#they need to grow okay

[separatist-apologist]

Still A Sunbeam

Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Read on AO3

Smoothing things over with Killian was surprisingly simple. Elain brought him directly to her bedchamber, sat him on an elegant couch, and offered him her widest, brightest smile. Ordinarily, Killian was no fool. He was hard to manipulate, cunning and suspicious even under the best of circumstances. Elain understood that granting him access to where she slept softened those instincts. Killian was on alert, but for wholly different reasons. His leg bounced up and down beside her, green eyes darting toward the archway where her bed lay, clearly wondering if she might let him in there, too.

If she slept with him, he’d claim her so thoroughly she’d never escape him. Fae males were territorial and Killian was certainly no exception. This would be delicate—practice for Summer. 

“What ah…” he cleared his throat, clearly rethinking whatever he’d been about to ask. “You and the Day Court prince—”

“Lucien?” she asked, unable to keep the derision from her voice. Killain’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. 

“He seems—”

“Arrogant?” she supplied, thinking of how he’d shook her. “Spoiled?”

“Possessive,” Killian said, twisting just enough to look at her. “When you fell, he snarled at me.”

“Well, I assure you it has nothing to do with hidden affection,” Elain told him honestly. “His mother has made him swear to start being nice.”

A muscle worked itself in Killian’s jaw. “Elain, if you wish to learn more of Prythians politics…I could instruct you.”

“I need to be away,” Elain told him gently, placing her hand on his knee. “Both of my sisters have been instructed in other courts.”

Killian shook his head back and forth. “Nesta and Feyre aren’t you.”

“I’ve made a bargain with the Lady of Day,” Elain told him, if only to end this argument before it ever truly began. His expression flattened, shoulders slumping with defeat. 

“Oh?”

“A year of my service,” she murmured, wondering how she’d get out of the obvious affection shining on his face when that year ended. If Killian suspected that Elain had made that bargain specifically to avoid him or he thought that was a normal thing not worth questioning, he didn’t say.

“So I am to share you with Day Court?” he all but whispered instead as he scooted closer. Elain felt too tight and out of her depth. His eyes were fixated on her mouth as his hand came to caress her cheek. Elain knew what was coming and knew pulling back would be a mistake. More than anything, Killian had to believe nothing was amiss. That she had fainted from the heat and over exerting herself. 

But as he came closer, dragging the scent of dew coated grass and a lilac wind, all Elain could think was don’t–not like this.

Not with you. 

But it was Killian’s mouth pressed against her own a mere moment later. The kiss was soft—polite and sweet and, if she was honest, not terrible, either. As far as first kisses went, it could have been far worse.

And still, much, much better. 

It pacified him, if nothing else. When Killian pulled back, triumph blazed in his pine colored eyes. “I’ll wait,” he whispered, thumb sweeping across her cheek. Dread pooled low in her gut because Elain believed he would. He’d wait, like he’d been doing her entire life. What was a year in the scheme of immortality? 

She was beginning to believe she’d never escape the fate barrelling down—that she could delay it a few years before Killian swept in like the golden prince he was and finally, finally made her his wife. 

Elain nodded, hoping she looked appropriately shy. 

Killian swallowed, and then kissed her again. There was just the faintest amount of urgency to his mouth, to how his lips were moving against her own. He tasted warm and bright and when his teeth nipped at her bottom lip, Elain couldn’t stop the gasp of air from rising from her throat.

Killian pressed his advantage, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with the softest groan of pleasure. 

Elain couldn’t pretend the shock of his tongue on hers, stroking gently, wasn’t doing something to her, too. Her eyes fluttered close as she gave way to instinct and allowed herself to enjoy the heat coiling in her chest. Kissing was nice, pleasant even. Elain was warm, and when Killian pressed closer, she didn’t care to stop him.

 No one had ever touched her like this and despite it being Killian, she found she wanted him to keep going. She liked when he pressed his knee between her legs or when he began to push her backward into the couch. His kisses had become deeper, almost frantic in their urgency. Like he needed to do this before something shifted.

Elain’s mind was pleasantly blank, wholly focused on being kissed. Maybe, she reasoned with herself, marriage wouldn’t be so terrible. If they could do this, at least, maybe—

A loud thudding on the door pulled Elain from her traitorous thoughts. A growl slipped from Killian’s teeth, but he pulled back all the same. She could see the outlining bulge straining in his pants. It was enough to turn her cold. One kiss and she became mindless with lust? Ready to let him claim her and ruin all her careful plans? Elain hated that she could scent not just his arousal, but her own, and hated all the more that Killian was smelling it, too. His eyes were dark with want even as he adjusted himself, the picture of a courtly gentleman while Elain quickly stood. Her head was throbbing again, reminding her that she needed to lay down and shake off the vision of bloodied, feral Lucien.

She went to the door to find Arina on the other end. “Are you—” Arina’s nostrils flared. Her eyes widened as she looked over Elain’s shoulder to find Killian sitting cross-legged on the couch. Elain didn’t dare look back.

“Am I…?” she prodded.

“Busy?” Arina asked. “I—something has happened with the Autumn princes and I could use some respite.”

A heavy sigh sounded behind her. Elain closed her eyes as Killian’s boots clipped over the marble. His fingers ghosted over her bare shoulders as he said, “Go. I should meet with Helion while I’m here.”

Arina’s eyes flashed, as if to say, she doesn’t need your permission. 

Elain twisted, tilting her face so when Killian’s lips came back to her face, they only touched her cheek. 

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, squeezing her slightly. Elain offered him an easy smile and then was gone, freed of his touch and her traitorous body’s response. Arina, a female Elain just barely knew, and hardly knew well, reached for Elain’s wrist to propel her faster. 

Arina was pale, and when Elain jogged closer, swore she smelled the familiar, metallic tang of fear. Fear and something else—something warm and comforting like the smoke of a bonfire curling toward a crisp, star freckled sky. Coated in amber, like whiskey, and wrapped around Arina’s own vanilla and lime scent Elain was already familiar with. Perhaps she’d been with a male just before the day began and his presence still clung to her skin.

It unsettled Elain, though. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as though some ancient, primordial part of her recognized that scent and balked—wanting to get far, far away. Elain was breathless, wondering what Arina could possibly want with her even if she was grateful for the interruption. 

“Wait,” Elain said, digging her heels into the smooth marble beneath her for all the good it did—which was none. “Where are we going?”

“I—” Arina took a gulping breath. A host of emotions flickered across Arina’s face before she smoothed it out. Elain waited, gauging her carefully. “Do you want to get a drink with me? In the city, I mean? I have an apartment down there, we could spend the whole evening away from the palace and the drama of Lucien and his brothers.”

Now that was promising. She could avoid Killian the rest of the evening and join in the festivities in the city instead. He could hardly be angry with her over it. After all, he said he had things he needed to accomplish, too. Why should Elain rearrange her schedule?

She didn’t want to be caught alone with him again. He was too clever and Elain too unpracticed. She suspected Killian knew it, too. That he knew exactly how to touch her, exactly where to put his mouth, his fingers, his body, until he’d overridden all her objections. Elain took a breath. She’d agreed to nothing. 

“Yes,” Elain replied, offering Arina another bright smile. She’d power through the throbbing in her skull and her aching bones for the time being. 

“Perfect. Now?” There was nothing keeping Elain given she’d failed in her task of greeting Eris Vanserra. She’d see him another day, ideally with a clear head. Elain felt as though she was messing everything up—bringing Killian to her bedroom was supposed to be Summer Court practice and yet she’d nearly found herself pressed beneath him.

Touching Lucien was supposed to calm him down and instead she’d only made him angrier, had made him hate her more. Maybe the life of an emissary wasn’t for her. Maybe this whole thing was a waste of her time.

“Come on,” Arina said, lacing her fingers with Elain’s. The warm jolt of Arina’s palm pressed against her own was comforting. Elain let Arina tug her forward, clasping hands like the best of friends. A strange yearning punctuated Elain’s thoughts–she’d never had an actual friend. Feyre had Morrigan up in the Night Court and Nesta didn’t seem to care for companionship but Elain did. Elain craved it, and still it eluded her. The ladies in Spring didn’t care to be actual friends, where gossip was always at a premium. If you weren’t careful, you’d find all your secrets used as currency for any number of things. 

Elain couldn’t prove Arina wasn’t that sort of lady, too. It didn’t stop hope from blooming in Elain’s chest when they exploded into the oppressive mid-day heat. Arina looked over her slim, golden shoulder and offered Elain a dazzling smile.

Elain compared the hope welling in her chest to how she’d felt when Killian had been kissing her.

There was no comparison. 

LUCIEN:

“What would it take to make Arina my wife?” Lucien asked his father without preamble. His mother looked up sharply from her place in front of the vanity while his father pinched the bridge of his nose.

“An act of the Mother goddess herself, Lucien.” “Since when do you have feelings for Arina?” his mother questioned, setting her hairbrush aside so she could turn fully to look at him.

Never, he thought despondently. Marriage to Arina was a shackle for them both. They’d have to give up their fun at court, would have to sell their marriage as a love so great it trumped a mating bond. Centuries of pretending, even. A life wasted and the chance for what his parents had gone—and Lucien was willing to risk it, all the same.

“She’s not fit to be a Day Court princess?” Lucien demanded instead, crossing his arms over his chest. Helion looked as if he might explode, having entertained all four of Beron’s terrible sons all day. It was clear he had no patience reserved for his own.

“No, Lucien, she sure as fuck isn’t given Eris reeks of her scent.”

His mother’s brows shot toward her hairline. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” His father pressed, twisting at the golden cuff along his bicep. “I’m not starting a war over this. Not again.”“So Eris just gets to claim her?” Lucien demanded.

His fathers eyes flashed gold. “She’s still my subject. She can reject the bond—but have you considered, in all your infinite wisdom, that she may very well decide to accept it?”

“No.” Lucien said it flatly, ignoring how his mother’s eyes were so bright and glassy.

“Eris has a mate?” she asked, her bottom lip trembling. Not with fear or disgust, but happiness. 

It burned Lucien how much his mother still loved the Vanserra’s. They didn’t deserve her affection, her hopes—her anything. 

His fathers expression sharpened dangerously. Do not ruin this for your mother. 

Lucien couldn’t stand it. Turning on his heel, he left his parents to hash out what would happen with Arina, knowing full well he’d drag her to the temple and marry her in secret if he had to. Lucien blew out a breath, slamming the chamber doors behind him loud enough his fathers echoing snarl warned him to act grown and not like a child. It didn’t help that Killian was just around the corner reeking of Elain. Lucien didn’t know why her scent coating his skin bothered him so much.

Perhaps he was just spoiling for a fight. He glanced toward the Spring Court prince, stalking away in the direction of Elain’s bedroom. Fine. What did he care, anyway? To involve himself was to imply something might be happening between them and the last thing Lucien needed was doe-eyed Elain clinging to him.

Lucien prowled out into the night, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to feel a little normalcy. The humid air clung to him while a warm sea breeze ruffled his hair. 

Hello prince, it seemed to say. 

Lucien’s life was quickly falling apart around him. He was angry—moody and on edge which was unlike him. Rash, and impulsive like an untested male. More than that, though, was a restlessness that had crept through him, rumbling through his too hot blood until he wanted to scratch at his skin. 

Disappointing his parents felt like the ultimate failure. Even Eris managed to stay in his mothers good graces—but his father was so clearly at the end of his rope with Lucien. How long before they sent him away, like so many other High Lords did with their sons? Some test to humble Lucien, to make him appreciate all he’d been given? He’d heard what the High Lord of Night had done to his heir and was certain he didn’t want to be involved in anything half so grueling. 

Lucien took a breath of air and began making his way down the path cutting toward the sprawling city of Rhodes. Lights illuminated the dark, making it seem as though the sun had never truly set—which it would stop doing in a couple months during the longest parts of the summer. Music overtook his senses, drowning out even his angry, self-loathing thoughts. Instead, his heart began jumping in time with the beat. The smell of sweat and liquor hung in the air, exciting him more than he was willing to admit.

Down here, Lucien was no one important. He began weaving through throngs of people mingling and dancing and kissing for the city square where the majority of the people and festivities were being held. Lucien wanted to be in the thick of things. He wanted to lose himself to wine and music until he was little more than a fanged creature—until he could convince himself to slink back home and apologize to his parents.

Again. 

Tables lined the sidewalk, squashed between shops and restaurants still open for business. Brightly colored awnings fluttered beneath strung up fae lights, illuminating the sandstone stress beneath. Musicians played while people danced and drank or sat around eating and talking—all celebrating his mother, who they loved. Lucien snatched up a cup from a grinning woman selling them for a coin and had been about to prowl about for suitable company when a flash of gold caught his attention.

Arina, right in the thick of things, was dancing. Not with a male and certainly not his brother—but Elain, who lacked all of Arina’s easy, swaying rhythm. Judging from the flush on Elain’s face and Arina’s open mouthed laughter, the pair were drunk. Lucien smiled before turning for a decanter of cold water and a lot of food. He managed to snag one of the last tables, spreading out his offerings before darting for the crowd. If he was gone too long a crime of opportunity would occur, and he’d only brought so many coins with him. 

It was easy enough to drag Arina off the ground, hauling her up onto his shoulder before she could stop him. He ignored Elain entirely, still grinning when Arina’s fists collided with his bare back.

“Lucien!” she barked, for all the good it did her. He plunked Arina down in a chair, feeling slightly guilty when he caught sight of Elain hovering at the edge of the crowd. Sighing, he gestured for her to come sit, certain he’d regret letting her tag along. He didn’t want to be too close to her. Not when her very presence set the hair on his arm standing on edge.

“You’re an ass, Lucien,” Arina breathed, pulling Elain’s chair closer to her own. “I’m trying to avoid Vanserras.” Elain’s expression lifted, eyes bouncing between the pair of them.

“I’m not a Vanserra,” he reminded her.

“Oh, but you look like one,” Arina said drunkenly, unaware of what a blade her words were. Elain’s eyes snapped to his face, her lips parted as she recognized what a blow that was. Arina didn’t notice, chugging a glass of the water Lucien had brought. It was humiliating to be subjected to Elain’s pity and worse to know that Arina was avoiding him because he looked like Eris after Lucien had just asked his father to marry her. 

Was he stupid? 

He started to rise, for all Arina cared. Turning, he didn’t know where he planned to go or even what he wanted to do. Only that he needed to get away before he said something he couldn’t take back.

“Hey—wait!” 

Elain caught up with him despite her short stature. She looked as if she might grab him before she thought better of it. Lucien reached for her bare arm, curling his fingers around her skin. It wasn’t like before—her eyes widened, but there was no gasp of fear, no immediate collapse to the floor. So much for the theory that he’d brought on her vision.

It was just bad luck. Lucien withdrew his hand, uncomfortable and taut with her sweat soaked skin beneath his palm. 

“What do you want?” he asked, staring down at her. Elain was—well, she was stunning in the moonlight. Bright and alive in a way he didn’t think he’d ever seen, and the scent of salt combined with the flush over her tan skin was making Lucien too aware of how close she was to him. 

He still remembered how he’d come to the image of the curious eyes peering up at him. “What was that all about?” she asked him breathlessly.

He sneered. “Did she not tell you? I suppose you’re not as good of friends as you thought.”

“Jealousy is ugly on you,” Elain snapped. “It was just a question.”

“What’s going on with you and Killian?” he demanded, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. Fuck, what was wrong with him? 

Elain shrugged, a tightness stealing over her expression. Killian smelled like her, but Elain smelled like honey and jasmine, like the salt from the ocean and bright sunlight. Hackles raised, Lucien asked, “Do you need me to get rid of him?”

Elain brightened. Taking a small step toward him, Elain replied, “Could you?”

Gods, with pleasure, he thought. Finally, something he could do that might make him feel useful again. “Easily.”

“Yes,” Elain told him, looking—well, looking as if she didn’t completely hate him. “Yes, I’d like that a lot.”

He offered her a tight nod, unsure why he felt such pleasure at the thought of doing something nice for her. Amid the revelry and the noise, Lucien felt strangely settled. The anxiety that had been coursing through him calmed, making him rational again. He ought to have thanked her for whatever spell she’d cast, for giving him something to do that made him feel important again. 

He turned, intending to walk away wordlessly. This time, it was Elain who reached for him, catching his wrist in a feathersoft touch.

“I don’t think you look like a Vanserra,” she told him earnestly. 

He was tempted to ask what she did think he looked like. That was madness—was a fool's errand. He didn’t care, besides.

At least, that was what Lucien told himself when he made the journey back up to the palace alone. When he didn’t seek out his usual company.

When he fell into bed, still thinking about her eyes.

[thebrainrotsreal]

Drew this real quick because I fucking love these two so much ???? Especially Bee. I wish they interacted more so badly. PLEASE.

Also learning how to draw these guys.. slowly.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Non transmitigation au where Shen Yuan auditions for a part in PIDW on a lark when it gets a live action adaptation, not thinking he’ll actually get a part (he just wanted to be able to say he did it okay? He was dated okay??! He was not dared he just thought it’d be neat, but he’ll admit to nothing.) and, much to his horror, ends up cast as Shen Qingqiu.

He somehow accidentally makes Shen Qingqiu so likable that he’s the most popular character. The fandom goes feral over him. He becomes famous. New fans are joining the bandwagon in droves to watch him.

And all the while, Shen Yuan is frantically trying to pretend he isn’t the most notorious anti fan troll to clown on the internet. He has never heard of PIDW before what do you mean Peerless Cucumber whomst?

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

None of our hands are clean

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[ruubesz-draws]

Minus One meets Emi

Emi is fine... just shooked

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 296

Through a series of miscommunication, the League is now under the impression that Batman, strange cryptid that he is, may or may not have given birth to the other vigilantes running around in Gotham. This was not helped by Bruce referring to all of his children, no matter how big they get, as his babies. Nor was it helped by Red Robin, in the middle of a narcolepsy-fueled imminent crash, mentioned how he had no mother. 

It also doesn’t help that no one is aware that they are in fact completely normal people, and not aspects of Gotham itself brought to life. Though really that’s on the bats themselves, because at this point they should at least count as undead. 

[inkskinned]

the rise of AI art isn't surprising to us. for our entire lives, the attitude towards our skills has always been - that's not a real thing. it has been consistently, repeatedly devalued.

people treat art - all forms of it - as if it could exist by accident, by rote. they don't understand how much art is in the world. someone designed your home. someone designed the sign inside of your local grocery store. when you quote a character or line from something in media, that's a line a real person wrote.

"i could do that." sure, but you didn't. there's this joke where a plumber comes over to a house and twists a single knob. charges the guy 10k. the guy, furious, asks how the hell the bill is so high. the plumber says - "turning the knob was a dollar. the knowledge is the rest of the money."

the trouble is that nobody believes artists have knowledge. that we actively study. that we work hard, beyond doing our scales and occasionally writing a poem. the trouble is that unless you are already framed in a museum or have a book on a shelf or some kind of product, you aren't really an artist. hell, because of where i post my work, i'll never be considered a poet.

the thing that makes you an artist is choice. the thing that makes all art is choice. AI art is the fetid belief that art is instead an equation. that it must answer a specific question. Even with machine learning, AI cannot make a choice the way we can - because the choices we make have always been personal, complicated. our skills cannot be confined to "prompt and execution." what we are "solving" isn't just a system of numbers - it is how we process our entire existence. it isn't just "2 and 2 is 4", it's staring hard at the numbers and making the four into an alligator. it's rearranging the letters to say ow and it is the ugly drawing we make in the margin.

at some point, you will be able to write something by feeding my work into a machine. it will be perfectly legible and even might sound like me. but a machine doesn't understand why i do these things. it can be taught preferences, habits, statistical probability. it doesn't know why certain vowels sound good to me. it doesn't know the private rules i keep. it doesn't know how to keep evolving.

"but i want something to exist that doesn't exist yet." great. i'm glad you feel creative. go ahead and pay a fucking artist for it.

this is all saying something we all already knew. the sad fucking truth: we have to die to remind you. only when we're gone do we suddenly finally fucking mean something to you. artists are not replicable. we each genuinely have a skill, talent, and process that makes us unique. and there's actual quiet power in everything we do.

[gludgenbell]

head disciples get overworked sometimes! thankfully, Xiao Jiu has always been there for his Qi-Ge, even if the poor fool fails him

[localgardenweed]

I think they’re crushing on each other your honor

[spartalabouche]

sometimes its really obvious how much people dont actually believe presentation=/=gender when they see their nonbinary friend go from extremely masculine to relaxing back into femininity once theyre comfortable with their gender and every time they call it detransitioning with zero indication thats what their friend is calling it. i dont know how to tell you this but sometimes you present a certain way for social reasons and not because thats how you actually feel. sometimes you experience dysphoria about your body that is actually related to how people view you and not how you feel about your body. i really dont think its that uncommon for trans people to swing really hard in one direction for the affirmation and then relax back into a different presentation once they are more comfortable in their gender

[thywheelof-fate]

okay but how many times do you think the Dark Urge tried to not-so-subtly feed Enver totally-not-people à la Hannibal and Will Graham

Durge, holding a container with bloody hands: I cooked a delicious meal for you, my friend and ally :) Well, Scelaritas cooked it but I hunted it :)

Enver, running on two hours of sleep: is this people

Durge: Yes :)

[greykolla-art]

Guys, Taskmaster has so many good quotes that fit them!😂

“I never know if you two are gonna fuck or fight!”

[del-tenna-rune]

when i'm in a "teenager character expected to act older than i am/be a perfectly innocent angel by the fandom" competition and my opponent is these mfs:

[eikichi-supremacy]

If nothing else Koenma is a Kuwabara stan and I'm right there with him o7 (I need to write the kuwameshi fic that goes with this fr)

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

can't forget these losers. mondo n taka

mondo is the ultimate cyclist. he and his brother ran a bike shop that he wants to make the best in the world, which is not related to why he liked biking. he just likes going fast

his brother was in a biking accident. there's some rumors that mondo staged the accident so he could become the ultimate cyclist

he can't have his pompadour because of biking helmets but he dyes his hair still bc it's cool as fuck

taka is the ultimate martial artist. after his grandpa's misconduct brought shame to the family, he decided to try restoring it through the renowned sport of honorable combat

is never not thinking about focus and discipline. tries to hide his relationship to his family in contests and school so that he never wins or loses a match because of rage alone

his grades and school conduct are still really good

[merakiui]

Absolutely love the possessive ex Scaramouche ramble in tags, please feed us more of that.

Gladly!! :D

(cw: yandere, extremely toxic ex scara, modern au, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, coercion, obsession, forced marriage, violent/suicidal threats, manipulation, mentions of intoxication/alcohol, implied self-harm)

The two of you were what everyone calls ‘high school sweethearts.’ You met him in the cafeteria when the both of you were first years. Despite the scowl etched on his face, he looked lonely sitting all by himself while everyone was finding tables, old and new friends gathering in groups. He’d ignored you, even scooting further away when you’d attempt to move closer. Even though he seemed so averse to you, you remained, silently eating your lunch. Neither of you said anything, but you did introduce yourself. He scoffed under his breath.

You started to sit next to him for every lunch, and he continued to give you the silent treatment. You never pressed him for conversation, instead choosing to enjoy silence while you ate and admired him from the sidelines. He never looked at you, always facing forwards and toying with his chopsticks, bending them so far until they were ready to snap. Eventually, he seemed to grow accustomed to this routine because many weeks into the semester he turned to address you.

“Why do you always sit by me? Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think anyone’s as mysterious as you are.”

“‘Mysterious…’ Yeah, whatever.”

That seemed to be the catalyst because, as sardonic as he was, he’d begun talking to you. And it wasn’t long until he started to warm up to you every lunch until the both of you were exchanging lighthearted banter. Your friendship would only grow from this point onwards until, at the end of your first year during a study session to prepare for finals, where you were both pulling an all-nighter at your house, he’d asked you out. And you said yes, and the both of you had gone from best friends to lovers within the span of a year. The both of you were each other’s first partner, so it made doing things as a couple even more exciting because neither of you had any experience with dates or holding hands or kissing.

Kuni wasn’t a bad boyfriend. In fact, he was very loyal and sweet. He’d stand up for you if anyone was being rude to you or scrutinizing your relationship with hateful eyes. The two of you were nearly inseparable. When you weren’t spending time together in school, you were out doing things together. And when you couldn’t meet up in person, you’d text or call, sometimes talking late into the evening about all sorts of things. You were so immersed in him that you failed to notice the red flags slowly raising over time. But looking back there were a few notable ones.

He never invited you to his house. In fact, you’d never even met his parents, whereas he’d been to your home so often that your family practically became his own. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his family, and if you tried to suggest going to his house for dinner so that he could introduce you to them he was quick to change the subject. For a while you’d push this, more curious than concerned, but eventually you’d drop it when it became clear that he wasn’t going to divulge anything on the matter. That had stung, but you snuffed those feelings in favor of focusing on other aspects of your relationship.

The second red flag was just how clingy he became when the both of you were in your third year, having been together for two solid years. You never noticed it before because you loved him, but when friends had pointed out how attached he seemed—and it was to rather unhealthy levels, according to their observations—to the point where you were the only person he’d ever formed a bond with while at school you started to see the cracks in what felt like the perfect relationship. He’d text you every single day, at every single hour, all the time. He’d call you nonstop, even more so when you didn’t immediately pick up.

The third red flag coincided with the second. When you couldn’t make it to your phone, he was quick to blame himself and those around him for being responsible for your deteriorating relationship. Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me? Did those guys bother you again? They probably told you some stupid shit about me, right? Don’t listen to them. Hey, you’re not mad, right? Call me back. I need to talk to you. Just text me when you can, okay? (Name), please don’t leave me. I’ll fix whatever’s wrong. Just promise you’ll stay. Messages of these kinds were what you could expect to receive from him. He’d fluctuate between self-loathing to loathing those around him within seconds, shoving blame onto classmates who’d bully him for being that “weird emo kid with too many piercings” and anyone else who tried to, in his words, “come between you and me.”

By the end of your third year, you started to fall out of love. He was so very dedicated to this relationship, evidenced by how much effort and care he’d put into it, but his clingy behavior was stifling. You’d lost some of your own friends because he chased them away, and it felt like you couldn’t do anything without him breathing down your neck. If you wanted to go anywhere with a friend or two, Kuni had to be there to accompany you. If you looked at another for too long, he’d think you were cheating. If you didn’t text or call him at certain times, if you failed to pick up, or—Archons forbid—you left him on seen, he’d spiral.

Kuni had this habit of sounding dangerously self-destructive when he feared you were being unfaithful or he thought you were going to break up with him, which meant you’d have to sit on the phone for hours convincing him that you loved him, that you’d never leave him, that you’d always be here for him, that you were sorry for not responding, that he needs to calm down and please, please, please don’t do anything rash. Those phone calls were always so stressful. You cried a lot; you’d beg him to put the knife away when he’d threaten to use it on himself, on you, on anyone who might try to take you from him. And, after a few hours of this, he’d be back to his usual self, as if a switch had been flipped. You could hear his adoring smile in his voice when he spoke, when he’d lovingly whisper into the phone, “I’m happy you’re mine. I love you so much.” And you’d shakily parrot the affirmation, too frazzled to say or do anything else.

One of your best friends Rosalyne, who you’d befriended in the midst of all of this, had been so supportive the minute you spilled the truth to her. Kuni hated her the most because she wasn’t afraid of him. Because she’d shut him down when he tried to pull you away from her. Because she wouldn’t approve of any of his toxicity. Rosalyne would take you on shopping sprees, brunch dates, and jogs at the local park. She was plenty of good to outshine Kuni’s bad, and the more time you spent with her the clearer your head would become. The both of you had plenty of sleepovers together, and she let you rant your heart out while she listened. She’d tell you to break up with him, but you’d agonized over how terrifying that would be. You couldn’t bear to tell Kuni the truth—that you wanted to separate because things had turned so rotten—because you were so scared. Scared of him and what he might do.

Scared that if he really did take a blade to himself it would be your fault. He told you that a lot. That it would be your fault if he did anything. That his blood would be on your hands. You believed him every time.

By your final year, you’d already had a plan for university outlined and you’d started applying to a few in advance. You never told Kuni about any of them because you worried he might apply to each one in hopes of going to the same school as you. And when there was the dance for the graduating class and Kuni had asked you to it, you’d told him you were going with Rosalyne and a few other friends as a group. He didn’t like this, as expected, but you’d been so sick of him and his behaviors that you snapped and spilled everything to him. You’ll never forget the look on his face when you told him that you were done with the relationship and that you never wanted to see him again.

He looked as if he could lunge at you and tear you to bloody ribbons at any moment.

You graduated single and so very refreshed, and your summer had been filled with friends. Kuni didn’t message you at all, which was surprising considering you were certain he’d spam you relentlessly after the break-up. But he never did. In fact, you never saw him again. Graduation had come and gone, and now that you could recover from such a terrible relationship he was becoming less of a burden for you. For a while you were anxious. You kept expecting to receive a phone call or to see some news about Kuni, but neither ever came. Rosalyne told you to stop thinking about him. It would only make you even more paranoid and that wouldn’t do your mental health any good. You were so grateful to have her in your life, but most importantly you were glad Kuni failed to scare her away.

Now you’re a second year in college and things have only gotten so much better for you. You and Rosalyne still keep in touch despite going to different schools. She’d gone to a university in Snezhnaya, while you enrolled in one in Sumeru, and you’ve blotted Kuni from your mind. You’ve made a fresh group of friends while attending classes: criminal justice major Shikanoin Heizou, creative writing major Kaedehara Kazuha, musical therapy major Venti, botany major Tighnari, and so many more wonderful people who have all welcomed you into their circles.

So when Venti drags a familiar face to your usual weekend outing, which is really just a retreat to the forest for drinking and smoking, creeping cold settles into your bones. He looks awkward with Venti’s arm slung around him as the more bubbly of the two drags him towards the bonfire, where you sit with the others roasting marshmallows for s’mores, and it’s a look that is so uncharacteristic on him. What’s even weirder is how friendly everyone greets him—as if they all know him—and you’re completely lost when they turn to you and ask if you’ve met Kunikuzushi.

“No,” you lie through your teeth, forcing a pleasant smile and extending your hand for a stiff handshake, which Venti snickers at. “No, I’ve never met him before.”

Apparently, he’s in one of Venti’s classes—it’s a course he’s taking solely because he needs the credits. Tighnari knows him because they usually work the same shifts at the campus café. Kazuha knows him from his linguistics and philosophy classes. Heizou’s ate with him in the dining hall plenty of times now and they’re also taking the same psychology class. It feels so genuine and yet so fake at the same time. Too perfectly manufactured to be a mere coincidence. But you do your best to push past these suspicions, and when he sits across from you, smiling at you and saying how nice it is to meet you, the warping flames paint his face in devilish shadows. That’s what you think he is when he acts like a completely different person from how he was when you dated: a devil who’s good at being kind and outgoing, noisy and abrupt, and always so foul-mouthed, but in a way that makes him charming. Your friends are so enthralled. They love him and his sense of humor. They love his quick wit. They love how fun he is. And suddenly weekends spent in the forest aren’t so enjoyable.

You do your best to overcome your doubts. For a few months you’re on edge. How he even found you is a mystery. Surely he wouldn’t stalk you and enroll in the same college just to get revenge or…whatever vengeance he wants from you. But when he treats you to coffee, when he brings you and the others pastries every other morning, when he invites the lot of you to study at the library, when he tells the funniest stories while crossed and everyone’s giggling like schoolgirls it really feels like he’s…healthier. Like he’s turned a fresh page in his life and is starting anew. Like he’s changed for the better.

Perhaps he just doesn’t remember you. You’ve changed your style over the years, so it’s possible he’s simply forgotten your image and can’t place memories to your name. Eventually, after soothing yourself with these theories, you begin to accept his presence in the group. He fits in so flawlessly, as if he’s a missing piece to the puzzle, and you can’t believe you’re admitting this, but you like this version of Kuni. He’s confident, not cocky. He’s kind, not rude. He gives everyone space. In fact, he rarely texts frequently in the group chat. And he’s funny! He’s so funny. You don’t think the Kuni from your past was ever as funny as the Kuni who regales everyone with lighthearted stories of how he once took in a stray cat that turned out to belong to his neighbor or how his old job had the strangest customers.

Maybe he truly did change. Maybe all of these coincidences really are coincidences. Maybe it’s for the best that you leave the past in the past.

Finals season looms, and the group hasn’t had time to meet up outside of class. Venti has tried to persuade everyone to come study at his apartment. His roommate won’t care (yes, he will. Xiao hates it when everyone gets blackout drunk and he has to wake everyone come morning), but if you’ve known Venti long enough you’ll know there is no studying that happens at these study sessions. This is probably the reason why he’s had to repeat a year.

With everyone’s schedules packed with academics, it’s difficult to find a time where everyone can get together to study. You think you might just be better off studying on your own, but Kuni’s message of you wanna pull an all-nighter for these lame af finals together?? accompanied with a photo of snacks and coffee, any thoughts of studying alone instantly vanish.

This is how you find yourself in his dorm, sprawled on his bed while he sits on the floor, whacking your dangling feet when they get too close to him. His roommate Albedo is currently out tutoring a few students at the library and won’t be back until much later, so it’s just you, Kuni, and a pile of textbooks and notes. You’ve hung out with Kuni a few times and he was great company during each. You’ve also fallen asleep in his dorm before, when you’d come over to binge a show the both of you enjoy, and you’d lost track of time and had slipped into a dream halfway through the marathon. You’d woken the next morning with Kuni looming over you, grinning deviously and holding an uncapped marker. He’d leaned down and whispered, “You drool in your sleep,” and you’d swatted at him and groused about how you were sleeping so peacefully when he just had to ruin your sleep (and your face) with his antics. And then there was that time when you were so drunk at that one party and you could hardly stand, he’d been there to help. He even stayed with you for the rest of that night, offering his assistance when you became nauseous or needed water or a snack until you passed out.

Despite your initial apprehensions, you consider him a friend. He’s no one nearly as close as Rosalyne or your other friends. He’s just a mutual friend, someone you’ll spend time with when you feel like it, but you don’t truly need him in your life. That, and part of you still struggles to trust him after all of the stress and unhealthy obsession he subjected you to.

“Kuni,” you whine, lifting your head from the textbook. “Can you get me some water? I’m thirsty.”

“Do I look like your maid?” he snaps, immersed in organizing his notes. “Get it yourself.”

“I’m picturing it now and you’re in a frilly dress and—”

“Forget I asked.” Setting his notebook down with an exaggerated sigh, he crosses the distance to the mini fridge and withdraws a bottle of water.

Grinning, you slide off of his bed and reach for it with a grateful hum. He smirks and takes a step back, holding it away from you.

“Seriously…”

Rolling your eyes, you lunge for it and he side-steps you with the practiced grace of a cat. You brace yourself against the wall and swipe at him. Again, he dodges, unscrewing the cap and shaking the bottle teasingly.

“I think I’ll take a sip for myself. All of this studying has left me so parched.”

“No fair! That’s mine!”

“Is it?” He pulls it away from his lips to observe the bottle and feigns surprise. “That’s weird. I don’t see your name on it.”

“Look closer!” you exclaim, but just as he’s about to humor you you pounce, tackling him to the ground—there’s a beanbag cushion that breaks your fall—and the water spills all over the both of you in the midst of the tumble. A slew of colorful words stick in Kuni’s throat and your laughter rings out melodiously. You seize his wrist and hold it down while reaching for the bottle in his other hand, where there’s still some water left. He struggles halfheartedly, relinquishing the bottle with a disinterested scoff, and you pull away from him to down what’s left.

While crushing the plastic bottle into a ball, you notice something on your palm—the palm that had grabbed Kuni’s wrist—and it takes a minute before the skin tone-colored substance registers in your mind.

Concealer.

You peer at him and notice that he’s cradling his arm, and confusion sprouts.

“So funny,” he spits with a hollow laugh. “You owe me a new beanbag if this one’s ruined.”

“Hey, hold on. What’s with the—”

“Forget it. You got your water, so let’s get back to studying. Or do you no longer want to be a perfect student?”

Without thinking, you grab his arm as he’s standing and when you look at his forearm you can see where the water’s started to wash the concealer away. Curiously, you scrub at it while he tries to yank his arm away, but when you unearth a dozen scars littering his wrist and climbing the length of his arm that creeping cold from before returns.

And suddenly you’re brought back to those phone calls—the ones where he’d threaten suicide and murder—and you stumble back as if you’ve been burned, half-expecting to hear those threats once more. Kuni’s staring at his wrist, his features twisted in grim disapproval, and for a moment you think he looks…hurt. Or maybe that’s sadness you see. Whatever emotion it was, it doesn’t linger because a quiet chuckle slips past his lips, and the sound is so very frigid it has your blood crystallizing.

“It really hurt when you said you never wanted to see me again.” Kuni peers down at you, and his eyes that had once been so bright and filled with light are dull and dark. “But nothing hurts more than loving you.”

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words won’t come. You’re rooted to the ground, horror slinking through your body and rendering you immovable. Your heart is in your throat, pounding so loudly it’s practically a drum, and a cold sweat washes over you.

“Each time I found myself hating you, I thought it was odd because I love you so much. I can’t possibly hate the one I’ve loved all this time.” He scowls. “But loving you hurts. Loving you feels like chewing glass and drinking poison. Loving you isn’t fair because while you moved forward with your ‘friends,’ I was forced to stay behind and pick up the pieces of what was left of you. So for every moment I couldn’t stand you, I tallied it on myself so that I’ll never forget the times I loved you so much I hated you.”

This can’t be happening, you’re thinking, curling your hands into trembling fists. He changed. He changed, right? This isn’t the same Kuni from before. This isn’t…

“And when I saw how well you seemed to be doing without me, I hated you even more.” Without warning, he’s grabbed your arm and hoisted you up. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes—not that anything could when he’s pulled a switchblade from his pocket and poised the pointed tip at your jugular. “You have poor taste in friends. Those guys suck.”

Tutting, he shakes his head at you like a parent might when scolding a child, and says, “Do you know how fucking tiring it was pretending? You think I care about pastries and stupid campfire stories? You really think I’d ever want to associate myself with that sorry lot?”

“K-Kuni, please let go of me. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were—I’m sorry. So please just…”

“And then the first time you see me after all these years apart and you had the gall to lie to my face! ‘I’ve never met him before.’ Bullshit. You just didn’t want any of your loser friends to know our history, right? Because you’re ashamed to have known me, right?”

“That’s not it! I… I was just—I didn’t… I was… I just…”

“I… I… I…” he mocks, shoving you down onto the beanbag. It dips under the sudden weight, and you sink further into it when he points the blade at you. “Stop tripping over your tongue. I should be the one near tears! You cast me aside and then forgot all about me. You abandoned me when I needed you most.” His voice cracks at that last sentence, and your heart skips erratically.

“That’s not what happened! We needed space. I needed space. You were being too—” You stop yourself, unsure of how to phrase it. Too controlling? Too dangerous? Too scary?

“Lucky for you, I’m willing to overlook these past...slights.” The blade twirls effortlessly in his grasp, and you heave a relieved breath when he’s no longer pointing it in your direction. “Marry me and we’ll forget all about the past. We’ll start over.”

His demand almost stops your heart altogether. You stare up at him, mouth agape, and mumble a disbelieving, “What?”

“You heard me.” He seems to soften with his next words, and for a moment he looks and sounds like the Kuni who hangs out with you and your friends. The harmlessly fun Kuni who always takes such good care of you. “You’re the only one I’ll ever love, so let’s get married.”

“K-Kuni, I can’t... I really can’t...”

Within seconds the blade has found itself on his wrist, pressing into delicate flesh. Not enough to cut, but if he applies more force you’ll definitely see blood. You choke on a horrified gasp.

“What was that?” He raises his brow at you, challenging you with a calm smile.

Your mind reels in an effort to conjure a plan. What can you even do? If you take the blade from him, will he turn his anger on you? Will you have to wrestle him into submission? And if you do manage to get out of his dorm, will anyone believe you? He’s painted himself in such a pleasant light. Your friends love and trust him! So what can you say? And if there isn’t any solid proof, no one will even entertain bringing the authorities into this mess.

“I’m waiting, (Name). Are you really going to make me add another tally? Do you really want me to hate you again? Oh, but maybe I should start marking you! We can add a slice for each time you failed to love me. That way we’ll both look like used cutting boards.”

You need help, you want to say, but the words escape you.

Instead, you nod hastily and say breathlessly, “Okay, yes! I’ll marry you!” Swallowing your horror, you glance at the blade as it’s lifted from his skin. Thankfully, there isn’t a cut. “I... I’ll marry you, Kuni. So... So please don’t hurt yourself. Please.”

It feels like you’ve been strangled for an eternity, so when he finally pockets the blade the air in your lungs returns and you collapse against the beanbag, chest rising and falling in short, panicked breaths. 

“Good.” He bends down to your height, grips your chin with cold fingers, and forces you to meet his adoring stare. “We’ll look at rings tomorrow. Or maybe you’d prefer bracelets instead? I can be flexible but only for you, so you’d better be grateful.”

You swallow rising bile and nod. “T-Thank you.” You’re not sure why you’re thanking him when he hardly deserves it, but it feels like the right thing to say to ease the tension.

Kuni’s eyes sparkle, no longer a void of endless darkness, and when he leans in to capture your lips in his your heart sinks. You really can’t run from your past, can you?