#their soul would have more varying colors | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seiwas · 8 months ago

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if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas.

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.

You nod.

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.

He hums.

“But I couldn’t find you, so…”

He hums again.

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

A pause.

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.

You snort, “I wish.”

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.

An interesting man.

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.

“Do you come to this–”

“My studio is just by the corner, so–”

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”

“It’s on the way to work most days.”

You nod, humming.

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.

“And this?”

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer.

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.

“Just ask, I know you want to.”

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along.

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.

“Would that be troublesome?”

You laugh at his rigidness.

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.

So, no.

There’s no other place he’d rather be.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?

“Will you be free next weekend?”

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it.

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.

“Not for a session.”

You tilt your head curiously.

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.

“For a date.”

You begin to take up his weekends now, too.

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.

It’s unexpected, but you like that.

And you like him—quite a lot, really.

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him.

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.

Things are good a month until your exhibit.

Things are good until they aren’t.

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.

You groan, banging your head against the table.

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.

Nanami finds you in your studio that way.

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this.

And it’s too much—it’s all too much.

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.

Silence.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.”

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.

“Then we’ll do what we can.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”

“Who?”

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”

That makes you look up.

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.

You remold and repair to build up yourself.

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.

He smirks, “You’re a natural.”

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.

A gasp escapes you.

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.

A tear drips down your face.

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours.

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.

He smiles at you the same.

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.

It is as much you as it is him.

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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dropsnectar · 1 month ago

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Pollen and Potions: Bee-men x afab!reader

PART SEVEN

NSFW

You woke up alone.

The cot was warm under where you had laid but the spots beside you remained cool. You reached your mind out through your bonds, experimenting. You could tell that Rena was somewhere nearby, emotions calm and smug. Lyith seemed to be outside of the hive, worry fretting itself in iridescent specks in your minds eye. That was another thing you noticed. Your minds eye was a little more present, like you were looking in two worlds at once.

You pull yourself up and start looking for Rena, tipetoing down the tunnel hall. You don't stop until you make it to the huge open room, filled with about twenty or thirty bee-men of varying appearances, colors and sizes. You could taste magic in the room, now what you recognized to be the mana of the hive, pulsing through the air.

Everything smelled fresh and sweet, and something about the place, despite having no windows, felt refreshing and calming to you. You glance around looking for Rena, nodding and waving to Bee-men you have met before. They are all exuberant today, buzzing about you happily and greeting you with the customary hand squeeze or forehead bump. There is such a lightness about them, unlike you've seen in them before.

You come to the corner of the room where there is another tunnel, brightly light by cool glowing orbs. The familiar orbs had been all about the area, expanded light and cool air. You welcomed the feeling, as you couldn't imagine how hot and humid the hive would be without them. You felt a sudden pulse of magic from the tunnel, and an increase in the scent of sweet honey.

You come to a room where maybe six or seven Bee-men are working. Their are pots as large as people spanning the walls, several of which the Bee-men are working with. They all seem to be holding onto a string of magic rope tying them together as they sing out in a noise that is equal part bug and human. Surprisingly, it is a comforting, pleasant noise.

You watch, as the thread seems to pulse wide, like a snake who is swallowing and digesting a mouse, slowly moving from one Bee-men, to one pot to another. You watch as one Bee-man, unconnected to this rope of magic, brings a jar of pollen with him, keeping pace and messaging the bulge.

On his neck is a large block of obsidian, tied with twine. He is chanting, a dark green, almost black magic working from his hands. You recognize the cute little nose and brown hair. Haven.

“If you watch closely, you will notice that young Haven is using a type of magic we call Kvasir.” A hand is on your elbow and you turn to see Elder Bisou.

“The magic is neither personal, nor Shared Magic. He… i do not know the word in your terms. He calls on the Kvas of old, our first ancestors, and they lend him the ability to bake the pollen's life into something we can layer into our magic. Much like salt is to humans. It is a hard skill that takes many hours. He must not falter his breath or devotion, lest he have to start all over again.”

You blinked, surprised your favorite gossip had such a vital role. Though in some ways it made sense. Haven had such a way with words, he could spin an enthralling story over the most minute of details. He really was a good orator. And apparently a Bee like Priest? You wondered what Bee-men afterlife looked like.

Elder Bisou however, had more to say.

“After the nectar is fed through our magic and blessed by the Kvas, it is to be fermented for three days out in the sun, and then portioned and dried until it is the proper consistency. Of course, we dry the honey with our wings, and that too is considered a blessing from the wind.”

Elder Bisou was all but chanting, a preacher on his pulpit, relaying the word of his Gods.

“The nectar is of earth and water, the Kvasir, a blessing of spirit, the Sun and the wind to ferment, a transformation that fortifies our bodies, our mana, our souls. We are one with all in the gathering, in the making, in the consuming. We have not forgotten our roots, young witch.”

His eyes were like steel as he met your gaze. “Though I hear you are much more now. It is a miracle. I thank you for saving the lives of two of our children. And your efforts to save our hive in the ways you can.” He paused here, as if their was more he wanted to say, something that made his chest stick out, the graying fur their puffing.

“Lyith and Rena shall have much to explain to you I am sure. Even if they are terrible drones, leaving you alone in your most vulnerable time. More rest will do you well.”

He turned around, about to leave you, but you put a hand to his shoulder, excitement filling your chest as you remembered.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your gardens! You see, I have this theory about the magic in the soil! I think its because of the beast men leaving. Well more specifically their… um. Waste. You guys have a treaty with the wolfmen a few miles out from here, right? I was thinking that maybe we could. Idk ask for their… fertilizer and see how that effects the ecosystem?”

Elder Bisou gave you tired eyes. “While I appreciate your passion, this is already a thought we have entertained. The issue is that we have no way of funding this “transaction”. Waste is not an easy thing to transport, or a topic welcome in embassy meetings. We only receive groceries through you humans from charity. I do not see any… kindness around the wolfmen shoveling their ‘shit’ into our backyards. I am sorry to disappoint you.”

He said it kindly but it felt like a slap in the face. You hadn't meant to open your mind to his emotions but you could feel them now, a sort of… disdain? The sort of smugness an adult holds in their throat while explaining to a child why they can't have a puppy.

It occurred to you that this old Bee-man was a politician. And your well meaning intentions might have seemed like a slap in the face to his intelligence. Maybe. Something else seemed to be afoot here, as there was more complexity to this. You didn't need to taste his emotions in the air to know that.

You were feeling kind of dizzy. Elder Bisou had left but you had leaned against the far wall. You could feel the bee-mens emotions without them throwing them at you, but it drained you. When your gaze focused again you noticed that the Bee-men in the room were trying their hardest to continue to sing and magic their honey, but their eyes still rested on you. Even Haven, who was supposed to be in communion with the holy of his ancestors, had eyes on you as he rubbed and chanted.

Shame filled your heart. You had butted into a necessary and sacred process without any care. You wobbled up and out of the tunnel, hoping you had not done any harm.

Rena was on you in seconds.

“What are you doing in there! You should have stayed in the infirmary, I was looking all over for you.” Worry, with a blood like tang filled the connection of your bond. You couldn't quite understand the emotions there, but there was pain in it. Like she had been hurt.

“Are you okay?”

“No! My Queen decides to go gallivanting around the hive before I can even tell her she is very vulnerable right now. Look at you, already stressing your mana.” She uses her hands to dust your shoulders and clothes of dirt from the floor of the hall, the only place in the hive with it, as the floors everywhere else were covered in what could only be linoleum like beeswax.

“Where's Lyith?” You venture, feeling his own worry and a rush, as if he was flying fast, in your mind.

“Hes getting you human food! All we have is honey here, and from what I can't tell, its not conducive to a healthy human diet.” She pulls your whole body into her arms and buzzes you off back to what you now knew as the infirmary.

She had a small cup that steamed in one of her many hands. She set you down on the cot, leaning you so your back was braced by the wall, then covered you in several of the room's blankets before tucking the cup into your hand. You suddenly realized you were ravenous.

You carefully sipped on the liquid. It was sweet. Hot water and honey, and possibly a little fruit juice glided itself upon your tongue. You smiled over at Rena, your heart full as she fussed over you, picking at your hair and braiding what she could.

“So whats this about me being vulnerable?”

Rena continued braiding, her eyes not leaving your hair.

“I don’t want to say too much until Lyith gets here. But I’m sure you’ve noticed some changes by now. Your body is very weak because your mana is growing.”

“Is that why I can hear everyone's emotions so clearly?” You grimaced. You still had a bit of a headache. At least it only happens when you talk to someone.

“That's part of it. You're so tense, come here.” She pulled you into her lap and started messaging the tight spots in your neck, another hand gently rocking on the skin between your shoulders. You shivered, as a wave of tingles worked down your spine.

“We were hoping you’d let us keep you here for a few days so we can watch you. Until everything gets figured out.” Her voice was even but you could tell their was anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She was pushing it down though. You continued to let her wrestle your muscles into soft, relaxed flesh. She sighed in satisfaction.

“Y/n!!!” A happy voice interrupted your quiet peace. It was Haven, the small brown drone vibrating with excitement as he flew towards you. Rena acted immediately, pulling you further into her lap and crushing you to her with the wall of her arms.

“Its the middle of the day, you should be working.” Her tone was gruff.

“We are on break!” He replied, before giving her and indignant eyebrow quirk. He then pushed his full attention to you and sat on the cot.

“Congratulations on your recent mating! It was about time, with how much those two hung off you!” His words were hollow, as you were hit hard by Haven’s intense curiosity and hope. It almost choked you as you scrambled to adjust your mind's eye.

“We are busy Haven. And you are stressing her out. She’s still adjusting.”

“So it IS true, you can feel us!” Haven must have been concentrating his mind at you, because you were met with a tsunami of emotions. His pleasure was palpable, a variety of reds. His fondness was warm and smelled of vanilla, as well as something else you couldn’t quite understand, mixed with the hope. A hunger?

“Get out. Now.” Rena stood up, carrying you up with her before pushing Haven off the bed.

“Whats going on here?” Lyith’s tone was hard, it echoed through the infirmary.

“I just wanted to know if she had made a decision yet! Besides, we are friends, right?” He looked at you hopefully. You sighed.

“Haven, I’m not really sure what's going on, but maybe you could come back later? I think I’m out of the loop here.” You realized then that all the talking and emotions had started to make you shake.

Haven noticed too and looked somber. His voice then turned delicately light, and he organized his face.

“Maybe we can talk tomorrow. See you guys!” He gave you one last look and then walked out the door. Lyiths eyes followed him. He didn’t seem upset, like Rena did, but you could feel that Lyith seemed torn. Noticing your touch on his mind his eyes met yours, and a loving smile blazed across his golden features.

“You need to eat.” He brought you a plate. It was a tuna sandwich and an apple. Your stomach roared to life, and you grabbed the plate out of Lyith’s hands, tearing through the fish and bread. You ate the whole sandwich in 10 seconds and tore into the apple. Rena relaxed her grip around you and nuzzled her nose into your hair, muscles relaxing.

Lyith took Haven's place on the cot and opened his arms. Rena wouldn’t let you move. The two of them in the room, you started to feel at peace. But there was a conversation that needed to happen, and it had to happen soon.

“So, I’m your.. Queen now huh? What does that mean exactly?” Lyith exchanged glances with Rena.

“Well, it’s a lot like being married. Rena and I have sworn to love and protect you for the rest of our lives. And you accepted us into your mind, heart and body, fortifying us.” He crawled forward so he could take hold of your hand, caressing the curves of your fingers.

“Exiled Bee-men often survive dying by Queen Bonding with someone who has compatible pheromones. Thats how we are able to share our emotions. But you’re experiencing more then that right?”

You nodded slowly. “I could kind of tell where you guys were at.”

“And you were able to hear Heaven's emotions without him sharing them with you. You were able to pick up his pheromones and read them, despite not having a bond.”

“A Queenbond to another species is something that takes several weeks of mating to take. Not to mention, when you were healing Lyith, your magic should have only temporarily stabilized his magic. Instead you healed all the damage that he had accumulated from enacting magic without a Queen. Even if he had bonded to a normal Queen, he would not have been able to fully use his mana again.”

“You’re mana is turning into something like a true Queen. We don’t understand it.”

Your heart started pounding hard in your chest. You took stock. Did you feel any different? No. You were tired, but you were still you. Your mind went back to all the Bee-men who’s been eyeing you in the hall. The Joy, the hope, Haven’s hunger.

“The rest of the hive… they..,”

“No. Little One, there are two hives now. Ours and theirs. They are letting us stay here now in hopes of you becoming their Queen. That you would heal them all, and stop their inevitable walk towards death.”

The stakes are so high.

You felt sick. You had only meant to save Lyith, but the whole hive?

You had wanted to help them, sure, but they wanted you to give your whole life away to them? You wanted to save them, but this might just be too much.

“I’d have to give up my human life. And I’d have to become some baby making factory.”

“A Queen IS the mother of the hive, but she is so much more. She is also the heart. Like you are our hearts now.” Lyith leaned forward and the three of you were in a full embrace.

“We aren’t asking you to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to become their Queen if you don’t want to. But either way, we need to stay here for a few days. If you move your body too much, it might affect your mana and make you sick. Its possible that the stress of it could even kill you.”

Lyith pulled away and kneeled onto the floor so he could rest his head on your lap. His eyes didn’t leave you. Rena continued. “We are not able to hate you anymore, little one. We will not judge you if it's too much to ask. After all, another Queen could find her way to the hive.”

Twenty years.

Your eyes started to water. You wanted to weep for them, for these Bee-men. For Lyith and Rena and Haven and everyone you had met here. You suddenly felt so young and small. You sat there and cried for what felt like an hour. It was all too much.

When you stopped you were bone tired. You tugged on your bonds between Rena and Lyith, and their minds consumed yours. Their pain for you, their worry, but also their love filled your mind. It was a balm to you. It was so intimate, this feeling of being one with them, but you had to admit you loved it. You loved them.

You felt a wet warmth rubbing on your thigh. You looked down to see Lyith, his eyes big and round as he kitten licked your pants. You got goosebumps. You watched him for a second, the warmth flooding your cheeks.

“Lyith…”

“I think you’ve had a really stressful day, my Queen.” Lyith’s tone was innocence itself, but he continued to lick long stripes, causing a wet patch. You swallowed.

Seeing you not pull away, he shimmied his head up to the zipper of your pants and pulled it down with his teeth. He then licked between the zipper, once, twice, three times. His hands snaked up to the top of your pants. Rena, seeing where this was going, pulled you out of her arms.

She motioned Lyith off you and laid you down near the edge of the cot. She tossed Lyith a pillow. He rolled you over gently and positioned the pillow under you. Your entire face started to heat at the thought of how easy this was for them. Heavy arousal from both sides filled your mind, making you feel sensitive all over. Rena took hold of one of your thighs and pulled it closer to her side on the left. She started to reach over and message the skin of your chest as she pulled your chin to kiss her.

Her breath was hot and her lips soft. The fluff of her chest felt good against your belly, as she had pushed up your shirt. Her tongue played hopscotch with yours, moving over and under, as if to tease you more. You whined at her as you felt Lyith kissing a slow trail on your inner thighs. His hand pulled your puffy lips apart, and he blew cool air onto it. The tension in your stomach wound deeper, waiting.

He started licking wide flat lines from your entrance up your vulva. He took breaks, kissing and licking at your labia, before working his way slowly back to your clit, sucking. The texture made you groan, as he took his time. You don’t know how he did it, maybe he had practice, maybe he--fuck.

He moaned into you, letting you know of his own pleasure as he humped the edge of the mattress. You ached for him, as Rena nibbled and sucked on your neck. You are writhing under them now. From Lyith, from Rena, from the utter devotion the were laying in waves upon your mind. It made your core boil, their emotions coating your consciousness with the blanket of their devotion. Despite the fact that they were the ones playing your body like some kind of instrument, you were the one with the power here. The one making them so crazy all they wanted to do was make you come one more time, scream out one more time.

“You're our universe, my Queen. Won’t you come for us, just a little bit?” Rena whispered in your ear. Despite her words, Lyiths mouth was the center of your universe right now, building you to a peak so high, you weren’t sure where it would go. Then he sang into you, a high pitched needy note, and the tension broke. Your body was pleasure and stars filled your eyes.

You were panting when you looked over at Lyith, who was staring at you with the same adoration one would give a puppy who successfully carried out a trick. His mouth was glistening.

Seeing you watch him, he dragged his long black tongue around his mouth and swallowed.

“Are you feeling more relaxed now?” He asked with some amusement. You pouted at him, then pulled yourself up.

You patted the seat to your right, giving him a heated stare. He obeyed with poise. You could see his dick, long and as golden as his face, with a darkening brown near his tip. It held ridges on several points and was glistening, covered in his precum.

You looked back to Lyith, giving him an innocent expression as you dragged your finger around the bumps of his dick. The skin was smooth and slippery, but it gave a little under your touch. You pulled yourself out of Rena’s arms and off the cot. You plopped down on the spot between his legs, lining your face up with his dick.

Lyith was completely taken off gaurd, eyes wide, then rolling back into his head as you took the tip into your mouth. Huh. Even his precum had a sweetness to it that you quite liked. You tried to swallow down more of it without chocking, causing him to gasp and shudder over you. When you looked up, his eyes were soft and glazed, mouth open. He didn;t hold back his moans as you continued to lick and suck his dick. You traced the ridges of it with your tongue and pumped him with your free hand. He was quite large.

He keened and gasped, letting out whiny thank yous and sputters. When you glanced over at Rena, you saw her with her own hands on her cock, her eyes never leaving your mouth as you worked Lyith down to babbles. Eventually it was too much for him and he came, beautifully blond lashes fluttering as he shot his load down your throat. You coughed and let go of him immediately, not used to how much fluid was coming out of him. You almost swore you swallowed down something small and squishy? Like a boba ball, but you were probably imagining it. There was just so much cum.

“Was that.. Good?” You asked sheepishly. All he could do was nod at you as he laid back in the cot. It had seemed like at some point Rena had gotten off too. The room was full of panting and you took your place in the middle of your lovers, sated and happy.

“So… do you guys have showers in this place?”

Guys I would love some criticism for my smut. I've written so much lately that they all just kind of blend together. I will probably come back and edit this entire part at some point, but for now, here it is in all its unedited glory! And yes, at some point Lyith will have his turn inside reader, but for now, he will have to make do with being one of readers favorite sweets~ I hope you liked it! And yes, their will be more parts and more smut.

PART EIGHT

#monster fucker #monster lover #monster x reader #terat0philliac #teratophillia #monster #bee hybrid #bee hybrids #bee hybrids x reader #bee hybrid × reader #Bee monster #monster smut #monster boyfriend #terato

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aphroditelovesu · 11 months ago

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Winter Solstice | Yan!HOTD

❝ 🐉 — lady l: Merry Christmas, my dear readers! I wish you a great day and a prosperous New Year! I hope you enjoy this Christmas special with our yandere family from HOTD! Good reading, forgive me for any mistakes and once again, have a great holiday to you ❤️🎄.

❝warnings: yandere themes, mention of death and obsessive and possessive behavior.

❝🐉word count: 1,941.

A long, long time ago, when the Earth was young and the days were short, people looked up to the sky with wonder and awe. They watched the Sun rise and fall over the horizon, its heat bringing life to the earth and its dark nights bringing a deep sleep to the world.

In the ancient realm of the seasons, each cycle marked the eternal dance between light and dark. As winter approached, a whisper spread through nature. Leaves fell from the trees, animals sought shelter and the nights extended, enveloping the world in a blanket of darkness and cold.

It was the time of the Winter Solstice, a magical moment when the Earth seemed suspended between extremes. People gathered around campfires, telling stories of times gone by, sharing warmth and hope amid the impending darkness.

On the eve of the longest night of the year, eyes turned to the sky, waiting for the miracle. Slowly, the Sun began its journey towards the horizon, fighting the darkness with its golden light. The stars twinkled above, bearing witness to the celestial spectacle.

And then, in the most sublime moment, the Sun began to rise, rising majestically into the sky. The colors of dawn painted the landscape, and people celebrated the rebirth of the Sun, knowing that light and warmth would return to the world. It was a symbol of renewal, hope and the continuous cycle of life.

On the Winter Solstice, people came together to celebrate the courage of the light that faces the darkness, remembering that even in the darkest moments, there is always the promise of rebirth and the light that returns to warm the hearts and illuminate the souls ways.

It had always been your favorite time of year, you loved how the snow fell from the sky and painted everything white, the food, the exchange of gifts and most importantly, it was when your whole family was together. You appreciated more than anything the few moments of peace that your family spent during that date, all happy and together. Like a big, loving family.

Having them all together was what you loved most as you grew up. All the disputes, the fights seemed to disappear during this time of year. Your heart and mind were at peace.

The green of the forest and the fiery red of love and passion. Its fabric was as soft as a spring breeze, a harmonious blend of silk and cotton that moved like leaves dancing in the wind. The predominant green was reminiscent of treetops, its hue varying from a lush emerald green to softer nuances, like newborn buds. The waist was accentuated by a deep red belt, as if it were the blush of the petals of a passionate rose. The intense tone stood out, creating a magnificent contrast with the lush greenery, and a decorative bow added a touch of elegance.

Something beautiful and elegant, with both of your family colors. Of the Targaryens and the Hightowers. There was some small, discreet blue embroidery that symbolized the Velaryon, subtle but standing out in its own way.

You turned to your maid who was looking at you with affection, you smiled at her, ''What do you think, Diane?''

She smiled widely, ''You looked incredible, my princess/prince. A suitable choice for a dinner with your family.'' There was a hint of worry in her tone, but you just held her hands and squeezed them gently.

''Don't worry, Diane. Everything will be fine.''

She nodded, ''Yes... Do you want me to accompany you to where the banquet will be held?''

You politely denied, ''No, but thank you.''

A hint of disappointment flashed in her brown eyes, but she just smiled and after a simple bow, she left the room. You took a deep breath and looked at the ring that adorned your finger, a gift from your grandfather, Viserys. He was sick and you swore to yourself that you would do everything to make this dinner enjoyable for him. He deserved it.

Just as you expected, everything was impeccable and your family was already waiting for you. A majestic dining room, adorned with golden chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting soft light on long solid wood tables.

The walls were covered with richly embroidered tapestries, depicting scenes from Targaryen history and grand festivities. The polished stone floor gleamed in the light of the torches that adorned the walls, reflecting the grandeur of the space.

In the center of the room, a long table stretched out, covered in an immaculate linen tablecloth and decorated with wildflower arrangements and heraldry of noble families. Silver candelabras exuded a soft glow, while golden goblets glittered in the dancing light of the flames.

Music filled the atmosphere as skilled musicians played lutes, flutes and harps, entertaining guests with happy melodies and lively dances.

''(Y/N)!'' Your mother's excited voice called out to you and you smiled at Rhaenyra, who quickly hugged you, placing her head against the crook of your neck, ''You look great, sweetheart.''

''Thanks, mom. You look great too.'' And indeed, she did. Rhaenyra wore a dark red dress decorated with gold that fit her perfectly. She pulled back a little and smiled at you.

''(Y/N)! We're here.'' On one side of the table, your younger brothers sat. You looked at Jacaerys, Lucerys, and little Joffrey, who were smiling at you. You kissed Rhaenyra's cheek and went to sit next to your brothers. Or you tried, for that matter.

For you were quickly pulled to the side as Aegon grabbed you and pulled you closer to him, Aemond, and Helaena. You smiled at your aunt and uncles and greeted them.

''Sit with us.'' Aegon asked and pointed to an empty chair next to Helaena who was smiling sweetly at you. You looked nervously at your brothers, who were staring at Aegon with disdain.

Aemond frowned and placed a hand over your shoulder, ''Come, stay with us.'' His tone said there was no room for argument.

Luckily for you, the doors opened and revealed Viserys along with Alicent, both smiling when they saw you. You apologized to your aunt and uncles and quickly walked over to your grandparents, helping Viserys sit down.

''Ah, (Y/N)... You look great!'' Viserys praised you, as soon as he sat down. You smiled at him and kissed his cheek in thanks.

Alicent pulled you into a tight hug, ''My husband is right, you look great. This shade of green suits you very well.'' She murmured and walked away hesitantly, adjusting your clothes. You kissed your face.

''Thanks. You look amazing too.'' She smiled in response and held your hands, squeezing them gently.

After a few minutes of talking to your grandparents, you walked over to your father and uncle, who were sitting next to each other. Laenor smiled widely and pulled you into a tight hug, not wanting to let go. He only let go when Daemon cleared his throat, irritated.

Laenor rolled his eyes and let go of you, staring at Daemon with an iron gaze. Daemon returned the same look and you acted quickly before they fought.

''Happy Solstice to you both.'' You said, twiddling your fingers nervously. Daemon smiled and patted you on the shoulder twice, pulling you into a hug. You hugged him back.

''Happy Solstice, my child.'' Laenor said after you and Daemon parted ways.

''Happy Solstice, (Y/N).'' Daemon said, looking at you softly. You thanked them and apologized as you left them, wanting to greet your other family members. You spotted Baela and Rhaena sitting near your brothers and quickly walked over to them.

''Finally. I thought you would never come and talk to us.'' Baela complained and got up from the chair and hugged you tightly, ''I missed you, cousin.''

You returned the hug tightly, smiling at her words, ''I missed you too, cousin.''

Rhaena cleared her throat and stood up, hugging you as you and Baela separated.

You smiled at the squeeze and said, ''I missed you too, Rhaena.''

Joffrey got out of his chair and jumped into your arms, laughing loudly when you caught him in a tight hug.

''You're getting too big for me to keep doing this.'' You laughed and rolled him over, placing him on the floor. Russing his dark hair, you smiled when he laughed. You hugged Luke, who seemed especially clingy today. Jace also hugged you tightly and wished you a Happy Solstice.

After talking for a while with your brothers and cousins, you went to greet your paternal grandparents. Rhaenys and Corlys were sitting next to Otto, oddly enough, and the three of them looked at you with affection.

''Grandmother.'' You kissed Rhaenys's cheek who kissed yours back.

''Grandpa.'' You hugged Corlys and he hugged you back and complimented the blue details on your outfit.

''Otto.'' You greeted your great-grandfather, who smiled warmly at you. He seemed relaxed and calm, more so than he normally was.

''Shall we have dinner in honor of this happy day?'' Viserys's loud voice sounded in the room and everyone focused on the King. There was a bit of tension about where you should sit, but you chose next to Viserys and Rhaenyra, who shook your hand under the table.

Servants brought silver trays loaded with delicious delicacies. Large roasts of meat browned on skewers, exuding a tantalizing aroma of exotic spices. Tables were adorned with fresh fruit, from crimson apples to juicy grapes, and freshly baked bread that looked like it had come straight from the oven.

Plenty of wine circulated among everyone and soon everyone was laughing and talking. Your heart felt lighter when you saw your entire family happy, getting along for the first time in a long time.

After the banquet, you all went to one of the rooms of the castle, where the gifts were. The exchange went well, you received gifts from everyone individually and you presented them with what you carefully chose. Ser Criston was present and you gave him a gift too, under the watchful eye of your family, a pure Valyrian steel sword. He smiled in thanks and said he would give you a gift later.

When it seemed like the exchange of gifts was over, Otto said, ''We have a special gift for you, (Y/N). From all of us.'' He gestured to your entire family, who looked on expectantly. You took the gift from his hand, a wooden box with gold details, which was well packaged.

As soon as you opened it, all the color in your face disappeared. It was a head, a human head. You felt like you were going to throw up when you recognized the head. Diane, your servant.

''W-What is this?!'' You groaned, the words stuck in your throat as you held the box, your legs shaking as terror invaded your body. Everyone seemed calm, even Viserys.

''This is our gift to you, my child.'' Rhaenyra said and approached you, placing a hand on your shoulder, ''To remind you not to approach anyone.''

''They can't be trusted,'' Alicent began to say, ''Diane couldn't be trusted. Criston was the one who cut off her head and Rhaenyra, Helaena and I cradled her. The choice of the box was Daemon's.''

They looked at you expectantly, as if they hoped you really liked the gift. Your hands were shaking so much that the box fell to the floor, Diane's severed head falling to the floor.

A perfect ending to a loving Winter Solstice with your family, from their perspective.

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codename-adler · 3 months ago

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musing about jeanaaron rn.... what are your thinkings about them tell me anything

an exception from my to-do list for u orpheus and my loves Jeanaaron <3

- the height difference is EXQUISITE. 5ft vs 6ft2 😍😍😍

- backliner duo backliner tension backliner sync backliner soul

- i understand and read Aaron as a very no bullshit guy, but like, that’s it. he’s not mean about it, not cruel, not condescending, not teasing, not fake, not anything. (unless u are Neil Josten) i think that it’s very refreshing and fascinating to Jean? to meet someone who really has no ulterior motives whatsoever, in life and with his person. very trust material in Jean’s eyes methinks. the very just middle between overly sweet positivity and stabbing despair? idk, i just think Aaron shared Andrew’s honesty, but in a more neutral, idgaf way. does that make sense?

- Aaron tends to Jean’s woundssssss like no one ever has before and there is so much less pain!!!

- Jean cracks Aaron open right down the middle where nobody ever bothered to lookkkkk and there is so much more understanding!!!

- i like the Kevaaron vibe of revenge, like: you took my forever partner, i’m stealing your twin! or; you chose that moldy ginger snap, i’m choosing the same brand of bastard but he is TALL! it’s funny to me :)

- the patience they have for one another is infinite; they feel no rush, no pressure, no resentment. they would wait eternities for just one smile from the other, even if that’s all they would ever get.

- the quiet is important. silence without anticipation? a reprieve of the noise inside and outside? freely? i think they’re both silent people, but with one another there’s no forcing words, no expectations, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. the safest place where everything just stops and all is okay.

- CUDDLES. they are both hardcore heavy duty octopi in bed. holding tight tight tight tight no space all warmth. intertwined like bonsai roots.

- they looooooove to judge people together!!! especially their teammates and classmates. but the grocery store and airport are fun places too.

- i think they should learn to play instruments together. it would be very sexy. and angsty.

- i imagine them taking turns cooking, always one manning the kitchen, and the other sitting on the countertop. the kicking-against-the-cupboard-or-island length varies, but not the domesticity and intimacy of it all.

- Jean is the best teacher Aaron has ever had. for studying AND Exy. Jean is the best backliner, yes, but has that je-ne-sais-quoi that just gets through to Aaron, that just gets Aaron

- Aaron is also suchhhh a sucker for validation and making Jean proud is his #1 kink

- i think Catalina is so much like Katelyn (and woah would u look at that, such similar names 👀) that she instantly takes a liking to Aaron too, and Aaron as well right back despite his best efforts, and Jean is so touched that his bestfriend has adopted Aaron like she did with him, like he truly can have everything 🥹

- Jean immensely appreciate that Aaron is among the very very few people who does not shit on Kevin, but doesn’t worship him either.

- for what Neil did for Jean, Aaron truly starts to resent him less and less thanks to Jean offering a less idealistic vision of Neil that Andrew and the Foxes all share, but showing him Neil’s true colors that can also be good despite their violence.

- Jeanaaron on the motorcycle??? tiny beefcake plastered to Jean’s muscly broad back??? HELLO???

- back to the honesty think, i think where Jeanaaron differs from Kevaaron and is instead more similar to Andreil, is that the walls have to be taken down very painstakingly; Kevin and Aaron already know each other and have seen each others worse, there’s no armour to go through; Jean and Aaron don’t know each other at first, but they understand each other like no one, so it’s a game of truth too, one at a time, tearing down those barriers and touching that soft true heart behind; what makes them panic, what makes them scream, what plagues their nights and days, what lures in their past… it’s a whole new process of dealing with your trauma when no one else could ever handle it, much less want to look at it and kiss it better anyway.

also dusting off me old old playlist i had made for them, just for you:

take me home + 100 bandaids are really my jeanaaron anthems

#ty orpheus <3 #excited to taste ur cooking #my asks #aftg ask #jeanaaron #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #the sunshine court #jean moreau #aaron minyard #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #kevin day #kevaaron

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helluvaartcritique · 2 months ago

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I think two things that could help the Hellaverse designs (mainly Hazbin but even Helluva) is making the rings' colors matter, and making time periods matter. What I mean by making the colors matter is by using them in the sinner's designs. Like, if your main sin is pride yes you are red, if it's wrath you get orange, so on so forth. Best part? Humans are complicated! You can use multiple colors for their sins, it can help the color palettes be varied, give you insight to characters (even the ones who try to hide their main colors cause some would) and help you think of things! Now, the time period part is more obvious than the color, but I want to go into another idea for them. Let's take Angel Dust for example, he's from the 1930s, right? But would he like that time period, where he couldn't be himself and was working in a very dangerous situation with a family he mostly didn't like? I think not, and on top of that his soul is owned by a man from not the 1930s, Valentino is from the 70s. So, in my own rewrite, Angel is dressed in a very 70s outfit, not only cause I think Val would make him to fit his own tastes, but also I think Angel would rather the free love vibe of the 70s to the things he associates with the 30s. Even with that the time periods still matter! It gets things across to the audience, even if they are misleading things to a certain extent. I feel like you could do so much with their designs if you just added these two concepts to them,

Exactly!

It would be a nice break to see the sinner designs as the colors of the sins they've committed, as you said. It'd give some break from all the red and allows the characters to stand out more.

And the idea you suggest for Angel Dust makes so much sense and I really like it!

One of my main criticisms with the character designs in general is how no one looks like they died in that Era, or what kind of thing they're based off of.

Lucifer, Alastor, Sir Pentious, and Vox all have shoulder padded suits with bow ties or ties, despite them being decades (or in Lucifer's case, millennia) apart.

Variety and diversity is important in character design, and unfortunately Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss didn't exactly get this.

#hazbin hotel critical #vivziepop critical #helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism #hazbin hotel criticism #helluva boss critique #vivziepop criticism #hazbin hotel critique #ask answered #vivziepop critique

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humming-fly · 15 days ago

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What are some of your Freak Ling headcanons?

Oh that’s a fun question haha- I’ll go ahead and list these from most-to-least canonical just for the hell of it :P

Pupil shape- all of the homunculi besides wrath explicitly have cat-slit pupils and greedling was no exception, ling is stuck with those bad boys till he dies

Sharper teeth - once again many of the homunculi are shown with sharper teeth with greed/greedling being one of the most prominent. This varies in depictions panel by panel from being the classic sawtooth look to just emphasizing the eyeteeth more, but regardless it’s a safe bet ling’s teeth are notably different than he started out

Iris color - this one is where we start dipping a bit further from canon- I do think ling’s eyes largely returned to their natural shade after greed left solely because of that single shot in the anime showing the redder irises being full of screaming souls, implying the color is a bit of a “window into the soul” style gag and with all the souls gone the color probably would be too (which could also imply greed’s eyes might’ve gone black at the very end of his first life too if you really wanna have fun with it (though lust's didn't so like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)) anyways despite that I do think ling’s irises are somewhat oddly stained if you catch ‘em in the right light, also I think they reflect light in the dark like a cat’s eyes because I think it’s funny 👍

Scars - I think ling yao defo had at least a handful of childhood scars due to the life he lived and I think post-greed all of those are Gonzo, so this one really only makes him a freak to those that knew him well before his Amestris trip but it’s probably still weird. If you want to get into crack headcanons then there’s always the possibility his belly button was included in that purge lmao

Claws - now this one is pretty much entirely crack headcanon but I made a post a few years ago laying out the possibility that greed's claws are actually part of his hands and not part of his shield, in which case they'd stick around even with the shield ability gone, should ling so choose to use them for a party trick sometime haha

In addition to all these I'd also argue that since ling was a human-based homunculi he's almost certainly sterile like bradley was, but that's less of a fun freak feature and more just like, something he'll have to work around at some point in his life lol. If this were on the list it'd probably slot number 2 though

#thanks for the question! always good to think about these guys :P #headcanon #meta #fma #reply #anonymous

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perfectlyoongi · 3 months ago

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LONG-DISTANCE!HOSEOK who creates a scrapbook to give to you when he is with you. from complete pages with various clippings from books and magazines, to entire pages written with the most varied themes, Hoseok created a small book for you. pouring all his soul and love for you into the various pages, the black notebook quickly gained color and thickness, carrying on its white pages the hopes and desires that Hoseok shared with you. “i went to a museum and they had a map of the exhibition, of course i had to put it in my notebook. oh! and i bought these stickers, i think i’m going to put them on the cover of the notebook, what do you think?”

LONG-DISTANCE!HOSEOK who adopts a virtual pet with you. while browsing the online store, Hoseok came across a simple and adorable app that allowed the user to have a small pet — and the best part? Hoseok could invite a second person to be part of that experience. so, on call with you, you and Hoseok adopted your first pet: a small white duck named Sebastian who would forever be loved by both of you. “Sebastian wrote me a letter saying he was going to look for food. are you forgetting to feed our son?!”

LONG-DISTANCE!HOSEOK who sends you a little love poem every night. invented by him or found on the internet, there was no difference for Hoseok: every night, he would say goodbye to you with a small love poem so that you would go to bed knowing that you were forever loved by him. “today i read this poem from john keats and these lines made me think of you. ‘even so for ever shall she be/the halo of my memory.’ goodnight my love. may we meet tomorrow.”

LONG-DISTANCE!HOSEOK who has matching shirts with you. whether it was you buying or him, you knew you had to buy twice; with you being separated by long, painful miles of distance, you realized that you were able to hide that pain a little by dressing to match. in a way, you were a couple wearing couple clothes; yes, one is here and the other is far beyond, but you were still together and your clothes were proof of that. “i went shopping and found two brown shirts that i had to buy. yours has beige sleeves and the rest is brown. mine has brown sleeves and the rest is beige. aren’t they cute?”

LONG-DISTANCE!HOSEOK who always has a handmade gift ready to be delivered to you. Hoseok liked to send you gifts, even when nothing special had happened in your life. in fact, Hoseok found that spending hours dedicated to creating something that could be yours forever was more rewarding than buying something for you. Hoseok’s fingers poured out pure love, flooding every gift he made for you with all the devotion he felt for you. “yesterday i spent two hours looking at a tutorial on how to make a paper gallery. i’m already warning you that i gave up halfway through, so i turned my gallery into a little letter for you. i hope you like it when you receive it.”

LONG-DISTANCE!HOSEOK who took a photo of you when you video called for the first time and still has it as the wallpaper on his phone. when Hoseok saw you for the first time on a call, his heart couldn’t contain the happiness he felt. seeing you there, shy but radiant, was like having you next to him and Hoseok could only think about how lucky he was to have you. you were beautiful, even in your most relaxed and natural state, you were simply beautiful. and Hoseok loved you. and Hoseok wanted to keep that first happiness forever — that is, until he gains a new happiness when meeting you. “i’m sorry, but i’m only going to take this wallpaper off my phone when i can take a photo with you in person. until then, our first photo will always be on my phone.”

LONG-DISTANCE!HOSEOK who took him a while to find you at the airport when he came to see you. when Hoseok walked out of the arrivals door, all the nerves started to come to the surface. walking cautiously but as hurriedly as he could, Hoseok guided his suitcase through the airport, looking and looking and looking and looking — but where were you? oh, you were calling him. yes, he was there. how come you’ve already seen him? where are you? there. you are there. you are finally there. not knowing if he should put away his phone and take his bags, Hoseok stood still looking at you while his heart was beating hard and trying to command his entire body — what are you doing? run to your love! “i was so scared that you left me standing. but you are here. we are hugging each other. finally. finally. finally.”

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macabresymphonies · 5 months ago

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I'm brewing something, but barring in mind Colin's line of "too much mercury and we all die, too much sulfur and we all go mad" I wanted to list out some stuff based on Tria Prima. Keep in mind, due to alchemical concept of Deckname, these might not reference literal elements, especially since Sam mentions spiritual substitution of elements (something to do with 19th century spiritual alchemy):

Sulfur:

Real life association: Soul

Magnusverse association: Madness (?)

Color: yellow - this color was relevant to The Spiral through the concept of Yellow Door.

Extra thoughts: Yellow as color of madness references to stuff like "The Yellow Wallpaper", "The King in Yellow", Vincent van Gogh was obsessed with yellow to an unhealthy degree, previous statement (Solo Work) included mentions of " yellow laughing daffodils".

Mercury:

Real life association: Mind

Magnusverse association: Death/Destruction (?)

Color: silver - only association I can clearly think of was The Eye, more specifically Jonah Magnus's eyes were confirmed to be silver/gray.

Extra thoughts: It seems The Tree in MAGP 19 was predominantly "mercury" so incidents like "Taking Roots" might be "mercury" based. Other stuff that caught my attention is in "Personal Screening" we saw the victim being fed before the seance and a movie screen was historically called "the silver screen" due to usage of silver lining. The bugs in "Futures" were also mentioned to be "metallic", probably similar to the tree.

Salt:

Real life association: Body

Magnusverse association: Dysmorphia (?)

Color: varies, though mostly white

Extra thoughts: Salt is 100% most strongly domain of Ink5oul as the alchemical symbol of salt (🜔) appears on their Instagram. Salts are associated with white, they can actually be quite colorful compunds, perhaps paints and inks relate to that. Although I would have to do a relisten (will do on the end of season 1) there are some mentions of salty water when Ink5oul appears and Daria interestingly mentions being increadibly thirsty after the tattoo - this would indicate she was injected with large amounts of salt.

I will update it at the end of S1 after we got more to work on, but so far? These elements seems to fall in place, I do wonder if perhaps different combinations of them are what we're seeing, meaning no incident is "pure" in that regard.

#the magnus protocol #tmagp spoilers #tmagp #magnus pod #tmagp theory #tmagp ep 19

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honey-minded-hivemind · 3 months ago

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Idk why but lately I've been thinking a lot about a reader who is some flavor of trans/didn't vibe with their assigned gender at birth. Maybe in a scenario where they were kinda neglected with the X-men they were worried being different like that would only make them more isolated/get reader in trouble. So in a scenario like in fallen snow au where they are separated from the yans for an extended period of time and find themselves free and living on their own, reader just goes all out with dressing and presenting themselves in a way that they feel like they couldn't before. Like, they look completely different from when they left/ran away from the mansion.

When the yans do find reader? Reader has gone all out, they realized theyre transfem? Reader is wearing all the girly clothes she always wanted to but was too scared to try. Reader realized theyre transmasc? He's cut his hair, has a binder and models his look after like- Ryan Reynolds or something. Reader realized theyre nonbinary? They be rocking the most slaying fit that reassures them of their androgenous identity.

Idk just- the x-men finally finding reader after a long time only to realize just how little they all really knew reader. The yans realizing just how badly they messed up bc only when reader was alone and away from the mansion did reader feel confident/comfortable enough to come out. Heck, maybe reader DID try to come out but the yans were just that neglectful.

The real question is if the yans overcorrect themselves and slather trans!reader with affection or just act like reader always presented as their preferred gender and the yans try to pretend they didnt mess up as badly as they did.

I was thinking about this as well-

If Creed Reader (or any Reader) was trans (transfem/transmasc/transenby), they'd feel like they could breath, could just be, foe the first time they're alone amd on their own. They have no one to please, no reason to pretend, nothing to hide or standards to reach or anything holding them back. So they get creative. Go all out.

They're transfem? Good bye nether region, hello lipstick and sleek dresses and skirts and appearing more feminine! They adore feeling this way, and enjoy becoming more of themself each day!

They're transmasc? Good bye chest, and welcome extra hair everywhere and wearing only shorts and trying different suits on and appearing more masculine! They appreciate the warmth they feel, and accept their new changes with open arms!

They're transenby? Well, they're doing whatever they want! Don't want a chest? It's gone! Don't like their lower regions? They're changing them! They want to wear tank tops and shorts and not be too curvy or muscular? Ha! It's no problem! They like being them, not necessarily a male or female, just them, scars and flesh and soul and all!

The platonic yans, upon seeing Reader for the first time in awhile, are shocked.

Reader is... a guy/woman/envy?

They know even less about them then they thought!

The platonic yans are bending over backwards to try and get their pronouns right, trying to appeal to their preferred wants and likes, calling them pretty or beautiful or handsome or gorgeous or cute or stunning, whatever makes them smile or feels good, they'll do it, just tell them! Reader likes skirts or shorts or pants? Oh, look, a whole closet full, each in varying lengths and styles and colors! Reader likes certain body sprays or perfumes or scents? Here's a new one to try each day of the year, in enough scents that any body or beauty store woukd be jealous! Reader wants to appear a certain way? Let them help! Be it braiding their hair or trimming it or shaving it off or growing it out or whatever they want, let them know, amd they'll accommodate it!

They're all so, so eager, and very, very overzealous in their efforts. They will NOT fail this time. And if anyone gets Reader's gender wrong?

That person will find a very p*ssed-off Sabretooth, Wolverine, Charles Xavier, Morph, and a whole herd of unhappy teens about to beat their *ss.

Reader is THEIR little sunshine, so they better treat them with respect!!!

#honeycomb thoughts #platonic yandere marvel #yandere platonic marvel #platonic yandere xmen #yandere x-men #platonic yandere marvel x reader #platonic yandere xmen evolution #platonic yandere xmen evolution au #platonic yandere xmen 97 #platonic yandere xmen: the animated series #platonic yandere wolverine and the xmen #platonic yandere wolverine and the xmen au #platonic yandere xmen anime #🪶creed!reader #🐻cave bear creed reader🐾 au #❄fallen snow🩸 au #❄frozen snow🌨 au #🌓meet me in the woods🪶 au #🪶claws of the smilodon🩸 au

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wooahaeruby · 5 months ago

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Chapter 1: I Always Need You

Chapter Word Count: 2,303

Anything in Bold Italics are Korean/Another language.

Master List | Next

For over a millennia, everyone received a Soulmate Mark on their eighteenth birthday. Each mark was different, unique, and overall a personal reminder of the fate many wished to find.

In school, children were taught of the most common Soulmate Marks; timers until meeting, first words written on the skin, and sharing emotions. Some extended further and ranged in intensity; varying color blindness, being able to draw on your skin and it shows on the other’s body, some even being able to feel the pain of others. There were many cases where a pair would have two forms of a Soulmate Mark. On the other side, when soulmates finally meet and the bond connects, the pair need their soulmate to continue to live. Being away from each other for long leads to loss of appetite, sickness, and – at worst – death.

Growing up, you were a strong believer in what a soulmate signified. Someone who you were going to spend the rest of your life with, your better half, someone who was destined for you. However, your interest in meeting your soulmate and living your life with that person became questionable with some of the matches fate seemed to make. Your parents were no different.

On the eve of your eighteenth birthday in 2015, you reluctantly had been dragged to your best friend’s house with a group of your small, close knit group. You were the third to turn 18, which was going to make this event a tradition until the youngest of the group in November.

“This is stupid. You guys know I’m not into soulmate stuff anymore.” You said, watching your second Soulmate movie of the night, curled under a blanket between Jay, your best friend, and Nilah.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jay lift her head from your shoulder and turn herself to you. Jay was a hopeless romantic, her parents were a perfect match along with her grandparents, aunts, and uncles. She was the second to receive her mark, total color blindness, and while that in itself was something devastating without a soulmark, she was crying tears of joy.

Sitting on the other couch in Jay’s basement, Taylor and Amelia perked up to listen to the conversation.

“Oh come on, just because your parents fall under the, like, 10 percent of soulmates that don’t work out, doesn’t mean that will be happy with you.” Jay defended, squaring her shoulders to face you properly. “Plus, you can get your soul-mark and if you don’t have a countdown, then you can just avoid people like the plague if you want! But at least give it a chance.”

Staring at each other with equally annoyed expressions, you know deep down some part of you wanted to know… But you had a hard time admitting that out loud.

The movie played in the background, keeping the room filled with sound despite the silent standoff the two of you were in.

Taylor cleared their throat and spoke up. “Listen, why don’t we just hang out, play some weird meme videos on Youtube, and just not pressure Y/N so much with the soulmate thing. When midnight hits, we don’t make that big of a deal with it. Deal?”

Glancing over to Taylor, both you and Jay just nod. Amelia took it upon herself to turn the movie off and changed the app to YouTube. Briefly her and Taylor discussed the video to put on. On the other side of you, Nilah curled closer to you; she had always been more of a quiet comforter rather than an outspoken or confrontational. Back three months ago, she had been the first to get her soulmark, simply feeling each other's emotions. She was one of the people you leaned on besides Jay when your parents fell out, she was your shoulder to cry on when the latter wasn’t available.

For the next hour, you flipped from video to video, discussing and laughing every so often. Despite the little argument, Jay had settled back beside you, squishing you between her and Nilah. Between the calm, the quiet ring of a phone alarm went off, marking the time of five minutes to midnight.

Taking a deep breath, you removed yourself from the human sandwich and dropped to the floor, sitting criss-cross as you stripped off your sweatshirt, leaving you in a pair of shorts and a tank top. The others took no time to gather up to form a circle with you to watch if any physical marks show.

“Alright, if you start to feel different emotions than what you are feeling now, pain you know you aren’t in, or any other changes, let us know, we’ll look for any physical stuff.” Nilah said softly, taking your hand gently to give a sense of comfort.

Nodding, you felt the anxiety bubble up in your stomach to your chest. Your heart rate became elevated and subtle nausea started to set in. Some part of you was trying to push down the fear that came from thinking of meeting your soulmate based on your experience watching your mother and father crumble. You told yourself you were going to be okay, that however the person was, they would be a good person, someone who would hopefully love you, care for you, and most importantly, wouldn’t intentionally hurt you with the soulmate bond.

With idle chatter to fill the void of waiting, you evened out your breathing the best you could, trying to focus on the good aspects of the whole situation. No matter what, you were always going to be surrounded by your friends who supported you and wanted nothing more than your happiness.

“It’s midnight!” Jay squeaked out, eyes focusing on your skin for any change.

Then you felt it. Your breath caught in your throat and the feeling of a headache was slowly creeping around your head to put pressure behind your eyes. Your body felt sore, especially your feet, however that was more overshadowed by the headache-turned-migraine. That had made you nauseous all over again. Keeping your eyes open despite the pain, you looked from your feet, up your legs, then to your forearms to your wrists. There it stood strikingly against the skin of your wrist; a countdown timer, the seconds counting down with every passing moment.

The anxiety you once felt was quickly washed away by a feeling of exhaustion but was accompanied by a sense of contentment. It settled heavy in your chest, calming you, even lulling you some to sleep if you would let it.

“They’re awake at least,” You begin, “and have a massive headache, but they feel, god how do you explain it, content and tired? Accomplished? I can’t pinpoint it…”

“7 years, 1 month, 17 days, and counting down..” Taylor mumbled, pulling out their phone to look up the date. “September 6, 2022. God, that's a long time from now.”

“I mean, hey, that’s after college! Maybe you’ll meet a business guy or something.”

With the headache continuing on, you all agree to discuss more another time, needing some time to process and rest away from the pounding behind your eyes.

It was mid-day when the sudden rush of emotions hit him; uneasiness and worry. Sitting in the mostly quiet studio after a long but successful dance practice, he held back the urge to throw up in the trash can beside his desk.

“ Oh god- ” He muttered out, only for the producer beside him to take notice of the shift in the other’s position.

“ Ya, Woozi, are you okay? ” The other asked, rolling his chair closer to check up on the boy.

Jihoon’s face contorted, running a hand through his hair and breathing in deep to hopefully subside the uncomfortable nausea. The headache he was already dealing with wasn’t helping the current situation at hand. He waved his hand as a way to motion that he was okay, but he stayed pretty still in case the nausea got worse. Thankfully, the feeling passed though he frowned. That wasn’t his own feelings.

Eyes growing wide, his head whipped up to meet the eyes of Bumzu, blinking a few times before another feeling flooded his senses; calm and fatigue.

“ Jihoon-ah, really, are you okay? You look like a deer in headlights. ” Bumzu asks again, his concern more prominent on his features the more the other’s silence dragged on.

“ Hyung…It’s more than just a countdown.”

For the rest of the afternoon, the shared emotional bond was quiet on his end. On his own wrist rested the same countdown you had, time slowly ticking away. At one point he had zoned out of composing and simply stared at the numbers.

Soulmates were something many people wanted, he knew that. He also knew that soulmates meant giving up some part of yourself to be attached to another person when the bond between the pair settled after meeting. His parents were a perfect match but like every couple, they have disagreements. No one was perfect, which is what he told himself, and he also knew that finding your soulmate is an amazing experience despite the slight drawbacks. Based on math alone, he would be nearly twenty-six by the time he was to meet the other half to his pair.

Moving in a daze, Jihoon made his trek back to the dorm. With only a few months into debut, life was already hectic and unpredictable. Even the brotherhood him and his members had created predebut to now, there was a bit of a nervous tension that surrounded them. Most of the members like himself have received their Soulmarks, all that was the last of the ‘97 line – Minghao – and maknae line. With all thirteen of them shoved into a single dorm together, they usually sat together on the night before the member’s eighteenth birthday and hung around until something happened. Jokes were always thrown around, they usually ordered a decent amount of food despite the current low earnings.

Entering the dorm was similar to entering into a war zone. Shows were piled messily in the entryway, clothes were thrown haphazardly across the floors, and headache inducing noise flowed through the halls and rooms. Tonight was no different. Somewhere in the dorm he heard bantering and arguing, there was a voice singing – one he pinpointed to be Seungkwan –, and the miscellaneous sound of normal life living.

“ I’m home. ” He called out, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face.

A chorus of voices greeted him as he entered the living room, finding Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Joshua, and Dino sitting in the living room playing a card game together.

“ Oh hyung, welcome home. ” Dino greeted warmly with a smile on his face. Beside him, Jeonghan attempted to lean over and spy on the cards in his hand. The former whined and slapped his cards to his chest while Joshua and Jeonghan laughed between themselves.

Jihoon hummed in acknowledgement, dropping his backpack and took up the space on the floor between Joshua and Seungcheol. For the rest of the game, Jihoon simply watched in quiet contemplation, the words of his chosen brothers sounding rather distant and incomplete.

“ ...Zi-...Jihoonie? ” Seungcheol placed his hand over the smaller man’s shoulder, breaking him from his train of thought. “ Are you okay? You look out of it. ”

Suddenly, there were four sets of eyes on him, looks of concern mixed with curiosity. He shifted his gaze between each of them in quick succession before they landed at the table between them.

“ After practice, I was in the studio with Bumzu-hyung. We were in the middle of working on a new track and I felt…I think I felt what my soulmate was feeling because it wasn’t my own. ” He began, clearing his throat to speak up a little more. “ It felt like a punch to my gut and I haven’t felt anything since then. ”

On his shoulder, he felt the hand there squeeze and the voice to follow sounded collected and calm. “ Okay, that was probably a lot to take in. ” Seungcheol kept his hand firm on Jihoon’s shoulder, grounding him. “ Maybe, your soulmate is asleep, for all you know they are in another timezone, another country, and you will feel things once they are awake. You have two forms of soulmark though, so things might throw you off until you get used to it. ”

The rational side of Jihoon knew he was right, on the other side of him Joshua placed a hand on his leg and gave it a simple pat to reassure him along with their leader. On the irrational side – which was being yelled at by the other side seeing he still had a countdown on his wrist –, Jihoon held this tiny feeling of apprehension.

“ Maybe they are some hot shot that will knock you on your ass in seven years. ” Jeonghan chimes in, a shit eating grin plastered on his features. “ Or some big music producer one day. Who knows, maybe they’ll give you a run for your money. ”

“ Hey, sorry to interrupt but I think Hoshi and Seungkwan are about to kill each other over whose clothes are whose in their room. ” Walking nonchalantly into the living room, Wonwoo’s typical deadpan expression was met with Seungcheol’s exasperated but annoyed one.

“ And here I wanted to have an easy night where we can also relax but no, I have two of the trio at each other’s neck. Again. ” Removing his hand from Jihoon’s shoulder, the leader stood, stretching his limbs some before following Wonwoo out of the room. “ Yah, can’t we have one evening without fighting!?”

#seventeen #seventeen x reader #svt #seventeen jihoon #woozi x reader #svt woozi #soulmate au #seventeen soulmate au #seventeen fic #svt x reader

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odyssean-flower · 6 months ago

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The Winding Path of Fate Chapter 13 - Summer: Nighttime Perils

Masterpost

Pairing: Neuvillette x Female Reader Summary: A terrible incident occurs during preparations for your first meeting with Furina as Neuvillette’s wife.

Warnings: Assault, injury, drunk people Note: If you want to be on the taglist for this fic, please make a reply to this post, send a message or send a private ask

Have a pic of Neuvillette in Domus Aurea

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“I’ve got nothing to wear…”

Uttering that complaint for what felt like the thousandth time, you flopped down onto your bed, which looked as though your closet had exploded all over it. Not for the first time, you lamented the excess of practical, modest, and exceedingly plain clothing in your wardrobe.

It was said that the clothes one wore reflected the soul. In that case, your soul was fully on display to an embarrassing extent.

You pictured you and Neuvillette standing next to each other. Though his outfits didn’t vary much in color or style, they were always elegant and well put together, befitting his status and position. Meanwhile, with your sensible sweaters and plain knee-length skirts, looked more like the Chief Justice’s secretary than his wife. That wouldn’t be a problem normally, and in fact, it would be preferrable due to the secretive nature of your marriage. But this particular occasion wasn’t normal.

Furina had agreed to the meeting. By Neuvillette’s account, she was most enthusiastic about it. It would be taking place in three days and held in his office.

The bravado you had felt before in his cozy study, as you brushed his long, silky hair, had all but dissipated by now. Instead, you were left with a growing anxiety and doubt that gnawed at your mind.

The chief of them being, Will this go smoothly without any incident?

It was true that your great-grandparents had personally met with Furina (it had become somewhat of a point of pride), but this was very different from a mere appointment to ask for a favor from the Archon. In your case, you were going to present yourself to her as the wife of Chief Justice.

You were well aware that this whole meeting was a chance for Furina to probe at your marriage and more specifically, you.

Anything strange, out of the ordinary, or unusual would be pounced upon by the drama-loving Archon. Therefore, you had to maintain a perfect, unassailable front. You had to present yourself as someone who looked like she could be Neuvillette’s spouse. That started with appearance. Unfortunately, that was the biggest hurdle you were facing right now.

You never had a problem with your wardrobe until now. Sure, your clothes weren’t the trendiest or most luxurious, but they were durable and comfortable, and you took pride in the fact that you took good care of them, mending tears and ironing out wrinkles regularly. You considered wearing the black semi-formal dress you wore for interviews at the Palais Mermonia for the governess license qualification process, but it seemed too plain and austere for the occasion.

As the first person in your family to meet with the Hydro Archon in generations, and as Neuvillette’s wife, you needed to make a good impression.

“Well, your tastes certainly lean more towards the practical, Madame,” Marie said. She was sitting on a chair and carefully looking through your clothes. You had asked her to come to your room as a second opinion. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to go shopping for clothes that are more befitting of your current status.”

“A status that I will lose at the year’s end,” you reminded her, but you didn’t disagree with her suggestion. As someone who was raised by frugal parents, you were more prone to saving up your Mora and only spending when it was necessary. That was what you did with the allowance that Neuvillette gave you, but…perhaps the time had finally come to use it. After all, one could make the argument that nice clothes were essential in situations where you had to make a good impression, and let’s face it, Neuvillette wasn’t exactly hard up for money…

The fashionable but expensive clothes that you could only admire from afar until now came to mind. Now, you had the means to obtain them for yourself. You felt little bubbles of excitement in your stomach at the thought.

“I suppose I’ll be hitting up the shopping district tomorrow,” you said, sitting up. “It’s long overdue, anyways.”

“Indeed, Madame,” Marie looked very excited for some reason. “Honestly, Monsieur Neuvillette should have taken you out shopping a long time ago.”

“He’s always busy, so it can’t really be helped. He already gave me plenty of money to spend anyway, so I can just shop on my own. Besides, does he even enjoy doing things like shopping?”

“Mm-hmm,” Marie sounded like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue. “In any case, he is in for a wonderful surprise to see you all dressed up.”

“I’m not doing it for him ,” you protested, even as you had to admit that you were curious to see Neuvillette’s reaction to you in clothes that you didn’t normally wear. What would he say? What expression would he make? Would he like them?

You hoped he would. No, you wanted him to.

“Perhaps you could model your outfit for him when he comes home tonight,” Marie carried on, seemingly not hearing what you just said.

“That’s a good idea,” you said. The idea hadn’t occurred to you. And while you were at it, you should have a discussion with him about what you were going to say to Furina. You had to come up with a good story to tell.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you told Marie as you folded up your clothes to put them back in your closet. “You’re always so full of good advice.”

“If only my own children thought the same way as you, Madame,” she laughed.

s you stared in bewilderment at the row of high-end boutiques stretching out before you, you couldn’t help but feel that you were in way over your head.

The low, colorful buildings sparkling in the sun reminded you of jewelry boxes that looked too expensive to touch, lest you leave a smudge on them. The impeccably dressed and coiffed shop clerks standing in front of their doors smiled invitingly and greeted passersby, but their eyes reminded you of the mothers working tirelessly at every ball you had attended—sizing up everyone who walked by and trying to sniff out the ones whose wallets were in need of a little lightening.

But what intimidated you the most was the sheer variety of shops. You were surrounded on every side by fashionable clothing in a multitude of colors, sizes, and styles. Every time you saw something you liked, another caught your eye that you liked even more. This particular district was very different from the usual, more limited selection of stores that you usually visited. Now that you had the money to spend, you were quickly learning that having more choice wasn’t necessarily more convenient.

It would be so much easier if I had my sister with me, or my friends, you thought wistfully , but quickly put it out of your mind. They would no doubt pepper you with questions you had no idea how to answer. You still weren’t sure what you were going to say to Furina yet.

Just as you were standing there, uncertain as to what to do, you heard a familiar high-pitched voice calling out to you. “Madame! I didn’t know you were going shopping today!”

You turned and saw a group of Melusines and, for some reason, Clorinde, walking towards you. These Melusines all worked for the Marechausee Phantom, but they were in civilian clothing instead of their uniforms. Perhaps this was their day off.

“Oh, hello, everyone,” you greeted them. “Something came up suddenly, so I needed to do some clothes shopping right away.”

“Something came up suddenly?” The Melusine who called out to you—Rhemia was her name—repeated. Her expression then changed, and she grinned, as though a realization hit her. “Oh, I get it! It certainly is a very urgent matter, then.”

The other Melusines seemed to have also caught on to whatever it was, as they all giggled. You had a bad feeling that they were under some kind of mistaken assumption, but as Clorinde was here, you couldn’t correct them. “Can we join you, then? We’re also about to go shopping for clothes.”

“Sure, that would be lovely,” you said. It was good to have company, even if you weren’t sure if the Melusines, with their unique perception of color and style, would be very helpful.

Your gaze shifted to Clorinde, who had been standing silently behind the Melusines until now. Her face showed no hint of what she was thinking. It was as though this was the first time you had met each other.

“Hello, Miss Clorinde,” you greeted her, not wanting to make things awkward. “Are you out shopping as well?”

She shook her head. “The girls asked me to come along, and as I had some free time, I agreed.” She paused, then added, “I did not know you were married, Madame [Name].”

“Just [Name] is fine,” you quickly said. “Or Madame, like everyone else does.”

Clorinde had seen you walking with Neuvillette in the early morning, and now she learned that you were married. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.

Fortunately, she didn’t question you any further, nor show much emotion to the revelation. Neuvillette said that she wasn’t the type to gossip, so you supposed there wasn’t anything to worry about for now.

“Come on, Madame,” Rhemia was tugging on your hand, pulling you towards the nearest shop. “There’s no time to waste!”

The sun shined brightly down upon your little group, heralding the start of a long day.

There is a certain danger in shopping with others, you thought as you trudged back home, hands laden with shopping bags.

You had assumed that you were just going to buy a few new outfits. But somehow, you ended up buying a whole new wardrobe, plus more things that you weren’t even sure you needed, like accessories, makeup, and even perfume.

Despite that, you felt a sense of tired contentment, the kind that came after a long day of satisfying work and ample rewards. It had been a very long time since you enjoyed a day out with a group of friends. It was also a nice feeling, being able to spend money on whatever you wanted without worrying about the price or whether you actually needed it. You now understood why the ladies of the upper class frequented the shops every day. What a frightening slippery slope.

You were certainly feeling the effects of it right now—it felt like your arms were about to fall off. Come to think of it, I do wonder if these clothes would all fit in my suitcase when the time comes to leave. Perhaps I should get another one…

Clorinde, who seemed stoic and aloof at first, was surprisingly easygoing, if not very talkative, as you had discovered during the course of the day. She knew the best shops and had plenty of good advice on what to pick and wear.

She had offered to help you carry your bags home, but you declined. You weren’t sure how much she knew about your relationship with Neuvillette, but it was better not to assume anything.

“I could go and fetch Monsieur Neuvillette instead,” she said.

You were aghast. “I couldn’t ask him to drop his work for such a trivial matter,” you protested.

“I don’t believe he would see it that way,” Clorinde said. “Besides, he’ll be off work soon.”

Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask Neuvillette to come all the way here just to help you carry your bags. He would have to make a detour on his usual route home from the Palais. He should have a leisurely rest at home after a long day at work.

There was another, sillier, reason behind your decision—you wanted to surprise him.

You couldn’t help but picture his reaction to the clothes you and the others picked out. Would he like them? Secretly, you hoped he would. You wondered what he would say. You wondered how he would look at you.

The thought of being looked at by him, for whatever reason, sent a shiver down your spine. All your life, you had become accustomed to being overlooked, to being invisible. It wasn’t a bad feeling at all. While others had the spotlight cast upon them, you were happy to remain in the shadows, free to do whatever you wanted. True, it bothered you sometimes that you might be a ghost in the lives of others, only remembered as a presence in the background, but surely the benefits outweighed the negatives, right?

But Neuvillette was different. He was always looking directly at you. When you were with him, you felt more…solid. Like you mattered. Like you had some importance in his life—to him. It was wishful thinking that you shouldn’t entertain, but from time to time, you succumbed to it.

After you parted ways with everyone, you slowly walked back home. You weren’t very familiar with this area, but as it was still daylight out and there were plenty of people walking around, you weren’t worried.

Then, suddenly, you spotted a used bookshop tucked between a flower shop and a jewelry store. Your eyes would have skipped over it if you hadn’t seen the store sign.

You eagerly made your way inside and was greeted with the invigorating scent of old books. After saying hello to the owner, you disappeared between the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Mysteries, romances, fantasy…they called to you with their siren songs, but you didn’t stop until you reached the one section you were looking for—the history section.

You let out an embarrassing squeal once you reached the shelf. Luckily, there was no one around to hear you.

The shelf was filled with everything from glossy textbooks to jacketless tomes that went out of print decades ago. Not even the library had some of these books. And they were all at reasonable prices, too… Oh, but I’m already carrying so many things. I can’t possibly buy these heavy books as well. But what if someone buys them before me?

There was a comfy-looking couch nearby that was beckoning you to curl up on it with a book. Well, just one read wouldn’t hurt, right?

You picked a book at random. This one was titled Boethius: Harmost and Villain. It was right up your alley, and it wasn’t too thick. You could probably finish this one in an hour. You sat down on the couch and immersed yourself in its world.

“Miss, we’re closing soon.”

A voice broke through your reverie. It belonged to the store owner.

“Huh…?” you blink up at her, feeling as though you had just emerged from underwater. “O-Oh! I’m sorry, I completely lost track of time…”

You hurriedly got up and reshelved the stack of books next to you. Feeling bad that you didn’t end up purchasing anything, you inwardly promised to come back here tomorrow.

As you made your way to the door, you stopped in shock. It was completely dark outside. How long had you been reading?

Ugh, this always happens. Once you got absorbed in a book, hours could pass in the blink of an eye.

“Be careful out there, Miss,” the owner told you, and you nodded, bidding her good night.

The sun had mostly set, the stores around you were all closed, and there were few pedestrians on the streets.

Luckily, you could still see the Palais Mermonia soaring high above the city. If you headed towards it, you would surely be able to find your way back home. With that in mind, you walked on ahead quickly.

I should have asked the bookshop owner for directions, you thought as you turned down a narrow lane, but you weren’t sure if you could find your way back. The streetlights were coming on, but the harsh, dark shadows they cast made you speed up a little bit more. I could ask it to stop near Neuvillette’s neighborhood and walk the rest of the way back…

However, you saw no carriages around. In fact, there was no one around at all. Oh Archons, I made a huge mistake!

Even back in your sleepy little hometown, your parents always cautioned you to never stay out late. You heeded their advice in the Court of Fontaine as well, very conscious of the fact that it wasn’t rare for young ladies like you to get kidnapped off the streets. And yet, here you were, ripe for the picking with your arms laden with shopping bags.

I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot… you berated yourself in your head as you quickened your footsteps, your heart racing. Your earlier refusal of Clorinde’s offer to accompany you home now seemed to you a stupid, short-sighted decision.

I’ll just stay close to the streetlights for now, you decided. You fixed your gaze on the Palais and tried to focus on reaching it. Deep, calming breaths, [Name]…almost there…

However, every time it seemed that you were on the verge of reaching it, a sudden turn or twist in the road would divert you further away from it. Eventually, you had to admit that you were hopelessly lost.

What’s worse, this particular area you found yourself in had a shady air to it that raised the hairs on the back of your neck. You weren’t sure if this was one of the less savory parts of town you had always been warned about, but it sure felt like it. The darkened windows of the buildings felt like eyes staring down at you. Maybe you were being watched. No, don’t be paranoid, you told yourself, but to no avail.

In any case, I have to get out of here.

But just then, a figure emerged from the shadows ahead of you, heading in your direction. Your steps faltered slightly when you saw that it was a burly man dressed in a surprisingly fine business suit. He was swaying from side to side and muttering to himself. A drunk?

Instinctively, you tightened your grip on your bags and stuck close to the shadows. Perhaps he would be too drunk to notice you.

Unluckily, just as you were about to pass him, he called out to you in a slurred, hoarse voice.

“Lovely evening, eh, Miss?”

Even from here, you could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath. His eyes were glazed over, and he was teetering on his feet. He must be terribly drunk.

“...Mm,” you said, giving him a brief nod and not looking him in the eye. You tried to sidle past him, but he grabbed your upper arm. His fingers were thick and sweaty, his grip firm. Goosebumps rose on your body.

“Where ya going in such a hurry, huh? Why dontcha join me for a drink?”

You tried to shake him off, but he didn’t budge. In fact, his hold on your arm only tightened. That’s going to leave a bruise in the morning, your thought distantly.

“Hey, why aren’t ya talking? You a mute or something?”

You pursed your lips and gave him the nastiest glare you could manage, even as you felt your heart threatening to burst out of your chest. Reasoning with a drunk, especially an aggressive one like him, was futile. You should scream for help. The other end of the alley was not that far away. Maybe a patrolling Garde would hear you.

You took a deep breath and was about to let out a scream, but barely a squeak left your mouth before the man’s meaty hand clamped over your mouth. For a drunk, his reflexes were fast.

The man turned your head to look at him. His face was redder than before. It was from anger. “Not a mute after all, eh? Whatcha going around screaming for? I just wanted to have a nice little chat with ya. Why don’t we go back to my place and get t’know each other better?”

Oh no, he’s going to drag me away somewhere! It all felt so unreal, like it was happening to someone else. Fear gripped your heart, and you did the only thing you could do in the situation—you bit down on his palm so hard that you drew blood.

“Fuck!” the man shouted in pain and let out a string of curses. His grip loosened, allowing you to shake him off and run as fast as you could to the end of the alley, which suddenly seemed a whole other world away. You pumped your already-tired legs, pushing them to their limit, but the heavy bags in your hands slowed you down. You should throw them away, but sweat glued their straps to your palms and there was no time to stop and pull them off.

You heard the man shouting curses and his heavy footsteps as he chased after you. He was catching up to you quickly.

Fate must enjoy playing cruel jokes on you, for rain began to pour down heavily at that very moment.

It got into your eyes and soaked into your clothes. The stone-paved road suddenly became hazardous. Every time your feet almost slipped on the wet stones, panic threatened to overwhelm you.

After what seemed like a lifetime, you reached the end of the alley—only to be met with a crossroads. Which path to take? With your blurred vision, you couldn’t see the Palais Mermonia or anything at all.

You dared to look back, and your heart nearly stopped. The man was right on your heels, his face a hideous twisted mask of rage. He lunged at you, and you managed to dodge in time. He fell forward, landing on the ground with a heavy thud. You were about to run away, but your feet twisted under you. You tripped.

Oh, I think I twisted my ankle... Pain blossomed in your right ankle, your knee, and your palms. You tried to pull yourself up, but the man’s large hand clamped around your hurt ankle, holding you in place. His grip tightened, and you could practically hear your bones grind against each other. You gasped as white-hot pain lanced up your leg. He’s going to break it...!

“You little bitch...you’ll pay for that!” the man growled. He was trying to drag you towards him, and you scrabbled desperately at the ground for something to hold onto, but it was no use. “Who d’you think you are, biting me ?”

“Heard there’s some guy lookin’ to buy girls. I think I’ll sell ya to him. It’ll serve you right!” the man continued to rant and rave. He didn’t seem to feel the rain at all. There was a strange light in his eyes. Was he really drunk on alcohol? You had no idea. All you wanted to do was get away.

“My husband knows I’m gone! He’ll come looking for me!” you shouted, but even you knew it was an empty threat. There was no way Neuvillette would know where you were right now, right?

The rain... The image of Neuvillette standing in the rain came to mind. There was a connection between him and rain. You didn’t know what it was, but it definitely existed.

It was an absurd, baseless idea, but you were out of options. “Neuvillette!” you screamed. “Neuvi--ah!”

Your ankle was squeezed even harder. He really was going to snap it in two at this rate. How can anyone be so strong?

“Shut the fuck up! Ain't no one here to help you now, not even—” he suddenly let out a scream of agony. His grip on your ankle slackened.

You stared at the sight in front of you, feeling as though your brain skipped a few seconds ahead in time.

Just a moment before, it was only the two of you in this alley...until it wasn’t.

There was a heel grinding into the hand grabbing your ankle. You knew even before looking up who it belonged to.

Neuvillette was standing above the two of you, his cane in hand. There was a wavering blue light behind him. His face was an emotionless mask, but his eyes seemed to be glowing, figuratively and literally. They were filled with a cold hatred—no, something even more primal and basic than that. It was as though he was looking down at a worm, something far beneath him.

For the first time since you knew him, you thought he seemed completely inhuman.

The man was whimpering in pain. He tried to heave himself up, but couldn’t. He turned to look at who was stepping on his hand and gasped. “M-Monsieur Neuvillette? W-What...how...”

“You are under arrest, Mr. Moreau, for assault,” Neuvillette’s voice was low and deep, carrying well even in the cacophony in the rain. Like his expression, it was void of emotion, but you thought you could hear something else behind it, like a shadow lurking in the depths of the sea. “The Gardes will be here shortly. I suggest you prepare yourself.”

The man seemed too overwhelmed to speak. All he could do was stare up at Neuvillette blankly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. You weren’t any better yourself.

Seeming to no longer deem the man a threat, Neuvillette immediately turned to you. The terrible look from before was gone, replaced with naked worry and relief. “Madame!” he helped you sit up, then quickly took off his coat and wrapped it around you. “Can you walk?”

You simply stared at him, unable to speak. In the distance, you heard shouts and footsteps running over here. It was probably the Gardes.

His question registered a few seconds later, and you shook your head. Your ankle felt as though it was on fire. You didn’t want to look at it.

Neuvillette studied your ankle, his brow creased with worry. His fingers brushed against the skin, and you let out a yelp. “My apologies,” he said quickly, pain flashing across his features. “I shall take you to the infirmary right away.”

The Gardes had arrived by then and became busy with arresting the man—Moreau. Neuvillette spoke a few words to them, then turned back to you. “I shall be carrying you in my arms now,” he whispered in your ear. “I’ll ask a Garde to bring your bags to the infirmary.” He hooked an arm under your knees and circled the other around your waist, lifting you and holding you close to his chest. He seemed uncaring of the fact there were others around. None of them were looking your way, though.

“Madame, you’re safe now,” he murmured. He sounded like the Neuvillette you had always known. That, along with the gentle warmth and crisp cologne that suffused his coat wrapped around you, finally thawed your frozen emotions.

“Neuvillette...I was so scared!” Hot tears spilled down your cheeks, and you buried your face in his wet shirt, sobbing into his chest. “If you hadn’t shown up, he would have...!

“There is no need to say anything more,” he whispered. He was now walking away from the scene. “I am with you now. No one can harm you any longer. The emergency room is not too far away. A carriage will bring us there.”

His hand combed through the strands of your wet hair. The motions were awkward, but they brought you a comfort sweeter than anything you had known.

Maybe it was just your imagination, but the rain seemed to abate with every stroke of his hands.

At the emergency room, a nurse examined your ankle and declared that while it was badly sprained, it was not broken. An ice pack and bandages were applied to it, with instructions to rest in bed the next day and to change the ice pack every few hours. Your knee and upper arm were bruised, and your palms were scraped, but other than that, you weren’t seriously injured.

The nurse also helped you change into dry clothes. Miraculously, your newly-brought clothes were mostly unscathed from the rain, so you chose a sweater and pants. She also offered you a hot cup of coffee, which you gratefully accepted.

Not long after that, a Garde came to question you about the incident and record the injuries you sustained. It mercifully didn’t take very long.

“Would I have to testify in court?” you asked Neuvillette nervously after the two of you were finally left alone. He had been with you through all of this, silently sitting at your bedside and rarely leaving it. You couldn’t help but wonder what other people thought of this, but mostly you were just glad for his steady presence.

“It may not come to that,” Neuvillette said slowly, which was not reassuring to hear. “You have given your statement, and there is enough evidence for a prompt conviction without requiring victim testimony. And with the past history of the accused...”

He trailed off, a shadow passing over his face. “You knew that man—Moreau,” you said.

“Yes. Mr. Moreau is a wealthy businessman with many high-ranking friends in government. I have met him at several functions, and, well...you will have to excuse me for refraining from speaking of his character due to my involvement in this case. It has long been suspected that he has been engaging in various underhanded dealings, but no concrete evidence has ever been found. But to think that he would even stoop to human trafficking...it’s simply unconscionable.”

You wondered why a man like that would be walking around the streets drunk and attacking people. If he was so good at concealing his crimes, surely he wouldn’t do something so stupid and brazen that would get him arrested. You recalled his hideous mask of a face and the eerie light in his eyes and shivered. Neuvillette, seeing this, reached out and took your hand in his, squeezing it. You could feel his wedding ring pressing into your fingers through his glove.

“There is no need for us to dwell on this any longer,” he murmured, rubbing circles in the back of your hand with his thumb. “Focus on recovery. If there is anything that is required of you, you will be given ample notice beforehand.”

You stared into his eyes. You would never admit this to anyone, but you enjoyed looking at them. They were the most expressive part of his face—which wasn’t saying very much—and you thought you had become rather good at grasping the emotions flickering behind them, like trying to catch a slippery fish in a pond. Right now, you would say that there was a mix of lingering panic and an earnest desire to make you feel better.

“Thank you,” you whispered, feeling tears well up in your eyes again. Neuvillette took out another handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to you. You dabbed your eyes.

“I only wish that I had gotten there sooner,” he said, and you could feel the regret and anger at himself rolling off him like waves. “So that I could spare you from having to go through something so traumatic.”

“Don’t blame yourself. It was all my fault. If only I hadn’t gotten distracted by books and lost track of time, if only I had familiarized myself with the roads more, none of this would have happened. I made you worry about me. It’s what I deserve.” You had recounted everything that happened to him while riding in the carriage. He must think I’m an idiot who can’t even take care of herself, you looked down in shame.

“Madame, please look at me,” Gentle fingers tilted your chin up, his lavender eyes transfixing you. “None of this is your fault, not a single bit of it. A bit of absentmindedness does not deserve punishment. The only party in the wrong here has been taken into custody and will receive a fitting sentence for his crimes.”

“...Mm,” you managed to nod. His face was very close to yours. From this distance, you could see every single one of his long eyelashes in stark detail. For some reason, your heart started beating faster again.

“So...how did you find me?” you moved away from him a little, though you left your hand in his. “I did tell Marie that I was going to the shopping district, but I don’t think I was anywhere near there by the time you found me.”

“Marie told me where you went when I returned home in the early evening. When you didn’t return home by dinner time, we became worried, so I went out in search of you and asked the Gardes to assist. Then, I heard you screaming my name and followed it.”

“Hmm...I see,” it felt like he cut out some important details out of that explanation, but he was clearly not about to divulge his secrets. “The sudden heavy rain must have made it quite difficult,” you said, glancing at him.

“For the others, perhaps. But it was hardly a hurdle for me.”

A short silence followed. You wanted to push him for answers a little more, but sensed his discomfort and decided to drop it.

“You know, we’ve known each other for some time now, but this is the first time I’ve seen you with your cane up close,” you said. “Actually, this was the very first time I’ve seen you so angry. I hope it's never directed at me.”

The memory of Neuvillette’s look of fury flashed through your mind again. That blue light you saw behind him must have been his glowing horns. It reminded you that he was, in actuality, an unfathomably powerful being. He could have done much worse to Moreau than merely stepping on his hand.

“My apologies. Did I scare you?” a small furrow appeared between Neuvillette’s brows, the corners of his lips turning downwards slightly. It was such a contrast from that previous expression that you almost felt like laughing. “I am often unaware as to how my face might appear to others. It is something I try to work on outside of court. Although, I must admit, I was not thinking very amicable thoughts at the time. It might have shown on my face.”

You mulled his question over. Were you scared of him back then? To be quite honest, your mind was already preoccupied with fear by the time he arrived—there simply wasn’t enough room for more. Yes, you certainly had been shocked at first, but…

Even if his eyes and horns (that was his horns, wasn’t it?) were glowing, it was still Neuvillette.

“You should have been even more terrifying,” you told him sincerely. “If you ever do something like this again, you should show up riding on the back of a vishap.”

He stared at you in bafflement for a few seconds, then turned his head away, but you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Mentally and physically exhausted by last night’s events, you slept like a log until noon. When you woke up, you were greeted with a platter of all your favorite dishes.

With the new day and the cozy familiarity of your room, the events of last night seemed like they happened a lifetime ago. The fear had mostly subsided, leaving mortification and regret in its wake, especially as everyone was acting so considerate towards you. Looking back, you had no idea what you were thinking, and you realized once again just how lucky you had been.

Your ankle’s swelling had gone down considerably the next day, but it still hurt whenever you put even the slightest bit of pressure on it, so you spent most of the day in bed, reading books, drawing, or staring out the window at the gray sky. You weren’t without company, though, as Marie sat with you in your room often, changing the ice pack and helping you put away your newly bought clothes in your closet. She had been horrified when you came home last night in Neuvillette’s arms. “How awful, Madame!” she had lamented as she helped you get to your room and change into your nightgown. “Thank the Archons that Monsieur Neuvillette arrived on time!”

Marie wasn’t the only visitor to your room. The Melusines, including those who hadn’t gone shopping with you, also came to see you throughout the day. You supposed that Neuvillette told them about you, for they all brought you cakes and other desserts as get-well presents (you also suspected that they also reported back to Neuvillette about your condition, for when you mentioned to one Melusine how you would like to drink some Fonta, your wish was granted by the next Melusine who visited. However, she also heartily recommended that you drink water from Snezhnaya instead, which held a coolness that was good against swelling, and if you wanted, you could ask Marie to fetch a bottle of it for you from Monsieur Neuvillette’s personal stash. She also added that you need not hesitate to ask, as he had more than one bottle. Perhaps all Melusines shared his specific tastes in water, but you didn’t quite believe that was the case).

Rhemia and the other Melusines who had been with you yesterday had been the most distressed upon seeing you bedridden. “I’ll stick to you like glue from now on, Madame! No criminal will escape my sights!” Rhemia had declared, and her sisters nodded vigorously in agreement.

“There really is no need for that,” you tried to decline her offer. Privately, you thought that there wasn’t much a Melusine could do against a man of Moreau’s size anyways. “The whole incident only happened because I was careless and in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll be much more careful next time, so I doubt it will happen again. Just because I’m Neuvillette’s wife, it doesn’t mean that I deserve special treatment or anything of the sort. And if he put you up to this, then—”

Rhemia blinked at you in confusion. “But this has nothing to do with Monsieur Neuvillette. Not entirely, anyways.”

“It doesn’t?” Now you were confused.

“Nope! I’d do this for all the people important to me! Oh, but I guess you’re more than that, since you’re married to Monsieur Neuvillette! That would make you our mother, I suppose.”

“Um…” There was the m-word again. You considered correcting Rhemia, but she continued, seemingly not noticing your discomfort.

“You’re always so kind and patient with us, just like Monsieur Neuvillette. You greet us whenever you see us, and you always ask us about our days and listen to our troubles. Oh, and Madame, you’re such a good teacher too! I’ve gotten so much better at drawing humans thanks to your lessons!” Rhemia turned to her friends. “Am I right?”

Her friends nodded enthusiastically. They began recounting all the times you’ve spent with them.

“I’m glad to hear that you all think of me as your friend,” you said after they finished, a little embarrassed but also pleased. You hadn’t expected them to remember so much about you. But you felt a little guilty as well. At first, you decided to become friendly with the Melusines because everyone knew that Neuvillette treasured them greatly and you wanted to be in his good graces so that he wouldn’t have any reason to kick you out. They had always been the ones to come up to you first, especially in the first few weeks after your marriage, and while you didn’t consider yourself to be a particularly friendly and warm person, even you weren’t heartless enough to be cold to such a cheerful race of creatures.

“It’s not just us! I’m sure all the Melusines in the Court of Fontaine feel the same way. You’re just as important to us as Monsieur Neuvillette.”

“Oh…” Looking at their bright, earnest faces, you didn’t know what to say. Your eyes suddenly became misty. Before this marriage, you hadn’t given much mind to Melusines. They were just the public servants you would occasionally pass by on the street. But now that you were connected to them through Neuvillette, you were belatedly learning just how wonderful they were.

“Thank you,” you said at last, patting each of them on the head. Your hand still stung a little from last night, but you ignored it. “It means a lot to me that you think so highly of me. Truly. Still, you don’t need to follow me around. If I ever need help, I promise that I will come straight to you. And…I hope that you will all come to the sunflower viewing party we’re holding here next month.”

“Of course, Madame! We wouldn’t miss it for anything!” the Melusines chirped in unison.

By evening, the deluge of visitors had finally ended. You sank into your pillows, feeling exhausted. You weren’t used to having so many people fuss over you. It was unfamiliar territory, one that you weren’t quite sure how to navigate.

Still, as you gazed at the teetering pile of confectionary boxes covered in Melusine stickers on your bedside table and remembered all the get-well wishes you received, a rush of warmth flooded your heart. How did I get so lucky? You wondered. Perhaps even after I leave Neuvillette, we can still be friends…

As you were lost in your thoughts, Marie came into your room again.

“Oh, Madame, I completely forgot to give you this because of everything that happened yesterday. It appears to be from your family.”

Marie handed you an envelope made of thick, creamy paper. You recognized the stationery as the kind used by your father for formal correspondences, and the address written in familiar, flowery cursive on the front was indeed that of your family’s house.

“Ah, that would be from my sister,” you said, tearing the envelope open and taking out the contents. The envelope contained two cards made of similarly thick paper. They both had an elaborately drawn border of Lumidouce Bells and Rainbow Roses and had an invitation written in the center. This was new.

You are cordially invited

To a celebration

Honoring

Justine’s nineteenth birthday

Semi-formal attire requested (Floral themed outfits are preferred)

P.S. Sister, please tell me if Monsieur Neuvillette has any allergies or requires any accommodations!

“Oh no…” you groaned, putting your palm over your face. “I still haven’t gotten her a present yet!”

You had planned to get something for her yesterday after you finished shopping for yourself, but meeting up with Rhemia and the others caused it to completely slip your mind.

While we’re on this topic, shouldn’t she have sent the invitations much earlier if she wanted people to RSVP? It’s just like her to do things last minute! And why is she acting like it’s already decided that Neuvillette’s coming?

“Marie, could you please fetch me my pen and paper?” you asked the housekeeper. After you received them, you began to write a reply to tell Justine that while you were coming, Neuvillette definitely wasn’t. But just as you got to that last part, you paused. The idea of the Chief Justice attending a teenage girl’s birthday party all the way out in the countryside was absurd, of course. You tried to picture him sitting at your family’s worn dining table, singing “Happy Birthday” eating the butterscotch cake your housekeeper always made for birthdays, all the while fending off the barrage of questions from your family and friends. I can’t imagine it! It’s just too ridiculous.

It would be better if he didn’t have too much contact with your family, in order to avoid them asking too many questions, and to make the eventual divorce go smoothly.

He rarely even attended the far more glamorous functions of high society, so something like this would be out of the question. His answer would go without asking.

Or would it?

You didn’t really know why you were entertaining the idea. Perhaps being with Neuvillette these past few months had greatly inflated your sense of self-importance—but then again, you thought that the two of you had gotten close enough where asking him wouldn’t be so preposterous. You were friends, and wouldn’t it be ruder to not at least extend an invitation to a friend? Wasn’t the act of asking in itself greatly appreciated?

And…there was a little part of you that would like to show him around your hometown. It was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and all you could see for miles around were fields of wildflowers and mountains—a common sight in Fontaine—but there were a few spots that you had fond memories of. Since Neuvillette showed you his favorite places, it was only right to repay the favor, even if none of your favorite spots were as exciting as the giant willow tree or Merusea Village.

Recent events, including the latest incident, had taught you the folly of making assumptions, even for seemingly inconsequential things like this. Just because you thought

The worst thing he could say is no, you reasoned to yourself. And it’s not the end of the world if he does. Sure, Justine will be disappointed, but everyone knows how busy and reclusive Neuvillette is, so she’ll understand if he declines.

As if on cue, you heard the front door open downstairs. Neuvillette had returned home. After a brief conversation with Marie, the sound of his heels briskly ascending the stairs and heading in the direction of your room until it stopped in front of your door. There was a soft knock.

“Madame, may I come in?”

“Yes,” you called out, and Neuvillette opened the door and stepped inside your room. He was about to close the door behind him, but then he looked at you. A thought seemed to cross his mind, and he left the door ajar.

Um, why is he just standing there? You stared at him, confused when he didn’t take a seat right away. He simply stood there stiffly, his gaze a mixture of worry, uncertainty, and something else. For a second, you wondered if he was that caught off guard by your disheveled appearance that was a result of staying in bed all day. It took you a minute to realize that he was waiting for you to ask him to sit down. Really, this man… I thought we’re past such formalities.

“You can pull up a chair,” you said, nodding towards the cushioned chairs in the center of the room. He complied, clasping his hands in his lap after settling in his seat and leaning towards you slightly. He stared at you intently, as if afraid that you would disappear before his eyes. You squirmed uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were wearing only your rumpled nightgown and that you were lying in bed. You surreptitiously pulled your covers up to your chest.

Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve ever had a man who isn’t my father in my room, you mused, though you were also aware that this wasn’t really the occasion to think about such things. Well, I guess it technically isn’t the first time, but this is very different.

Thankfully, Neuvillette broke the silence and (once again) prevented your thoughts from going down a potentially thorny path.

“How are you feeling, Madame? Regrettably, I was not able to take some time off to come and see you.”

“There’s no need for that. Marie took very good care of me, and I got plenty of visitors today,” you indicated the tower of cake boxes on your bedside table.

Neuvillette nodded, his face softening slightly. “We should postpone the meeting with Furina.”

“No,” you said quickly, putting your hand on his. “The sooner we get this over with, the better. I’ll drag myself up the steps of the Palais if I have to.”

Neuvillette looked like he wanted to argue, but he swallowed back whatever he was going to say. “There’s no need for that,” he said at last. “I would be happy to carry you into my office, if you should ask.”

“Carry me into your office?” you repeated incredulously. Was he serious? But by now, you already knew the answer to that question.

You leaned back against your pillow with a smile. You sometimes wondered if Neuvillette realized how unintentionally funny he could be. “Wouldn’t that give people the wrong idea?”

“You do have a point. Then, I propose that we arrive at my office early in the morning, before the Palais employees come into work.”

“How about instead of carrying me, I borrow your cane?”

Neuvillette seemed to be pondering your words seriously. “But that would also run into the problem of rousing people’s suspicions. Someone might wonder why my cane is in your possession.”

You turned your head away to smother your laugh.

“It seems that the Melusines have made their visits,” Neuvillette said, looking at the tower of boxes on your bedside table.

“Yes, they were all very sweet. Although, I’m not sure how they expect me to eat all these…” You liked dessert and all, but not to this extent. Perhaps you could bring some of them back home with you to share with your family and friends.

“Clorinde also asked me to pass on her well wishes to you. She was very sorry to hear what happened.”

“I see. Please thank her for me, and tell her not to blame herself for my foolishness.”

“I will do that,” Neuvillette nodded, then was silent for a moment. His solemn gaze as he looked at you made it seem like you were diagnosed with some terminal illness rather than merely spraining your ankle badly and hitting your knee against the ground.

“Neuvillette?” you called out his name in hopes of getting rid of that grave look in his eyes. It made your chest feel heavy.

“Ah, by the way, I consulted with a friend of mine about your injury. She made this drink for you,” Neuvillette manifested a green, ridiculously adorable cup from out of nowhere. It reminded you of the bulky and colorful cups toddlers drank juice out of. “She says that it will help your body recover quicker.”

“A friend of yours?” you repeated, your interest piqued. While Neuvillette would happily talk to you about the Melusines for hours on end and occasionally talk about his (human) acquaintances, you had never heard him call anyone his friend before.

“Yes. She is the head nurse the Fortress of Meropide’s infirmary, and one of the kindest and most considerate people I know. I hope the two of you can meet one day.”

“That’s high praise coming from you,” you said, making a mental note of this mysterious friend. “Why don’t we invite her to the sunflower viewing as well?”

“What a wonderful idea. I shall do just that,” he said, then held out the cup to you. “Now, Madame, you should drink this.”

“Alright,” you took a sip of the drink and nearly spat it out. “Bleakness” was the only way to describe the taste. It almost made you want to get out of bed and walk so that the pain could distract you from the torture of your tastebuds. For a heartbeat, you wondered if Neuvillette was trying to poison you. “A-Are you sure this is h-healthy?”

“Of course,” Neuvillette said, looking baffled by your question. “I’ve drank it on numerous occasions, and I’ve always found myself quite refreshed and invigorated afterward. I asked Sigewinne to make it taste more palatable for you, as I’m aware that her concoctions are not for everyone. She truly hopes it makes you feel better.”

This is palatable? You thought. Did I do something to this Sigewinne person? Whoever she was, she shared the same incomprehensible sense of taste as Neuvillette.

Speaking of Neuvillette, he was looking at you expectantly. Oh Archons, is he expecting me to finish it in front of him? Just as you were trying to come up with an excuse to not drink it, those efforts were dashed by his next words. “Is it not to your liking?” he said quietly. You were vaguely aware that it had started raining outside.

“I…um…” you didn’t know what to say or where to look. You suddenly had the impression that a large puppy was at your bedside, staring at you with sad eyes. Gah, he must be doing this on purpose! Either that, or he must really be fond of that friend of his. “Well, when it comes to medicine, it’s not really a matter of liking it or not liking it, right? A-And since you’ve gone to the trouble of asking your friend to make this for me, it would be rude of me to not drink it, right?” You sounded like you were trying to convince yourself.

“If you do not like it, then you do not need to force yourself—”

“No, no, I mean, I’ve taken plenty of bitter medicine when I was little, and I survived. This will be no different,” you brought the straw up to your mouth and held your breath. Let’s just get this over quickly, you thought, then emptied the cup in one go. Fortunately, there wasn’t much to drink. However, the lumpy texture was still a struggle to swallow. You felt as though you had just eaten concrete.

“That was…certainly something I’ve never drank before,” you managed, flopping back onto your pillows to recover. You opened a box of lemon tarts and shoved one into your mouth to get rid of the taste. Honestly, you wanted to drink some Fonta instead, but decided that it might be a bit uncouth. Of course, some might say that it was unladylike to eat cake in bed in the first place, but you doubted those people ever had the misfortune of having to drink that so-called “healthy drink.” “Please thank your friend for me.”

Neuvillette nodded, watching you as you ate a second, then a third tart. Lemon wasn’t your favorite flavor, but anything would do right now. You offered one to him, but he politely declined. His gaze dropped to the papers in your lap. “…Were you writing a letter to someone?” he asked.

“Oh!” you had almost forgotten about that. “My sister Justine sent us invitations to her birthday party. It’s a bit short notice, but it’s in a few days.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard you mention it before,” Neuvillette took a pause, as if he had only just taken in the entirety of your words. “Did you say ‘invitations’?”

“Yes,” you nodded. Your hands suddenly felt sweaty. What were you so nervous about? “Since we’re, you know, husband and wife, it’s only natural that invitations would be sent to the both of us. Funny thing is, Justine thinks you’re already coming and has asked me if you require any accommodations, but, obviously, you haven’t given any answer as to whether or not you’ll be attending the party. I-I know that you usually don’t attend public functions, but birthday parties in our party don’t tend to be very extravagant affairs. It’s usually just a small gathering of close friends and relatives. We can even make everyone sign a contract of confidentiality, if you want. You don’t have to bring any gifts either. I think your presence will be a gift in itself for my sister, haha…”

Oh no, I’m rambling again…why do I keep doing this? It’s a simple question! You toyed with the edge of your comforter, suddenly too nervous to look at his expression. Would there be a look of disgust there? Why would there be? Your brain argued back. You haven’t asked anything offensive!

Finally, you dared to sneak a peek. He was staring at your face, as though scrutinizing it for answers to a difficult question.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, thinking that he must be trying to find a way to let you down gently.

“…Do you want me to attend?” he said at last.

You hadn’t expected that question. “What do you mean?” you frowned.

“What I mean is…would it please you—would it make you happy if I attended your sister’s party?”

The question threw you off guard. You didn’t know what he meant by it. What did it matter what you thought?

“Well, it’s not my party, so my opinion doesn’t matter,” you said slowly. “My sister will certainly be overjoyed if you attended.”

“But your opinion does matter quite a lot to me,” Neuvillette said. He was oddly insistent about this.

Oh, I get it. He doesn’t want to come, but doesn’t want to offend, you thought.

“If you want to come, then come. If you don’t, then don’t,” Realizing that your words might sound too harsh, you softened your tone. “It’s okay to say no. I won’t hold it against you. I’m sure my sister and everyone else will understand.”

Neuvillette stared at you with an unreadable expression in his eyes. You could hear the rain pounding against your window, and you turned your head to it. The sky was a dark, leaden gray. It’s been raining pretty frequently these days, hasn’t it? You thought distantly.

“Unfortunately, I have a trial to oversee on that day,” he said. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him clench and unclench his fists. You wondered why he didn’t mention the trial earlier. “I do not think it would be wise for me to attend, in any case. It would be a needless distraction.”

“Alright then. I’ll tell my sister you can’t attend,” you said lightly, then turned your attention to your unfinished letter. You picked up your pen and began to write. Focusing your mind on producing the words helped distract from the tumult of emotions within you—emotions that you didn’t know quite what to make of. Was it relief you felt, or disappointment? Relief for what? Disappointment about what? Were you seriously expecting him to say “yes”? That made no sense at all. In fact, it would have been stranger if he had agreed to attend.

It was better to keep expectations low. That way, it wouldn’t feel so terrible when they were inevitably let down.

In any case, it’s over and done with, you told yourself firmly, signing the letter with a flourish. Maybe too big of a flourish. I’ll post this first thing in the morning—that is, if I can walk by then.

You glanced up to see Neuvillette still sitting there. He was drinking from his cup, but he was watching you over the rim. You had long gotten used to him studying you like you were some kind of strange specimen, but it was still awkward, especially in this silence. Your room, which had always felt needlessly spacious to you, suddenly felt very small.

Just as you were debating whether or not to fake a sleepy yawn and ask him to leave, he spoke again.

“You haven’t yet bought a birthday present for your sister, yes?”

“Uh-huh?” you replied, wondering what he was getting at.

“I won’t have any time tomorrow, but I do have an hour or two to spare after our meeting with Furina. We shall go pick out a present together then.”

You gaped at him. “Together?”

“Is there something wrong with that? It is customary for married couples to give presents as a pair, is it not? Since I cannot attend the party, allow me to make it up to your sister with a birthday present.”

“…If you insist,” you said, since he seemed so adamant. Neuvillette was so hard to grasp sometimes. Sometimes, he was clear as a fresh water spring. Other times, like now, you had the sense that you were staring into the sea, unable to see all the way to its bottom. “She’d be happy about that.”

“Then it is settled,” he said with a note of satisfaction in his voice, then leaned forward and cupped your cheek. It happened so quickly that you didn’t even have a chance to react. “W-Wha…” was all you could manage to stammer out. There was only a millimeter of space between your faces. Your heart sped up a little when his gaze moved to your lips. His thumb moved to the corner of your lip and brushed against it. It took you a moment to realize that he had flicked off a cake crumb.

"That has been bothering me for a while,” he murmured, removing his hand from your cheek. Despite that, you could still feel the smooth silk of his glove and the press of his long fingers against your skin. “I will take my leave now. Please rest and get well soon, Madame.”

“I-I will,” you nodded, suddenly feeling shy. You took a box of Conch Madeleines from your bedside table and handed them to him. “Please take this. It’ll take me a year to finish all these desserts anyways. There’s a little packet of whipped cream included, so if it’s too dry for you...”

“Thank you,” he took the box from you, then stared into your eyes for a moment longer before turning on his heel and leaving your room. It was only when you heard his footsteps recede to the other side of the house that you realized that it was no longer raining.

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#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x female reader #the winding path of fate #my works

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eggroll-sama · 8 months ago

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Touchstarved Demo Review

Played the demo of Touchstarved and I can’t get it out of my head. Refreshing tumblr every three seconds to read people’s stances on the game so I’m going to do it myself. Here’s are my current stances on the characters.

KURAS

Rather secluded and to himself, initial reactions wise I was disappointed in not getting to know more about him in the demo. but at the same time, the demo set the stage for what exactly I could expect from his route. Slow-burn. Much like what I expect Mhin’s route to be like, but moreso focused on getting to know his past. He doesn’t voice his internal struggles because he has a firm barrier he sets between himself and other, probably hates getting too close to human’s because he is immortal and doesn’t like the idea of getting attached to things that are temporary.

Also, after listening to the Q and A on YouTube and how supposedly Kuras will do some messed up shit in his route, I’m really excited to see what’s up with this tight-lipped doctor. He is definitely not the nice, charitable doctor that he is known for in Lowtown.

On a positive note, his design is probably my favorite in the game! Very unique, gorgeous, and ethereal, so pretty that I know if he existed in real life he’d be out of my league and would be popular just because of how jaw-droppingly gorgeous he is. Mr Steal your girl, but he’s respectful so he won’t be a home wrecker.

(More reviews under the cut)

LEANDER

A character that I thought looked so suspicious and weirded out, but fell in love with when playing the game. I thought he looked like a psychopath!

Because I’m a stupid, easily manipulated dumbass, I initially didn’t really capture his red flags when playing the demo. Every time he let me touch him, my heart beat wouldn’t stop! And his blush is so adorable. He seemed like the trustworthy nice-guy that just wanted to help a poor soul out. And uh, chest. The chest really had an effect on me and his entire outfit didn’t help. Black turtle necks awaken something in me, yknow? And the belts? Hoe energy.

After replaying the demo a few times, it just stands out to me how much of a player he is. Before realizing MC was at the bar because of Kuras, he was in flirting mode and probably considering MC to be part of his escapades. The disappointment in his tone and face when he found out MC was there for business 😂😂.

We get the most information of Leander from the special conversation with the characters so I am quite pumped to know what exactly this guy is about, cuz each person has varying, colorful opinions on him. I find it so funny that Vere, the most flirtatious in the game, is weirded out by shameless Leander is. Maybe that is Leander’s flaw? The leader of the Bloodhounds, envied by many and respected by most, is the most submissive and horny bitch on the planet. Ok ok, I’m done. But I could go on and on about this man.

(Side note, Mhin and Leander definitely had a drunken one night stand. And Mhin absolutely regretted it)

Even after reading all the theories on how sus he is, his interactions were probably my favorite in the entire game. I’m just so intrigued by him.

VERE

Not the biggest fan of Vere. I’m not into animal ears and tails.

Im going to be honest in real life I would be flustered by Vere’s advances and probably feel a sort of fascination towards him echen to attraction, but he’s not really the type that I want to romance in games. Also the fact of the matter is is that sexual innuendoes just not my thing, especially when it comes to first impressions. And my first impression was getting my key stolen so nice.

Irl Vere can be acquaintances at most. I would be there just to hear the juiciest details about some drama. He would always have some snarky comment that would make me laugh. I love some dark humor. But at the same time, he’s dangerous af. I wouldn’t want to get too close to him. He has major issues and idk when he would snap, that’s the scary part! If I tease him playfully and he was not in the mood, off goes my head.

I like his relationship with Ais, adds more juiciness to the story. Love me some love triangles. Reminds me of Rime and Felix relationship in Last Legacy.

I would like the challenge of winning him over though. Because his route would probably be so unpredictable and challenging, I feel more motivated to play and invest in his story

AIS

I love his character design! Probably my second favorite in the game. Ais exudes confidence, competence, and strength. Major main character vibes from Ais. I’m guessing that’s why Leander hates him. HOW DARE YOU BE THE CENTER OF ATTENTION, LITERALLY THE CENTER OF ALL THE PROMO ART YOU FUCKIN BASTAR-

I personally do not feel that much of a love connection towards Ais as much as Leander. More like, I chill with you. I could grab a drink with you and talk about life. Yes. Maybe when I play his route they’ll prove me wrong. Im still curious about him so can’t wait to play his route. But I don’t see much of a red flag in him as the others, he just seems like a chill guy that went through hell. I’m guessing he’ll show his dark sides in his route.

It’s concerning that he’s attracted to Vere cuz Vere is…Vere. Problematic. Chaotic. An Asshole. Hmmm, is Ais technically an enabler? Yes, but Ais also starts bar fights. They’re both bad. It’s also interesting how generally people would say ethically good qualities on why they are attracted to someone but no, Ais is just like “yeah he’s an asshole, you can trust him just don’t listen to anything he says.” It’s hilarious. That also contrasts with Leander’s bio how he sees Vere as a damsel in distress cuz he’s delusional and has white knight syndrome, while Ais sees people who they are because he’s the black sheep “that have the clearest view of the world.” That’s probably why Vere loves him. Ais is the only person that sees his crappiness and still likes him. What a Chad :,)

MHIN

They reminds me of a friend I have. Quiet, standoffish, takes time to open up, a MASSIVE sweet tooth. I really want to pet their heads but I know they’re going to smack it away if I even try to touch. 😭😭

Mhin, the angsty teen. Considering Mhin’s bad temperament and similar curse thing with MC, I’m going to guess it’ll have major Beauty and the Beast vibes. Tempermental Mhin and MC who would turn them into a better person and teach them how to love themselves, with or without the curse.

The friendship with Mhin and Kuras make a lot of sense. Mhin feels at peace with Kuras cuz he’s a good listener and the only introvert in the friend group. Mhin needs someone that won’t try to annoy them like Leander or Vere. But I remember listening to the stream with the developers, and they were saying how terrible Kuras is and can’t wait for people to find out about it. Will Mhin feel betrayed when they find out the truth about Kuras? Do they already know? So many questions.

#touchstarved #touchstarved leander #touchstarved mhin #touchstarved ais #touchstarved Kuras #touchstarved Vere #touchstarved game

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larkspyrr · 1 year ago

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chapter i — we could form an attachment (wc. 4.9k)

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reblogs are appreciated!

The Opera Epiclese was almost always a circus — sometimes in the most literal sense of the word. But this event was on another level entirely.

The epicenter of Fontaine's rich history on Erinnyes played host to a menagerie of pastels, frills, cuffs, and nonsense. A sea of nobles and hopefuls swarmed the Court of Fontaine from Marcotte Station all the way to the Fountain of Lucine — a mass of the nation's wealthiest, most ambitious, and most eligible young people, escorted here and there by older family members with varying degrees of investment, twirling and sipping and gossiping.

The jets hidden within the overlapping layers of shallow pools spouted pillars of crystalline water, casting an almost imperceptible mist over the whole courtyard, granting it an ethereal charm and allure not befitting such fatuous rituals. A flood of rainbow roses, lumidouce bells, marcottes, and activated romaritimes bloomed raucously over every inch of the gardens, their aroma thick but not unpleasant, their petals offering a lush natural carpet for the venue — not that there was enough space between the milling crowd to appreciate it. Cuihua trees bursting with bulle fruit lined the perimeter, the little citruses begging to be picked, only protected by the unspoken high society rule that to do so would be unbecoming. A small quartet of violins stood before the fountain itself, playing a light-hearted and airy song to accompany the festivities, though not a soul was paying attention.

A few lucky (or conversely, unlucky) aristocrats may leave the Opera tonight with the promise of approaching nuptials and a happy future. Far more would simply leave with an impending hangover and some gossip on Baron Something-or-Other's latest romantic failings.

You took a dainty sip from your champagne flute. It would be more nauseating if it weren't so entertaining. You and Lady Furina seemed to have that in common — an enduring appreciation for the cyclical drama. You wondered absently if the Archon herself would make an appearance to stir something up. You hoped she would.

All the world's a stage, indeed.

You made your way across the courtyard, the click of your heels on the parquet stone drowned out by the throng; a nearby wide, stone planter in your sights. It would be as good a place as any for you to remain aloof and antisocial but still in sight of your father, who spared you a supervisory glance from where he stood with other noblemen, certainly discussing nothing of importance.

From your new perch, the noise and color and spectacle all were duller, easier to digest. You leaned against the marble and observed the sea of activity, daintily nursing your drink.

You were enjoying the time spent on your own when you heard a soft rustle of fabric to your right — a noise that would have been impossible to catch had you been any closer to the heart of the gathering. You turned in time to see a man you didn't recognize leaning against the same planter as you, looking for all the world as comfortable as if you'd invited him to be there.

You had not.

He didn't seem to belong there — that much was evident — and not just because he was an unfamiliar face. Tall and dark, his icy blue eyes were framed by a rush of thick, dark hair and a thin, crescent scar. Far from his only scar, by the looks of it — a complex network traveled down his neck and disappeared under his collar, intricate enough to rival the meticulous lacework that had cost your father a pretty mora at the boutique — despite your insistence that such costs were wholly unnecessary. The stranger's suit, a well-tailored gray and black ensemble, was partially obscured by a fussy, fur-lined coat. His burgundy tie was ever-so-slightly crooked, making your fingers twitch with the urge to adjust it. A desire no doubt born of the years you had been doing the very same for father.

Even under the warmth of the setting summer sun, he seemed to radiate a chill that brought goosebumps to your exposed arms.

If he'd ever been at an event before this one, there was no way you could have forgotten him. He seemed the type to linger in someone's mind long after he left a room.

He tilted a polite smile down at you.

"Good afternoon, miss," he greeted in a voice altogether too friendly to match his intimidating countenance.

"Charmed," you clipped. You gave him an appraising look, not rushing the path your eyes made up his frame, from the clunky boots, ill-suited for the occasion, to the silver streaks in his hair he didn't seem quite old enough for yet. He had the dignity not to cower under your inspection. "I'm afraid this flowerbed is occupied, sir. Please find your own."

His smile shifted and was clearly meant to look apologetic. You weren't convinced. "I'm afraid I can't."

You lifted a brow. If nothing else, this could be an entertaining interlude from the pomp and circumstance. "And why not?"

He cleared his throat, nodding in the direction of some hedges across the way. You flicked your eyes over discreetly, just in time to catch a head of blonde hair and another of jet curls disappearing behind the greenery, followed by stage whispers that surely they didn't think were quiet. Didn't they?

"You see," he began in a lower tone, clearly having better mastered the art of not being overheard than your spectators. "There is a gaggle of lovely but persistent young women in pursuit of me at this very moment, and I'd very much like to be engaged in conversation with someone else in order to postpone my torment. I'd be in your debt if you could look engrossed in this discussion for just long enough that they lose interest and find someone else to prey upon."

You hummed thoughtfully, watching now ginger curls leaning incautiously from behind the hedge, green eyes landing viciously on you and the interloper before vanishing once more. Just how many girls were hiding behind there?

"Oh?" you said, raising the glass to your lips with a smirk. "Not interested in sampling their scintillating conversation skills? Are you not here in search of a partner?"

"No, I'm not," he responded good-naturedly, running a hand through the artfully tousled sweep of his hair. "I have no intentions to marry at present."

You hmphed, twirling the flute in a gloved hand. "Yet here you are," you said, softly flicking the glass in his general direction, the tiny whirlpool you'd gotten going interrupted. You did not bother to conceal your skepticism. "Tolerating the vagaries of a high society debutante ball. And you'd tell a complete stranger this, because...?"

He leaned in, conspiratorial. "I am here as a matter of obligation only. Politics. Appearances. You understand." He returned back to his former stance, expression neutral, resting lazily against the polished marble. "Let's just say I'm sharp enough to recognize a kindred spirit when I see one."

You could feel yourself reflecting the same curiosity that danced in his eyes against your better judgment. This exchange was turning out to be interesting. "A kindred spirit, is it?"

"Indeed," he said. "Judging by the fact that you are also skulking in this corner and don't seem to have any more interest in mingling at this event than I do."

"I do not 'skulk'," you responded, unamused at his word choice. "And while I'd ask you to separate me from your assumptions, you aren’t incorrect. I'm also here only because it is expected of me."

He looked pleased with himself at your confirmation, and now dealt you the same appraisal you'd previously subjected him to with a calculating stare. You fought the urge to fidget under his evaluation, finding it beyond frustrating to have no idea what he was thinking behind his amicable yet inscrutable exterior. "Is that so? It is not often you see a noble lady uninvested in the affairs of the court."

You bristled, fighting the urge to furrow your eyebrows in a way you'd been told by many etiquette coaches was 'unflattering'. "There are greater aspirations to have beyond being a pretty little thing for some nobleman to set on his trophy shelf. Even for so-called 'noble ladies'."

He laughed then, a short, surprised burst. The sound was rich, reverberating in your bones. "My apologies. Please don't misunderstand, my curiosity tends to get the better of me. Indulge me?"

You sniffed, turning away from him once more to observe the hedge across the path — it seemed quiet enough now that the ladies within must have moved on like he'd hoped they would. Your chin lifted of its own accord as you flicked your eyes back to him. "I'm not interested in discussing my life aspirations with a man who lacks the good manners to even introduce himself first."

His mouth pulled up at one corner. "Are you sure the exchange of such confidential information would be of equal value?"

You held your stance, unfazed. "That will be for me to decide, sir."

"Very well." He inclined his head, an earnest hand pressed to his chest. "I am Wriothesley, Duke of the Fortress of Meropide. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

You felt the color leave your face and your fingers go dead cold. This man — the Duke of Meropide, of all things — watched cheerfully as you hurried into polite obeisance. Damn it all. You hadn't exactly been courteous with the man. "Your Grace. The honor is mine."

His eyes still shone with mirth as you straightened. "Please, no need for such formalities. My mistake for — ah, what was it you said?'' he pondered, eyes drifting off in mock thought as you waited, drenched in miserable anticipation. "Right! ‘Not having the good manners to introduce myself first’."

Your cheeks warmed and you forced back a rush of frustration with yourself. "My apologies, I — I meant no disrespect," you said, gathering your composure. "You are not at all what I pictured, Your Grace. I hadn't known you were to attend a society function here on the surface."

"Tragically, society functions below the Fontemer are in short supply," he said sardonically. "And please, don't apologize, it's not often one gets to enjoy a chat with a charming, spirited stranger. What's your name?"

You offer it with another small nod. "My father is the Viscount Vellerot."

As if on cue, you faintly heard your father's voice calling your name from somewhere amidst the hustle and bustle; evidently he'd lapsed in his duty as your chaperone — once again — and had lost track of you. You weren't sure what it was he may want, though; clearly something must have come up to remind him of his purpose at this party. That was generally the way of things.

You tended to prefer being forgotten.

"And that would be him calling for me now," you explained as you pushed yourself from the planter and stepped past him. "This flowerbed is all yours. It was a pleasure to hide from the gaggle of lovely women with you, Your Grace. Good luck avoiding them for the rest of the evening."

He chuckled, a sheepish smile on his face. "The pleasure was all mine, my lady," he said. "But don't think I've forgotten our deal. You still owe me an answer."

With a vague smile and a polite curtsy, you disappeared back into the crowd, leaving the duke still leaning against the flowerbed.

Turns out, your father had only wished to introduce you to yet another son of yet another powerful acquaintance of his. His hopeful eyes as he sent the two of you off to dance only made it harder to turn the boy down, even if he were several years your junior and an entitled brat to boot. Your father truly only wanted your happiness, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him his efforts were in vain. This young noble wasn't the first you'd ever had to reject, and you unfortunately very much doubted he'd be the last — though you hoped he would, at least, be the last for that particular soirèe.

It turned out that would not be the case either, but you tried to keep an approximation of optimism anyway.

The one thing more sure than the line of people begging your attention — for want of your dowry and the association with your family, not anything to do with you, mind — was the tidal wave of whispers that had begun to take over the flow of the neverending gossip. It hadn't taken long for the news to spread —

Did you hear? This event has a special guest —

The Duke of Meropide is here? He must finally be looking for a duchess…

Come, Anne, allow me to introduce you to the duke. Fix your gloves, we want to make a good impression. Let me put this flower in your hair — maybe he will ask you for a dance!

Slowly, all the usual chirping melted away into one, resounding sentiment from all corners of the court — the Duke of Meropide is here, and he will be mine.

None of them knew what you did. You did your best to conceal your smile at the knowledge that all their posturing and peacocking was an investment in vain. Just as it was when their artless schemes were directed at you.

Afternoon melted into evening and you'd been idling away the hours, chatting to and dancing with and entertaining people who you didn't have the privilege to inform were wasting their time with you, longing to be anywhere else.

You finally seized enough of an opening to flee the courtyard proper for a moment of respite in a blooming hedge maze, as the gathering at the top of the grand stone steps was dying down and getting ready to migrate to the beautiful, opulent expanse of the Icewind Suite for the evening's grand finale. You found a remote, hidden spot and sat heavily, removing a shoe so you could massage the soles of your aching, overworked feet.

A branch snapped nearby and you whipped your head in its direction, heart thundering, to find the individual responsible for interrupting your moment of rest.

You should have known.

"We meet again," said the duke with a dip of his head.

"We do indeed," you said from where you were seated, letting your foot drop. Even in the dim lighting of the garden, you could see the man looked worn. Delight pulled at your lips at his evident misfortune. "Enjoying your evening?"

He sighed, a long, drawn-out, heartfelt sound. "Can't say that I am," he admitted.

You smiled ruefully. "That makes two of us. These events are nothing if not a test of our constitution." A yawning silence expanded between you and you slipped your heel back on, standing with a small stretch. You brushed down your dress. "I will return to the group. I really shouldn't be seen here with you without my chaperone, Your Grace. It wouldn't be proper."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't you ever get fatigued by these stuffy, outdated rules?"

"Every day," you said wryly. "But the rules still exist, and I have a reputation to uphold. I can't be thought to have been compromised. There are always sharp eyes waiting for someone to slip."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, keen eyes glinting, in a gesture all too calculating for your liking. "Why risk coming out here alone at all?" he asked. "What if a person with bad intentions were to come looking for you? Someone who might wish to 'compromise' you?"

"A person other than you?" you retorted. "All I know of your intentions is that they do not include marriage, yet here you are anyway. Who's to say what your intentions truly are?"

He frowned. "Point taken," he conceded. "Though I assure you, they are nothing untoward. You didn't answer my question."

Your smile was scornful. "Fear not, Your Grace, for I am quite sure no one at this party could present any real physical threat to me. Of course, we are all always subject to the whims of the rumor mill, and I'm afraid that could do much more damage to me than any wealthy man in tights ever could."

His lips twitched in amusement. "Physical?" he remarked. "You grow more intriguing with every word."

"I am quite skilled, sir, both with a sword and without," you replied, a proud tilt to your chin.

He hummed thoughtfully, nodding. "That brings our deal back to mind. What is it you'd do instead, if not play along with these society games?"

You considered him for a long moment. His curiosity seemed genuine. You saw no reason to lie or disguise the truth. "I'd become a Champion Duelist."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly before his smile broadened. "How about that?"

Your eyes narrowed, leaning forward into his space just slightly. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all," he assured with a dismissive wave and a light, surprised laugh. "Just caught off guard."

You huffed and leaned back, allowing the remainder of your defensiveness to drain away. "Miss Clorinde is an acquaintance of my father, as it sometimes seems everyone in Fontaine is," you said, dry. "She has been gracious enough to join me in training from time to time. Of course, that will slow considerably during the social season while I trade in my boots for heels and my fencing ripostes for verbal ones."

He looked lost in thought for a moment. "I knew nothing about the aristocracy before receiving my title — it wasn't part of the curriculum for urchins, believe it or not. But in all my studies since, I've never once heard of a member of the inherent nobility leaving their seat for such a role."

"There is a first for all things," you said airily. "I had forgotten you come from, uh, humble beginnings. Your studies must have been quite intensive."

"I do, and they were. They still are. There's a lot about all of this I still find kinda baffling. My 'humble beginnings' are unfortunately part of the reason I have to make appearances this season," he said, tone ringing resentful. "It seems not all of our peers are pleased that a former… commoner with an honorary title is in the position I'm in. There are those interested in incorporating the Fortress as an official Fontainian entity — a government-managed facility. The question of my legitimacy is only helping their case when I haven't participated at court in any formal capacity as Duke."

You pondered his words for a moment. "So the rumors are true? This truly is your first time ever attending a society function?"

He nodded, his nose wrinkling with distaste. "It is, and it seems no amount of reading could have prepared me for it. The Iudex suggested that making a point of looking for a wife of noble birth, genuine or otherwise, might be enough to keep the wolves at bay, at least until the nobility votes to solidify or dissolve the Fortress of Meropide's autonomy, and by extension, my position as its administrator. He said if I wished to sway the vote my way, then I'd have to convince them I belong." He grimaced. "And that I’d have to consider making some sacrifices to do so.”

"I can't say that I'm surprised," you said. "These people value one thing above all else — their own superiority. Anything that threatens that, threatens them. If you were to form a connection with a strong family, the fuss would surely die down. No one wants to be on the bad side of those more powerful than they are."

The duke hummed. "Then Lord Thibeault must think he is very threatened indeed. I've been feeling a bit like a fish quite literally out of water. Would it be improper of me to say I miss my fortress?"

You snorted, unladylike. "He's the ring leader? Lord Thibeault must have far too much time on his hands if he is available to cause as much trouble as he does."

"You're familiar?"

"'Familiar' is one way of putting it. Lord Thibeault is a busybody and a wretch. He can't bear to see anything fresh or interesting shake up his beloved court or upset the status quo he holds so dear."

"So it seems," the duke said thoughtfully, letting a quiet beat pass. "Your aspiration was a pleasant surprise. Thank you for sharing it with me."

"It is only a secret by necessity," you sighed. "Not because I'd like it to be. What was your expectation?"

"I didn't have any expectations,” he said. His mouth curved into a roguish grin. “Never do. That's what makes the wait so good. I love cliffhangers."

You laughed. "I'd hate to have kept you in suspense. Sadly, the endless cycles of dancing and tea and etiquette classes will leave me little time to continue my training over the coming months, so my dream will remain just that: a dream."

"Why do you do it, then?” he asked, cocking his head. “Continue enduring all this nonsense?"

"As I said before, it is my duty,” you said slowly, wilting. A familiar feeling of defeat sank into your bones. “It would set a bad precedent if I didn't. I have two younger sisters and my father is a good man who only wants us to be happy, but he is getting on in years and... well. If I were to dishonor our family by abandoning them before they were situated, I could never forgive myself."

His eyebrows drew together and you could see his gears turning. "That's why you continue to take part?"

"Yes. I just need to somehow find a way to avoid any... obligations until they are in safe, happy situations, and then maybe I can be free. They are only just behind me in years, so it won't be that long. If all goes according to plan, a few years, maybe. Otherwise, as there is no male heir, my sisters would be at the next Viscount Vellerot's mercy when my father passes, whoever he may be once he is named. I will not risk their futures for my own selfishness."

The duke frowned. "I don't think wanting to pursue what would make you happy should be considered selfish."

You shrugged. "Nevertheless, if I want to make sure my sisters are taken care of, I likely will eventually need to secure the hand of a respectable man, my own wishes be damned,” you sighed. “I suppose I just can’t help but to naively hope for something more."

He looked to be lost in thought, arms crossed in front of his chest, tapping a considering finger on his chin, a tap-tap-tap that set your teeth on edge and filled your with a sense of foreboding. His eyes, looking at something far off in the distance, eventually focused back on your own as he came to some hidden conclusion in his mind.

"And what of a duke?" he offered.

You blinked, your mind hurrying to understand the implication of his words, yet failing to do so. "Something on your mind, Your Grace?"

"I have a proposition for you."

You looked at him intently. "And what would that be? This isn't going to be another ill-fated proposal, is it?” you scolded. “I thought you were supposed to be smarter than that."

"Oh, not at all," he said, dangerous eyes holding yours in a vice grip. "We could pretend to form an attachment."

You found yourself temporarily at a loss for words. You heard him, knew the meaning of each word in solitude, but strung together in such a fashion they felt like mismatching puzzle pieces, the completed landscape out of reach. "What do you mean?"

He began to pace in the small clearing, gesturing with his arms as he unfolded the inner workings of his mind. "We are both uninterested in marriage and yet forced to give the impression that we are. I need the lords and ladies of the court to believe I have found my duchess to cement my legitimacy as the duke until we secure the Fortress of Meropide’s autonomy. You need them to believe that you are searching for a respectable husband to maintain your, and by extension, your family's good reputation until your sisters have found happy matches. Who could be more suited to our respective needs than each other?"

"You're suggesting a ruse?" you whispered, scandalized. “Are you crazy?”

"Perfectly sane,” he continued. “What I'm suggesting is that we let the people believe we are precisely what we are — respectably off-the-market."

You began to shake your head in disbelief, wanting to back away but finding your legs refusing to obey your command. "Your proposition is ridiculous."

"It's perfect,” he said with conviction. “What better way is there to keep the wolves at bay than to lower the gates? Plus — you understand more about how to blend into society than I could ever hope to, and let's just say that with my background, I could offer a hand in your training. We can help each other.”

“The season won’t last forever,” you pointed out. "And when autumn comes around?"

"Oh, that’s the beauty of it. We go our separate ways," he said, eyes gleaming like he was telling an inside joke no one in Teyvat other than the two of you could ever understand. "It didn't work out! It happens."

You laughed, incredulous, an unfamiliar feeling beginning to fill your chest.

"There are sure to be reporters for the Steambird here,” he said. “One dance in the Icewind Suite, and you and I will be the cover story of tomorrow's paper. Then, no one will touch us."

You blinked, running through every possible outcome and scenario in your mind, but — steadily, the pros began to outweigh the cons. You could continue your training. You would have to invest significantly less of your time at these Celestia-forsaken events and not sacrifice anything for either yourself or your sisters in the process. A smile crept onto your lips as the feeling in your chest reached a crescendo — it was hope, a happy, buoyant feeling you were always afraid to let yourself feel.

"This really could work, couldn’t it?" you asked softly.

His smile looked truly genuine for the first time that evening as he offered you his arm. "It will work."

Your arm was looped through the duke's as you made your way down the stairs towards the Icewind Suite, the path lined with lit lamp posts and romaritimes and gawking attendees. The hydro blooms were releasing an array of colorful, opalescent bubbles into the cooling night air, making the latest turn of events feel even more surreal than they already did. The usual residents of the Suite were nowhere to be seen, likely decommissioned, their eternal waltz paused so they could make room for the evening's closing event — and some select charades.

The crowd hushed as you stepped past, a wave of quiet rolling downwards, and you could feel the weight of dozens of curious eyes on you. With each step, arm in arm with the duke, it seemed that more and more attention broke away to hone in on you. You wondered vaguely if your father was anywhere among them — you wondered what he thought. You managed to spot Lord Thibeault in the throng — a disapproving scowl pulled at his wizened face.

Finally, the two of you reached the ground, the shimmering sea of polished marble spread out before you, empty but for the reflection of the night sky in its depths. It waited for you, the symbol of a successful evening of new partnerships and futures to be shared. You’d seen many a pair spin upon this floor — never once had it been you. You had never intended for it to ever be you.

All the world’s a stage, after all.

The duke gently shifted your body so that the two of you were facing one another. He bowed, an elegant bending of his knees and lowering of his head, far more graceful than a man who had his history etched into his skin should be capable of. He made it look effortless.

Icy blue seized you as he straightened back up, eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly at the corners. "Might I have this dance?" he asked, holding out a hand.

His mirror, you curtsied, slow and deliberate. You smiled, a small and surreptitious thing, and placed your gloved hand in his. "You may. Don't trip on your feet now, Your Grace. Rule number one for fitting into high society — you must be as graceful and confident in a ballroom as you are on a battlefield."

He pulled you in closer; too close to be strictly proper. "Call me Wriothesley. We want this to be convincing, don’t we?” he murmured into your ear. Another pulse of low whispers spread throughout the spectators as a few more pairs joined you on the Icewind Suite. “And you wound me, my lady. I think you will find my performance to be more than satisfactory.”

You swallowed thickly. "That remains to be seen, Wriothesley. Let's hope you can convince them better than you can me."

The grand ballroom and every last soul within held their breath as the duke placed a rough, scarred hand on the small of your back. You could feel the weight of it through layers of thin lace and silk as you wove your free hand under his arm and anchored it against the back of his broad shoulder. Your fingers on his back felt inexplicably cold, but the rest of your body burned hot. Your heart pounded. Your eyes locked onto his. Time came to a standstill.

“I intend to,” he said.

The music began to play, and you allowed him to lead.

a/n: so here she is!! i am really excited to get into this one, and i know there was a bit borrowed here from bridgerton itself, tho i promise this is where most of the direct similarities will end. i simply wanted to pay homage to where this idea initially came from <;3 hope you all enjoy

i didn't initially plan to have a taglist for this one, but if there are enough requests for one, i'll consider it. if anyone knows of a better way to notify people when i update (besides pointing them to ao3, anyway) im all ears

til next time!

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wrio #wrio x reader #genshin #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #reader inserts #reader insert #lark.writes #🌊

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