#that i was so. so. reluctant to leave him.

[siriuslylantsov]

afterglow

pairing: joel miller x reader

description: in which, you spend an evening with joel on valentines day.

tags: MDNI! smut and fluff, established relationship, jackson!joel, fem!reader, sickeningly cute, so so much kissing, soft!joel (but hes also kinda dirty, i can't help myself), age gap (it was thought about when writing but it's not explicitly stated so imagine whatever), oral (f receiving, munch joel!! everyone cheered), fingering, unprotected piv (he pulls out), soft!dom joel kinda, aftercare, r and j's relationship is new but its implied that she already has a close relationship with ellie.

a/n: happy valentines day cuties!!! my gift to you. this started off super cute and soft and then two thirds of it became smut, idk where that came from. anywho, happy reading!!

wc: 3k

“hi darlin’,” joel says as you open the door. 

the early evening sun casts a soft orange glow over the side of face, complementing his complexion perfectly. a shy, crooked smile tugs at his lips, the dimple on his right cheek deepening. one arm is folded behind him, holding something from your view and the other is planted against the frame of your door.

“hi baby,” you reply, giggling as you step forward to kiss him.

he accepts your lips eagerly, using the hidden arm to curl around your waist. you hear the faint crinkle of paper against your back. you hum sweetly into the kiss, pulling away to see what he’s got for you. a small bouquet appears between your bodies–a humble bunch of white and purple flowers that could handle growing in the cold weather, along with some that you suspect the gardeners had a role in providing. 

“maria went on patrol with me today and helped me pick some o’ these out,” he explains, watching you toy with a lilac petal of a flower he can't be damned to remember the name of. “d’ya like em?”

your fingers rake softly through his beard, coaxing his gaze upward until his eyes meet yours. tears gather at your waterline, and joel should probably be alarmed—but he’s grown used to it, having been there for so many of your firsts. apparently, getting flowers was one of them too.

“i’ve never got flowers before,” you admit in a hushed whisper, sickening adoration pooling into your body, making you feel warm all over despite the cold air that sneaks its way into your house.

joel takes note of the wind picking up and guides you inside, a solid hand at the small of your back. he takes your dazed figure all the way to the kitchen, grinning amusedly at how you continue to admire the bouquet. he looks through your cabinets for something tall enough, settling when he finds a mason jar that would be perfect. 

“i really like these, joel.” you smile up at him when he's in front of you again. he's holding his hand out expectantly and the jar filled with water in the opposite one. you give him the flowers with a reluctant pout, following him to the counter where he begins to set them up.

“‘m glad,” he expresses warmly, untying the ribbon that held the stems together. “damn shame i couldn't get you roses, the garden ran out pretty quick.”

you can’t help the fond smile that spreads across your face as you watch him try to organise the flowers nicely, carefully moving them around so he doesn't accidentally pull off a petal. when he's happy with his arrangement he turns back to you, neatly folding up the brown paper that wrapped the bouquet and placing it in your palm. “ellie made me promise to tell you that she helped with that so keep it in mind, i guess,” he says, nodding to the doodles of leaves that were peppered along the edges.

“noted,” you laugh, picturing her fiery, insisting nature with ease. you gotta fuckin’, i don’t know, make it pretty for her, joel. just ugh- give it to me. 

suddenly, you remember the muffins that were kept warm in the oven. you scurry over there wordlessly, causing joel to twitch confusedly. you take the tray out with quick fingers, holding a muffin out for joel. 

“it's a new recipe, cinnamon and pear,” you explain excitedly as he walks over to you. when he looks down at it, he sees you’ve managed to orchestrate two small slices of fruit to sit in a heart shape and it's awfully cute.

your eyes are trained intently on him as he takes a bite. it's instantly the best thing he's ever tasted but he chews thoughtfully for a few more seconds so it doesn't look like he's making his mind up on a whim. admittedly, he is but it's also just that good. the texture of the warm cooked pear complimenting the firm but soft spiced crumb of the muffin. he hums in approval when he swallows, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“sweetheart, this is really fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, his voice rough in appreciation as he dusts off muffin remnants that have stuck to his bottom lip. 

you beam, extremely pleased. you wait as he finishes eating. not that long, apparently, as two big bites later, it’s gone. he reaches up with his free hand and tucks a strand of loose hair behind your ear, twirling it before letting it fall.

“so about today,” he starts and you hum attentively. “thought we’d take a walk around that part of town that you like and then go feed the horses. maybe go back to mine if there's time.”

-

the walk is perfect. you swing your joined hands between your bodies, smiling to yourself while joel complains about his brother. the air is solemn, the overwhelming scent and sound of love seeping out of every house you walk by. you never thought life could be this good again or that you’d feel this good again. you owe it all to the mumblin’ grumblin’ man beside you, the one softly caressing your thumb with his own, bringing it up to his mouth so he can kiss the back of your hand. 

when you reach the stables, joel pulls out the carrots he had tucked away in his large jacket pocket. (you’d made a detour at the greenhouse before coming here.) you divide the carrots into equal pieces for the animals, setting aside an extra chunk for a horse you remember ellie being particularly fond of–shimmer, if you recall correctly. 

joel takes in the sight, endearing eyes unable to part from you. your hand reaching out calmly, vegetable centred in your palm, you bring it to the horse's mouths, giggling when their tongues peek out and tickle you. he crowds in behind you, his arms wrapping around your middle. you squirm a little when he tilts to press a kiss to your neck, claiming his lips are cold. 

“well, let me warm ‘em up, sweetheart.”

-

you make it to joel's front door well after sundown, stars shining like diamonds spilled across the night sky. you make a mental note to go stargazing with him and ellie, if she wants, when the weather gets warmer. for now, you just want to be inside. 

“she’s with her friend dina tonight,” joel answers your unasked, looming question. you bite back the smile that the words ‘friend’ and ‘dina’ prompt, knowing a lot more than joel about his kids’ relationship status. she's just waiting for the right time.

you turn around to him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “so what you’re saying,” you muse lightly. “is that we have the place to ourselves.”

“mhm,” he smirks.

you twist the door open, often left unlocked, and let yourself through. “well then. come on in, mr. miller.”

he trails behind you up the steps, fingers lacing with yours. you walk into his room with a quiet sigh, taking off your shoes and watching as he follows suit. you love his room, a cultivation of who he is within four walls. you switch on the lamp on his bedside table, refraining from turning the main light so a faint glow encompasses the room, just enough to see the softness in his beautiful brown eyes.

“kiss me?”

he clicks his teeth before lowering his lips to yours, “don’t have to ask.”

his moustache tickles your upper lip and the coarse hair of his beard grazes your chin lightly, but it's not irritating. you welcome the sensation, it being a feature of his that you adore so dearly. proving this, your nails scratch the patch of grey at his jaw. 

his tongue slips out, tracing the seam of your lips. a low sound escapes you when you grant him entrance, licking into your mouth languidly. there's no rush, there never is. it's a luxury that three months ago you would’ve laughed at, disbelief evident.

his hands find your waist, pulling your hips flush together. he slips off your jacket and greedily tugs at the hem of your shirt. you appease by lifting your arms. he reaches behind you when he gets your shirt off, deftly unclasping your bra. he does this all while kissing you, but when he finally gets your top half bare, he pulls away. to look.

“beautiful,” he exhales a quick, amazed breath that whooshes past his lips. he admires you unabashedly, trailing his hands up your sides and down your front. he nudges you gently, guiding you onto the bed, his frame looming over yours as you sit down. 

you look up at him with dopey, half-lidded eyes, sneaking eager hands under his flannel and undershirt. your fingers trace over his skin, pressing into the soft warmth of his stomach, his body heat sinking into your palms. “back at ya, cowboy."

he takes this as a sign to peel off his layers, pulling them off with ease and adding them to the pile of discarded clothes. you spend a moment gaping at his torso before he lowers himself on top of you, dragging his lips up your neck as he does so. you whine when he begins sucking at your pulse point, teeth scraping your skin every so often. his kisses go lower and lower as he toys with the button of your jeans. 

he kisses at your belly, lips catching on the exposed skin of your hips, then upper thighs as he slowly pulls your jeans and underwear down, purposefully avoiding where you need him most. he strips off his pants and boxers and nudges for you to scoot up the bed. you sink into the pile of pillows, joel not far behind as he sits bracketed by your thighs. he runs his hands up and down them, calloused fingertips caressing your skin, squeezing in intervals and leaning down to kiss them, kiss your knees and your calves.

“joel, please,” you whisper, growing a little antsy, his hands all over your body aren't helping. 

“impatient,” he tuts, but there's no real reprimand in his voice. “jus’ let me take my time with you.”

“will you at least come up here and kiss me while you're at it?” 

he smiles, “what’d i tell ya?”

“don't have to-” your poor impression of his southern drawl gets cut off by his lips on yours. you sigh dreamily into the kiss; you'll never get used to that feeling. his hand cradles your jaw, tilting it to deepen this kiss. you pull his bottom lip between your teeth, sucking it into your mouth. 

a needy sound rumbles in the back of his throat, and with a reluctant pull, he breaks away, shifting back to the space between your legs. he's lying on his stomach, cheek pressed against your inner thigh as he waits for your approval. when you nod, he dives in, no time to waste.

he licks a fat stripe between your folds, causing you to cry out. he hooks an arm over your hips to cease your writhing. you could say joel miller eats you out like a man starved, but right now, it's more like a savoured meal, slow and leisurely in its pace. he takes his time, measured strokes of tongue that are assuredly making you feel all the right kinds of ways. you thread your fingers through his hair, so soft, tugging lightly and he hums. 

you dare to spare a glance down. it's deadly–him with his mouth attached to you like a vice and eyes staring up at you, decidedly looking like he belongs there. you want to look away but the sight is so enticing. 

“baby, more,” you ask breathlessly. “please.”

“yeah?” he sounds equally out of breath, tracing a middle and ring finger around your entrance. “this what you want?”

you nod pathetically with a meek “yes.”

he pushes in slowly, met with no resistance. he finds that spot fast, pressing his curled fingers up. his fingers are longer and thicker than yours, reaching places you’d never been able to. he persistently rubs up, pulling out a little only to go back fast, just the way you like. all the while, he does this thing with his tongue–god, that tongue–where he flicks it from side to side over your clit, flattening it when needed, and it is earth-shattering. 

that well-known feeling starts to build and you repeatedly tug at joel's hair, mewling softly, trying to signal him. he’d already figured you were close, but still, he nods. he lifts his head to see you, his thumb replacing his tongue. 

“c’mon, sweetheart. give it to me,” he urges you on, kissing your hip bone with slick wet lips and his fingers working fervently like it's the most important thing in the world. joel would argue that right now, it is. “know you want to.”

“joel, yes, oh fuck-” you keen, shuddering violently as you finish. he keeps going, working you through it, lapping up the mess when his fingers slip out. he can't get enough of you. you weakly push at his head, “baby, enough. s’too much.”

suddenly, he's on top of you again, rubbing a clean hand over your hair. “okay, okay,” he coos, his voice low and lulling. he presses gentle pecks to your neck, making his way back up to your lips. you kiss him again, more sluggish than previously, whimpering when you taste yourself on him. fuck, you need him. 

you carefully drift a hand between your bodies, curling your fingers around his length. he hisses, inhaling a sharp breath. “shit, are you sure-”

you press him against you, guiding his tip to your slit. “fuck me, joel,” you whisper, using your other hand to hold his face.

that's all he needs to hear before he starts sinking into you, simultaneously groaning as he does. he curses low, though it sounds and looks more like a whine when you see the way his face has twisted up in pleasure when his hips are flush with yours. you feel addictively full, so you hug your arms around his shoulders to prolong the moment. he buries his head in your neck, breathing shallowly as you flutter around him.

“gotta move angel, i gotta-” he gets cut off when you squeeze, nodding against his shoulder. 

he thrusts greedily, pulling out almost fully until he somehow goes in deeper. it’s not fast but it’s not slow either, just enough that it leaves you reeling when he draws his hips back. the stretch of him is something you feel you won't get used to, it only just borders on pain that makes it feel deliriously good. all you can offer him are broken gasps as you find purchase on his back with your nails, digging into the flesh. 

“fuck you feel good, so so good,” he croons, his voice is soft, breathy, as he presses a lingering kiss to your neck, the words barely a whisper between your bodies. “can't believe you’re mine, this perfect fuckin’ body, perfect fuckin' girl.”

maybe it's the wrecked rasp to his voice or the way the base of his dick rubs against you just right but the high builds fast, record time even. you squeeze around him frantically, mouthing sloppily at his shoulder. 

“yeah?” he pants, lifting his head so he can look at you again, you’ve got the sense that he likes to watch. you like him watching you. “gonna give me another one? gonna cum for me?”

“mhm,” you hum, teetering on a sob as he starts fucking you harder, a determined look in his eyes. your face falls sideways into the arm that joel had pressed beside your head “oh god, ohgod-”

“there you go. good girl,” he gushes warmly as you finish. he speeds up urgently, letting your climax be the catalyst of his own, chasing something just out of reach. you pull his face to yours with desperate hands, clinging to him, needing to kiss him. his lips brush over yours messily, not quite kissing you and it drives you crazy. he cums with one more strong thrust, groaning loudly into your open mouth as he pulls out and spills over your stomach.

he slumps on you, heavy, as he comes to, smearing stickiness all over but you find that you don’t care much. you cradle the back of his head with gentle hands, murmuring sweet things. you can feel his soft exhales on your collarbone, sighing as you weave your fingers between his strands. his heart races against your own, almost in sync. 

the two of you stay like that for a moment longer as everything slows down. nothing else matters apart from the silvery glow of moonlight filtering through his sheer curtains, spilling in revered ribbons across the floor, or the soft, grounding weight of his body on top of yours. his fingers trace the skin within reach, absentminded circles over your hip bones, lines beneath the curve of your breast. 

eventually, he rolls off you, getting the sense that some of your limbs might be going numb. in the midst of your post-orgasmic haze, you don’t realise that he leaves, returning with a damp towel to clean you up. he wipes you up swiftly, murmuring a hushed sorry when you squirm away and joins you under the covers.

he pulls you into his side, letting you tuck yourself under his arm. he presses a kiss to your temple. everything is so serene you want to cry. your body has other plans for you when the dregs of sleep start to claw at your worn-down edges. joel feels the slow flutter of your eyelashes on his chest and he begins to rub a gentle hand over your back, attempting to coax you further. sleep offers its solace, and joel’s steady presence pulls you under, silently promising to keep you warm. 

before you drift off though, you hear him–unbearably soft, whispering against your forehead.

“happy valentine's day, angel girl.”

reblogs and replies are appreciated :) | m.list

[celestemona]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐒

and you aren't around so they're in charge of their children.

pairing: dad & husband! alhaitham, kaveh, kaedehara kazuha, lyney, wriothesley x fem! reader

cw: original characters, domesticity, fluff. characters may look a bit ooc or not.

reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡

ALHAITHAM

Hakim stirred restlessly beneath the blankets, his small face flushed with fever as his jade-green eyes slowly blinked open. A soft whimper escaped his lips, catching your attention, seated at the edge of his bed, pressing a damp cloth against his forehead.

“How are you feeling, my love?” you asked gently, brushing aside strands of his silver hair.

Hakim mumbled, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the covers. “It hurts, mummy... 'm hot…”

Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and your husband stepped inside, his usual impassive expression in place, though his gaze softened slightly at the sight of his son.

“I'll stay with him today,” Alhaitham said simply, crossing his arms.

You blinked. “Are you sure? Won't they miss you at work or—”

“It doesn’t matter,” his voice left no room for debate. “Hakim needs someone here, and you have an important meeting to attend.”

You hesitated but then sighed, gratitude shining in your eyes. “Thank you, dear.” You pressed a kiss to Hakim's temple before standing up. “I'll leave some potions and instructions in the kitchen. Make sure he drinks plenty of fluids.”

Alhaitham gave a small nod, already rolling up his sleeves. “Go. He's in good hands.”

“I know he is,” you smiled softly and left, casting one last glance at your son before slipping out the door.

The morning that followed was mostly spent with Alhaitham staying by Hakim’s side, ensuring his comfort. Carefully, he fed the boy warm herbal soup, patiently insisting that he take slow sips, even when Hakim scrunched up his face at the taste.

“It's bitter…” Hakim murmured, wrinkling his nose.

“It's medicine, not dessert,” Alhaitham replied flatly. “You need to take it to get better.”

With a small sigh, Hakim relented, leaning tiredly against his father as he took another reluctant sip.

When the fever made Hakim restless, Alhaitham prepared a lukewarm bath, carefully lowering his son into the water. His touch was firm but gentle as he washed away the sticky sweat clinging to the boy’s skin. Hakim whimpered when the cooler water trickled over his forehead, but Alhaitham ran a calming hand through his damp hair, murmuring, “I know, Kim. Just a little longer.” 

When Hakim was finally cleaned and dressed with a new and fresh pair of pajamas, the scribe carried him back to bed, tucking him snugly beneath the covers. The soft hum of the ceiling fan and the steady presence of his father seemed to soothe the little boy, allowing him to finally rest.

It didn't take too long for Alhaitham also notice Hakim’s fever began to subside as his breathing grew more even. Seizing the opportunity, Alhaitham went about tidying the house—washing the dishes, straightening the furniture, and even preparing a simple but nutritious meal for later.

Once everything was in order, he headed to Hakim’s bedroom again and checked his asleep form from the doorframe, humming in satisfaction at the relaxed sight in the boy's features. With everything running as good as it could possibly be, Alhaitham finally settled onto the couch back in the living room, a book in hand, savoring the rare silence.

But it didn’t last long.

A small, sleepy voice called across the hall. “Baba?”

Alhaitham closed his book, immediately standing and making his way to Hakim’s room. The boy was sitting up, his eyes drowsy but alert. Without a word, Alhaitham effortlessly scooped him up, carrying him back to the couch.

“I'm here,” he murmured as he sat down, cradling Hakim against his chest. The boy clung to him sleepily, nuzzling into his father’s warmth.

Alhaitham picked up his book again and opened it. “Want me to read to you?”

Hakim gave a small nod, and without changing his calm tone, Alhaitham began reading his current text—an academic study on the evolution of Teyvat language.

The words were dense and complex, but the steady rhythm of his father’s voice lulled Hakim into a peaceful state, his blinks growing slower and slower.

By the time Alhaitham reached the end of the chapter, Hakim was already fast asleep.

A rare, faint smile touched Alhaitham’s lips as he adjusted a blanket around his son, pressing a silent kiss to his silver hair.

The house remained quiet, but this time, it was a comforting kind of silence.

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA

The Kaedehara estate was unusually quiet that first night without you. 

Kazuha sat on the floor with Haruki nestled against his chest, his tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of his father’s haori. The little one had been fussier than usual, missing the warmth of his mother’s presence. Kazumi and Kiyomi sat on either side of him, their faces a mix of uncertainty and longing.

“Mama will be back soon, I promise,” Kazuha murmured, gently rubbing Haruki’s back. “But in the meantime, we must carry on and make the most of our days.”

Kiyomi leaned her head against Kazuha’s shoulder, letting out a little sigh. “I miss her…”

Kazumi, trying to be strong for his younger siblings, nodded but kept quiet. He wouldn’t admit how much he missed you too. Instead, he intertwined his fingers with Kiyomi’s, squeezing her hand.

That night, Kazuha tucked them all into bed with extra care. Haruki, after much rocking, finally drifted into a peaceful sleep. Kiyomi clutched one of your scarves as she dozed off, and Kazumi, despite his usual independence, asked if Kazuha would stay until he fell asleep. Kazuha did, running his fingers gently through his firstborn’s hair until his breathing evened out.

By the third day of your absence, though, the household had found a rhythm. Kazuha had planned small adventures to keep the children engaged. 

In the morning he’d reserve his time to help the older kids with their homework, his calm voice guiding them through difficult subjects. However, as soon as they got restless, he’d take all of them outside to the garden, where they played or trained together—Kiyomi, full of energy, attempting to mimic her father’s fluid sword techniques, and Kazumi practicing precise movements with quiet focus. Haruki, too small to participate, sat comfortably in his playpen, giggling at his siblings’ enthusiasm and having fun with his own toys as well.

Afternoons were filled with quieter moments, though.

Kazuha would prepare a meal, tying an apron around his waist as he balanced Haruki on his hip. Kiyomi eagerly assisted, though her true goal seemed to be sneaking tastes of the ingredients, while Kazumi helped set the table. After meals, Kazuha would help them to bathe and after everything was done, he'd gather everyone in the living room to read fairytale books to them—the soothing melody of his voice lulling Haruki into peaceful naps. Kiyomi would often lean against him, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth coming from her father's body, while Kazumi listened intently, his expression relaxed.

As the last afternoon before your return arrived, Kazuha gathered the children. “What’d you guys like to do today?”

“Street market!” Kiyomi and Kazumi chorused in excitement and Haruki clapped, almost like in agreement.

And so, the four of them ventured into town.

The marketplace was bustling with life—vendors calling out their wares, the scent of freshly grilled skewers wafting through the air, and colorful lanterns swaying overhead. Kazuha carried Haruki in one arm while holding Kiyomi’s hand in the other, with Kazumi walking confidently beside him.

“Ooh! Dango! Can we have one, please, 'tōchan?” Kiyomi blinked cutely.

Kazuha chuckled but agreed, purchasing a few sticks, ensuring Haruki had a small, soft piece to nibble on as well. 

They then stopped by a goldfish-scooping stall, where Kiyomi leaned forward with intense focus, trying to catch a golden fish.

“Careful now, Kiki,” Kazumi teased. “You don’t want to break the paper too fast.”

“I know what I’m doing!” the little girl huffed, her tongue sticking out slightly in determination. With careful precision, she managed to scoop up a small, wriggling fish, beaming proudly.

Kazumi gave it a try too, and while he had an air of confidence, his first scoop tore almost instantly. “Eh?” He blinked in surprise before laughing. Kazuha smiled beside him. 

“Even the steady hand of a swordsman can falter.”

With the sun beginning to set, they picked up some sweet pastries to bring home, a treat to celebrate the end of their eventful week.

Back to the estate, as the children helped set the table for dinner, Kazumi and Kiyomi whispered excitedly about their surprise at your return. Kiyomi arranged a bouquet of wildflowers they had gathered earlier, while Kazumi wrote a small welcome-home poem on a slip of parchment.

“I’ll make it extra pretty so mama loves it!” she declared proudly.

Haruki, too young to contribute much, remained in Kazuha’s arms, drowsily sucking on his pacifier. Kazuha smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to each of his children's heads. “I think she’ll be very happy to see all of you.”

And as the evening settled, Kazuha couldn’t help but feel a deep warmth in his heart. Even in your absence, your family had flourished, finding joy in each other’s company. Soon, you’d return, and your home would feel complete once more. But for now, he cherished the quiet laughter of his children, the scent of fresh flowers, and the anticipation of a joyful reunion.

KAVEH

Kaveh heaved a deep sigh as he stepped into his home, rolling his sore shoulders and rubbing his temple. The day had been grueling—endless site inspections, client complaints, and the ever-looming threat of deadlines.

The first thing that welcomed him was the scent of roses and something faintly herbal drifted through the air, drawing his attention toward the living room. And just in there you stood—giving the makeup a last touch-up with your hair pinned up with golden accessories, and a white qipao embracing your curves.

He nearly forgot his exhaustion.

“You look stunning, azizam,” he murmured, lips curving into a tired but genuine smile.

You turned at his voice, brows immediately furrowing in concern. “And you look exhausted, Kaveh. My goodness! It is starting to make me reconsider if I should go. I can stay—”

“No, no, absolutely not,” Kaveh waved a hand, marching forward to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “You deserve this night out. I can handle Zahra.”

“She can be a handful.”

“She is my handful, and I adore it,” he said, puffing his chest despite the clear fatigue in his voice. “Besides, I have a foolproof plan: playtime, dinner, bath, story time, sleep. Easy.”

You hummed, unconvinced, but he gave you an exaggerated grin and a thumbs-up. “Go, enjoy yourself. The girls are waiting, and if I recall, you’ve said something about have being challenged at dice again.”

That earned a chuckle from you, who finally relented. “Alright. But if you need me, don’t hesitate to come at me. I’m dead serious.”

Kaveh saluted you dramatically. “Yes, ma’am!”

With one last glance—one that lingered, as if memorizing him just in case—you left. The moment the door shut, Kaveh slumped against its wood with a deep sigh. Still, he didn't stay there for too long and soon crossed around the house's corridors looking for his daughter.

Zahra was in the middle of a grand pillow fortress when he found her, golden eyes bright with mischief. “Hi Daddy! Look! I made a castle!”

Kaveh grinned, kneeling beside her. “It's magnificent, my little architect. But I think it needs a tower here… and maybe a secret passage here?”

She gasped, completely entranced as the two of them got to work. What was meant to be a quick addition turned into an hour-long session of castle enhancements, dragon-slaying, and a daring escape from an imaginary evil mage.

Dinner followed, a messy affair of Zahra insisting she could eat with her hands and Kaveh attempting (and failing) to get her to use a spoon. “Zahra, my love, pasta is not finger food—oh, Archons, now it's in your hair!”

After a particularly splashy bath—where more water seemed to end up on Kaveh than in the tub—he wrestled a giggling Zahra into her pajamas. “You, little miss, are far too energetic tonight. Let’s get you into bed before I turn into a prune.”

Tucking Zahra into bed was the easiest part. Reading to her, however, was where the real challenge began.

“Tonight’s story is…” Kaveh yawned, flipping open a book, “The Adventure of the Clever Fox.”

He cleared his throat, sitting up straight. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly.

“Once upon a time in a vast forest—” a second yawn broke through “—lived a cunning fox who outwitted everyone he met.”

Zahra giggled as Kaveh attempted voices: a sly, slinking tone for the fox, a gruff, burly one for the bear, and a high-pitched squeak for the rabbit. But his words grew slower, syllables melting together.

“And then the fox said… said… uh…”

Zahra peeked up from under her blanket. “What did the fox say, daddy?”

Kaveh blinked rapidly, shaking himself awake. “Ah, yes! The fox said… Oh! Right. He said—” Another yawn. Another pause. “He said…”

Silence.

Zahra sat up. “Daddy?”

He was slumped against the headboard, mouth slightly open, the book resting on his chest nearly falling on the ground.

Asleep.

Zahra giggled and poked her father's cheek, testing how deep he fell asleep. Kaveh, in response, remained out like a light, completely oblivious to his surroundings. She took the book from his chest, flipping to a random page. “And then the fox said—” she mimicked, turning the book upside down and reading in an exaggerated voice, though the words were nowhere near what was actually written.

When you returned home a couple of hours later, you were greeted by an unexpected sight: Zahra, wide awake, cross-legged on the bed, reading (or attempting to) while Kaveh snored beside her.

You bit back a laugh, stepping forward. “What’s going on here?”

Zahra beamed. “Daddy slept before telling me what the fox said, so I read it for him!”

You leaned down, brushing back Kaveh’s hair before pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He barely stirred.

“You did a great job, sweetheart," you whispered, picking Zahra up. “But it's past your bedtime. How about you sleep with mommy tonight? Let's let daddy get some rest here tonight.”

The little girl eagerly agreed, and you led her back to your own bedroom, quickly stripping off your robes and accessories and getting your nighttime routine going so that Zahra wouldn't be kept awake waiting for you for too long.

As you settled beside your daughter under the blankets, Zahra’s sleepy voice murmured, “Daddy tried his best…”

You chuckled, putting a stroke of her blonde hair behind her ear. “He really did, didn't he?”

And as Zahra drifted off to sleep in the warmth of your embrace, across the hall, Kaveh let out a soft snore, his hand twitching slightly, as if still lost in dreams of clever foxes and bedtime stories.

LYNEY

The morning light gently streamed through the curtains of the twins' bedroom, casting a delicate golden glow over the cozy space. 

Lyney leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and a soft smile on his lips as he observed the scene before him—two little lumps hidden beneath a sea of blankets, completely indifferent to the sunrise light.

“Time to wake up, little ones,” he called playfully, taking a few steps into the room. No response. He sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “What a tragedy! It seems my dear children have been turned into statues overnight! What should I do?” Still nothing. He could hear their soft breathing, confirming they weren’t so asleep as before.

Smiling, he tried a different approach. “Oh my... I guess I’ll have to eat all the pancakes by myself.”

Quentin’s reaction was immediate. The little boy threw the blankets aside, revealing a mess of tousled hair. “Pancakes?” He said almost in disbelief, his purple eyes still half-closed from sleep, but already moving by instinct. He jumped out of bed in a hurry, only pausing to give his father a good morning kiss on the cheek before dashing to the bathroom.

Lyney laughed, rubbing the spot where his son had kissed him. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

He turned his attention to Corinne, who was still curled up under the covers, unmoving. Lyney crouched beside the bed and gently pulled the blankets down just enough to reveal his daughter’s sleepy and serene little face. “Cori, sweetheart, time to wake up,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

A small whimper escaped her lips as she snuggled deeper into the warmth of her bed. “’m still sleepy, papa…”

Lyney’s heart melted. “I know baby girl, but it's time to get up…” he murmured, sliding his arms under her small body. Corinne let out a soft sigh as he effortlessly lifted her, her sleepy little head resting against his shoulder. He pressed a tender kiss to her temple before carrying her to the twins’ shared bathroom, where Quentin was already washing his face.

With one hand, Lyney dampened a cloth and gently wiped Corinne’s face. She mumbled softly but didn’t resist. “There, all fresh and beautiful,” Lyney sang, helping her brush her teeth and comb her hair.

“Papa!” Corinne murmured when he picked up the brush to separate her silky strands for a braid. “Not too tight.”

Lyney immediately loosened his touch. “Oh! Sorry,” he quickly apologized, loosening the braid a bit more. She let out a small sound of approval, allowing him to continue. Once he was done, he tied it with a lilac ribbon. “Voilà! Ready for breakfast.”

With both children's morning routine done and they dressed properly, the trio finally made their way to the kitchen, where a stack of fluffy pancakes awaited them. The twins eagerly dug in, Quentin pouring syrup over his pancakes while Corinne savored each bite slowly. Lyney couldn’t help but smile as he sipped his morning tea, watching his little ones enjoy their meal.

The rest of the morning was filled with activities. First, he helped them with their homework—simple number and letter exercises—then came cleaning time, which quickly turned into playful chaos.

Quentin and Corinne tried to help with dusting and sweeping, but their tiny hands only made more of a mess. At one point, Quentin tripped over the broom, sending dust flying everywhere, making his twin sister burst into laughter. Lyney sighed, knowing he would’ve to redo everything later, but their joyful laughter made it all worth it.

By noon, it was time for lunch. “Let’s make something special,” Lyney suggested, flipping through your recipe book.

“Ooh! Moon pie, moon pie!” Corinne pointed excitedly at a page.

Lyney raised an eyebrow. “Ah, ambitious! But why not? Let’s do it.”

Quentin tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Please, no onions, papa.”

The magician chuckled, ruffling his son’s hair. “No onions, got it.”

Cooking with the twins turned the kitchen into absolute chaos. Flour covered their faces and hair, bits of dough stuck to their fingers, and eggshells ended up in the most unexpected places. Quentin was in charge of mixing the filling, while Corinne carefully arranged the crust. At one point, Lyney noticed Corinne placing tiny decorative stars on top of the pie with an expression of absolute concentration.

“It looks wonderful, Cori,” Lyney praised, kissing her forehead.

With the pie in the oven, they moved on to making cookies, shaping them into hearts, moons, and even little cat faces. Quentin insisted on adding extra chocolate chips, saying it was “the secret to making them magical.”

By the time the food was ready, the kitchen was a disaster, but the pie smelled divine. They sat down to eat together, and even Lyney had to admit—it was delicious.

After lunch, the twin began yawning, their morning energy finally running out. Kitchen could be cleaned later. At this very moment, Lyney just wanted to enjoy his children a little bit more. 

The magician guided them to the couch, covering them with a soft blanket there. “Why don’t you take a little nap while the cookies are still baking? By the time you wake up they‘ll be ready to be eaten,” he whispered, gently stroking their hair.

Corinne nodded and snuggled against him, her tiny hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. “I love you, papa,” she murmured sleepily.

Quentin, already half-asleep, echoed, “Love you, papa…”

Lyney’s heart swelled as he pressed a soft kiss to each of their heads. “Je vous aime aussi, mes amours.”

As their breathing slowed, Lyney remained there, holding them close, listening to the soft hum of the oven and the gentle patter of rain against the window. A moment of peace, perfect—a memory he'd cherish forever.

WRIOTHESLEY

The morning air of the Fortress of Meropide carried the scent of sea salt and diesel oil from the working machines, mingling with the distant murmur of underground streams.

Back in his family private quarters, though, Wriothesley sat at the dining table, sipping his black tea calmly as he thumbed through the latest news from The Steambird. Across from him, you hurriedly nibbled on a slice of toast, your mind clearly elsewhere.

“I wish you’d eat more before leaving,” Wriothesley murmured, watching as you stood up and brushed the crumbs off your hands.

“Yeah, I know. But I woke up at the last minute today. I’ll make sure to grab something later, though. Don’t worry,” you assured him, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Cameron is your responsibility today. Behave, love.”

His lips curved into a playful smirk. “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?”

You only smirked before heading toward the door. “Bye, sweetheart! Have fun with your dad today!” you called over your shoulder.

From the hallway, a soft voice replied, “Bye, mommy.”

Wriothesley turned just in time to see his son, still in pajamas, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he entered the dining room.

“Good morning, champ,” Wriothesley greeted warmly. “Hungry?”

Cameron nodded but didn’t ask for help. Instead, he made his way to the kitchen, carefully pushing a stool to the counter so he could reach the bread and jam. Wriothesley watched in an amused delight, resting his chin on his hand, as his six-year-old meticulously prepared his own breakfast. His heart swelled with pride—Cameron was growing up so fast.

“You know... I could've made something else for you,” Wriothesley suggested, taking another sip of tea.

“That's okay, daddy. I can do it myself,” the little boy replied, spreading the jam on his toast with determined focus.

A small chuckle escaped Wriothesley. Not long ago, he carried this boy everywhere, and now Cameron was set on doing things on his own.

After finishing his meal, Cameron cleaned up his own messy by putting them into the dishwasher, heading to the bathroom where he brush his teeth, and a couple of minutes later, he returned to his father already dressed. Wriothesley looked at him approvingly, though he couldn’t help the bittersweet pang in his chest.

“Alright, let’s head to my office,” Wriothesley said, ruffling Cameron’s hair. The boy pouted but didn’t protest much.

Once inside the office, Cameron settled on the floor with his building blocks while Wriothesley started his reports. The steady sound of wood tapping against wood filled the room as Cameron focused on his creation, occasionally pausing to inspect it with critical eyes.

“Need help with that?” Wriothesley asked, noticing that Cameron was struggling to balance a particularly tall structure.

“No, I can do it.”

“Alright, alright.” Wriothesley chuckled softly and leaned back in his chair—but his eyes never went too far from his son's little form.

A few moments later, Cameron found himself tired of playing so he decided to jump to another activity. He picked up a homework book from his school bag he had brought earlier and started scribbling some numbers and letters. It wasn’t long before his pencil stopped, and he frowned at the page.

“Stuck on something?” Wriothesley asked.

Cameron hesitated, gripping his pencil tighter, but he said nothing. He could handle the problem by himself easily. Well… that’s what he wanted to believe, at least.

Wriothesley smiled knowingly but let him try. Only after five more minutes did Cameron finally give in, standing up and walking shyly over to his father’s desk.

“Uh…Daddy,” he murmured, almost in a whisper. “Can you help me with this?”

Wriothesley’s heart melted at the timid request. He patted his lap, and when Cameron hesitated, he gently pulled him up to sit there, just like he used to when he was smaller. “Of course, Cam. Let’s take a look.”

Together, they worked through the problem, Wriothesley’s voice soft and patient. Cameron, despite all his independence, nestled into his father’s warmth, his small fingers gripping Wriothesley’s sleeve.

Maybe he was growing up, but he’d always be Wriothesley’s little boy.

And that was more than enough.

[2cupids]

CHERRY POP!

warnings. virgin!reader, manipulation/coercion, age gap (toji’s in his 40s), dubcon, pet names. mdni (17+).

silly you for thinking that this old man’s intentions are pure. you never even suspected a thing when cherry chaser!toji invited you back to his place after one of your dates with him tonight, at least that's what you’ve been under the impression that they were. when in reality, toji’s just been buttering you up so you’ll warm up to him, with an end goal of slotting himself in between your legs and fucking your sweet virgin pussy.

maybe it was because he was such a sweet talker, it’s like honey oozed from his mouth every time he opened it to speak. “say what? you mean to tell me a sweet thing like you has never been touched? ‘ya saving yourself or somethin’, pretty girl?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow at your confession that you let slip on your first date.

you giggled like the naive little fool you are, seemingly taken with words. “no, toji. i just haven’t found the right guy. i haven’t even been on that many dates, honestly.”

once again, unbeknownst to you, toji forced yet another surprised expression onto his face. “you tryin’ fool me, darlin’? those guys are missing out.. you’re a real beauty, honey.” and that was the moment that sealed the deal. 

toji would be your prince charming. he’d play the part, sweeping you off your feet and making you completely smitten for him as he fooled you, wanting you for no other reason than for his own personal pleasure.. like he did with so many other inexperienced girls before you.

if someone had said you would be sandwiched in between this buff man and his bed just after the third date, you’d never believe it. but here you are. toji’s smooth talking and flattery made you fall right into his lap basically. he’s got you right where he wants you. 

he nibbles on your bottom lip, trailing soft kisses across your jaw and neck, your little gasps and small noises encourage him to keep going. he swipes his tongue over the love bites he leaves on your neck as his large hands creep underneath your top, rubbing his hands up and down the sides of your waist.

your shirt gets pushed over your breasts, exposing your torso and chest to the cool air of his home. his lips make contact with the tops of your breasts and you sigh at the gentleness of the kisses he places on them. toji’s eyes flickering up your face, “can i see these pretty tits, princess? i can make ya feel real good.”

you’re nervous, reluctant even, but toji’s silky voice and the trusting look in his eyes coax you to agree. with one swift motion, he unclasps your bra and tugs it down your shoulders, discarding it somewhere on the floor. he sucks your left nipple into his mouth and squeezes the right one in his hand, twisting it between his index finger and thumb. 

your eyes flutter shut and your pussy pulses from the action, “ahh.” the soft sound leaves your parted lips and toji smirks, moving over to give your right breast the same amount of attention.

you feel a breeze against your thighs as toji flips your skirt up while continuing his exploration down the smooth skin of your body. two thick fingers press against the seat of your panties, your breath catches in your throat and that’s when you stop him. “toj.. i don’t– i’m not ready for that.”

toji looks at you with yet another warm, albeit forced, smile. “just wanna taste ya, sweetie. aren’t ya curious what it feels like for someone to have their tongue on you?”

and here you go again, giving into him. a small nod of your head grants him permission to pull your panties down. he drops to his knees and caresses your plush thighs, inching closer to your core and spreading your labia to fully reveal your entire self to him, leaving you so vulnerable and open. your heart thumps in your chest as toji stares at your sex and you begin to worry. but he’s only admiring your virgin body before he ultimately deflowers it. 

his face presses into your pussy, sniffing it and letting the scent of your untouched pussy fill his nostrils. his tongue darts out, attacking your clit and you grip the covers. the feeling is so unfamiliar and odd, but it’s not unwelcomed. in fact it feels better with each second that passes. toji’s pants grow tighter as he eats your virgin cunt and drinks in your sweet little sounds. as much as he wants to make you fall apart on his tongue, he needs to feel your tight walls around him, sucking him in and begging to be abused. he stands up to pull off his shirt, revealing his tanned, muscular frame. he moves lower and starts to undo his pants and you prop yourself up on your elbows. you watch in surprise and open your mouth to stop him. “wait toji. i’m-” he expected you to try and stop him and he quickly cuts you off. his sweet, manipulative words reach your ears and you just melt. and for the third time in just a matter of minutes, you agree to toji’s words. if only you could read between the lines, but you’re so naive. so stupid.

“just relax for me, darlin’. i’ll take real good care of ya.” he purrs huskily, a wolfish grin creeps onto his face as he positions the tip at your opening. it takes everything in him not to push inside you in one go. he’s ready to bust that cherry of yours now. 

but depending on how you see it, luckily, or unluckily, for you, the sadistic portion of toji, loves to watch the way a virgin’s face twists into a pained expression the first time they take a big ole fat dick like his. this is the only reason that’s holding him back right now. a wad of saliva falls from his pursed lips as he spits on his dick, coating it. he watches as your pretty lips part to accommodate the head of his cock and he groans, your tightness immediately enveloping him. toji takes it slow, pushing in inch by inch while watching the tears fall from your eyes and the way your chest rises and stills every time he pushes in deeper. praises fall from his lips as he lets you adjust to him, but he’s getting restless fast and once that last inch is fully sheathed inside you, he starts moving his hips. he may be a little mean and a freak for having a thing for virgins, but he’s not completely heartless. his thumb comes down to rub your clit and you instantly find out just how much more pleasurable it seems to make penetration. you forget the pain of having your cherry blown out rather quick, thanks to toji for replacing it with the delicious feeling of being fucked by him and his big dick. toji’s turned you into a needy little moaning mess underneath him. he growls at how tight you still are despite him repeatedly stuffing you full of his dick and stretching you out. your walls are like a vice, tugging him back in every time he tries to pull away and he hates to admit it but he’s close, closer than he usually is this soon. “baby,” he grunts. “need to– ohh shit! let me cum inside.” with gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back as he picks up the pace, his hips colliding with yours much more rough than before. there’s not time for you to form a coherent sentence before you feel toji’s hips stutter and something warm being released inside you. you eyes widen in shock as his sperm coats your walls, not because you didn’t want it, no. it’s because it feels so good.

a small smirk tugs at the corners of your lips, but you can’t even bask in the feeling before toji’s hands are gripping the underside of your knees and pushing them backwards, folding you into a different position. he needs more of you and he won’t stop until he’s got his fill of you. “pussy’s too good, darlin’.. can’t fucking help myself.”

taglist <3 @cheezemanz @tojicvmslut

cleo’s note. happy early valentine’s day. can you believe i wrote this about gojo at first, then i ended up changing it to toji but they both fit the bill for this tbh. anyways thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated! love you

[wendichester]

`౨ৎ~ before standford,

summary. sam comes to say goodbye before he leaves.

pairing. sam winchester x reader ; angsty

wordcount. 675

Sam doesn’t know how long he’s been standing outside your door.

Long enough for the porch light to flicker once. Long enough for the lump in his throat to feel damn near permanent.

This is the last stop before Stanford. Before everything changes.

And God, he doesn’t want to knock.

But he does.

The sound is too soft, too hesitant—nothing like the fight he just had with his dad, all raised voices and burning bridges. This knock is careful. Almost reluctant.

A few seconds pass before the door opens, and there you are.

Sam’s stomach twists.

Barefoot, wearing an oversized sweater that’s probably older than both of you, hair messy like you’d just been about to go to bed. You look soft, warm—like home.

"Sam?" Your brows furrow as you take him in. His duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the tight set of his jaw, the weight in his eyes.

And because you know him—because you’ve always known him better than anyone—you don’t ask what happened. You already know.

Instead, you exhale slowly and step aside. "Come in."

Sam hesitates. Just for a second.

Then he does.

The house smells the same—like old books and cinnamon and the faint trace of gun oil. The walls are lined with pictures that don’t belong to people who get out. People like you.

You lead him to the couch, sitting close, knee bumping his. You don’t say anything, just wait.

His throat works. He stares down at his hands. "I’m leaving."

You nod. "I figured."

His head snaps up. "You figured?"

You give him a small, sad smile. "You’ve been talking about this since we were kids, Sam. It was never if you were going—it was when."

He looks away. His chest is tight. "I had to see you before I left."

You nod again, like you understand. Because of course you do.

A long beat of silence stretches between you.

"You scared?" you ask softly.

Sam lets out a breath. "Terrified."

A pause. Then, you say, "Me too."

His eyes flicker to yours, something sharp and aching lodging in his chest.

Because this is what makes it so hard. You.

You’re the only person who ever really got it—the longing for something beyond endless hunts and bloody motel rooms. The dream of normalcy, of stability, of waking up one day and not being afraid.

He should ask you to come with him.

The words sit heavy on his tongue.

But he doesn’t.

Because you won’t.

Because no matter how much you want the same things, you won’t leave.

And he will.

"You’re gonna do great things," you say, voice steady, like you believe it. Like it’s already written in stone.

Sam swallows hard. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you whisper.

He exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. "God, this is harder than I thought."

Your lips quirk, but your eyes stay sad. "You could just stay."

It’s a joke. He knows it’s a joke.

But it still hits him like a punch to the gut.

"You know I can’t," he says.

You nod, looking down. "I know."

Another silence.

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he moves.

Pulls you into a tight, desperate hug. Breathes you in like he’s trying to memorize the way you smell, the way you feel in his arms.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, gripping tight, like you don’t want to let go.

"Don’t forget about me, okay?" you murmur against his shoulder.

Sam’s chest clenches painfully.

"Not possible," he whispers.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Your face is too close. Your lips are right there.

And God—if things were different.

If this were a world where he wasn’t about to walk out of it.

But it’s not.

So instead, he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. Lets his lips rest there for just a second longer than he should.

Then he stands.

And as he doesn't glance back before closing the door, you know—you're certain—he's already trying to forget you.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @mrs-pondwater19 ⋆ @myceliumsunshine ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @bamboobooshark ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098

[endursent]

From Duty to Dawn

【 content; kamisato ayato x retainer!reader , established relationship , mild suggestiveness , hurt / comfort , some angst , political landscape , poisoning , forbidden (and secret) relationship , gn!reader 】

【 summary; Ayato dislikes attending political banquets and events—but there are times that he must show face for once. You accompany him as his personal retainer and guard, of course, yet have to act accordingly under the eyes of the political nobility and lordlings... not so much as a touch is appropriate. You must act as if you are nothing more than a servant to him, and it is an act you are very used to and practiced at.

The Inazuman nobility are no strangers to assassins and deep plots, least of all Ayato himself—and you are used to being a preventative step, stopping such attempts from reaching your lord (and beloved). Though you aren't used to being caught in the crossfire of it, consuming a compromised cup meant for him. 】

【 note; experimenting with some retainer!reader that i kind of have an idea for a multi-chapter story... feeling for it a little, consider it a taste. 】

【 word count; 7.756 | read on ao3 | masterlist 】

His skin is soft and cool under your fingertips, you brush a strand of hair from his forehead and watch movement occur behind his closed eyelids. A halo of moonlight casts against his cheek, shining from outside a partially open window allowing fresh air inside the wide room. 

  “Mmnh… am I disturbing your rest?” Ayato’s voice is heavy with sleep as his lashes flutter slightly and his eyes lazily open halfway. His gaze finds yours leaning above him, he doesn’t look to the moon to see if dawn is approaching, eyes fixed on your face as if it were far more interesting.

  You hum, thumb gliding over his jaw and touching a tangled lock of hair falling down to his neck. “Should that not be my question? I was awake before you.”

  His hand rises from under the thick cover, Ayato’s palm is warm despite the cool skin of his cheek and jaw, his touch gentle and fingertips soft. “Perhaps… but it seems to me that I may have distracted you.”

  “You are rather distracting,” you agree as he lifts your palm to his lips, a chaste kiss placed upon your skin. Sleepy and dishevelled like this… how can you not touch his face? You’re hardly holding back from leaning down and giving him a proper kiss. But perhaps that’s not very productive when you both should be sleeping. 

  A smile tugs at Ayato’s lips and his half-lidded eyes crease only slightly. “Is that so?” 

  You raise an eyebrow down at him, leaning on your side and elbow to the futon—mostly to get a better vantage point to stare at him as he sleeps. Very normal (for you). “Mhm, now, go back to sleep,” your hand moves from his as you use your fingers to close his eyelids again. “Important meeting to be had in the morning, lords need a healthy sleep schedule.”

  Making no move to take your hand from his eyes, a soft huff of amusement leaves his chest. “I am hardly on my feet all day,” Ayato makes a weak argument, these small moments of bedside chatter are scarce and short—can he be blamed for desiring to extend this chance? “Perhaps I will be further inclined with a more convincing reward.”

  Your eyebrows raise. “Reward? Excitement won’t put you to sleep.” Despite your reluctance to indulge in whatever “reward” he deems himself worthy of, you tilt your head slightly, inclined in curiosity. 

  “A kiss, nothing more,” he says innocently, eyes practically shining as he gazes up at you. “On the lips?”

  “How demanding,” you mumble, before leaning down and giving him what he wants—never has it been your strength to deny him anything… to a healthy extent. His lips are soft and well moist, as if he had quickly licked them after you closed your eyes. It’s a short peck, nothing to get him excited for—then you’d never fall back asleep. “There, is that—”

  Clearly unsatisfied, Ayato’s hand reaches behind your head, curling at your nape as he pulls you back down—your elbow nearly slips but you manage to catch yourself by setting a hand down beside his head, ensuring you don’t crush your body to his so suddenly. The second touch of your lips is greedier, he holds the kiss for a few more seconds before his tongue touches your mouth—at which point you tug your head back a little and slip your hand between your faces, palm over his lips. 

  With a pout, you stare down at him with an unimpressed expression. “A kiss?” 

  His voice is muffled below your hand, but you can feel his smile. “My apologies, I couldn’t resist.”

  You click your tongue, removing your hand from his mouth and wiping it on your clothes. “My lord should learn some discipline,” your tone is both scolding and mild, not a true fire beneath your tone. “Perhaps he should go without for a while.”

  “My retainer would not be so cruel as to defy me the essence of life?” a smile tugs at his lips as you move back to where you were before he tugged you over, fingers covering your mouth as you yawn. “I wouldn’t have the strength to go on.”

  “Essence of life? What have you been reading to find such lines? The only essence of life you consume is the finite supply of milk tea produced in the next three countries over,” you huff a laugh and lie back down beside him, tugging the covers back up to your shoulder. “We have much to do tomorrow, go to sleep.”

  Ayato hums, scooting closer as you close your eyes, he snakes his arms around you and tugs you into himself, your face squishing into his chest—the front flaps of his robe are loose, opening like a maw to allow your cheek to be pressed to his skin. “Ayato…” you grumble against him, trying to shift to get more comfortable, ending up with setting a leg over his waist and arms in a somewhat awkward, but kind of comfortable position—you hope they won’t give you pins and needles in the middle of the night. 

  “It’s been too long since I had you here, let me keep you close for the night,” his words are low and quieter than before, undoubtedly he’s gotten comfortable and already starting to slow his breath for sleep. “You can turn around if you wish.”

  “... no, this is fine,” you don’t move, while it might be more comfortable, he is right—it’s been many nights since you slept with him like this. As spring approaches the Yashiro commission gets more busy preparing for said spring, as well as summer, the real behemoth of Tasks-Need-To-Be-Done-Before-These-Months. 

  The sleep the two of you slip into is peaceful and serene, the cicadas haven’t emerged yet, and the partially open windows a comfortably cool breeze to slip through, ensuring neither of you feel too warm against each other.

  As always, you wake far before Ayato does—fetching the freshly prepared clothes for the day, checking the day’s schedule with the general staff—though Thoma usually oversees the housekeeping schedule and staff, so you only check in with him to make sure everything is going smoothly. After doing the rounds and finally going to the kitchen to take the prepared tray of tea, you headed back to Ayato’s bedchambers… which is a mild way to put it, when his room, a general living and tea room attached to it as well as his private wash chambers span a good corner of the estate. 

  Sliding the door shut behind you, Ayato is already awake—it’s not very often that you have to rouse him yourself—and has freshened up. “Good morning,” you greet as you set the tray on the low table by the wall, raising the pot to pour some tea into a cup for him. “You mentioned the other day that this blend from Yashiori was refreshing, perhaps it’s good for mornings.”

  He approaches you and accepts the offered cup, taking a small whiff of it as you set the pot down. Ayato takes a lingering sip and considers the taste for a moment before speaking. “Hm… refreshing, yes. Though, I do prefer my usual,” he takes another sip before setting it aside. “It is good.”

  “I will inform the kitchens,” you nod and stand to find the folded fabrics you brought earlier. Sunlight filters through the paper walls, casting the room in a comfortable hue that nearly covers the white fabrics in your hands yellow. “Will you wear primarily white or blue tonight?” 

  “Blue, I wore white too many times in recent meetings,” Ayato muses as he fishes for some socks in a cabinet. He doesn’t care much for public appearances or gatherings, but he was officially invited along with the other Tri-Commissioners to celebrate a smooth winter and the coming of spring—he will stop by for a few hours at most and retire early; they at least expect him to show his face. Unfortunately. He could be doing far more productive things elsewhere.

  With a sound of affirmation, you set the blue robes up to hang over the rack made for them. Your hands smoothe the fabrics out and ensure there’s no creases while you hear shuffling behind you, no doubt Ayato getting ready—at least, as far as he gets. You hear your name said behind you. “Ah, could you give me a hand?” 

  Setting the accessories of the outfit aside, you move around the futon laying on the floor to help Ayato with the layers of his clothes, though he can easily set most of it together, his undershirts are tied slightly behind him. “There,” you hum as you tie the knot and step back to reach for some of the accessories of his current outfit—your own clothes are rather simple compared to his, but his position demands more… grandeur than yours does. 

  As you help him with the finishing touches and ropes, Ayato gives you a smile. “I assume you’ve completed your duties for the morning, why don’t you join me for breakfast? We can discuss the day’s events while I go over a few reports that need oversight before noon.”

  You wrack your brain for a few seconds—while you would love to agree immediately, you don’t recall if there’s anything of import that you’re supposed to do in the next hour… it’s best to consider it regardless. “I am not busy,” you say as you finalise the last accessory on his right arm. “I’ll bring it to your study when it’s ready, from what I saw in the kitchens earlier, it’s within the next ten minutes.”

  “Wonderful, I’ll have settled by then.”

  Thinking he was done and ready, you move to finalise his robe on the rack when a hand encircles your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “Ah, I received no good morning kiss before you departed,” Ayato is smiling when you look back at him, eyes lightly crinkled in mirth.

  “You did receive one, you were merely fast asleep,” you huff. He’s so greedy for attention for someone who is supposed to be subtle about it. 

  He inclines his head, his smile remaining as he pulls you closer. “It can hardly count if I wasn’t awake, no?” Ayato’s hand turns and loosens its grip, sliding towards your palm to hold your hand instead as he raises your knuckle to his lips. “Hm, please?” The tickle of his lips against your skin, and the glint in his eyes are hard to resist at once. “If only my puppy had a real tail, would it be wagging right now?” 

  This guy… you want to pinch his cheeks and really show him what happens if he ticks you off, but you don’t—he’ll enjoy the retaliation. “Tch, don’t you have reports to read? Or papers to sign?”

  Exhaling in mock disappointment, Ayato lets go of your hand and fixes his sleeve. “Of course, I have not forgotten… my dear retainer seems to not allow me to do so.”

  —

  It’s a whole ritual to help Ayato put on his more formal robes, each layer is tugged and laid over the other in a careful manner and your practiced hands do so with little hesitation. He stays still as always, waiting patiently as you finalise the ornaments and accessories that complete the look—sometimes you wonder how he walks around in such a heavy outfit. 

  The trip to Inazuma City takes half the day, and thus you didn’t have much time to enjoy the breakfast Ayato insisted you share, there was much to finish before departing—and so you had scooped your breakfast in your mouth so quickly he had inquired whether your stomach wouldn’t reject it. 

  … and you didn’t exactly feel great during the ride here, it seems your stomach was a bit upset at you—but you just had to live with some discomfort. 

  The celebrations are held in a large hall made for such things not far from the Tenshukaku—the Shogun herself won’t be attending, but that’s neither surprising nor expected, and might even be… rather awkward. You’ve never met her yourself, and you’re unsure if you would want that first meeting to be surrounded by soon-to-be tipsy and bordering drunk nobles and vassals. 

  The venue is beautifully decorated, lanterns lit with decorative papers that set a subtle pink hue over the room, the branches hanging overhead as you enter the large hall haven’t bloomed yet, but in a matter of a few weeks they would become lovely. The celebration is held a little earlier this year, due to some changes in trade and an expansion of Ritou’s port, the petals would usually have at least peeked out a little. 

  It’s surprisingly well organised and set up, considering the Tenryou Commission practically demanded they take care of it this year… the Yashiro Commission is the most practiced for these types of affairs—but they’ve truly outdone themselves. 

  You accompany Ayato inside, taking your place at his southeast, as custom dictates—and follow only a couple of steps behind. He is stopped by every single noble the two of you pass, and you stand nearby in silence… and mild annoyance. There’s no burden to yourself, but you know how much Ayato dislikes the theatrics, the impossible perfection expected of one another in manners, interaction and even appearance. And an unhappy Ayato (beneath a perfectly crafted, polite smile), makes an unhappy, shadowing retainer. 

  There’s few that greet you, the most is a nod between retainers as their lords meet and giving a respectful bow to those of an appropriate station. 

  Long rows of tables have been laid out, plush cushions set in preparation as attendants moved about to ready the meals while the nobles socialised. At the head were three cushions with a back for the Tri-Commissioners, while all other seats were bare cushions… for a moment you envied Ayato for having something for his back, unless you consciously keep your posture straight and poised, you always end up hunching like some kind of floor-demon. 

  There’s a benefit for being both Ayato’s retainer and guard—you get to sit as close to him as possible, though not always as close as you’d like… there’s quite a few seats between you, and you are allowed to partake in the meal of the night.

  The chatter of the hall grows louder the longer people remain inside, the doors have been slid open to reveal the gardens beyond the hall, but braziers have been lit to keep the space warm—there’s still quite an early-spring chill in the air, especially as evening darkens the skies. You follow Ayato to his spot overlooking the hall furthest from the doors, you lean down to whisper to him. “I will retreat to my own seat then.”

  Ayato hums in acknowledgement. “Of course. I will signal you,” he replies without turning his head. 

  Satisfied, you make your way down past the nobles and vassals sitting closer to the Commissioners until you find your seat at the lower level. Enough to be within eyesight of your lord and most of the hall, and with your back to the cool outside of the room. The food presented is wonderful—the shoots are perfect as you scoop them into your mouth, almost forgetting to pay attention before catching yourself. The meals will be lovely tonight, but you shouldn’t forget why you’re here.

  Straightening a bit—as you had started to slouch over the food in your interest and focus, you eyeball Ayato’s plate. He has already finished the small portion that was brought out as the first round of dishes, seeming to answer a question proposed to him from the sidelined table of lords on his right.

  Momentarily, as his mouth moves—though you’re too far away to hear his voice—Ayato’s eyes shift and meet yours. You don’t make much movement, holding his gaze in case he was trying to tell you something… but none of his usual signs follow, and then he looks away. 

  Hahh… putting you on edge by looking into your eyes—can’t Ayato try and behave like a normal lord for a night? It wouldn’t kill him to follow some rules and procedures. He can be teasing and sly once you’re not in this particular environment.

  The night goes on and more dishes are served, you shift your position slightly to rest your knees as some other have along the evening but are prepared to shoot back into position if needed. Your belly is overfull with food already, so you mostly indulge in the vegetables on your plate before starting the more heavy bites. You thought you had just started feeling better from earlier today… and here you are, scooping meal after meal down—it wouldn’t do to leave behind a full plate. 

  Ignoring as the attendants of the attendance hall take your empty plate, you prepare for the main course—the fourth out of five for this gathering. 

  But as the fresh plates are laid out and you thank the attendant next to you that gives you a clear pair of chopsticks, you notice movement in the corner of your eyes. Ayato raised his arm to fix his hair from his face with a slightly exaggerated flourish of his long sleeve, violet eyes staring directly at you—a call for attention. 

  He tilts his head to his cup, and you move after grabbing one of the cups by your plate. Staying low as you cross around the tables, you come up behind Ayato, leaning close to him so that he can whisper to you. “Take my sake,” he utters, lifting the cup to you. 

  Ayato doesn’t enjoy sake served hot, lukewarm is tolerable, but he’s not a fan of hot or warm beverages in general. You set your own cup by his hand, a tea that has cooled down—perhaps a bit more than can be acceptable to offer a lord, but Ayato takes it either way. 

  While such a high-ranking guest’s preferences would usually be catered to, Ayato doesn’t very much like discussing his preferences with those outside of his household… and he also just likes to give you whatever he doesn’t want, whether you like it or not. 

  “Of course,” you take his drink from his offered hands and move back to your seat. You’re thankfully not the only retainer that has stood up to attend to their master tonight, not that you’d let that thought stop you from tending to Ayato’s needs.

  Sitting back down, you gulp down the sake while it’s hot before starting on the main meal. Perhaps having some sake will clear out some room in your stomach for the last two courses, the final one will likely be small anyway. 

  Chatter surrounds you, but you’ve been tuning it out most of the night—the Kamisato estate is rather far from the outskirts of the city, and thus you don’t exactly have close relations or friends with other retainers or servants of clans outside the Kamisato. No one addresses you in particular either, so you can mostly eat in peace and keep your attention where it’s required.

  The food tastes okay—you expected the salt grilled prawn to have more of a taste than it does, all the foods have been rather surprising so far, surely the main dish isn’t the one to disappoint? 

  You feel kind of bad for thinking that while the prawn is just staring back up at you.

  A voice next to you says your name that you snap out of your staring contest with the prawn on your plate—you didn’t even realise you were staring at it so intensely. Raising your head, you see the man next to you staring at you. “Ah, you were being addressed…”

  There’s an attendant behind you, squatting down to not stand over you. “My apologies, you simply seemed uncomfortable, would you like me to bring you some water?”

  Uncomfortable? You don’t feel uncomfortable—not much at least, maybe your tongue stings a little, but that might just be the salt off the prawn. “Oh… I’m sorry. Yes, thank you,” you take the empty sake cup and hold it to the woman as she tilts the water-filled flask to your cup. The bows and leaves, and the man next to you has turned back to his former conversations. 

  Had the attendant been calling for your attention? You didn’t hear her at all. 

  Raising your eyes towards Ayato again, you find him staring at you—it’s almost enough to knock attention back into you and straighten your back, almost. You sip the water in your cup slowly, but the cool water doesn’t parch the dryness in your throat, if anything, it stings your tongue—like ice on an open wound. 

  Your expression pinches, the numbing pins that follow spreading out your jaw and to your ears. 

  Across the room, Ayato is still staring at your face—he knows you like the back of his hand, better even… and there’s something wrong about the way your hand trembles as you lower your empty cup of water. He watches you subtly, pretending to focus on his meal as his eyes follow the furrow of your brow and discomfort in your eyes.

  He can’t just stand up and approach you to ask whether you’re alright, nor does he want to bring attention to you—in the case it’s nothing more than a swallowed wrong sip… but something tugs at his nerves that something is wrong. Ayato is well-versed in preventative measures, and he ensures every corner is secure before he sets foot into a room that isn’t within his own home—had he missed a step? 

  His mind suddenly fills with thoughts and a step-to-step recollection of the earlier day—the moment the two of you left the estate and made for the city and to this moment. Nowhere had he suspected anything amiss, nor seen any signs that would send alarm bells in his mind.

  But he cannot simply sit and wait until you show whether something is amiss or not—you might be his retainer and guard, but he would never have you lunge yourself onto a blade for him. 

  Your ears ache, and you feel nauseous, the entire room feels as if every single person is staring at you, but you can’t seem to tell their faces apart. You rub your eyes and shake your head to try and clear your thoughts, but it only invites a dizzying spin of the room with the turn of your head. 

  Your tongue still stings, the zapping pain that shot towards your ears is pricking down your throat now—there must something have been in the drinks you consumed, but your mind struggles to follow your instincts and as you shift to turn around, your hand misses the table where you attempted to lay it to assist with standing. You don’t have the balance to graciously save yourself, and you almost tumble into the man next to you, who turns around in bewilderment of practically getting body-checked.

  Voices now form around you, louder than before—aimed at you. You apologise hurriedly, but your tongue doesn’t move and your words sound like the groans of a ghost. Hands steady you as the repeated sounds of what sounds like your name, or a formal kind of address fill your ears, and brain, and eyes—and you can’t focus on the blend of faces that all look like half-cooked seaweed in front of your eyes, or is that the back of someone’s head?

  It hurts to breathe, every drag of your breath is painful, it hurts to keep your eyes open, to move your tongue—it hurts—fuck, it hurts so much—

  The room turns on its head as blood spills from your lips, not in a wave or splatter—a single line mixed with drool that drips down from your chin and onto your chest. Attendants rush to move out of the way as half the sitting retainers and guards rush towards you, the hurry and chaos is enough to make you want to puke, but you doubt anything so wet would appear in your dry throat as is begins to burn, as if you swallowed something searing hot. 

  Ayato stands to his feet, striding across the room quickly without running as he shoulders his way past the crowd of people. He had been weighing his options on how to pull you away quietly without raising attention… before you decided to stand up on your own and crumpled onto the person next to you. As soon as you missed your grip on the table and your dazed eyes didn’t react, his heart had beat twice in place of one. 

  Getting to you was a fight and a half until the people blocking his way saw who it was that was trying to push past them. Your expression was pained, but your eyes were half-lidded and unresponsive to the movements before it, blood slipping from the corner of your mouth as your breaths heaved with great strain. 

  “What the hells happened to them?!!” “Hey! Wake up!” “Call for healers!”

  Shouts and calls bounced back and forth in the wide hall, but Ayato’s attention was on your face—he finally reached your side and knelt down where someone had laid you on your side in case you would suddenly throw up. He says your name quietly—far too quiet to be heard beneath the shouting of the people standing above you. He longs to take your cheek and wipe the blood and spit from your skin, but such gentle gestures have no explanation between a lord and retainer. 

  “Look at me,” Ayato’s words are demanding, but his tone isn’t. If he can’t physically turn your face, he wants you to do it. He says your name, but there’s no reaction from you as the crowd parts for healers to fill their place, robes sickeningly white and pristine as they kneel down to examine you. 

  He watches their movements closely, but there’s little he can do—you’ve been poisoned. Such attempts at assassination are not few nor far between in a political landscape such as this, and Ayato could not count it on one hand the number of times he has refused or tossed out a compromised cup. He would recognise it anywhere—but how?

  His usually carefully crafted measures of avoiding assassinations did not prevent this—the food is all supposed to be tested and carefully crafted before it’s served, no celebration that hosts all three Tri-Commissioners and several other nobles can afford to take half-measures, and it seems he is the fool for assuming the Tenryou Commission would take every step as seriously as they should, no matter how small. 

  Ayato longs to take your trembling hand—it hasn’t stopped shaking since you put your cup down, he wishes he could place your head on his lap and reassure you, whether you could hear him or not. The pained breaths leaving your lips sound like the groans of a dead man, every drag of air through your pained throat tying a tighter vice around his heart. 

  The healers pry open your mouth and eyelids, staring into them for answers as they feel for your pulse as well. Their mutterings fly by as Ayato’s hands clench on his lap, holding himself back. “—bleeding from the tongue and throat—” “—temperature dropping too fast—” “—pulse is too erratic—”

  He can’t sit there anymore. “What has to be done?” Ayato’s voice silences their mutterings, every second you simply lay there, dying, gasping, is a second his nerves are trying to escape his body through his fingertips. 

  “Take them to a side room, we must determine what occu—”

  “They were poisoned,” Ayato cuts the poor healer off halfway through their sentence, his tone bereft of patience. “Determine the root, I will find the cure.”

  “O-of course, quickly now!” the same healer nods as the three raise you into their arms carefully. Mutters and conversation rumble among onlookers, the sudden chaos of someone dropping down could of course only mean one thing, and it’s ripe for speculation and rumours. 

  Ayato ignores them as he stands, but hasn’t made a step to follow the healers taking you away when Chisato suddenly appears by his side, her eyes wide and hands close to her chest. “What an awful sight—are you alright, Kamisato-san?” 

  He’d rather not keep up appearances and stay from your side too long… “My apologies for the commotion, I must ensure my retainer is alright,” Ayato was about to turn and leave the hall when he spotted Kamaji speaking hurriedly with his two retainers, waving one away as the second was nodding to whatever he was saying. 

  “Ah, do me a favour, my lady. Please try and find the employee list for me, if you could,” Ayato says to her, inclining his head only a little before turning and leaving the attendance hall without waiting for her response, or seeing her reaction. It would speed the process up for him if she would do it, but whether she accepts such a bold request from him is another matter. 

  The healers are already hard at work by the time he arrives, they’ve taken a blood sample, and called for a higher ranked healer who happens to have a vision on her hip. Ayato approaches the futon you’ve been laid out on and looks to the main healer. “Has there been any progress?” 

  You look awful, and still pained—Ayato wishes you had lost consciousness from the pain already, if only to spare you the agony… or perhaps himself, from having to watch it.

  “The poison is a fast-acting one, but it does not spread as fast as it harms, nothing has reached or damaged any organs,” the woman speaks, her hand hovers over your chest—the flaps of your outfit pulled open for them to examine the skin and feel for your heart—and a faint glow emits from her palm. Immediately, your body jerks and a pained cry leaves your throat that makes Ayato nearly jump at attention. 

  “What is it?” he asks hurriedly, eyes flickering between your face and the healer beside you.

  The woman retreats her hand. “It seems to have a burning reaction, perhaps a foreign herb—the bout of pain was from my pyro vision searching their body, it creates a warm feeling that seems to be unwelcome in the state they are in now.” 

  It’s a delicate situation—and if the plant used for the poison is foreign, it will add difficulty to find a suitable antidote… but it can also help narrow the perpetrator down. Though his desire to find the ones responsible for this are great—his desire to see your eyes open and focused again are greater. Thankfully, Ayato works well under pressure.

  He glances towards a healer as they approach with a jug full of water to set aside. “We shall begin a simple preventative process,” he says, bowing his head at Ayato’s stare. They hurriedly set your body on its side again, it’s only been ten to fifteen minutes since you consumed the poison—and thus if they can make you empty your stomach, it could toss out a large part of the poison that hasn’t been digested.

  Ayato doesn’t look away as vile tea is poured down your throat, it’s foul enough to make anyone immediately vomit. As half-digested food spills from your lips, tinted with blood and bile, it’s clear whatever poison was used is utterly colourless as there’s no strange discolouration in the contents, nothing unusual at least.

  He takes a breath to reel in the frustrations searing the inside of his belly, to not let them overcome him—Ayato must have you stable, and a plan set out to locate the perpetrators before he can even consider allowing himself to feel. 

  After vomiting two more times, the healers let you rest for a minute or two—not that you recognise the time frame nor what is happening anyway—before practically pouring cup after cup down your throat, lighting incense beneath your nose so that you swallow as much of it as possible to dilute whatever poison still lines your stomach and throat. 

  If you’re lucky… they’ve acted quickly enough that more won’t be necessary, but Ayato won’t take the chance. 

  A healer from the side approaches Ayato where he stands and stares, eyes unblinking as he watches everything that’s happening to your poor body—he failed to prevent this, and thus he cannot be permitted to look away. “Kamisato-sama…” the healer calls to him quietly, and it snaps Ayato from his thoughtless gaze. “The ingredient itself that was used is unknown—likely foreign to Inazuma… but it shares similar components to dendrobium when ground and strained with strong alcohol, the symptoms are similar to that of the late Tanaka-sama’s death.”

  If similar enough, the typical antidote commonly known should prove sufficient. Ayato didn’t bring many people with him to this gathering outside of himself and you, but the Shuumatsuban are never far. A simple step outside the room is enough to call for them. The Shuumatsuban would never enter or make themselves known in a public space such as this, if only because accusations would aim towards Ayato that he had assassins posted nearby for ill intentions. But at his call, a short woman wearing highly concealing clothing appears at his feet with her head bowed. 

  Sending her off with the orders to find the needed ingredients, Ayato lingers in the empty and quiet hallway for a time. He can do so little for you in the present moment that it tears him apart—he can only send for an antidote and pray it will prevent your untimely demise and departure from his side… there is a deep, consuming desire in his chest to be close to your side, to grasp your hand in his and feel your pulse beneath his own fingers.

  Were it not for the damned ways of the Inazuman political landscape—were it not for the assumptions and social requirements that you be nothing more than a servant to him, disposable at worst and at arm’s length and best. Never to be allowed a simple touch or gentle caress be it not hidden behind concealing screens and behind solid walls. 

  Ayato runs a hand over his face, fingers rubbing at his eyes… of all the people in that room, it had to be you. 

  He hadn’t stopped and gathered his thoughts properly, rationality clawing from between bloated nerves, feeling as if they would explode at any moment so long as your eyes were unfocused and not fixed on him.

  Going back to the scene would do him no good—undoubtedly the nobles and servants still whisper and discuss among themselves, and he would be bombarded with questions and assumptions, there's no space to think. 

  Thankfully, Ayato has an excellent memory… if he can just focus and think back. Was it from the food? Drink? The blood and space of damage was inside your mouth, it was consumed through there…

  The memory of your trembling hand lowering the cup he had traded with you flashes in his mind and a sinking feeling tugged on his stomach just as it did churn with the beginnings of anger.

  You had been drinking water when your hand shook… but the poison would not work so fast as to have such an effect immediately. It had to be from the sake—who would target you after all? Outside of being a respected servant of the Kamisato household, you had little else to your name. 

  The cup had been poisoned, meant for him… during the highlight of the feast, served with the main course. The thought of being the target of assassination does not shake him, but the thought—and reality—of you being caught in the crossfire does.

  Ayato can’t stand being out in the hallway for longer, hopefully the Shuumatsuban will bring what he requested soon enough.

–

You had barely felt anything for a while, and though it was a nice change of pace… not feeling anything is both alarming and uncomfortable—you’re barely lucid enough to understand why you’re alarmed by it, you just know you are. 

  All you remember were hands touching you, hurried musings you couldn’t tell apart, and that your throat, mouth and eventually chest hurt so much you thought you might’ve been disembowelled. 

  Squinting your eyes open after wallowing in darkness for some time, you saw a familiar wooden ceiling… you’ve spent enough time in the estate’s infirmary wing to know the ceiling very well, as well as the scent of the flowers they decorate it with to cover up the smell of the medicines and gore that’s stuck to the floors and walls after generations of utilising it. 

  There’s no one around as you turn your head, you test your voice to be able to call out for someone later—you’re still a bit groggy to want to be poked at just yet—and find that the only sound that leaves you is a strained breath, but barely any sound. 

  You do feel rather thirsty.

  Lying there for a while more hoping the heavy feeling in your body and head will dissipate at least somewhat, your wait amounts to nothing as you still feel as if there’s a whole horse sitting on you and refusing to budge. 

  You reach out and tug on the string to your left, a small chime hanging overhead to call for a healer—and you’re surprise with the speed (and force) that the door is slid open the moment your fingers touch the string. “Y-you’re awake! Please lower your arm!”

  Doing as you’re told—not that you had much strength in it to hold it up like that for long—you blink a few times as Kanna hurried to you, and as you suspected… poking and prodding, she tilted your head up and poked at your throat. “Does this hurt?” “Do you feel this?” “Can you speak?” “Are you cold?”

  She’s always a bit enthusiastic, but you feel that she should really know that a patient who just woke up should be spoken to… a bit more slowly. You attempt to reply to her, but make an incomprehensible sound—which prompts her to give you some water, finally. 

  After quenching your thirst and helping you sit up, the door slides open again and a slightly dishevelled looking Ayato stands there. His chest subtly rises and falls in a quicker rhythm than it should if he had simply walked here and he’s still holding a wet ink brush. 

  Kanna stands when he appears, giving a small bow. You were still a little disoriented as they exchange a quiet word and she leaves. 

  As you’re rubbing your eyes, Ayato slides the door closed and kneels down by you—four walls surround you, and only the head doctor of the estate as well as a handful of healers roam this side of the infirmary. You’ve barely croaked out a hello when Ayato’s hand touches your jaw, tilting your face towards him.

  “You’ve… worried me,” he says slowly, as if there are a thousand words he must say, but had to push out one at a time. The muscles in his face pinch into an expression you’re not very familiar with. “How do you feel?”

  “Not great,” you manage. Your eyes continue to stare at his pale expression, he seems paler than usual—the bags under his eyes are more prominent as well. “You… haven’t slept well…”

  His lips part for a moment, before a small huff of laughter escapes him, lips tugging halfway upwards. “No, I haven’t. But you should hardly concern yourself with my health at this moment,” his hand on your face shifts slightly as you feel a pinch on your cheeks, he’s got your right cheek between his fingers. “You fool.”

  “Ow—ow, stop… hey…” you try to tug your face out of his grip, but it just stings more and only your hand weakly prying at his own gets Ayato to loosen his grip. “Oww…” you rub your cheek, at least the sting distracts from the throbbing ache in your muscles. 

  “Have you not been taught to test your drinks before consuming them?” he continues to scold you—what are you being scolded for? He didn’t test his own either! “You…” Ayato sighs, sitting down onto your futon so that you have to shift your legs away a little to give him proper room. “The sake was poisoned, I was shortsighted—too relaxed.”

  You didn’t say anything, but when you think back—it added up, the slowly growing discomforts and pains after drinking the hot sake… the temperature must have masked the off taste, you hadn’t even considered trying to smell a difference, considering the cup arrived at Ayato’s table. 

  “Who was it?” your hands clench on your lap, a pinching feeling of anger forming in your chest—someone had tried to poison Ayato, and nearly succeeded. You didn’t even care that it was you that took the fall in his place—if anything, you’re relieved.

  Ayato’s eyes lower to your hands, and his palm lays over your left knuckle. “It’s handled. The perpetrators were discovered and hunted down. Details came come later, for now, you need rest,” he says, a firm look in his eyes—he knows that if he doesn’t practically tie you to the bed, you’ll try to be up on your feet again before you should be.

  You huff at his answer, even if the situation wasn’t handled, he would still say it was—just so that you wouldn’t attempt to track them down yourself… not that you probably could in the next few days, or week. You haven’t even tried walking yet. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Not long,” his voice softens again, thumb sliding over the waves of your knuckles as he speaks. “Less than a day, I had you moved here as soon as medicine was administered, I suspect most of your rest has been recovery sleep.”

  Ah, not so long. That’s good… “I hope you didn’t worry for me too much.”

  Ayato tilts his head, blue hair falling from behind his shoulder and over it. “Why not?”

  “Ah… I do not like worrying you…?” your words come out as a question, you’re unsure exactly what to say. Wouldn’t it be natural for you not to worry him?

  A small hum leaves his throat, and his hand rises to his chin. “Then… I hope you will work harder to stop worrying me in the future.”

  “...?”

  His hand lowers, and he begins counting on the finger on his other hand. “You must stop working further into the night than I do and rising before me as well, eat everything off your plate before rushing to the next awaiting task… hm, do not immediately put yourself in front of me at a hint of danger—” you feel like he’s reciting some sort of contract to you. “—and allow properly assigned tasters to examine my meals, not yourself. Perhaps also avoid bathing when I should be getting my tea—”

  “A-Ayato…” the formalities forgo your mind in your haste to stop him. “I understand, please stop talking about it.”

  He closes the hand he was counting with and a small smile touches his lips again—messing with you, as usual. Ayato shakes his head and inches closer, his hands brush against your cheeks as he cups them and leans his face close to yours… his forehead touches yours and you feel the warmth of his breath fan over your lips and chin. “You did not respond to me, when I asked it of you,” his voice is tight, and his thumb slides over the skin of your cheekbone as he speaks. 

  Unsure how to answer him, as you have no recollection of him demanding your attention, you simply close your eyes, the softness and warmth of his hands on your cheeks is comforting. Your eyes flutter open as his right hand slides down to your shoulder and draws you into his embrace, one arm encircling your back and the other laying its palm against the back of your head. 

  You stay still as he does, allowing him to slot his body against yours before you relax fully, allowing your forehead to rest against his shoulder as his hair tickles your face. “I’m glad you are safe,” he utters against your ear. “You really did worry me, I would rather not lose you, if I am allowed… even unconscious, you stole my attention at every minute of the day. I could hardly finish any work.”

  Your own arms reach around his waist, a bit too tired to raise them properly. He’s holding you so tightly that you can feel his heart beating even through the layers of his clothes, you almost want to ask if he’s truly alright as his fingers tighten in the thin robes at your back. “Thank you for your care.”

  Ayato shakes his head slightly, only to pull back a little—and dip his head towards yours, his lips finding yours easily. He’s soft and warm, and you worry your lips are too chapped for a kiss, but Ayato doesn’t care. Thinking he had just leaned down for a simple peck of assurance, you tilt your head back—but his hand behind your head tugs you towards him again. 

  You hold onto him for balance as he kisses you properly, a hungry tinge to his tongue as it brushes against your lips—but he doesn’t press it further, as if to only taste the surface of your mouth. You’re sure you have a bad breath anyway. 

  Finally allowing you free from his lips, he sets another small kiss to your cheek where he had pinched you. “No need to thank me,” Ayato says, the setting sun filters through the papers of the door leading to the engawa outside, the warm light settling against his skin and giving it the life he felt fill his chest at the sight of your waking, aware eyes. “You will always be by my side—death will have to pry you from my hands.”

[anonymous-dee]

LiuShen Omegaverse Scenario

Okay, a Scum Villain AU has been brewing in my head and I need to share it with the class.

So basically Shen Qingqiu is an Omega who has to disguise himself as an Alpha in order to fit in with the rest of the peak lords. In order to be eligible to become a peak lord, you have to be an Alpha, and thus all of the other peak lords are Alphas. When Shen Qingqiu transmigrated, he realized that the original goods had been hiding his status as an Omega the entire time, and just continued doing it for the sake of his image (and to avoid political drama of course)

So of course, this means that whenever Shen Qingqiu goes into heat, he secludes himself inside the Bamboo House to suffer through them on his own. Even though this is detrimental for his health, he would rather die (again) than out himself, and he would rather die TWICE than to leave the mountain and find an Alpha who would be willing to help him. Yeah. NO.

So basically, one time while Shen Qingqiu is going through his heat, Liu Qingge shows up unexpectedly for one reason or another. He senses something is off with Shen Qingqiu, but it doesn't click for him what's going on at first. That's when Shen Qingqiu realizes that Liu Qingge is not an Alpha.

He's a Beta.

As a Beta, Liu Qingge gets the faintest whiff of Shen Qingqiu's pheromones; because the scent is so light, it takes him a hot minute to realize that they're coming from SQQ. Shen Qingqiu is surprised to learn that Liu Qingge is also hiding his identity and pretending to front as an Alpha, but this also spawns a reluctant thought in his Heat-induced brain.

Maybe Liu Qingge could...help?

He dismisses it at first and is actively trying to get Liu Qingge to LEAVE, but the more adamant he acts, the more Liu Qingge gets suspicious/worried for his health. So finally, Shen Qingqiu makes the impulsive decision to awkwardly ask Liu Qingge for help.

It should be fine, since he's a Beta and not an Alpha. Shen Qingqiu would never ask an Alpha for help. Betas are more gentle and they have better control over their instincts. Liu Qingge is freaking out a little, of course, because he's never done anything intimate before, but also still wants to help Shen Qingqiu through his heat.

So he does, but of course things don't go as planned. In the deepest throes of their passionate love making, Liu Qingge accidentally marks Shen Qingqiu. Now, the mark of a Beta isn't as powerful as the mark of an Alpha, BUT STILL.

Shen Qingqiu is FUCKED. He's freaking out, because "Holy shit, you fucking marked me! This is what I was trying to avoid! Everyone is going to find out that I'm an Omega!" And Liu Qingge is freaking out because "Holy shit, I marked him. I fucked up. I fucked up really bad."

So their solution? They clumsily form the idea to fake a bonding ceremony and pretend to be fated mates. Two Alphas being fated mates is relatively rare, so the two of them can use this as an excuse for why it took so long for them to "notice the spark." One Beta and one Omega pretending to be two Alphas in a functioning relationship and totally not a marriage of convenience.

While all of this is happening, Luo Binghe is in the Endless Abyss, and his timeline is similar to that of the canon universe. Luo Binghe is an Alpha, and still has his heavenly demon heritage. Anyways, he comes back from the Endless Abyss to lay claim on his shizun, only to find out:

His shizun smells different. Luo Binghe has his shizun's scent memorized, and he would immediately be able to tell if another Alpha marked him

He realizes that not only does his shizun smell different, he's actually marked! Taken!

What do you think Luo Binghe will do when he not only realizes that his shizun is an Omega, but that his shizun was marked by a BETA? AND the two of them faked their bonding ceremony?

Oh, he's pissed. He's LIVID.

But Liu Qingge And Shen Qingqiu gradually start to acclimate to the other, and soon their feelings for each other become genuine amidst the broiling political turmoil they will soon be entrenched in.

That's as far as this idea reaches. But I'm having a lot of fun with it. Maybe I'll write something!

Let me know what you think!

[dualityvn]

After seeing your response to the boys' meeting MC by pretending to be their boyfriend, I couldn't get the idea out of my head. So here is the Tenebris version. Even though it's scary to share my first fanfic, I hope you enjoy it and that I portrayed him well. I truly love your game! Keith's fic is in a separate ask so it won't get too long.

x x x

“Is this seat taken?” The bored looking man startles at the sound of your voice, looking up at you with too-wide eyes from the park bench you’ve just approached. The blue patches on his skin are interesting, but you don’t have time to consider if they’re real or not.

“Uh...No?” he responds cautiously.

“Perfect,” you sigh in relief and plunk yourself down next to him. A beat of silence passes before you blurt, “So I know this is gonna sound crazy, but will you please pretend to be my boyfriend?” 

“Huh?!” his eyes somehow widen even further in shock. Understandable, but not the answer you need. You sigh before elaborating.

“Any minute now my coworker is going to come down that path looking for me. He’s been asking me out for weeks, but won’t take no for an answer. I want to put a stop to it for good. Ergo, will you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

“Why me?” he asks incredulously. It’s not a no, but not a yes either. Desperate, you swallow your embarrassment and opt for the truth. Gesturing to his punk styled outfit you speak.

“Honestly? I think you look cool and you seem strong enough to handle yourself.” He stares at you in stunned silence, clearly not expecting that answer. And… are his cheeks turning purple?! More importantly, you spot your coworker coming around the bend. You’re running out of time.

“Sorry, but I can’t lie. So no.” He sounds gruff yet genuinely apologetic. 

“Can’t lie? What, you fae or something?” you ask sarcastically, 1000% done with this day.

“Yeah, actually” he says, mildly surprised. Now it’s your turn to be stunned into wide-eyed silence. He looks dead serious. Groaning internally about the unfairness of attractive men with delusions you accept you’re just gonna have to make this work.

“Since I don’t have time to unpack that I’m just gonna roll with it. Let’s try this again. Will you actually be my boyfriend for the next 15 minutes? I’ll make it up to you,” you bite your lip nervously, shooting a glance over his shoulder.

The “fae” takes a moment to consider you, his expression unclear in your nervous state. After what feels like an eternity his eyes lock with yours and he utters the one word you were hoping for, “Deal.”

“Oh, thank fuck. Sorry about this”

“Wha-”

You quickly cuddle up to him on the bench, wrapping his arm around you. As you lay your head on his shoulder you feel him tense. 

“Relax, I’m not gonna bite you,” you hiss.

He grumbles a response, but relaxes…marginally and not a moment too soon. Your unwanted coworker has spotted you, judging by his increased pace.

“By the way, what’s your name?” you whisper. A shiver passes through your temporary boyfriend as your breath tickles his ear. You stifle the urge to tease him more.

“T-Tenebris,” he chokes out, “What’s your-”

“There you are!” a voice cuts Tenebris off, “I was starting to think you were avoiding me on pur…pose….” Your coworker trails off at the scene before him.

“Who’s this?” he asks you, jealousy threading through his voice.

“Oh, Leonard. Meet my boyfriend, Tenebris. Ten, honey, this is the guy I’ve been telling you about.” To his credit, Tenebris manages to not react to your use of a pet name. “The one that keeps asking ya out even when ya tell him no?” he growls convincingly.

“I wasn’t aware you had a boyfriend,” Leonard says sulkily.

“That’s because ‘No’ is a complete sentence on its own,” you say sweetly, leaning further into your “boyfriend’s” hold.

“Plus it’s none of your fucking business,” Tenebris snaps.

“I…see,” Leonard says, reluctant to give up.

“Do ya?” Tenebris asks, eyes narrowing, “Cuz I don’t see ya leaving yet, asshole.”

Leonard sputters indignantly before looking at you. You wrap an arm around Tenebris’ waist, as if there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. In reality you’re fighting not to laugh, so you nuzzle into Tenebris’ neck to hide your expression. He jolts like he’s been touched by a live wire.

“I… I guess I’ll be on my way then.” Leonard finally concedes.

“You do that,” Tenebris says menacingly, eyes glaring daggers as he turns back the way he came. For a few tense moments you stay like that.

“He’s gone,” Tenebris finally says. You slowly sit up and move away, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Sorry about that. I was about to crack up laughing,” you say smiling sheepishly. Tenebris returns a rather…squiggly???... smile of his own. Was that makeup too?

“The look on his face was pretty great.” he agrees, “What a creep, though. Ya seriously put up with him?”

“Not willingly,” you say, standing up. “Well, handsome, I’ve taken enough of your time. Thanks for the help.” Before you can leave, a hand grabs your sleeve. Confused, you turn to look at Tenebris, now sporting a definitely purple blush on skin bluer than you remember.

“It hasn’t been 15 minutes yet.” he mutters, not looking at you, “Ya said you’d make it up to me.”

“You actually want me to?” you ask surprised.

“A deal’s a deal, ain’t it?” he retorts.

“True,” you say, “Well, do you like sweets? I know a great place nearby. My treat!” Tenebris brightens, nodding enthusiastically before letting you lead the way. Soon enough you’re strolling down the street, treats in hand.

“Did ya mean it?” he asks suddenly between bites.

“Mean what?”

“When ya called me handsome,” he says quietly.

“Oh!” you smile shyly, “Well, yeah.” 

Tenebris grins as he takes a particularly large bite of his dessert. Before parting ways he asks for your number. You write it on his hand, surprised he actually wants to see you again. As you walk home, you idly wonder when you’ll see him next.

This is really nicely written! Especially for your first fanfic! And Tenebris was very in character! Love it overall 10/10, thank you for sharing ^^

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Learning to honor human tradition

Xiao x reader (reader is also an adepti)

Summary: Last year you mentioned that you wished to experience what humans called 'Valentine's Day' and Xiao made a silent promise: next year, he would find out what it meant to celebrate such a day. For you.

Words: 1.2k

Notes: For the Valentine’s Week event. I always imagined Xiao being with fellow adepti rather than a mortal (though there's nothing wrong with those stories, of course!). That way, they could spend a lot of time together without the whole issue of one growing older and ultimately dying, leaving Xiao to deal with another loss. I also think it would take him literal centuries to open up to the idea of letting someone so close and allowing himself to indulge.

English is not my first language

Masterlist

Xiao had always been a creature of habit, focused on his duties and detached from the fleeting desires of mortals. His existence was simple, revolving around protecting Liyue and keeping the peace. Yet, there were rare moments when he found himself curious about the strange customs of humans. One of those moments came a year ago when he spoke with you, another adeptus, who somehow managed to weave herself into his life throughout millennia. 

“You’ve heard of Valentine's Day, right?” you had asked, a playful glint in your eyes.

Xiao tilted his head, puzzled by the term. You chuckled and explained that it was a day celebrated by humans to express affection and appreciation for loved ones, typically through gifts or gestures of kindness. There was a subtle joy in your words, a warmth that Xiao didn’t quite understand. It always baffled him, how deeply you immersed yourself in human life —how effortlessly you wove yourself into its fabric. Despite his reluctance, you continued to share what you’d learned about humans, hoping he might one day understand your fascination. What surprised him most, however, was how, over time, he found himself more intrigued than he cared to admit. 

You sighed wistfully, and it brought his attention back to you. 

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to experience something like that—to have someone show they care in such a way.”

Xiao remained silent, unsure of how to respond. The concept was foreign to him, yet something about your tone—so full of quiet longing—tugged at him. And at that moment, without fully understanding why, he made a silent promise: next year, he would find out what it meant to celebrate such a day. For you.

The following year, Xiao found himself lost in thought during quiet moments, his mind at odds with itself. He had no idea what was involved in this “Valentine’s Day” or how to properly honor it. What if his efforts were misunderstood? What if he made a mistake? The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he had to try, even if he didn’t know where to begin. He couldn't simply ignore the task he had set for himself.

Unable to gather any concrete information from his own observations of humans, Xiao sought out the Traveler, who he had come to trust as a reliable source of knowledge.

“Traveler,” Xiao began, his usual stoic demeanor slipping slightly as he stood before them, “I need your help. There is… a human tradition. It is called Valentine’s Day, and I need to know how to properly honor it.” He paused, looking down at his feet. 

The Traveler raised an eyebrow, sensing the rare vulnerability in his voice. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of their lips; they long sensed there was way more between the two adepti.

“You’re asking for advice on Valentine’s Day?” they chuckled. “Well, it’s mostly about showing someone you care. You could give a gift, write a note, or even just spend time with them. It doesn’t have to be anything extravagant—just something meaningful to them.”

Xiao’s brow furrowed, confused. “A gift? But what kind of gift would be appropriate?”

Before the Traveler could respond, a voice piped up from the side. “Ooooh! A gift! Paimon knows all about gifts!” Floating up beside the Traveler, Paimon grinned, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Xiao, you should definitely give her something! Maybe a nice flower, or something shiny! Humans love shiny things, right?”

The Traveler laughed at Paimon’s enthusiasm but nodded in agreement. “Personal gifts are usually the best. Think about what she likes. It could be something simple but meaningful. It’s not about the value of the gift; it’s about the thought behind it.”

Xiao’s expression remained serious. “Something personal… something she likes,” he muttered, repeating the words to himself. “But… how do I express my feelings? I… I am not accustomed to such things.”

Paimon floated closer, her face softening. “It’s okay, Xiao! Just tell her you appreciate her! Even if it’s simple, it’ll mean a lot!”

Xiao’s face flushed slightly at the thought of speaking his feelings aloud. His thoughts began to spiral. He had never been good at expressing emotions, especially not in such a direct way. But for you he would try.

On the day of Valentine’s Day, Xiao stood on the rooftop of Wangshu Inn. He had spent the whole morning handpicking the most vibrant blooms of your favorite flowers from the nearby fields. Yet, now, with the bouquet in hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was still too… simple. Flowers, he thought, didn’t convey the depth of his feelings. Could they?

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. Every moment seemed to stretch, and his nerves only grew as he heard footsteps approaching. When he saw you walking toward him, his resolve faltered completely.  Your smile catching the sunlight as it danced across the sky. The sight made his heart stutter and his face burn brighter.

You noticed immediately. “Are you… blushing?” you asked with a soft laugh, raising an eyebrow.

“I—” Xiao stammered, caught off-guard, struggling to find his words. “I have… I have something for you.” His hand shook slightly as he awkwardly handed you the bouquet of flowers, his palms growing clammy with nerves. “This is… for you”

You took the flowers, carefully inspecting each delicate bloom. They were beautiful, vibrant, and perfectly chosen. Before you could voice your thoughts, Xiao continued. 

“I also asked chef Yanxiao to prepare your favorite meal”

“Why?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“For that… human tradition. Valentine’s Day.”

Your eyes softened, a gentle smile spreading across your face as you held the flowers in your hands. “You did this for me?” 

Xiao hesitated, and in a rare moment of vulnerability, he looked you in the eyes. His voice was quieter now. “I don’t… know how to express it properly,” he admitted. “But I appreciate you. Your presence is… important.”

Xiao shifted uncomfortably, his gaze falling to the ground, avoiding yours. “You said last year that you wished to experience that day. I do not understand why you would feel the need to, but… if that’s what you wanted, you should have it.” His words were measured but laced with a subtle unease, as if they didn’t quite fit. He looked away again, his eyes drifting to anything but you.

“The Traveler said it was… customary to give gifts and… express feelings.” His voice trailed off, barely a whisper.

Your heart swelled at his words, and you gently placed a hand on his shoulder, offering him the reassurance he so rarely sought. “Thank you. I think that means more to me than any gift.”

Xiao felt a rush of warmth flood his chest. His face remained flushed, but now it was with a peaceful sense of relief. Maybe this human tradition wasn’t so difficult or unnecessary after all.

[daz-zey]

Too Much

"I'm not letting you go, damn it! I lost you once... I am not going to lose you again," you huffed and gritted out. Fists clenched on your sides. "I refuse!" You yelled, tears prickling in your eyes.

Gi-hun's expression softens at your outburst. It was one of the rare times you ever got angry or talk to him that way for that matter. You were always patient. Only with him of course. The rest of the world, well, could fuck off.

Gi-hun understood your reluctance to his plan but it's a decision he made out of some responsibility and grief. He wouldn’t be who he was without you, how he kept hanging on because of your will to stay. He is forever grateful for you and would do whatever you wanted. Except for this one thing. The one thing that altered his mind, life and reality.

He grabs your biceps and pulls you closer. He leans to kiss your forehead, attempting to calm you down. He sighed heavily, the weight on his shoulders continues to weigh him down. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, yeobo,” he says, his hands moves to cup your face. His thumbs caressing your skin. “I have to do this. I have to go. They won’t stop, they won’t because they don’t care. But I do. I care too much. So please… you need to let me go.” He couldn’t help but beg, beg for you to understand. "I promise to come back. I'll come back to you. Just wait for me okay?" He says with a meek smile. "Then we'll continue what we have going."

You wanted to believe him like you always do but somehow this was different. You might not see him again. Hope doesn’t belong in the games, it doesn’t exist. So him going back while you stay in the shabby pink motel… you wouldn’t even know if he made it out alive because you don’t know where the island is. Not even Jun-ho can find it. "Don't say that, Gi-hun. Don't make promises you can't keep," you murmured. You know in your heart that you're right about all of this and you don't have anymore tears left to cry. “Even if-… Even when you come back, how can you still live with what you know? With what you’ve relived again? Huh? You’re only burying yourself deeper into that void, Gi-hun!” You were shaking now, you pushed Gi-hun away. “I can stay with you, be in this relationship, love you but this… this is the last straw, Gi-hun… I’m not sure I’ll still be here when you come back,” you say, your voice hoarse and strained from trying not to break down in front of him. “So if you want to go… then go. Leave. I’m sick of seeing you broken,” you finished, a tear running down your cheek.

Gi-hun stood there stunned. He didn’t think you would end it, here and now. It was abrupt. Lightning flashes in the night sky, thunder booming and rain pours down on both of you. Gi-hun didn’t care because he stared at you, seeing the look in your eyes and face. Flashbacks during the time he came back from the first games two years ago. Rain. Blood. Pain. He reached out to you but you were out of reach. You were gone, your back was facing him. You were walking away from him. Leaving a piece that you had of him with him.

In the end, you let him go. In the end, you left him as he left you. In the end, love wasn’t enough. In the end, the both of you were alone.

[melancholyfool]

Love Bites

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: The group discovers the love bite on your neck, leading to teasing, laughter, and Henry’s reluctant but undeniable suffering.

The dining room at Francis’ country house was filled with the rich scent of brandy-soaked cherries and the lazy murmur of conversation. Dessert had come and gone, leaving behind sugared plates, warmth pooling in the spaces between half-finished cigarettes and the occasional clink of glass against glass. The atmosphere was hazy with wine and laughter.

It was somewhere between Richard explaining a story about his old college and Francis absently swirling the last of his wine when Camilla suddenly paused, squinting at you from across the table.

“Wait a second,” she said, her brows knitting together. “What is that?”

You blinked, reaching instinctively for your plate, feeling the shift in energy around the table. “What’s what?”

“On your neck.”

A silence settled over the table for half a beat, as everyone seemed to hold their breath in unison. Then—

Francis reached over, moved your hair, and then gasped. “Oh my goodness."

You barely had time to react before Charles leaned forward, snickering. “No fucking way.”

Camilla smirked, setting her glass down with exaggerated precision. “Darling,” she said, voice honey-thick with amusement, “you’ve got a hickey.”

The reaction was immediate and explosive.

“You’re joking,” Richard said, eyes darting between you and Henry, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait—so you two are—?”

“You didn’t know?” Charles laughed, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Jesus, Richard, where have you been?”

“Well, no one told me!” Richard looked vaguely horrified, his eyes wide as he tried to piece the puzzle together. “Since when?”

You hummed, tilting your head with exaggerated thought, savoring the moment. “Oh, years.”

Richard blinked, processing the shock. “Years?”

Francis, grinning like the devil himself, propped his chin in his palm. “This is fantastic. Never mind the timeline—Henry, darling, care to explain yourself?”

“No,” Henry said flatly, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

"No?"

"No."

Francis laughed, delighted. “Oh, come on, Henry. Don’t be shy. You don’t want to take credit for your masterpiece?”

“Masterpiece,” you repeated, dragging your finger idly along the rim of your glass. “How flattering.”

“If you wanted us all to know you’re getting thoroughly ravished on a regular basis, you could’ve just said so,” Francis added with a mischievous grin.

Henry let out a long, slow breath through his nose, grip tightening around his glass, but he said nothing.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you said breezily, waving a hand. “Just evidence of Henry’s poor self-control.”

At that, Henry’s fingers twitched. His gaze flicked to yours, dark and unreadable, but you only smirked back at him.

Francis leaned in, practically vibrating with glee. “Poor self-control? Henry Winter?”

“Tragic, isn’t it?” you sighed dramatically.

Charles exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “God, I never thought I’d see the day.”

Camilla grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. “You know, it’s refreshing seeing Henry be the one at a loss for words.”

“He’s not at a loss,” Charles corrected, smirking. “He’s just suffering.”

Henry tilted his head back against his chair, exhaling sharply, patience fraying. “I hate all of you.”

Francis lifted his glass in a lazy toast. “To Henry’s suffering.”

You bit back a smile, leaning back slightly in your chair. Then, slowly you lifted your shirt just enough to reveal the edge of another mark along your ribcage—another dark bruise, barely hidden, the faint imprint of Henry’s claim.

Camilla let out a delighted gasp, leaning forward eagerly. “Oh, there’s more?”

Francis nearly choked on his wine. “Oh, this is spectacular.”

Charles let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Jesus Christ, Henry.”

Henry groaned, rubbing his temples, but it was clear he was fighting to maintain some semblance of composure.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” you teased, your voice syrupy sweet. “Do you want me to show them the rest?”

Henry shot you a dark look. “Don’t you dare.”

Francis leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I think you should.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Henry muttered.

You tilted your head, eyes twinkling. “But Henry, I thought you liked showing off your work?”

Henry groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “I am going to kill you.”

“You’d miss me too much.”

Richard, still catching up, blinked slowly. “I feel like I’ve entered some kind of alternate dimension.”

Francis smirked. “Welcome to the family, dear.”

And then—because you weren’t quite done yet—you leaned forward, propping your elbows on the table, and smirked. “If you think Henry leaves marks on me, you should see the ones I leave on him.”

The effect was immediate.

Charles choked on his drink. Francis let out a delighted shriek. Camilla’s eyebrows shot up, and Richard, poor, oblivious Richard, looked completely scandalized.

“Oh, now this is interesting,” Francis purred, sitting up straight. “Henry? Care to confirm?”

Henry’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening around his glass. “No.”

“You mean to tell me,” Charles started, looking between the two of you like he was trying to solve a crime, “that you leave marks on Henry? That Henry lets you?”

You bite your lip, tilting your head. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Everyone turned to Henry, waiting.

Henry sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if summoning divine patience.

“Oh my god,” Camilla laughed. “This is incredible.”

Francis was nearly gleeful. “Well, well, well. Henry Winter, not only deeply in love but also—how shall I put this?—properly handled.”

Henry groaned. “Francis—”

“Oh, don’t even try,” Francis cut in, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You are all crazy,” Henry muttered.

“I think this calls for celebration,” Charles announced. “This is better than Christmas.”

“Or a national holiday,” Camilla agreed.

And before Henry could even react, you threw your arms around him in a tight embrace, pulling him into you with full force. Henry tensed at first, but as you nestled against him, his shoulders eased ever so slightly, though his hands remained rigid at his sides.

Francis gasped theatrically. “Oh my god, Henry is being held.”

“I think I just saw him soften,” Camilla whispered in awe.

“I think I might cry,” Charles added.

“Shut up,” Henry muttered, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

You smiled, squeezing him tighter while resting your chin against his shoulder.

Henry exhaled slowly, tilting his head just enough for his lips to brush your cheek. “How exasperating,” he murmured. But his fingers found yours, lacing them together, giving you a gentle squeeze.

Francis lifted his glass, barely containing his laughter. “To Henry’s suffering... again!”

And Henry, resigned but warm beneath your hold, simply sighed and let it happen.

[narnian-neverlander]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

[rosiecosy]

just one more minute˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

(ak!minghao x vk!reader) - descendants au

- part of the ways to be wicked series

the docks are quiet at this hour.

the waves lap gently against the wooden posts, their rhythm steady, unhurried. a few lanterns flicker along the pier, casting golden halos onto the water. auradon’s ship waits in the distance, its sails barely visible in the dim light.

you should be saying goodbye.

but neither of you moves.

minghao sits beside you on the edge of the dock, one knee drawn up, his arm resting lazily over it. he’s dressed in muted colors tonight—less princely, less polished, blending in just enough to pass unnoticed.

his fingers tap idly against the wood, but his eyes are on the horizon.

"you should go," you say, but it comes out too quiet, too reluctant.

"i will."

but he doesn’t.

the night stretches between you, quiet and comfortable.

you steal a glance at him—at the way the wind ruffles his hair, at the way the soft glow of the lanterns catches the sharp angles of his face. he’s beautiful in a way that’s almost unfair.

and he’s here.

for now.

"just one more minute," he murmurs.

you exhale a small laugh. "you said that ten minutes ago."

"did i?"

you roll your eyes, but you don’t argue. instead, you lean back on your palms, tilting your head toward the sky.

the stars look different here. dimmer, swallowed up by the glow of auradon’s castle in the distance.

"it’s quiet tonight," minghao muses.

you hum in agreement. "kinda nice, though."

"yeah."

his voice is softer now, almost thoughtful.

you don’t know what he’s thinking. you don’t ask.

but when you feel his fingers brush against yours—just barely, the lightest ghost of a touch—you don’t pull away.

the sea breeze tugs at the edges of your jacket. minghao shifts slightly, his shoulder just barely bumping yours.

you turn your head toward him, and he’s already watching you.

his eyes are warm in the dim light, softer than they should be.

you don’t think. you just move—just lean in the slightest bit, and he meets you halfway.

his lips brush against yours, light as air, as fleeting as the ocean breeze. but when you sigh into the kiss, when your fingers lift to rest against his jaw, he lingers. just a little longer.

when you part, he exhales a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours.

"that was dangerous," he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound regretful.

"what, kissing you?"

"letting me kiss you. now i’m never gonna want to leave."

you smile, eyes half-lidded as you lean into him. his arms slip around your waist, slow and easy, like he’s memorizing the way you fit against him.

"so don't," you whisper.

he closes his eyes, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"you know i have to."

you sigh, burying your face against his shoulder for just a moment longer, letting his warmth sink into your skin.

goodbyes have never suited you.

but when he finally stands, his fingers trail down your arm, catching your hand as he presses a final, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

"i'll see you soon," he murmurs.

and you nod, gripping his fingers just a second longer before finally letting go.

because you know he means it.

and for now, that’s enough.

[auraisereigh]

"Blades to celebrate"

chapter thirteen part I

Brennan Sorrengail x Riorson reader Blurb: It's stars birthday but she has other plans than to celebrate. wc: 4.7 ☆ SPOILERS FOR THE EMPYREAN SERIES. Not much honestly. Uses pronouns: she/her. i use Star as a nickname as y/n sounds weird, and i'm awful with names.

Masterlist ☆ Dragon guide ☆ Star's story ☆ Empyrean guide ☆ Support me

It’s still dark when I make my way out of my room. To my confusion, Xaden continues to sleep on the couch instead of his own bed. Last night, noticing his habits, I spent some time trying to make the couch more comfortable—extra blankets, some pillows, even the blanket Mom made for him. Though he hasn’t touched that one.

Thanks to the kitchen staff from the mess hall, our fridge is finally stocked with actual, edible food. I grab some bread and make myself a simple ham and cheese sandwich, eating quietly at the kitchen table as I go through an old book I found tucked under my bed two days ago. It’s one of the many books Viscount Tecarus gave my father, a collection meant to help identify the source of my magic, its nature, and its potential.

Going through it now feels like a joke. Nothing in here has helped. Well, unless you count the insane amounts of love spells.

Once I finish eating, I clean up quickly and make breakfast for Xaden. I place the plate on the coffee table next to where he’s sleeping. But as I turn to leave, his hand wraps around my arm.

What the—

"Happy birthday, little sister," his sleepy voice rumbles.

My heart stutters. Those are words I didn’t want to hear. I wasn’t going to celebrate. It didn’t feel right—not when the people I want most around me aren’t here and never will be again. The wound is still raw, still tender. Celebrating anything feels wrong.

I give Xaden a small, reluctant smile. "Thank you, but you don’t have to say it. I’m not celebrating," I say softly as his eyes flutter open. His brow quirks, a silent question I’ve seen countless times. He doesn’t need to ask aloud; his expressions do it for him.

"I’m fine, truly. I’m just not in the mood to celebrate. Besides, I already have plans for today—something I’ve wanted to do for a while. I think I’ll manage to enjoy myself," I assure him.

His eyes drift shut again as he mumbles something I can’t make out. Good. He needs the rest.

I throw on one of Dad’s old shirts before heading to the forge. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here—too long. The last time was when Garrick’s father taught me how to craft my own weapons. Now, I’m finally going to do it myself.

I made sketches ages ago, outlining everything: the design, the weight, the materials, even the runes I’d use. I wouldn’t be working alone; the forge’s smith offered to assist if needed.

As I step inside, I quickly braid my hair into a simple but traditional Tyrrish braid. Last night, in my rush to meet Brennan, I’d brought my sketches here and left them on the worktable. I was already late then, so there hadn’t been time to linger.

The forger approaches with a polite smile. "Good morning, Princess," he says with a small bow.

"Good morning," I reply, matching his politeness.

"Do you know how to make weapons?" he asks, a valid question.

"I’ve seen it done," I answer, keeping my tone light. "I have sketches of what I want, but there are a few adjustments I’ll make to the design."

He nods, studying the papers I hand him. "From what I remember, your father once requested swords for you—thin, light, and easy to wield. I assume you’d prefer a similar weight now?"

I nod again, though the mention of those swords stings. I still have them, but using them feels like bringing up ghosts. Memories of training with Garrick’s father or my own threaten to overwhelm me.

"I’ll get you a triangle-tip mold for the blade," the smith says, pulling one from the shelf. "I remember you asked if molten alloy could be added to the blade. It’s possible. Both the steel and alloy are ready to pour."

He sets the mold next to the molten liquids, then continues, "After you pour the mixture, you can work on the handle. By the time that’s done, the steel should have hardened."

I glance at the glowing cauldrons of molten metal, nerves tingling. Logically, nothing should go wrong, but doubt lingers, the kind that creeps in when trying something for the first time.

"I have conduits with runes that respond to my magic," I explain hesitantly. "Would it be possible to insert them into the blade? That way, I wouldn’t need to touch an enemy directly to cause internal damage."

He pauses, studying me. Not many people outside Riorson House know about my magic.

"If the conduits respond to you, it’s possible," he says at last. "My advice? Pour a thin layer of the alloy into the mold first and let it cool slightly. Then, place the conduits carefully—balance is crucial. A single misstep, and the blade could be completely off-kilter. Once the conduits are set, pour the rest of the mixture on top and let it dry."

Relief washes over me. I nod in understanding and get to work.

I pull out a second mold to craft twin swords, placing them side by side on the worktable. After slipping on a pair of gloves, I grip the large ladle and pour a precise, even layer of molten alloy into each mold. Once the initial layer hardens slightly, I carefully place the conduits, ensuring they’re perfectly balanced. With that done, I pour the remaining alloy over them, filling the molds to the edge.

While the blades cool, I turn my attention to the handles. I’ve chosen a sleek black design with a red swirl that will spiral up to the base of the blade. Each handle will also feature a red stone that lights up in response to my magic.

By the time the stones are secured in place, the blades have hardened. I remove them from the molds with care, admiring the way the metal glints in the light. Sharpening and shaping them is the next step, and I lose myself in the steady rhythm of the work.

That’s when I feel it—a presence behind me.

At first, I think it’s the smith and ignore it, focused on the blade in my hand. But the presence lingers, unmoving. Setting the sword down, I remove my safety glasses and let them hang around my neck as I turn.

It’s not the armorer.

It’s Brennan.

☆

Taglist: @honethatty12 @smashee0789 @awkardnerd @randomperson1234sblog@bangtanxberm@hyperactive-bookworm-0@littowl@thebreadisthetruevillian

[yyaktayak]

Chapter 2💌

tags ! : @uceyliyahh @charmed-dreamssss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account

DAMIANXKEOIR

Kemani Keoir August

-Kemani's POV

After Damian left, I took a deep breath, focusing back on Jey. The injury to his leg wasn't too serious, but it had been nagging him for weeks. He'd pushed through it, of course wrestlers always did but I could tell he was starting to feel the toll. It was just the nature of the job.

I finished up with him, giving him a few exercises to do over the next couple of days. He gave me a thankful nod, then limped out of the room, probably headed straight to grab some food or rest.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I leaned back in my chair for a second, closing my eyes. The world around me was loud, full of energy, but my own little corner of it was peaceful. Just the way I liked it.

I picked up my phone again, scrolling past Michin's latest message. I'd been avoiding it, but I knew I couldn't keep dodging her. I opened the chat and read her latest reply: "Stop holding on to that hurt before you miss out on something good!"

I sighed, unsure of how to respond. I washolding onto the past, wasn't I? It wasn't just Young Thug, though. It was everything. The people I'd trusted. The chances I never took. The love I kept locked away. I wasn't ready to give it up. But Michin didn't give up on me. Ever.

A new message popped up from her "Also saw the way Damian's been looking at you 👀"

My heart skipped a beat. I had noticed it too—Damian's presence was different, but I wasn't about to read too much into it. He was just doing his job. Right?

I set my phone down, deciding to push those thoughts aside for now. Work had to come first. Always

Lyke Kaien Martinez

-Damian's POV

I walked down the hall, hands shoved deep in my pockets, mind still partially on the session I'd just witnessed. Jey was in good hands with Kemani, no doubt about it. The way she handled him, the way she carried herself calm, focused, professional. There was an ease to her that made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. And I respected that.

But there was something else. Something I couldn't quite pinpoint.

I shook my head. Focus, Damian. I was just here to make sure Jey was taken care of, nothing more. Still, I found myself replaying the way she'd been during the session how effortlessly she took charge of everything. It was impressive.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the wall outside her office for a second, thinking about the day ahead. That's when I got a notification on my phone. It was from her.

I didn't even realize I'd been following her on social media until now. She had posted something simple: "Love ain't always complicated."I couldn't help but think it was a subtle reminder that life didn't have to be as messy as I sometimes made it.

Maybe she's got it figured out, I thought, half-smiling to myself.

I looked at the time. I had a meeting in five minutes. I should probably get moving. I made my way back toward the locker rooms, my mind still lingering on Kemani. I wasn't about to dive into anything too quickly, but I couldn't deny that something about her intrigued me.

For now, I had to focus on the job. But somewhere deep down, I knew that wasn't the last time our paths would cross.

As I left the hallway, I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe I was starting to understand why Jey had been so reluctant to leave her office. There was something calming about being around her, something that made the weight of the day feel just a little bit lighter

Archerofinfamy has posted a story !

"I just want a chance, hopefully I make you glad"

@uceyjucey has replied to your story : is this about K?

↪️@Archerofinfamy: mmcht.. yea ionk uce she make me feel something I ain't felt since .. ykw

@uceyjucey : go for it .

@keoirthescientist has replied to your story : I love your tattoos Ly!🙂💘

↪️@Archerofinfamy: thanks phat🖤

@keoirthesvientist: phat?😳

↪️Archerofinfamy : yes phat das my nickname fa you so only I can call you it 🙂‍↕️

keoirthescientist: well then I guess I'll have to come up with one for you!😳

↪️Archerofinfamy: bet phat.

Click to view more replies !

little did they know.. this was only the BEGINNING .

A/N: WHAT DO WE THINK??

[encasedinobsidian]

Life According to Joel

Happy birthday @netherfeildren !! This is my gift to you <333 Thanks for being my friend, for being kind and understanding and funny and cool, for entertaining me and letting me freeload. If it weren't for you and your unfathomable talent, I'm sure I'd be illiterate, and Din Djarin would be nothing but a tuna can. I think of you every time I see a mini truck, a rat tail, or Matthew McCououghougohgouneyay. You are my personal Rust Cohle, and I hope my Marty-ness enriches your life like your odd shit enriches mine. YEEHAW AND ILY !!

Summary: Joel having the worst day ever Word count: 2.5k Rating: A for effort

Monday. Joel is startled awake by the blaring scream of a car alarm and a leaf blower outside his bedroom window, at six AM. And to his misfortune, the day doesn’t get much better after that. 

He reasons that he’s been through worse, and that he could’ve woken up to the fire alarm signaling that his own house is in flames, so with some reluctance, he gets up and drags his feet to the bathroom. His electric toothbrush is no longer standing up against the mirror next to the sink where it has been every morning for the last fifteen years. 

Something soft brushes against his bare leg, and he looks down to see Fluffles’s tail curling around his calf, which brings his attention to the litter box. His toothbrush is lying inside of the sand, and the top of the box is sitting beside it, forgotten. 

Just an inconvenience, he thinks, grabbing a temporary toothbrush from the Dollar General that he fishes out of the cabinet below the sink. However, his confidence wanes somewhat when he returns to the bedroom after a shower — a shower with significantly reduced water pressure, that is — and grabs his phone, seeing that the charger is halfway out of the wall socket and that his battery is at twenty percent. There’s a message on his screen regarding his advertisement on Facebook Marketplace for a TV he’s been trying to sell for the reasonable price of three hundred dollars. The message was sent five minutes ago. 

$80? I can pick it up asap

A shitty offer, but an offer nonetheless. He responds back. 

Sure. Can you pick it up in thirty minutes?

Yes, the person says.

He sends his address and leaves the bedroom, goes downstairs and hears the doorbell ring. Two young boys stand on the doorstep, both in ties and name tags, asking if he has a minute to speak about religion. Not wanting to shake their confidence, he lets them stumble through their prepared monologue for a minute, but Joel begins to tense up when he sees a FedEx truck approaching his property, likely carrying a package that was held up for two weeks and is finally due to arrive. The boys’ voices blend in with each other, and Joel watches the delivery driver cast one look at his house, just as the truck slows, before looking ahead and driving off instead. 

Kindly, but a little bit affectless, Joel bids the missionaries goodbye and closes the door behind him while he shakes his head. Two pieces of bread are lowered into the toaster as he looks at the time and notices that Sarah’s alarm has yet to go off, reminding him that she has the day off from school for ‘independent study’. He grabs a large post-it note from a drawer as well as a thick marker, and begins to write. 

PLEASE KNOCK

FOR DELIVERY

I AM HOME 

Joel has never been a superstitious man, and multiple inconveniences can happen at once, so no, he does not consider himself shaken. 

The toaster pops and it smells burnt — Tommy was over on the weekend and never adjusted the thing back to its previous setting, and now Joel’s pieces of bread are one shade away from completely black. He moves on, shakes it off, grabs a knife and scrapes the burnt layer into the sink. The radio is playing on low but the same ad keeps running on loop, likely something glitching on the station’s end. 

When he cracks five eggs into a bowl, the last one shatters and a piece of eggshell, just big enough to be noticeable when he squints, disappears into the bottom of the bowl. He takes a deep breath, blaming himself for poor egg-cracking technique, and grabs one of the shells, dipping it in to chase that tiny piece around. Slowly, he moves it, trying not to create any waves that would wash the piece away, but just as he’s about to catch it, Sarah appears in the doorway and startles him, losing the eggshell to the abyss of egg once again. 

The wrong burner is on for about a minute before he realizes. He notices too late that the grounds in the coffee machine are from yesterday. 

While waiting for the TV-pickup, he checks his email and sees that some test results from the doctor are available in his health portal. The results, however, seem somewhat jumbled and unfinished.

UNSTABLE LIKELY PROSTATE CANCER

The inevitable anxiety gets him for a moment before he can practice any sort of logic, his stomach sinking at the words on the screen. There must be some explanation for this, he reasons, as he grabs his phone and calls the office. 

“Hello?” answers the girl on the other end, “Dr. Ramirez’s office. How can I help you?”

Joel rubs the tips of his fingers across his forehead while he looks at the screen, explaining his shock at the test results that were only supposed to show his blood pressure and cholesterol. 

“Oh, shit,” she says, “Uh—”

Not a reassuring answer. He glances at the time and sees that his buyer is supposed to be here any minute. 

“That is a HIPAA violation, isn’t it?” she asks. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t admit that his heart is racing, but instead clears his throat. 

“It looks like you got someone else’s results,” says the secretary. “I’m so sorry, it also looks like we lost your blood test and results and everything somehow. I’m gonna send you another requisition to print out and bring to the lab, okay?” 

They exchange a few pleasantries, he looks over to the printer to make sure it’s on, and in the paper tray is a document entirely covered in black ink, with a one-inch margin around the dark square. When he presses the power button, it informs him that it is out of ink. 

Fifteen minutes past when the buyer is supposed to arrive, he messages them, and receives no reply. 

His phone rings. It’s the shop where his truck is supposed to be ready today after a week of repairs and Joel having to carpool with Tommy to work. 

“Hey Joel,” is followed by a nervous laugh. “So, this isn’t gonna cost you anything, don’t worry—”

Joel groans. 

“But the repairs will take a little longer. Our apprentice kind of… Well, he fucked up, and now we have to fix it.” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I assure you I’m not, but your truck will be ready in two days, alright? We got a rental for you, just come get it whenever.” 

He hangs up without saying goodbye. His message to the buyer is marked as read, ten minutes ago. When his phone does light up as he’s putting on his boots, about to leave for work, it’s from an unknown number. 

hey randy, pls send the $50 for the tournament. jane’s up my ass abt it 

For five years, he has received messages from various numbers, looking for a man named Randy, and despite how many numbers he blocks, they never seem to stop, and this Randy seems to owe a lot of people various sums of cash. 

Joel responds, This is not Randy’s number, sorry. 

And in return, he gets a somewhat hostile message.

oldest trick in the fucking book 

He orders an Uber to the car mechanic’s shop, and is surcharged thirty percent, but at least there’s no lineup at the front desk when he arrives. Maybe his luck has changed, he thinks, looking at the new trucks in the front of the lot. 

However, when the receptionist leads him to the back and gestures towards his options, he realizes his only choice is a Japanese mini truck. “JDM ninety-five Suzuki,” the lady says, and she really is trying to put a positive spin on it, “Very convenient.” 

“Are you messing with me?” Joel asks, flatly.

She smiles at him, and her voice is very cheery when she says, “It has five speeds.” 

“Fantastic.” He rolls his eyes and grabs the keys she hands him. There’s a lizard on the windshield he only spots when he opens the door and crams inside, adjusting the seat what little it allows, and his arms are stuffed in-between his knees when he pushes the keys into the ignition. The seat belt is a lost cause. 

His brother calls him and he picks up reluctantly, though he doesn’t get the chance to say anything before Tommy asks him, “Could you drop by Home Depot and get a few things?” 

“No.”

“Come on, man. Do me a solid.”

“Can’t. Truck won’t be done ‘till tomorrow. I got a rental.”

“And?”

“I’m ass to ankles here, Tommy,” he says, “I’m in the smallest truck I’ve ever seen.”

Then he hangs up. 

At least he doesn’t have prostate cancer, he thinks, as he pulls out of the parking lot and gets onto the road, where he’s stuck in traffic surrounded by box trucks in stop-and-go traffic. Another lizard lands on the windshield with a smack, thrown off the side of the U-Haul in front of him. 

Upon arrival at the worksite, his coworker informs him that their order of concrete has been delayed, and asks if Joel can text their supervisor. He tries to keep it concise. 

Hey. Concrete is delayed so we’re completely halted. Could you call the supplier? Thanks. - Joel

In return, after waiting for twenty minutes, he receives a photo from his supervisor of a clear, blue ocean and golden sand.

Jet ski, it says below the photo. 

Great. 

He makes himself busy until lunch time, when he pulls a plastic container out of his backpack and realizes that the empty container of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! that contained a sandwich was somehow shuffled around in the fridge, getting mistaken for the one actually containing margarine. And so Joel finds himself lunch-less, exhausted, baking in the sunshine of mid-day, wondering what he has done to deserve this. 

He leaves work a few hours early. There’s no way his supervisor would find out, and if he does, he’ll be too drunk by eight PM to remember. Somehow, over the last few hours, Joel forgot about the tiny truck waiting for him a block away from the worksite, but is reminded when he spots it as he turns the corner. 

It’s hot as hell inside of it now, after parking in the sun without thinking, and there’s barely any air circulation when just his body takes up seventy percent of the cabin. 

He drives it to Costco anyway. All of the grilled chickens are snatched from the shelf in front of his eyes, nobody can steer their shopping carts in the right direction, they’re out of everything bagels, and he stands in a lineup for ten minutes only to realize it’s not a lineup for anything at all but merely people standing around. Out he goes, after thinking he lost his credit card only to find it in the wrong slot of his wallet, to the tiny truck now parked between two Range Rovers, with a case of Diet Coke and a sixty-pack of eggs. They fit in the front seat next to him, barely. 

At his house, FedEx has left a package slip on top of the note he left for the delivery driver. Sarah is still home. When she looks up at him from the dining table and her homework, he greets her with a grunt, carrying in the groceries. A can of Coke falls to the floor as he stacks them in the fridge, and it bursts open, spraying soda in multiple directions, soaking his socks and the floor around him. Sarah folds over in laughter, but Joel watches in silence as the can empties, and his arms are full of the remaining ones. 

Finally, while on his knees next to Sarah, mopping up the soda while she tries to stifle her laugh, he comes to terms with the reality that this Monday is simply not his day. He therefore does not take the chance on cooking, and decides to pick up dinner on the way home after putting on a load of laundry and running more errands.

With the package slip in his hand, he steps back into the godforsaken mini truck and starts it. He does not wave when he sees his neighbor passing on the street. At the FedEx store, the door is locked when he tries to open it. There’s a sign on the door asking him to scan a QR code to see the store hours. 

At the barbeque spot down the road, Joel stands in line with the package notice in his back pocket and his arms folded, for twenty minutes. In front of him is a woman speaking on video call to her mother, trying to solve a computer problem. He manages to filter out the repeated words and sentences, enjoying the seemingly only reprieve from his day from hell, wondering if his luck has turned. Again, he remembers that it could be worse. He could have had prostate cancer. 

Inside the restaurant, he’s up next, but the girl ahead of him is asking about every item on the other side of the glass, looking up at the man working behind the counter while he explains. She takes a moment to think, and he asks her, “Are those color contacts?”

“No,” she says, smiling, holding up the line, and Joel rolls his eyes. 

The man piles extra ribs onto her plate when she moves to the cash register, then reaches under the bench and pulls out a sign that he tapes to the glass in a swift motion.

OUT OF BEEF RIBS

“What can I get ya?” he asks Joel. 

On the way out, with takeout containers in hand, Joel absentmindedly throws his coins into the trash, and the wrapper of his straw stays in his hand. The same straw disintegrates immediately when he takes a second sip of the sweet tea inside. 

After dinner, with a piece of brisket stuck between his teeth, he takes out the laundry from the washer. The pile is soaking wet, dripping onto his fresh pair of socks, and as he turns the corner to wring out the clothes over the sink in the bathroom, the edge of a dresser scratches his side. Somehow, it had been pulled out a few inches from the wall. 

In the kitchen, he opens the freezer to see that Sarah’s forgotten can of soda has exploded and covered the entire drawer. His attempt at salvaging the evening is met with a hollow, overpriced soft serve ice cream, and a chipped beer bottle. An email informs him that he has won a raffle and, well, Joel finds himself thinking that perhaps it’s best to grasp his only good fortune of the day, so he jumps through the hoops, verifies, waits for one-time codes and accepts terms & conditions, only find out he has won a grand total of five dollars. 

He gets a message from the Facebook marketplace lowballer. 

i dropped by at noon but u werent home

Joel rolls his eyes and he puts his phone down while he shuts off his computer, looking at the sprinklers in the yard that have apparently stopped working. His phone lights up again, this time with a text message from an unknown number. 

hey randy. guess u were too busy to visit grandma before it was too late. get fucked

this is dave btw i got a new phone 

It could always be worse.

[juniemunie]

Broskis ts!underswap is so fun. every single part of it is *chefs kiss*

I went in completely blind and honestly i think it was the best move i could have made

i love how its just swapped roles but not personalities so it leads to stuff like this its so creative

Anyways have some more self insert sansnomaly (and chara)