Sakura left you, alone in a pretty large room without any guidance. During the time your mother was with you, the both of you would pass men with many different beautiful women surrounding him. Despite being too young to fully understand their jobs, your mother simply said, `` They are called oirans my dear, beautiful women for service. ``

With that in mind, you remembered how the others look and tried your best to copy their image. Grabbing a nearby hakuhodo, you dipped the end into the white power and began gently stroking your face, turning your fair skin milky white. It was a longer process than anticipated so once you were done you had to message your muscles because making sure the powerdy substance stayed on your face took the longest. You felt embarrassed to call for help, so you being you decided to do everything yourself. Grabbing what you perceived to be an eyeliner pencil, you tried to keep your hand steady as you basically used yourself as a canvas of art.

Unfortunately it was another long process because a few strokes were a bit wobbly, but finally perfecting the look made you feel a sense of pride that you could do such things yourself. Grabbing one more brush, you dabbed the end into a red power and brushed lightly where the end of your eye starts and stopped just about before your hair line. Moving onto the multiple shades of lipsticks, you grabbed a bright red and began applying the shade onto your lips. `` I look ridiculous, don't I mother? ``

Your tilted your head up to imagine her soft laughter at how content you are with your actions. You still felt pride in the fact that you were able to successfully look like a professional oiran without help from the tayu. Smiling gently to yourself, you got up from the plush chair to look for your new kimono that'd you'd be working in starting from that point on. When you came to no prevail, you sighed once more while scampering your way to the wooden sliding door. `` Sakura-san? ``

`` Yes my underling? `` Was all the beautiful woman said from a little ways away. Telling by the gentleness of her voice, she wasn't too busy at the moment so you scurried over to her as quickly as you could.

`` If you are not busy at the moment Sakura-san.. may you help me with my kimono?``

`` Of course not my little lotus, come with me. ``

Following behind her yet again, she leads the both of you into the dressing rooms where you originated from. Her movements were fluid and as gracefully as she could, pulled out each layer of kimono you'd be wearing for the one they called "master." Placing each layer onto a nearby chair, she faces you with a softer expression while holding your face in her hands once more, like earlier. `` For a fresh underling, your make-up is more professional than most. I must admit that I am proud of you my Lotus, so please hurry and get dressed so I can give you a proper tour of the Sakimi estate. ``

And with that, Sakura left, leaving you to your disposal of getting dressed. Unfortunately she hadn't told you the order of each layer, so it was more like a ball game to see if you actually got it correct. From your eyes, it seemed like everything was a test to see just how much you knew about an oirans job. In contrast, you were a clever one, so it wasn't too tough to memorize the oirans you passed as a child, remembering each layer and how they dress accordingly.

Yet again, another long process which you figured out all on your own.

Looking in the mirror, you no longer recognized your mothers features on your own face. In your eyes, you saw another person entirely, that was no longer you. To everyone else you'd be known as Lotus, not [Y/N] Fujisaki. It was the future you brought upon yourself, so keeping your chin raised high, you took slow strides out of the dressing room and looked for Sakura who was supposed to give you a proper tour, but to no avail, you did not see the woman from earlier.

And so, you took it upon yourself to look around until you found yourself on the engawa that wrapped around the entire minka. The evening breeze hitting your face as you looked down at the small forest beside, taking in the sunset cascading down upon you. You hadn't expected for the entire day to simply rush by. It felt like just yesterday you were waiting for your father to return from his capers almost every night, but no longer shall he steal, owing to the fact that you'd make money as a yujo.

This was your life, and you had no say in how it was to go for the rest of your days.

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`` Ohhh..~ She is a pretty one Kokushibou-dono~ I want her as my next meal. ``

Kokushibou, who wasn't listening to the Upper Moon Two, eyed a woman who had changed entirely since the last time he had seen her. His confusion didn't go unnoticed due to the Upper Moon One usually having a stoic expression. `` You seem to have taken a liking to her? How pitiful she is nothing but a prostitute n- ``

Before the demon could finish his sentence, one swift movement of Kokushibou's blade had his head off in seconds.

`` Silence, Douma. ``

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[ofmythsandmadness]

touch-starved | d.h.

or...the seven times it takes diego hargreeves to realises he’s touch-starved, and the one time he actually acts on it.

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SUMMARY: diego x gn!reader. an idiot in love, told entirely from his pov as he walks back on a series of monumental moments in his life. WARNINGS: a tad bit of foul language (bc i can never contain myself, jeez). allusion to sexual acts (nothing explicit, but if you know, you know). flowery garbage writing. probably poor characterization. a weird ending. WORD COUNT: 5.7k NOTES: it’s way too late (early?) for me to be putting this out. but after literally driving myself to tears over this stupid thing, i’m forcing myself to publish it and leave it to the world, for better or for worse. it’s...yeah. i hope it’s alright. x

BUY ME A COFFEE HERE. | CHECK OUT MY OTHER WRITINGS HERE.

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THE FIRST TIME HE REALISED WAS IN THE SUMMER.

“Can I say something weird?”

There is a nervous half-giggle that came after the question, like you aren't quite sure how he’s going to take whatever slipped from your gentle, just parted lips. It hangs much longer than the five words you passed to him and he almost forgets what you asked entirely, so hung up on the breathless fashion your chuckle had come.

But when you blink at him and let your beseeching eyes hover over his, he has to let go of the sound and return to the present.

“Sure,” he says dumbly. “What?”

He loses your eyes then and he finds himself following, eager to see what could have lost your attention so fast. His frown digs heavier as you stare at the table he’s leaned over. There isn’t anything there but his harness scattered across the worn wood and a knife in one hand. He’s been idly fiddling with as some show titters in the background, but his weapon (mal??)practices have never been much interest to you before. So...

Slowly a warm smile comes to cradle your cheeks. It rests as delicate as a crashing wave colliding with the great cliffs you had painted once -- like with everything you did, your smile’s a charging force that transforms you entirely and leaves him in awe that anyone could feel something so strongly. He watches with total enthrallment and for once, he’s not ashamed to feel so.

“You have like, really nice hands.”

You drawl the statement out like it’s some kind of joke. Though, the intense look you so briefly shoot him tells him it's anything but. And suddenly he cannot do anything; the knife falls from his hands and clatters to the table and his fingers tremble under your careful stare, paralysed. 

“I-I-”

“-I know, weird compliment, but,” you chuckle again, low and soft. You shrug. “I was staring at them and realised how nice your hands are.”

“Uh…” he doesn’t know what to do with that information. What does one say to that? Is thank you enough, or is he supposed to just force a laugh and pretend like he is not completely ruined by the way you look at his hands? Compliments are not a usual weapon of choice, but when they come from your lips -- Diego can die right there and go overjoyed.

“Thanks,” he mutters, folding and unfolding his hands on the table. “I...never thought about my hands like that.”

You brighten. In a flash of pastel movement you were pressing close, close, close to him and reaching for a fist. He’s again powerless, forced to just watch you pull his fingers in between your own, softly running gentle pads against his bruised knuckles. The touch is cool but he feels his body combust at the mere swish of skin-to-skin contact and he realises,

maybe he could crave someone’s touch.

“You should,” you grin, exquisite under your apartment’s shitty lighting and the flashes of whatever’s happening on the T.V across the room. “You could like, seriously be a hand model or something. Go-orgeous fingers.”

And maybe, he starts to crave yours.

━

THE SECOND TIME HAPPENS WEEKS LATER. 

He’d fantasized about your touch most of the days between it, but the thoughts had been forced to be fleeting and he had avoided considering the way you looked at him like he could actually hang the moon and stars -- and it only ever caught up to him in the ebbs of night, when he couldn’t sleep and just stared at the ceiling, considering what it would be like to really feel you against his hands and not let you slip away.

He so rarely let the sun touch his skin anymore. It wasn’t intentional to adapt a vampire lifestyle -- but between the shifts that let him keep his dingy ‘home’ and the nights he spends racing around the cursed city, trying to do the right thing (or stick it to his dad, depending on the night and how bleary his head felt), Diego rarely catches himself leaving the gym early than eleven anymore.

A fact that seems to exasperate you, and fuels what you dubbed an intervention. Aka, forcing him to wander around the city just barely kissed by autumn’s chilly embrace. And though he did argue against it (profusely, because he’s still that stubborn sonofabitch), he’s grateful for you still.

“I think we need to make this a regular occurrence,” you sing, tossing a smile over your shoulder. You skip several paces ahead of him as you soak in every bit of sunshine the crisp fall air could offer you. And he flounders and watches as he wonders what it would feel like to have that much energy from merely existing.

“I think I’m gonna have to mandate this. I’ll force you to schedule this into your life, and I’ll take shifts off from work so we can appreciate the afternoon sun while we can. It won’t be long ‘til winter you know.”

He chuckles hesitantly, “the sun’ll still be there in the winter.”

“Sure, but barely. And it’ll be cold then! The sun ain’t nice when it’s cold.”

He laughs again, and you join him. And it’s easy -- because it’s you.

“Diego!”

“Huh?”

You stop then, dropping your hands to your hips and glaring at him. Even from several feet away he can make out the infuriatingly adorable pout that puckers your pretty lips and the way he wishes he could go back in time and learn to paint, so he could capture the curve of your --

“--why are you so slow?!”

“I -- I’m not slow.”

“You are too! You’re dragging your feet like I’m forcing you to go to the dentist or somethin’.” You squint at him as the sun heightens his reach in the great blue sky. “Man, are you that allergic to a good time?”

“Shut up, I’m not that bad.”

The pout gives as easily as honey dripped -- that is to say, he adores the treacly sweet and slow slip from puckered lips to the easy smile you give him. Your entire heart’s behind the look just as it always is. You trot back up the path to him and held your hand out to him, wriggling it in the air.

“What?” he asks, frowning through a slow smile. 

“Take my hand.”

“I…” he hesitates again. “Why?”

“Because you’re slow, and I want to make it to the coffee place before next year. Duh,” you drawl, still shaking your hand like one would to a little kid. “Now, come on!”

You pull and he comes without a fuss, dazed as you bumble on about whatever miraculous happenings go on inside your mind. He hardly hears a thing. Every part of his body is fixated on the soft brush of your thumb against his hand, rubbing soothingly -- he isn’t even sure if you knew you’re aware you’re doing it, but he is. Hell, he can’t feel anything else but that.

Maybe your touch could be a tether.

━

HE HADN’T MEANT FOR THE THIRD TIME. Hadn’t planned to make an event out of it, anyways.

“You’re a fool, Diego. You know that?”

Obviously, he responds silently, grimacing as the cloth presses harder into his cuts. That’s why he did it. Because he is a fool. Honestly, that sums up the majority of the things he does in his life. Or doesn’t do, in the case of you.

Is it bad, if as you scold him, he’s creating a list of even more reasons to love you?

“I mean, one of these days you’re going to come here impaled on like, a pole or something and then -- what am I supposed to do with that?” Your tongue clicks like a disapproving mother’s, but your eyes still dance with childlike mischief as you work. “I am not a nurse.”

“Could’a fooled me, with those hands.”

You glare up at him over your lashes, a sight that made his breath hitch. “Quiet, you.”

Diego does as you said -- but not for any bits or for the joke, only because the way you look at him suddenly made his body tremble with the force of a thousand men and all he wants is to grab your neck and drag you up to meet his lips, finally be rid of the burning sensation in his gut that makes him want to ask the most obscene of--

“--does it hurt?”

He blinks, forcing away the images flashing in his mind so he can focus on the real you again. “Uh -- does what, hurt?”

You take that as a joke, laughing low like his horny idiocy deserved such praise. “This, asshat. Does this,” you press harder with the swab, making him cringe, “hurt?”

“Shit -- yes, it hurts! What’s that for?!”

“Had to make sure you were with me still! Sorry,” you hum, sounding everything but. But your grip softens. “You’re lucky. This could have needed stitches.”

Diego snorts. “It’s not that bad.”

“You look like the fookin’ dino from Jurassic Park felt you up.”

“Not that fookin’ bad,” he mocks back. 

“Your accent is appalling.”

“So’s yours.”

You press harder; when he scowls, you giggle, pleased to have won the battle again. 

The rest comes in silence. You stand between his legs, mopping at his cuts as you are often wont to do when he stumbles into your window. And he tries not to think about the way your weight so casually presses up against his torso as you reach to his temple, parted lips just out of reach. He could do it; he could just reach out and grab your chin, pull you in and kiss you with all the fucking passion that made his stomach roil.

But he doesn’t budge. There is no way you want that and he would never push past that fragile boundary without asking, no matter what the primal part of his mind fantasizes. His eyes fall instead down to his lap, staring at the folds on his pants as your fingers graze across his skin.

“There,” finally comes, along with you stepping away. Your distance leaves a cold chill running down Diego’s spine; he wonders if he asked you to come back, if you would. “Almost done.”

“Almost? What’s left?”

The next few moments move like a movie. The ones he only ever watches with you or with Klaus; the cheesy slow-mo romances, where the two main characters constantly dance around in a will-they-won’t-they that usually drives him nuts. Everything is always so slow in them and he usually hates them -- he did hate them. But when it’s his hands cradled in yours and you are smiling sweet and gentle as a honeybee, hell he’d take every single second of those crap rom-coms, if it leads to that moment more.

You lean in and, holding his hands in your own like an anchor held a boat to shore, press your lips against his temple. The slightest sting from the pressure builds but it falls with the blink of an eye. Your lips are cold, delicate, brushing twice against the cut before pulling away.

“There. Now I’m done.”

Maybe, you’re just some kind of angel.

But then, why are you bothering with him?

━

THE FOURTH HAPPENED SO FAST, he nearly misses it.

You pull him in close, examining his clothes and face for any glaring wounds. When you find nothing but dirt and a couple surface scratches, your worried expression melt into something akin with relief; a shiny-eyed, trembling lip smile that deserves its place in the greatest museums.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you whisper, seemingly untrusting of your vocal cords. You sniffle. “I was - I was so--”

“--I’m okay.” It sounds more like a revelation than a reassurance and he repeats himself twice, just to make sure you understand. His hands still grip tight to your forearms, holding you to him in case you would disappear, too. “I’m okay. Everything’s fine.”

You nod and even as you pull away from his hold, you launch. Your arms lace around his neck and your face instantly finds a place to bury itself, right into his shoulder. Your body shakes; he realises that you’re crying into him, so relieved with him being there.

The embrace is short. Too short. He doesn’t do enough to hold your clinging form, only standing there slightly swaying and just barely grazing your back, He considers it too long and doesn’t act enough even when he wants to beg you to never let go again. And when you pull away, you refuse your tears again, sniffling through a smile and asking if he wants some food. But the embrace remained ingrained in his thoughts like a disease; it polluted everything else until everything was you, just you, holding him and wanting him.

Maybe, he was deserving. Maybe he deserved to be wanted. Was that justification enough?

━

THE FIFTH HE ALMOST DIES.

Not literally that time -- no, he’s done enough of that to you. It’s more of a metaphorical sort, making his heart stop as your fingers just graze against his stubble strewn chin, his breath catching on the lump in his throat as he realises yet again that nothing could be more beautiful than your smile.

Diego is not a formal man, nor had he ever really been. Even at the Academy his uniform was almost always somehow out of place or wrinkled or missing a detail. He hates shirts that buttoned all the way up to his throat and pants that have to be pleated that one specific way for no reason at all. If it isn’t important, he wears whatever is closest to him, or his domino-mask-and-leather getup if he’s ‘working’. Hell, the man isn’t even sure he had ever worn a suit outside of his childhood years and Allison’s wedding.

“You look...different.”

He swings fast around to see you leaning against his doorway. You’re all pink cheeks and cheeky grins. Something about the way you look him up and down makes him suddenly want to hide, slip away so you could not see how stupid he looked in this stupid monkey suit clinging to his arms and thighs like stupid plastic wrap. You probably see him as a circus animal, stuck in some stupid performance outfit and told to juggle fire. 

(Honestly, juggling fire would be worlds easier than doing whatever this was, though.)

Slowly, you step into the room, eyes never leaving him. He gulps.

“You look good, Diego.”

He blinks. That is...unexpected. “Y-yeah?” Damn his voice for giving out on him; it comes out squeaky and prepubescent, sounding every bit of uncertainty he feels. “I-I mean, I--”

“--relax, hot stuff,” you wink and his face fills with heat. “You look great. But, your collar…”

Diego glances down only to scowl at the mess of buttons he left around his neck. “Shit, yeah.”

“Let me?”

But you’re already coming to him, though, hands outstretching and delicately folding themselves across his chest. He wonders if you could feel the way his heart beat like there were a thousand drums locked into his chest, or that you knew you smelled like the gods’ ambrosia, honey -sweet smoke dripping from your velvet form. Are you aware how intoxicating your mere presence is?

“Can I?”

He nods dumbly, not trusting his words.

With careful fingers, you weave the buttons together that have been left undone. You then reach up higher, pressing down his collar. 

You hesitate against him, hands still folded into the sharp white fabric. Slowly, one set of fingers unfurl and lift to barely brush against his jaw. It’s a mere allusion to what it would be to have you cradle his face in your caring palms and it only leaves him craving more. 

Your lips curl up too, coloured as deep as the fabric that clings to your exquisite form. Just the tip of hot pink snakes out of your mouth, pressing slyly to the top lip, riling the hotblood boiling inside him right up to the brim.

“What…” the single syllable comes out strangled and hoarse. You’re strangling the life out of him without even moving a finger. Do you know your power?  “What are...what are you doing?”

In hindsight, that’s probably the stupidest question he could have asked.

You baulk and immediately pushed away from him. The fingers glide from his chest and chin and leave him cold. Gone was the confidence you had offered so easily before; he watches, stunned as your eyes fall to the floor, no longer eager to meet his.

“You look good, Diego.” You smile but that time it doesn’t look real at all. “Have fun tonight.”

“Wait, I--”

--you offer a wave and nothing more. Your figure crosses the room and leaves him alone in between the four walls that seemed to press into him without your comforting presence.

Maybe, you could care for him, too. As he wants you too. Is it selfish to think so?

━

THE SIXTH TIME, HE’S ALMOST ASLEEP.

Honestly, Diego isn’t sure how his head had ended up in your lap, or when his body had melted so effortlessly into your own. It wasn’t the alcohol; two beers isn’t enough to kill all of his conditioned issues or turn him into a total sop. It hadn’t even been intentional, nothing about making room or trying to do anything.

But there you are. Your thighs are his pillows and your hands kiss across his scalp, weaving through his hair like it’s yarn to be woven into something beautiful. Once in a while you pause and he thinks that that’s it, you would force him up -- but then you continue like nothing had happened and he continues to lay like a fish out of water across your legs.

Neither of you had talked about the incident before. It was simply avoidance until you both decide to brush it off and move on, forgetting all about the awkwardness. Or, at least, that’s what you silently promised.

But it’s late. Neither of you are thinking. Or, he isn’t at least, when his head slips from the couch to your thinly clad shoulder. And you hardly react when he relaxes even more, silently gesturing for him to use your thighs as a headrest as the movie neither of you are watching drones on. You make some sort of joke, something stupid and it usually wouldn’t be enough to convince him to act so foolishly. But he is tired, and you are you, and it’s all too easy to give in to you.

So he lays. Your hands in his hair. On your lap. Like a baby incapable of even sitting on his own. He should feel unbelievably stupid, right?

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” you mumble, eyes dragging off the television screen to your lap. He barely catches your soft, smiling gaze before it slips back up, but the memory sticks with him long minutes after. “Wish you’d let me play with it more.”

But he can’t bring himself to hate this moment.

He half-snorts, half-laughs because what a funny statement that is. In his state of lovesick, exhausted delirium, Diego hardly recognises himself telling you that ‘you can play with his hair any time you want’.

“Really?”

“Uh…” he had not meant to say that out loud. “I-I--”

“--thanks, honey.” Your hands linger against his temple before stroking down his wavy locks. Honey. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He pulls off of you after a short while -- not because he wants to, because he’s guilty to take your loving hands for his selfish needs. He claims the bathroom excuse and leaves with his head floating in the clouds. The domestic bliss you offer him wasn’t something he thought he wanted, before -- but every time he leaves your bubble, he finds himself more and more starved for your touch.

He leaves your place high on your smile and still stuck on the way you combed through his hair. Even after pulling away yet again, he’s still happy and actually hopeful.

Maybe, he could actually have this, more than just one random rainy night. Maybe he should try.

━

THE SEVENTH TIME, HE ALMOST KISSES YOU.

Almost, because he, Diego ‘number one himbo’ Hargreeves is a self-labelled idiot who loses all cognitive abilities and brain cells when he lays eyes on you, and fails to be able to use them for all the time you’re around him.

And it’s the moment when he finally fully comes to realise the extent of his overwhelming, absolute adoration for you.

He’s never been so bad with that sort of thing. Before he could throw an easy smile and wink his way into a heart he’d no doubt break the following morning and pull a quick-run attraction like it wasn’t anything. But with you? The idea of even your touch turned him bashful and running for the hills, you know...like an idiot.

It takes you pulling him along every single time for him to react and even then, it’s never enough. You’re always left with a pouting lip and that strange, far-off look in your eyes that tells him he’s screwed it up all over again. Every time you get close he’s too blind to react the right way.

Your head on his shoulder, the world’s at peace. He wants you to stay by his side forever. He’ll hold you as long as you want -- hell to his arms, you’re worth the ache or the crick in his neck from bending the wrong way. He’ll let his body waste away and his mind turn to cobwebs if it means an eternity on your balcony, wind in both of your hair and your hands interlacing between his own.

“This is nice,” you murmur. “Yeah?”

He nods. His chin bumps awkwardly against the crown of your head, but you don’t seem to mind.

“I don’t normally like the quiet. But it’s nice like this. With...with you…” you hesitate on the last syllables and the ‘you’ comes out thick and garbled. But he gets it anyways, and somehow he has the emotional strength to pull you even close to his hulking frame. You’re very close to sliding onto his lap and he’d be lying if the idea to just go all the way doesn’t spring to mind. But he doesn’t move.

“It’s nice, knowing you’re here. Safe, alive...with me.”

Diego smiles into your hair. “It is nice.”

Aaand the ‘most obvious statement of the year’ award goes to him. Yet again. Why do you put up with his thick-headed responses? And why can’t he explain the fuzzy feeling in his throat that he gets from being near you, and the desire to give up everything else just to exist by your side? A simple ‘yeah’ doesn’t cover that and he knows that, he knows he has to tell you the entire adoring truth but --

“I like being around you, Diego. You know that, right?”

If he’s being honest...he can’t really believe that. The idea that someone like you enjoys his company is a farfetched concept. But his head bobs up and down again anyways. 

“I, uh...I like our friendship.”

Did you -- did you just friendzone him?!

Did he really just --

“--but sometimes…” you snort out a derisive laugh, “sometimes I wish we were a bit more. Y’know?”

He shifts his weight on the chair and stares down at you, unsure what to make out of any of it. “I - uh - whatdoyoumean?”

“I just, I think we’re good together.” You move too, so he can finally see the pretty way the moonlight bounces off your irises. You’re smiling, and he can’t help but smile too, hopeful and eager as a puppy would be. “And I want to, just...man, I wasn’t expecting this to be so hard to say.”

Vaguely, Diego hears himself respond with a grunt (it’s meant to be an ‘it’s okay’, but apparently English isn’t his strong suit).

“I just like having you around. A lot, if that’s not obvious. I know I’m, heh, kind of a lot sometimes. And I’m trying not to be so uh, affectionate because I know that’s a lot for some people and I never want to overstep, or--”

“--you’re not,” he says quickly, finally finding his voice after oceans of gaping. “I like you being affectionate. It’s nice.”

Your smile grows. “Okay, that’s good.” You hold his fingers a little closer and he’s on cloud nine, staring at you like you’re the eighth wonder of the modern world. “Because if I’m being completely honest here, I don’t want to stop. I...I like you. Generally, in the sense of, more than just friendship. D’you get what I’m saying here?”

“Uh…”

“I don’t want to read into things too much, but I can’t stop myself from feeling really strongly about you. And I don’t want to go on like this, without telling you I’m like, head over heels for you at this point.” You blink up at him, pleading for him to not let you down as you finish with, “is there any way you feel the same?”

What Diego should have done, and wanted to do, was to tell her exactly how he felt, and pull her to him and pull the most cheesy, most cliche Hollywood moment in all the world. He’d finally get the girl in the moonlight as the stars sing above him and the world sleeps below and it would be perfect.

What Diego actually does, is leave.

Cold, and alone, with no hand to hold and no head resting on his shoulder. He leaves you bewildered and probably pissed off and he leaves with no explanation at all -- just a garbled sentence or two that adds up to nothing. He drops his shattered heart at the door and wanders  home shivering and hopeless, knowing he has just fucked it all up.

As he stares at the sidewalk and plods down the street like a lonely, hard down soul, Diego wonders if he’s deserving of your touch. If he was allowed to open up and feel your affection so strongly as you give it. He wants to like you would probably never believe. He wants to hold you and he doesn’t want to let go again. He’s starved for your touch and he’d trade the sun and stars to keep you by his side, no matter the costs.

But you’re worth more than him. Shouldn’t you offer your heart to a better, kinder man? To someone who knows how to hold you properly, and offer his touch right back? Not someone who shivers away or rejects your kindness like a parasite. But someone brave enough to feed you with all the adoration you’re worthy of. Shouldn’t he be who you seek?

Maybe, Diego muses, the universe is wrong, and the mistress is nothing but a cruel meddler too eager to break his heart.

But maybe, it’s his own fault, and she’s not cruel at all.

His pace quickens a beat, and he suddenly knows what he has to do.

━ 

DIEGO’S LIKE NINETY-NINE PERCENT CERTAIN THAT NO ONE, no one living soul, had ever said that the eighth time was the charm.

But if he had to be the first, hell he’d ring that bell a thousand times if it got him where he had to be.

He’s running like a madman. And he’s not drunk, even if at least five people have grumbled that about him -- no he’s as sober as the day he was forced into the world. He’s made a thirty-minute walk of hell into somehow a twelve-minute dash through the cold streets of their shitty city and he feels like a god, if gods were desperate sonofabitches who never knew how to acknowledge their feelings until it’s too late.

He takes the stairs, too high on adrenaline to wait for the elevator. He gasps and huffs and pants his way up but he makes it and keels down the hall to your door, falling against it with all his weight. It’s a foolish move but in his defense...his legs are about to give out, and all the energy he’s devoted to this half-baked, foolish, love-drunk plan is very quickly running out.

He pounds against the door weakly. “Hello? Hello? I--” 

and then he literally crashes into your apartment.

You both tumble to the floor with a loud thud-thump and he’s so glad you have thick carpeting because he could have probably split your skull right open with the fall. He’s smart enough to roll, so he cushions your upper body with his, but you still groan as you make contact with the floor. His entire bone structure quakes at the feeling of ground hitting him and even with nary a breath in his throat, immediate guilt floods his system.

He falls back and silently screams, wishing he had more tact than this.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I’m...I’m so sorry,” he offers with a smile. He quickly props himself up over your body and tries to look as sorry as he truly feels, though it’s hard as his breath still won’t come and he’s still absolutely exhausted from running all this way.

Why did he do all this again?

Oh, yeah.

“I-I love you,” he spurts, followed by him rolling off and promptly falling into a coughing/choking/hacking fit.

You lay beside him, silent and stunned. He can’t see you as he coughs but his mind tries to put the pieces together, and none of it looks good. You’re probably annoyed, and mad that he’s even there so late and after what happened before, and you’re probably tired, and maybe sad, or hurt, or uncomfortable because you just jumped from friends to him admitting he loves you and --

“-did you seriously run all this way and body me, just to tell me that?!” 

He pulls himself together long enough to breathe and then turn so he can stare at you. You’re still beside him, body still pressed against the floor (possibly broken after having a much larger man knock you over, who knows) and you’re…

“You’re smiling,” he responds, like it’s the most shocking thing in the world. “You’re - why-”

“Last time I saw you, you were running out of my place like your ass was on fire. And now you come here, knock me on my ass, and tell me you love me?! Diego...uh...wow.”

Diego just stares back at her. He’s still struggling to breathe and if he’s being honest, he’s not sure if he can function after any of this. He just wasted so much of his courage (something he’s never been good at keeping stock of) on just getting here, how is he supposed to collect himself and head out the door with any sense of dignity? Or answer you in any way, shape or form? How is he supposed to even move when you’re looking at him like that?

Wait, you’re...you’re looking at him like that. Smiling, doe-eyed, honey-sweet and beautiful even after being violently collided with and forced to your shitty carpet…

“I love you,” he breaths, soft but still sure. He grins back at you and he feels like an idiot but he holds strong. “And I’m really sorry about before. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m just, all this stuff is stuff I’ve never done before, and I--”

And without another word or even the chance to think, your lips are on his.

Well, they probably were meant to be. What really happens is with a grunt and a swift push, you shift over to him and move to kiss him, only you’re both still smiling and absolute idiots who then just bang teeth against teeth. And you’re left groaning and keeling back, both gripping your mouths while still smiling and,

Ohmygodthisisamessbutohmygodishesohappyandinlovewithyou.

“I’m so sorry,” you groan, muffled behind your hand.

“Me too -- for knocking you over, too!”

“Yeah, that’s gonna leave a bruise.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you chuckle, and lift up again. You hover above him. His nose just barely brushes against yours and he’s straight back into heaven again, even as the embarrassment floods and his teeth ache. “I mean, I would have preferred a bit more warning, but...at least you don’t hate me.”

Diego grins and lifts his hand to push a tendril of hair behind your ear. “I could never hate you.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Mm-hmm. I’m glad you don’t hate me.”

“Please,” you roll your eyes and shove at his chest. His heart beats even faster. “Like I could ever hate you.”

He lifts his head, trying to pull himself up to meet your lips, but you dart away just enough so he can’t. “Can - can we try this again?”

“Mm…” you pretend to consider his request like one would a business proposal. Your thighs tighten their grip around his stomach and a part of him just wants to pull you in and act as his heart pleads. But, given the last time he did that...and the last time you did...he’ll take this slow.

Instead of answering, you lean down and press your lips to his. It’s gentle and leisurely, but he takes every motion in stride. You’re everything he expected and more. Soft petals of reddened flesh against his, your hips just barely grazing against his own, making him want to pull you into his body and never let you leave his side. He’s jubilant and exhilarated and he almost laughs like a baby as your tongue swipes against his bottom lip.

“If it isn’t obvious,” you breathe as you pull away, “from the way I let you tackle me to my floor,”

“I’m really sorry about that,”

You pull his hand up and intertwine your fingers, shaking your ‘head’ no. “I love your touch-starved ass too, Diego.”

“Good, cause this would have been--”

“--no more talking, chatterbox. Just kiss me and shut up.”

And he lets go of the maybes, and just loves you.

SECOND A/N...this ending is just ackwa!?!hiwogh. very annoyed with how it went, but if you know me, you know i suck at conclusions in every sense of the world and i also always leave them to the very last minute, meaning i’m typing this note as i read over the ending and hate it even more. and i’m sorry for the vague messiness of this! I had an idea, failed to deliver it the way i wanted, and a cool thought turned into a half-baked fic. thank you to those who read this, sorry’s also extended your ways because i know this isn’t fantastic. lmao.

- xx