#Oh I have that Beneath the Burning Wave book
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An Encore of Betrayal
Summary: The devil with no sin nor memory and he who has held them all for centuries.
Word Count: 21.8k (get cozy)
Tags: Neuvillette x Fem!Reader, Slow burn, Slow fic, SMUT, NSFW, Historical AU, Fantasy AU?, Reincarnation AU, cursed!neuvillette, dragon!neuvillette, reincarnated!Reader, human!reader, Fluff, a lot of fluff, Melusines doing their best to play cupid, ex-lovers to lovers, slight enemies to lovers? ANGST, he's trying his best, dragon x human dynamics, Monsterfucking (two... I have no defense), cunnilingus(long tongue), marking, size kink? breeding kink, heat, overstimulation, hate sex? kinda?, slightly unhealthy dynamics (past life), dubcon, trust issues, immortal x mortal, slightly possessive!neuvillette, slightly yandere!neuvillette, TW: mild mention of blood, TW: descriptions of drowning, sin, and sacrifice. TW: Trauma from betrayal, themes of resentment, Infertility.
Author's Note: Wanted to try out a historical fantasy from Neuvillette's pov. I struggle with fantastical settings, so overlook any world-building confusion. Mihoyo won't give me his real name, and it's eating away at my sanity. Enjoy!
Somewhere deep beneath the waves, away from the omnipotent watch of false divinity, lies a village. A bustling home carved into an outcast cove nestled under the cover of suppressive tides.
One littered with tiny houses surrounding an impressive estate modeled much like the ones seen in those novels abandoned from capsized ships.
Would you believe that such a place exists?
Decorated with curious trinkets which sunk beneath the surface which had forsaken them, kept in this cove for so long that it was challenging to remember the azure hues.
Ornaments decorating the expanse of this once lonesome cave, almost enough to conceal its true origin: A prison.
A fool sentenced to this penitentiary masquerading as a home, now affectionately named ‘Merusea Village’.
Within that attentively built estate, a looming figure stood in front of a wall lined with neatly organized novels, lilac eyes running along the titles printed along each spine.
A collection saved from watery abandonment after falling overboard by the curious hands of Melusines. Amassed throughout the years until the shelves of this humble library were without vacancy.
Stopping a finger on a spine, he decided on the novel to pass the ever-plenty time bestowed upon him. He’s aware that each book amongst these shelves has been thumbed through by him.
But with enough years, the recollection of the contents contained within each one tends to become foggy.
It's fate that the novel selected in his hands just so happens to be a collection of tales.
Humans have many strange behaviors, one might even call them traditions. One particular tradition mortals seem to indulge in often is that of storytelling.
Lilac eyes browse through the pages, refreshing himself on the tale held within its faded covers.
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There once was a lovely kingdom amidst lush pastures and fertile lands where the townspeople sang and danced under the bright sunlight.
But one day the sun disappeared, concealed behind ashen clouds that cried a lonesome hymn, plaguing the unfortunate kingdom with rain.
The origin of the rain stemmed from the lonesomeness of a great dragon of water.
Thus, to stop the rain, the king sent out a princess to the dragon, declaring that the kingdom gates wouldn’t welcome her back if rain fell from the sky. She was sent off in a white gown.
Down below a flooded loch, the princess was offered to the weeping dragon. Looking up the princess saw the sorrowful pools in the beast’s eyes.
‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, why do you cry?’ She asked.
Intrigued by the bravery of the young princess, the dragon answered: ‘Because I am lonely, I have no brethren left.’
Feeling pity the princess responded: ‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, don’t cry. I will be lonely with you.’
So the princess befriended a lonesome dragon under the hymn of softening rain, with his loneliness soothed, the sun peeked back out from ashen clouds. But one day, pitiful tears fell from her eyes and the princess wept so bitterly.
The dragon could not bear seeing those tears stain her cheeks. He offered her pearls, jewels, and gold. Yet those bitter tears still fell, tainting the pristine water.
‘Beloved princess, why do you cry so bitterly?’ He implored.
‘I long to go home, I miss my kingdom,’ she revealed.
But she could not go home, for if she stepped foot away from the riverside the lonesome rain would start again. The colossal dragon could not leave the loch, but he could not bear seeing those bitter tears.
So he relented, telling the princess a secret. A secret all dragons buried deep within: His true name.
‘If you speak my name, my true name, then I can grant you one wish. But be careful, for there can only be one wish.’ The dragon whispered.
‘Do you wish to return to your kingdom, beloved princess?’ He asked.
The princess was silent for a long while, weighing the choices in her hand. She longed to return home, but she also longed to be by the side of her kind dragon.
Confident in her decision, she beckons the great dragon closer, until her lips could reach the side of his large head where his ear lay. After whispering his name, she tells the beast her wish.
‘I wish for you to become my prince, so we can return to the kingdom together, that way you won’t ever be lonely again.’
A clever wish he grants with a nod. Scales and claws shedding away until a handsome prince stood in front of her. Thus, hand in hand they returned from the loch to the warm welcome of the kingdom.
And they lived happily ever after.
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Ah, so it was that tale.
Judging from the age of the novel, he guesses it must be a rendition of a rendition.
Words and events twisted, embellished, and simplified. Until it became nothing more than a mere fable told to entertain the wandering minds of children.
A beloved tale of a maiden who got a dragon to give up his grand authority, stopping the flood of vengeance from drowning Fontaine.
This is what the origin of his damnation has turned into. The tales of the heroine’s feats sung and written throughout the narrative of time, passing from one generation’s lips to another’s ears.
However, he supposes this is expected of humans. It’s their tradition of storytelling, after all, mending a fallacy into a tale palatable to their conscious.
Or perhaps, these embellishments were added to compensate for the hollows caused by the frailty of mortal memory.
Patching over the holes with flowery words to distract readers from inaccuracies that were only compounded upon from the last.
Fontainians who came to believe in it, must not have known the dragon all that well, considering that they thought the proud dragon would bow to the whims of a meek human.
Placing a secret so simply in her hands at the mere sight of tears.
Did Fontainians not realize that the land they reside on once belonged solely to dragons? How preposterous it is that a sovereign couldn’t set foot upon his own land. Or did they forget why he couldn’t?
What a naive ending, did mortals truly believe that blood and water could dwell together without consequences? That simply wishing the dragon to become a human could resolve all troubles?
To overwrite everything with a ‘happily ever after’ which never happened?
Regardless of his reservations toward such fables, the Melusines always seem eager to gather around for such stories. The towering figure lacked the conviction to deny such requests.
From down the hall approaching closer came the pitter-patter of steps, he turned his tall frame toward the direction of the sound just as a few familiar faces revealed themselves from the library entrance.
“Monsieur Neuvillette! Come quickly! A human! A human appeared!” A group of Melusines tugs on the fabric of his slacks while pointing toward the phenomenon.
A mortal in this domain? A cavern hidden deep under the land and waters where the warmth of the sun couldn’t grace. How did such a being find their way into this sanctum? It’d be best that he alleviates their worries.
“Please lead the way.” Neuvillette closes the novel, returning it to the confines of its shelf.
His swift movements in time with the melusines’ frantic patter as they made their way out from his estate.
Soon the tops of the Melusines’ cozy homes of Merusea Village came into view, as did the murmuring of a distraught crowd.
“Excuse me.” His steps made their presence known, their heads perked up to look at him before parting a path for Neuvillette.
Upon the maroon pasture of Merusea Village was a blanket of silk and woven lace, snowy fabric surrounding the still figure of a human.
Treading closer Neuvillette kneels down while reaching out a hand, weaving his fingers under the fabric which obscures the mortal’s face.
“We found her while gathering offerings from the waters … Is she…” The anxious murmuring quiets to await his verdict.
“She has a pulse,” he reveals, fingertips detecting wisps of warmth along cold skin.
It was faint, but his attentive eyes caught onto the slow movement of her chest. The snowy fabric had greedily drunk up the essence of the sea. Cursing her to sink deeper below the tides.
To leave a mortal in such a state would be too cruel of a fate.
Neuvillette moves his hand to support her covered head as his other arm gathers the damp fabric under her legs.
Carefully, he stands back to his full height, cradling her limp body in his hold. An audience of fretful gazes follow his motions.
“Do not fret, she only requires some rest and a change of clothing, I’ll take her to my abode. Could you gather some cloth to dry down her body?” Neuvillette’s melodic voice just barely above a whisper, so as not to stir the figure in his arms.
His expression softens to offer the compassionate creatures some reassurance. With firm nods the Melusines scatter, determination alight in their bright irises as they sought the necessary items to care for their newfound guest.
The dampness of the heavy fabric seeps into his own attire as Neuvillette turns the knob to grant him entry into his abode.
Quietly ambling through the spacious halls, the master bedroom came into view. Neuvillette lays the limp form upon his sheets, ensuring that her head rests slowly upon the soft pillows.
Just as her figure sinks into the mattress, a chorus of metallic clinks catches his attention. Glancing down her body his lilac eyes discover the origin.
A pair of silver shackles encased around her ankles, the unforgiving metal digging into defenseless flesh.
Gingerly, he takes one ankle into his grasp to better observe the shackles.
This time he couldn’t fight against the deep frown as it debuted upon his lips. His eyes hone on how tightly those heavy chains were bound along the flesh.
Soon the unforgiving metal crashes down to the floor, he soothes the freed skin with his thumb while checking for any other possible wounds.
Lilac eyes travel up to her face for any sign of discomfort, only to be reminded that her face was concealed behind a shroud of lace.
How uncomfortable it must be to have a cold piece of fabric to cover one’s face. Neuvillette places her ankle back onto the bed.
His large hands took hold of the damp veil to lift it from her resting frame, revealing to his draconic eyes for the first time their face.
The veil stays suspended in the air as his hands cease all motion. Hardened gaze tracing over her features, the curve of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, and the structure of her face.
Repeated details he had long seared into his consciousness.
Within those mortal tales, there’s a wide variety of beasts and fearsome creatures. Dragons were depicted as such omnipotent beasts. But there’s a monster all other beast falls secondary to, the devil.
They didn’t possess the sharpest talons nor the largest fangs. No, what made them so horrifying is that they dawned the most enchanting faces.
He’s staring at it right now. The face of the devil who deceived him.
Those gods must be laughing at him right now. Those false idols, with their capricious fate and whims, who once must’ve shook hands with you to carry out their schemes all those years ago.
The scheme which imprisons him here in this humiliating form of the mortal creatures those false idols loved so much.
Yes, a devil, that must be what you are. For how did a meek mortal trick a dragon who once held the full authority of the tides?
His chest expands with a deep breath before a long exhale leaves him. Ah, yes that must be why this white gown has appeared before him again. He removes the senseless scrap of lace, checking once more for signs of discomfort before he turns his body away.
Finding himself outside the threshold of his bedroom as he closes the door behind him. He should wait here for the Melusines to arrive with a change of clothes and towels.
It’d buy him enough time to steadily return the tempestuous loch to a subdued ripple in a pond. His chest expands once more with a deep inhale.
A second cruel rendition unfolding once more in the narrative of time.
The crisp turn of a page resounds through the room. Lilac eyes glanced up from the text every so often to watch the steady rises and falls of your chest from his vantage point of a wooden chair pulled up to the bedside.
Heavy lashes still shut just as they were the day your drenched figure was pulled from the tides by merciful hands.
The journey to wisdom is lined with mistakes, mistakes providing teachings one must ingrain into their very being if they don’t wish to repeat such blunders again.
Just as how a burn seared into skin is a forever reminder that fire indeed burns indiscriminately.
A scar ingrained deep within him cries out for Neuvillette to withdraw from the fire which scorned him so long ago.
Alas, it’s duty which has sat him down beside your sleeping form. You’re the first guest this cove has seen in a long time, thus bringing you under the responsibility of the host, Neuvillette himself.
A stir brings his stoic gaze back away from his thoughts. Your chest rises with a long inhale as leaden lashes flutter open.
The cadence of your breaths begins to rise as more of your senses return to you. Fatigue evident in each slow drag of breath.
“Ah, I see you’ve awoken.” Neuvillette observes.
Your muscles momentarily forget their fatigue as your head snaps toward the owner of the deep voice. Eyes now wide and alert.
“My apologies, it wasn’t my intention to startle you.” He casts a glance toward the steaming bowl on the nightstand.
He could feel the weight of your stare travels up his figure. Do you perhaps remember him? Can you recall his lush snowy locks streaked with azure? Irises that held an all too familiar hue, a multitude of lilac shades much like a field of lavenders.
Does this ‘you’ remember the dragon you fooled?
“W-who are you?...” Your gaze was too cowardly to meet his.
Ah, have the cycle of death and rebirth washed those sins and memories?
The tonality of your trembling voice filled with puzzlement instead of recognition. He should’ve expected this much.
This you is nothing more than a stranger who shares the face of a devil.
“Where am I?” Another question leaves those lips in the absence of a response.
Just give him a moment, allow him to pacify the surging torrent within so their bitterness doesn’t seep into his words.
“You’re in our village!” A cheery voice joins the conversation.
Two pairs of eyes land upon a short figure with a pair of pastel horns. You blink once, then twice, then slowly thrice. Inquisitive eyes stared right back at you.
“W-what… are you?” Instinct commanding your body to retract deeper into the sheets.
A sharp cough halts your actions, drawing your attention back to the man as he lowers his hand down from his lips.
“She’s a Melusine, they prefer to be addressed using she/her pronouns,” he elucidates, an ever so subtle chastise in his tone.
“Oh…” You advert your gaze again, shame creeping onto your cheeks from your unintentional discourtesy.
A few breaths of silence follow, he observes you studying everything but the two figures just beside the bed.
Your fingers soothing over the soft cotton nightgown against your skin, a change from that restrictive and ornate dress.
“We, Melusines, helped you change out of that wet dress. Big sister Sedene said you’d get sick if we left you in that.”
It looks like your diverted gaze wasn’t as subtle as you originally thought. Sheepishly you extend your gratitude.
“Thank you…” Your words draw out, a brow quirked as your stare reminded on her short form.
“Kiara!” She points to herself with a mitten hand.
“Thank you, Kiara.” You finish.
Her mittened hand then gestures to the towering man beside her.
“This is Monsieur Neuvillette! He’s the one who carried you here,” she announces.
“T-thank you, Monsieur Neuvillette.” You could only gather the courage to glance at the wall behind him.
“Just Neuvillette is fine,” his tone melodic and calm. “Are you able to sit up?”
Nodding your head, you attempt to fight through the fatigue of your muscles. Neuvillette and Kirara offer their assistance, his firm hands guiding your body up as Kirara adjusts the pillows to support your back.
Once you were situated, he reached for the bowl placed down earlier. A light clink sounds out from a spoon clattering about the porcelain dish. You glance at the contents, noting the clear amber broth.
“This should be kind on your stomach while providing you with some much-needed hydration and nutrients.” He holds out the soup.
A quivering hand attempts to reach up for the bowl, only for muscles to lose to fatigue as your arm limply falls back down to your side. Your strength has yet to return.
Another clink from the spoon resounds in the room as it gets taken into the grasp of an attentive hand. He holds out a spoonful of the warm soup, but your lips remain shut as a skeptical gaze meets his.
“Please forgive this inconvenience, but it’s best that you eat something to regain your strength.” The spoon remains unmoving in his hand.
There’s a rumbling stir within him. A voice snarls into his ear, interrogating him as to why his hand is feeding the very devil who once bit it.
“If you don’t eat you won’t get better.” Kiara’s eyes are riddled with concern as she observes your sealed lips.
That was his rebuttal to that snarl.
The Melusines simply don’t wish to see a human in such a pitiful state. Blissful in their ignorance of events that conspired long before their birth.
Dignity overpowered by the guilt of seeing such pure eyes marred with worry.
Soon your lips part, accepting the spoonful of broth delicately offered by him. After he observes you swallowing the first sip, Neuvillette holds out another spoonful. You part your lips again.
Neuvillette overrides the clamorous warnings of his instincts with the duty of being a ‘good host’, bringing another sip to your delicate lips.
With a regular diet of warm broth with servings of Bulle Fruit on the side, you were soon able to pick up the spoon yourself. The fatigue that plagued your bones finally leaves, allowing you to support your body off the mattress which had your shape imprinted into it.
The Melusines, seemingly born infatuated with humanity, would often gather about your bed.
They were curious about you just as you were about them. To them, you’re the creature from those fairytales he’s read them.
In exchange for your recollections of warm Summer days and descriptions of lush lilac fields swaying in a gentle breeze, they reveal more about this village.
About how the estate you were currently residing in was refurbished by their own-mittened hands, taking inspiration from the various books depicting what human abodes looked like.
The beds, drapes, and even rugs are all arranged by them to create a lovely abode. A drastic change to the worn and rampaged shell it once was before their meddling.
Perhaps if he never filled their naive minds with those tales, they wouldn’t be enamored with you and humanity.
Or maybe it’s the vibrance of your smile that drew their naive souls closer. A warmth like a flickering candlelight beckoning a moth closer.
What are the odds that the hands of fate stayed so faithful to the details of a heroine from so long ago?
From your image to your bewitching mannerisms, and alluring voice, they’re all identical replicas. You and the ‘devil’ from that tale.
Wisdom from a lesson learned long ago, he must not repeat the same mistake. He must not be enchanted by the same flame which scorned him. He must ensure a breadth between you and him, just as those tiresome voices call for.
However, Neuvillette understands he has a responsibility as a host. Thus, he regularly checked on your condition, then when you were well enough to stretch your legs he accompanied you on strolls. Maintaining a respectable distance away.
He guided you through the marble halls of the estate, showing the library and bath which were yours to access whenever you wanted.
Rooms illuminated with the muted glow of luminescence gems and pearls. Water sourced from a hidden freshwater spring.
Impassive eyes observe yours as you look in awe at the facilities and commendations hidden deep under the tides. Were they comparable to the ones you’ve encountered back on the surface?
This estate, these wide stone halls, those pearls and jewels once scattered about, were all made just to please the bitter tears of a mortal. Perhaps his first attempt was too subpar to quell the longing to return to the sunlight.
But gauging from the glimmer reflecting off your eyes, it seems the Melusines attempt was satisfactory at least.
Today’s stroll took you outside of the estate, Neuvillette accompanying you about a routine walk, watching from behind as your eyes scan the dim realm.
The lanterns lining the path of Melusine's home grace the maroon pastures and rocky walls in place of the faint wisps of sunlight offered by the depths of the sea.
Very much expected for a village beneath the waves and earth. Were you reminiscing about the warm grace of the sun you felt up there?
It’s not fair to compare the vast sky of the surface to their cavern hidden away from the eyes of the mortals, perhaps even the divine themselves.
“Monsieur Neuvillette?” You began today’s attempt at a conversation.
“Yes?” He hums in acknowledgment.
He keeps sentences brief, but informative. Counters to your attempts at conversation.
“I’m aware this might sound strange, but is there a dragon down here?” Turning back to face him.
His strides stop as a lull of silence falls over the both of you. The weight of his unshaken gaze upon your shoulders caused them to tense up.
Your hands find each other for comfort under his oppressive stare as he awaits the reason behind this odd inquiry.
“W-well you see, Fontaine has been having awful weather for years now. Saltwater running crops and persistent heavy rain, it’s because the Hydro Dragon is crying from his loneliness. I was selected and offered as his bride, to stop the rain, that’s what The Oratrice instructed,” you babble out.
“So…do you know where he is?” Sheepishly you glance up.
The lilac hues of his eyes connect with yours as his lips remain unmoving. Staring into your eyes as he contemplates what you have just revealed to him. Your hands fumble together as you await his response.
“So humans are still telling that local legend…” He sighs.
He has to rein it back. The torrent which threatens to brew within him. Deep breaths to remind himself about the nature of mortals.
Humans are fickle and meek creatures who constantly yearn for something divine to worship, a figurehead to guide them in the turbulence of life.
When faced with hardship and destitution, they believe such concepts to be punishment from above.
Thus, they invent traditions to appease those false idols. Going to great lengths in attempts to pacify those unseen forces, even if it meant sacrificing one of their own.
Perhaps this was the trait of mortals that made them so favored by the usurpers, their naive devotion feeding into the greed of selfish gods.
Maybe that’s why those false idols uprooted the land that belonged to dragons.
“I wonder just how far that fable has spread by now,” he sighs again.
His lashes flutter shut in exasperation as a huff leaves him. It was a moment before they flutter back open to hone in on you. There’s no use in keeping his identity from you any longer.
“Do I seem lonely in your eyes?” Baritone voice steady and low.
No sounds fall from your agape lips as your eyes reexamine his features, this time shamelessly ogling the peculiar details you’ve brushed off previously.
Do you notice it now? How his ears were a bit too pointed, or those two particular cerulean strands of ‘hair’ poking out from his snowy locks.
As you study the specifics of his eyes, do you now comprehend the sharp dark pupils that cut through the multitude of lilac shades? Much like a shadow cutting through a field of lavenders.
“You’re the Hydro Dragon,” you deduce.
He nods in confirmation. Only causing your eyes to scan over him again as your mind reels back from this revelation.
In those stories you’ve read back on the surface, how did they depict him? As a towering scaled beast with fangs and claws? Are you wondering why he’s not matching that description?
“I’m aware that my current shape might not convey such a presence, ” he answers your unspoken question.
He fights for his lips to remain stoic, not allowing the weight of a frown to pull them down. You don’t know, you don’t need to know, he reminds himself.
A detail excluded from the pages of that tale, the ‘princess’ would only ever look at him, would only ever smile at him when a dragon took on this shape. A form which mirrors humans.
In fact, she was so fond of this human shell of his that she cursed him to dwell within it for the rest of eternity.
Neuvillette takes another deep breath, quelling the stir once more. You look like you had more questions.
“So… does that mean the need for a bride is fictitious?” You clutch your hands tighter.
Some years ago, the Melusines were born from spilled blood. A new generation of successors of the brethren he once forsaken. Making this prison much less lonesome, voiding the accuracy of the sentence in that tale.
If that was the case, then why did the waters still rage? Why did the pittering of rain drown out all bird songs and tumults of perplexed citizens? Is there a way he could simplify the details missed by storytellers for generations?
After that ‘happily ever after’, a dragon cursed his devil just as she cursed him.
No, such expositions would be an unfair burden upon your shoulders.
“It’s not fictitious.” Turning to gaze out at the depths of the underground realm, he takes a breath before continuing.
“The land which your nation, Fontaine, resides on is stolen land,” he reveals. “More accurately all of what you know as ‘Teyvat’ was stolen from the dragons, my fellow brethren.”
The furrow in your brows deepens as you listen on.
“My brethren were banished to the depths for the sake of humanity. A dragon’s rage isn’t something that can be easily quelled.” He glances back at you.
“A union between a dragon and a human, a show of peace between the two species. Even if the origins of this ritual have been embellished heavily, it serves the same purpose to pacify the ancient dragon’s rage,” he concludes.
Neuvillette wonders if this tale was enough to satisfy your inquiry, if his attempt at the human practice was enough to simplify the events muddled and twisted by time.
Impassive eyes scan over your expression, not missing the glimmer ever so bright within.
“So… has the rain stopped?” Your hands almost clasped together in prayer.
He nods, the shine growing ever so luminous in those blameless irises, one he couldn’t resist the enchantment of. That all too familiar look in your eyes.
“That’s good.” A slow smile made its appearance upon plush lips.
Ah. He remembers what that look was called, voices of recollection pulling him away from the edge. Just before he fell into bewitchment once more.
That look wasn’t relief, nor was it salvation. It's duty. He takes a slow and deep inhale.
Just as it was all those years ago, the narrative of this tale did not stray away from the plot. He must be more careful.
There’s been a still lull engulfing the atmosphere down in a hidden cavern. So still in fact that walks amongst maroon patches of grass have stopped. Your body was well enough to explore the corners of the state without assistance.
No reason for him to remain by your side throughout the day, and no reason for you to shadow him.
Neuvillette and you keeping mostly to one’s self. It was just the natural progression of things. After all, the ritual had been completed and the tides had receded. You’ve served your duty once more.
A foreign aroma was wafting through the estate, strange enough for Neuvillette to leave the library to investigate the origins of this aroma.
Steps slowing as the clacker of pots and pans becomes more distinct. The entrance of the estate kitchen comes into view, and he peers in to see a few familiar faces.
“Oh? Monsieur!” Rhemia notices his presence.
An assortment of vegetables, spices, and even some meats from fresh catches were spread about the table as a pan sizzling over a crackling fire.
Ingredients gathered from offering dropped down below the tides. The recent influx could be attributed to how the hymn of the rain has ceased.
“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Your smile greets him.
Ah, he’s found the explanation behind the foreign aroma and why the variety spread of ingredients was being utilized in a kitchen that was once mainly created just to match those diagrams drawn in novels.
“I hope you don’t mind my use of the kitchen, I wanted something other than…Consomme Purete.” Wiping your hands with a rag.
Yes, Consomme Purete.
It was the dish served when you had first woken up, a light but nutritious soup that was kind on your stomach. It had the right amount of hydration balanced with nutrients to sustain oneself, a perfect dish.
The only dish cooked in this kitchen, that was until today.
Removing a pan from the heat, you carefully transfer the contents onto a plate then place the pan back on the wood stove.
The rich aroma caused an audience of bright-eyed stares from the Melusines to center upon the steaming plate. Their tails make their excitement clear as they gaze upon a dish they’ve never seen before.
Was this a new passion of this life?... Or was it just one he never got the chance to witness?
Was this the devil before the role of a bride was forced upon her? A devil he’s never known, for all he saw was her performance to stop the deafening rain all those years ago.
His attention was brought back as the chime of cutlery against porcelain was heard, cooked veggies stabbed between the teeth of a fork.
Cupping a hand under the fork, your body leans down to the Melusine’s height, feeding them a bite of the fragrant dish. The wags of their tails increase in cadence as they chew.
“This is Tasses Ragout, tasty isn’t it?” The corners of your lips curl as you watch their little heads nod eagerly.
The suspicion melts from his gaze as he observes to the delight in their expressions, a few mitten hands tugging at the skirt of your gown for a bite. A giggle bubbles from your throat.
A scene mirroring that of a mother trying to appease the appetites of her ravenous young.
Soon your eyes connect and he straightens his posture. Brushing away the nonsensical musing, lilac hue advert away momentarily to recompose themselves before returning.
“Would you like a taste?” A fork offered in his direction, beckoning closer to take a bite.
There’s a myth he’s read about, of a forbidden apple held out by the tempter of all tempters, an apple so red and lustrous it made any mouth salivate.
“Thank you for the offer, however, I’ve already had my lunch.” He refrains.
A bite from that forbidden fruit was the genesis of disgrace and banishment. A betrayal of commandments once promised. Neuvillette won’t be deceived again.
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“Monsieur! Monsieur! Come look!”
Mittened hands grasping upon his coat and gloved hands as a circle of Melusines guides him through the winding halls, anticipation amping their voices.
There’s a chorus of giggles resounding through the halls, a joyous clamor of pattering steps against the marble floors.
The estate has been lively ever since your arrival in that white dress, a liveness which reaches his pointed ears even from behind closed doors.
Regardless, he allows himself to be towed by their skipping steps. Leading him to a room he recognizes as a space where many fabrics and gowns were collected and stored.
Garments made with the intent to be sold to Fontainians, but their crates were capsized over by the ravenous tides. Saved from watery abandonment by curious hands.
While this form of his could wear a few of those garments, the Melusines had statures much too short for pools of fabric to not drag along the ground. Thus, that collection of fabrics found themselves collecting dust.
Their steps abruptly stop just at the threshold of the door, mittened hands pressed up against their lips signaling for him to remain silent.
Soon their sights glance into the room as he follows, lilac eyes opening ever so slightly wider as they process the scene in front of him.
Evening gowns crafted by skilled tailors to be sold to Fontanian ladies, you had the right frame for those garments as well.
A trail of lustrous sapphire silk gathered behind your figure. The artistic stitching and pleating draping the silk around each curve of your body as if you were the only person meant to wear it.
A few Melusines fussing about the silk train, ever so curious of humanity, they must’ve requested for you to dawn the gown.
Just as they often had requested for him to dawn those fickle suits and coats for their enjoyment.
It seems you bent to their childish whims just as he does.
“How do you like it?” You ask your audience, twirling about in front of a mirror.
It’s different from those hardier dresses for when you wandered about the village and estate, in comparison this dress was much less practical.
“It’s beautiful, Madame!” Their round eyes were enamored.
“I’m glad, who knew you had such an aesthetic eye.” Your expression softens.
Bending down to Carole’s height, you scooped her up. Cradling her as your forehead touches her horns gently.
“Thank you for such a lovely dress.” Placing tender pats along her head, careful to not disturb her horns and hair.
Carole leans into your touch as your smile widens. Twirling once more with her in your arms, giggles ringing throughout the room.
Until your head peeked up, finally aware of the silent spectator just behind the door frame.
“Oh, hello Neuvillette,” you greet him with a smile he doesn’t return.
A tense lull creeps in, and a chill begins to mix with the quiet atmosphere. Lilac eyes pass over your form as Carole remains sat in your arms.
“Monsieur! Isn’t Madame pretty? Look!” Cheery and oblivious voices chime returning the warmth to the air.
Mitten hands release your skirt as they skitter toward his towering figure. Pride shines in their beaming smiles, awaiting validation of their handy work.
Steadfast eyes lowering themselves to the level of their short statures until the sharp edges gradually dissipate.
“A fine effort indeed.” A gloved hand extends to rest atop their heads.
Patting their heads tenderly as they closed their eyes in contentment
A warmth in those lilac hues, endearment no word could ever encapsulate fully.
“Are they your daughters?” Your head slants to the side.
His body stills, strictness reinstated in those violet irises just as they met yours. Studying that look within your polite smile, one which didn’t seem to reach your eyes.
Gloved hand ceasing all movement, his concentration now elsewhere. That expression ghosting your face, what does it mean?
“My apologies, was it too impudent of a question?” Your gaze adverts away, searching for reprieve in this heavy hush.
A deep breath as he formulates his response.
“I don’t share blood with them if that’s what you’re inquiring. However, they are the successors of my brethren.”
“Oh, I see,” you hum.
Neuvillette returns to patting their heads, while you readjust your hold on Carole. Subtly bouncing her, while turning back to face the standing mirror.
Casting a glance, he could discern the softness returning to that polite smile. Yet, the dragon has yet to unravel that luster in your irises.
An audience of bright eyes switches between the Monsieur and Madame.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Bring these to her, you should greet the Madame!” Tiny hands push against Neuvillette’s back.
The traitorous clicks of his shoes against marble expose his approach.
Your head peers up from the book resting upon your lap, in the midst of reading a tale aloud to an audience.
Just in time to catch the tall figure of Neuvillette emerging into the library at the behest of the Melusines.
Lilac eyes meet yours ever so briefly before his gaze averts elsewhere. Gloved hand adjusting a bundle hidden a broad back, brings the other hand up to clear his throat.
“The Melusines found these when retrieving some offerings from the water, I believe you’ll enjoy them.” He presents their trinket.
A simple collection of dainty petals clustered together, pastel hues contrast against vivid virescent leaves. A quaint ribbon tied around the stems holding the bunch together held out in front of your face.
The recipient stares in round-eyed astonishment at the fragrant blooms before a smile melts into your lips.
“Thank you.” You accept the bouquet from his hand.
Admiring the rustic arrangement and the saccharine aroma as the Melusines sat around you leaned in closer to catch a whiff too.
“These are called Pluie Lotus up on the surface, they smell nice right?” Giggling lightly as you held the bouquet closer to their noses.
Grin ever present upon your lips as your soft eyes watch their marvel of such simple weeds. A bloom foreign to this realm abandoned by the sunlight.
There’s subtle slack in his posture, a budding smile just about to unfold just as your head peers back up. Every fiber in Neuvillette’s being tenses, goosebumps slithering up his nape.
Frozen there only able to witness your eyes study back and forth the hues of his irises and the periwinkle color tinting the fragile petals.
He watches an epiphany light up in your widened eyes as the bouquet was lifted higher, turning back to face him.
Don’t. Don’t say the words he knows are hanging off the tip of that honeyed tongue.
“They are the same lovely color as your eyes, Neuvillette.” You beam at him, the corners of your eyes crinkling from the stretch of your lips.
His posture returns to its rigid and upright state, a hand hidden from view balls up into a fist.
A sharpness threatening to break through leather confines and into his palm, as if they were attempting to grapple the surging torrent stirred up within himself.
Why? Why was this line from a script being recited word for every damn word? All said with that saccharine smile plastered over those wicked lips?
Indecipherable eyes narrow ever so slightly before he catches himself. Reining in the torrent just before it seethed out.
He clears his throat again to swallow back the bitterness.
“Do excuse me, please return to your reading session,” he utters his parting.
Promptly turning to return to his secludedness, stepping past the Melusines gathered by his side.
Swift strides through the empty halls leaving you to your peace and him to his peace, just as it should’ve been. Much to the pouts of a disappointed audience.
However, he didn’t have the mind to contemplate their discontent. Not when these rabid bellows drown out every other thought in their rancor.
Like a sea starved for vengeance, ravenous to settle a debt against those vile gods and their beloved creations.
A brass knob was abruptly twisted, hinges squealing in surprise as at the force as Neuvillette shuts it behind himself.
Ragged breathes resounding through the reprieve of his bedroom. Away from innocent bystanders and the devil who showed her face again after all these centuries for an encore.
Has he not been humiliated enough? He tugs at his cravat, freeing himself from the fickle decoration constricted about his neck in this already imprisoning body.
A form which binded him no matter how violently talons and fangs clawed and chewed, unable to leave a singular dent upon this damn curse.
This was humiliating enough, bound to this cove that separated him from the sea which cries for their sovereign.
He once believed this penitentiary was obscured away from the peeking eyes of capricious gods. Perhaps, he’s wrong.
Why is this fantasy being played out right in front of his eyes now after all these years?
To have you by his side, to have you reside in the home he craved out and inlaid pearls into, to see you smile and cradle young against your bodice. It’s insulting.
Because this was all he ever wanted. This was all he had ever wanted.
The lonesome dragon only ever yearned for a maiden’s endearment. He once believed she adored him back just the same.
Because while she lay within his arms under silken covers, her bare skin pressed against his mortal shape, her enchanting eyes always regarded him with such tenderness as her delicate hand stroked his cheek.
A glimmer he once believed was love.
The tale written along the parchment implied that the ‘princess’ loved the dragon. However, that was inaccurate. She never did.
For if she loved him, then she wouldn’t have deceived him.
She wouldn’t have ever whispered his secret to the town’s folk. Those foul creatures who then used his secret, which was once reserved solely for ‘you’.
Why? That simple question taunted him for decades as he rotted in this mocking solitude.
Why did ‘you’ yearn for the sun more than him? Was his love not enough to replace the warmth of a star? Was the home he made not enough when compared to the extravagance of humanity?
Or was it because blood and water, no matter how much they intertwine and mix, could never produce wine?
If… if the Melusines had been born just a few centuries earlier, then would you have been satisfied by his side? An answer he could already discern.
Because after his decades of solitude within these deridingly hushed walls, he finally accepted the truth.
She loved her people, they took up all the space of her heart, leaving no room for a prideful leviathan.
What a clever plan it all was, to distract a sovereign from his duty, cleansing stolen land with a flood of vengeance, by sending a maiden.
A woman so bewitching, so enchanting, and so lovely, that a proud dragon couldn’t resist bending to her whims. Spilling the secret hidden deep within him into her ear.
Abandoning his true form to be confined in the shape she favored the most. Then lured up to the surface, suspicions obstructed by the dazzlement of a false welcome from the nation of Fontaine.
Unaware until the scorching knife was already lodged in his back. Using the secret he had only ever told you, those meek creatures of the usurpers wished:
‘For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides’.
What a clever ploy, a masterly crafted master plan. Did that Oratrice bestow it upon mortals? Or was it your own little scheme? A devil in human skin who must’ve been enlisted by the god themselves.
That day when he was chained by that loch, you didn’t even bother to grace him with your presence.
You cruel, cruel devil whose heart only had room for her fellow citizens of Fontaine, whose eyes only ever glimmered with duty.
Neuvillette had finally comprehended the truth, he had made peace with the disgrace he brought upon himself.
So why did those vile false gods dangle you back in his face? They had already taken fragments of his authority.
Was his torment entertaining to them?
Lungs shaking with unsteady breaths, he could feel the pricks of scales dotted along his skin only for this body to swiftly reject it. A turmoil of draconic influence constrained by a mortal curse.
Like a beast kept in a cage much too small for it. If Neuvillette wishes for this agitation to cease, he must cease the stirred emotions.
Emotions don’t settle quickly once agitated like sand attempting to settle at the bottom of violent tides. He paces his shuddery inhales, biding in the solitude of his room until the storm dissipates.
To avoid the placid lake within him from thrashing violently to the woes from the throb of a wound which has yet to scar over, Neuvillette found it best to avoid your presence.
The lanterns outside the Melusine’s homes had long gone out as they followed their routine bedtime.
The expanse of the cavern dimmed to near blackness, the small creatures all tucked away soundly in their beds. A hushed ambiance provides a suitable environment for reflection.
His steps flatten the grass underneath as they accompany his strides with their rustling.
The absence of light had never bothered him, it’s within his nature to detest it. Any beast would withdraw away from the mere image of fire.
The rustle of the grass halts, a wispy aroma of smoke wafts towards him. It doesn’t take long to identify the origin. Only a small flicker broke through the shadows, candlewick fostering only a weak flame.
But it was enough to fend the shadows away from your frame.
The flame’s light caught on each subtle ripple of the pond you were kneeling over.
The seemingly unremarkable pool served as the sole entrance and exit to Merusea Village. Where the Melusines traveled through to gather food, fresh water, and trinkets swallowed up by the waves.
Cold waters catch the bitter droplets of your pained eyes in the reflection of the ripples upon the surface, the distorted silhouette of a weeping devil.
An unspoken gospel revealed to draconic pupils.
Under the rich aromas wafting from the kitchen, behind the diligently tailored gowns, and hidden in the cadence of your voice as you read tales aloud, laid the yearning for the rays of a bright star.
You’re human, a creature fleeting and meek by nature. Blood yearns to be with blood just as every drop of rain yearns to return to a cloud.
A sharp rustle of grass under a heavy step jolts your hunched-over posture straight, head whipping around to face the uninvited audience.
Once those weeping eyes recognize the brooding figure in front of them, your face adverts away from his direction. Shame evident upon your expression.
A concerned hand reaches out only to retract away, contrition marring his shut lips as Neuvillette diverts his eyes too.
Fire burns indiscriminately, even the dancing flame of a candle can sear its mark upon skin. Neuvillette knows this all too well, for the lesion he received from embracing that flame once still festers even after all these years.
However, lilac eyes pan back towards the orange glow illuminating your melancholic face. Warm hues contrast against the wet trails down your cheeks. There’s an ache more agonizing than a festering wound.
His steps advanced closer until he was knelt down by your slump frame. A benevolent touch lands upon your shoulder. Guiding you away from the taunting waters and into his arms, hiding your face in his broad shoulder.
Offering you a semblance of warmth in a coven shunned from the grace of gentle sunlight.
With your face away from his gaze, the cacophony of your sobs returns, digging your fingers into the folds of his dress shirt.
Echoed back mockingly by the cold cavern walls.
Perhaps a foolish dragon has yet to learn his lesson, still lured in that the brilliant light of a flame.
A gentle hand traces up along your back, softly brushing your hair away to reveal the skin of your nape to his sharp pupils.
Honed in upon untainted skin, the courts of rebirth may have removed the proof of your damnation, but not the hex itself.
Or maybe, a foolish dragon feels some responsibility for being the one to curse you to this fate.
A mark once imprinted upon your nape by a lonesome dragon, a heavy oath sworn to you engrained into the very fabric of your soul amidst the first rendition.
One which then became the cursed chains that sunk you under the unforgiving waters.
It’s said that love is heavy, a weight greater than the density of water. A heaviness which could sink anything and everyone under salty tides.
A heaviness originating from this accursed prison where a disgraced being resided.
Even as the earth above welcomed new generations as they said goodbye to bygone times.
The solitude of a fool turning into ravenous waves which seeped into soil until its appetite was satiated by the return of its beloved treasure.
It’s his fault that the tides stole you from the sunlight.
The courts of rebirth had already forgiven you of this burden, not a single memory remaining of that tale.
What right does he have to place it back upon you? There’s no point in punishing one for a sin that had been cleansed by the tides of time.
You didn’t deserve to be held away from the warmth of a benevolent sun.
To have been dragged down below to these depths. To have been stolen away from the warmth of the sun by the command of fickles gods and ancient grudges.
It’s much too severe of a sentence for you, someone who didn’t deserve to repent for a sin that wasn’t truly yours.
Is it okay for his hands to wipe away your tears when this cursed dragon was the cause of your agony?
Even if it’s wrong, Neuvillette holds you closer. Even if he didn’t have the right, he pressed your face in his shoulder. Allowing the vehemence of your tears to scorch his skin as you buried your cries into him.
Glancing at the pool you had been leaning over, he watches as the ripples of the surface taunt you and him the same.
Two beings whose bodies couldn’t embrace the tides. Two cursed beings who’ve been trapped in repeated play.
“It seems you’re bound to this prison as well.” He scorns those gods and ancient grudges, but he scorns himself the most.
Confined behind a human face and a human body, a traitor who’s lost his birthright over the waters who couldn’t welcome him.
How can a cursed dragon quell those choking sobs of yours? How can he atone for his selfish sin?
Neuvillette takes a deep breath just your tears continue to soak his skin. Steeling his resolve, he meditates on the one resolution he can offer you.
“Fontainians still tell a tale about a princess who wished a dragon to become a prince, yes?” He begins.
After a pause filled with hiccups and shaky breaths, you nod your head as an answer.
“It was when she spoke the dragon’s true name that he granted her one wish,” he recounts the tale, feeling the trembles of your shoulders.
“That part of the story isn’t fictitious,” he reveals.
Voices from the depths of his rationality whisper for him to stop, to expand no more upon this secret of his brethren. Clamorous warnings to a traitor to not repeat his past transgressions.
However, he obeys no edict from the heavens or origins. Not when an unjust punishment caused such heart-wrenching sobs.
“Names hold great significance to dragons. So much so, to whoever learns their true name, a wish can be granted.”
Slowly, your tear-stained face pulls away from his crinkled dress shirt. Finally meeting his lilac gaze. He notes the bewilderment which surrounds his reflection in your eyes.
“Is… your name not ‘Neuvillette’?” You inquire.
“It’s a surname bestowed upon me by the mortals of the land.”
“Then… What is your name?” A glimmer of optimism ever so subtly debuts in your eyes.
He could not tell you. No matter how beautifully that light shines, this was one ordinance he couldn’t ignore. All he could do was glance away as he shakes his head. Unable to bear the sight of that light extinguishing.
“That is what you must find for yourself.”
Perhaps this is his defiance of the plot which has been unraveling for so long. His attempt to step off that circular path, searching for a different end.
The silent audience of fate watching on with bemusement to where this rendition will lead.
“Oh?”
“Oh?”
What a peculiar occurrence, Neuvillette was just about to exit his study when he found himself just a breath’s width away from you. Instinctively, he takes a step back behind the threshold of the doorway.
Passive eyes studying your form, you must’ve been standing there for a while. A hand held up intending to knock on the oak door returns to your side as you stare at the floor.
“Is there something you need assistance with?” He continues to study you.
Lilac eyes observe as your fingers clasp together, a common habit of mortals when nervous, if he recalls the contents of a book correctly. Another minute passes before you take a deep breath.
“Is your name Guillaume?” You peer up.
Ah, so this is what you wished to inquire about.
The secret revealed to you that day beside an exit neither he nor you could cross. Guillaume, a name befitting of nobility. But unfortunately, not for a dragon.
He responds with a shake of his head, expression stiffening as he watches the corners of your lips drop ever so slightly.
“Oh…”
It seems his existence brings nothing but a frown upon those soft lips, Neuvillette felt it’s best to retreat from your sight.
This attempt was evidence of your determination to return to the embrace of a warm star.
It wouldn’t be right for him to interfere, despite those vile voice whispers murmuring from the depth of his mind. It wouldn’t be fair to you.
It’s best to maintain this distance between his hand and yours, for your sake and his.
Which begs the question, why were you still standing here in front of him?
“Is that all you wished to inquire?” Neuvillette hopes the Melusines will lift your spirits after he withdraws.
“Actually…” You began. “I made some soup and if you haven’t had lunch yet, would you like to try some?”
Although his stoic face might not reflect it, he’s positively baffled. Were ‘you’ always this enthusiastic about food?
The devil he knew before would view the freshest catches and clearest waters offered by a dragon with blasé reactions.
You used to recoil away from the fishes and meats he held out to you, they were only ever touched once he charred them over a fire.
Then again the kitchen back then was much more barren than the present, cabinets now decorated with bottles of fragrant spices and herbs.
Was it just a difference in palate? To reject such an invitation would be to squander a precious opportunity for investigation.
“The pleasure would be all mine.” He matches your strides as the two of you traverse toward the kitchen.
Settling down in a chair at a wooden table, Neuvillette watches as you ladle some soup into a bowl. Following your form as you set the bowl down in front of him. A pleasant aroma accompanies the steam emitting from the bowl.
“It’s Fontainian Onion Soup.” You hand a spoon over.
“Thank you.” He takes the utensil and scoops a hearty serving of the rich soup.
A distinct flavor of caramelized onions and the creaminess of cheese. The broth had been thickened with a bit of flour and the cheese added to the heavy mouth feel.
This dish certainly expresses the flavor preferences of humans… but could such a thick broth really be considered soup?
“Do you like it?” Your head tilts to the side as he feels your inquisitiveness.
Dabbing a napkin over his lips, he clears his throat.
“A fine dish indeed. Although increasing the liquid content and reducing the amount of fat could improve it,” he advises.
A hush falls over the kitchen, nothing but the occasional crackle of a fire filling the space.
“Oh… I’ll keep that in mind.” Your voice was restraining something.
As you turn away, Neuvillette catches the subtle shakes of your shoulders.
Ah, has he caused offense? He recalls how cooking and food preferences amongst humans tend to be a sore spot for most, some books going as far as to claim critics as attacks on one’s pride.
You had taken time out of your day to prepare a bowl for him, and he gave senseless comments in return.
“Ah, but it’s delicious regardless, thank you.” He has to remedy this situation.
The shakes of your shoulders increase, as a hand covers your lips.
“Thank you, Monsieur.” Your lips seem to be trying to stifle something.
After finishing your sentence, your lips pressed tighter together. He could see the corners twitching as they tried their best to remain neutral.
Before he could get another word in, you excused yourself. Leaving him in front of the warm soup.
In that moment, Neuvillette vows to himself that even if you were to hand him a piece of charcoal he’ll swallow it without a single complaint.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Is your name Édouard?”
Your voice causes him to turn his attention away from the pages of a book this quiet evening.
You stood just off to the side of the bookshelf where he was browsing, a candle illuminating the curiosity held in your eyes. Presenting a name likely discovered from those very same shelves.
Dirges ring from the corners of his mind, warning him not to allow the light to approach so close.
However, where is a shadow supposed to withdraw to when the light seeks him?
Just as how the tide couldn’t run away from the shore for long. Steadfast and constant attempts to unravel the secrets held by the ebbs and flows.
Alas, he shakes his head again today, steeling his nerves as he catches the slight drop in your shoulders. Louis, Étienne, Théodore, and all those previous guesses, are names of heroes in Fontainian tales and epics.
Popularized to the point many boys were named after them, but no parent would ever want to name their child after a dragon, a beast.
He doubts the pages of history have ever recorded his name.
Your disheartened gaze couldn’t meet his, choosing to stare into the space beside him. He couldn’t fault you for that.
All your efforts of combing through old novels to search for obscured monikers just to be undone by a shake of a head.
He’s not sure how much longer he can endure being the origin of your melancholy.
“There’s a tear in your coat…”
Your voice brings him out of his thoughts, he glances at the spot your eyes were honed on and spots the aforementioned tear.
“Ah, I see. My apologies for being in such an unsightly state, ” he sighs. Lilac eyes ran along the jagged seams.
He should go find a replacement from his wardrobe, but you still looked like you had something to say.
“I can fix it if you’d like,” you offer.
It’s just a garment, a piece of cloth that fell off some merchant’s ship and found itself in the walls of a cove. There were plenty of other garments that suffered the same fate, picked up by pairs of curious mittened hands.
To replace this robe would be simple, but he notes the concealed eagerness in the fidget of your fingers. It must be rather dull for you down here for the past year, to the point you resorted to repairing old fabrics for enrichment.
Regrettably, Neuvillette admits he’s not the best host. He’s got no talent for small talk nor does he know how to entertain you, thus he left it up to the Melusines. However, he could at least do this much as a host.
“Thank you, I’d be grateful if you do.”
His steps in time with yours through the halls as an old storage room comes into view. Still filled with collections of folded gowns and coats.
As he observes the room, you guide him to a pair of wooden chairs, a box filled with needles and threads beside one. You place the candle down on a nearby table.
“I’ll take your coat.” Holding out your hands.
Following your request, he slips the robe off his shoulders, leaving him in a dress shirt and slacks.
Attentively you take the garment, settling down in a seat as your hand searches through the box. After your rummaging stopped, you glance back at him.
“It won’t take long, please have a seat.” Gesturing toward the other chair.
Lilac eyes scanned the aged seat, the door was just beyond it, it wouldn’t take much of an excuse for him to walk past the wooden threshold.
However, he pans back to your anticipatory gaze still awaiting. It wouldn’t be polite to deny such a simple gesture.
Thus, he heeds your request, ambling toward the empty seat, he begins to settle down just as a rip resonates through the air.
His body halts all movement just as yours did, toward pairs of eyes trained on the sleeve that had been caught on the edge of a wooden table.
The fibers of his shirt entangled with the jagged edges causing his sleeve to rip. Neuvillette truly has yet to acclimate to such fickle inconveniences.
“Pfft!-” Quickly your hand covers your mouth.
Lips pressed together as they tried their best to stifle the sounds threatening to leak out. Your shoulders shaking from the effort, just as they did that day in the kitchen.
Although his expression remains the same, he’s quite dumbfounded.
Unable to contain the sounds any longer, you erupt into a fit of giggles as he continues to stare. The bright chimes of your laughter fill the room, a melodic tune he had longed to hear for so long.
“S-sorry, I just didn’t expect you to… be so clumsy.” Giggles fragment your sentence along with a brief pause to collect yourself.
Clumsy. Yes, he remembers that word, an adjective you used to describe a dragon whenever he took on the shape you favored so much.
Of course, even a great beast like a dragon would totter and stumble when in such a foreign body.
Although he has been in this body for many, many years now, yet, Neuvillette hasn’t acclimated to these fickle mortal attires.
If these garments weren’t pushed into his hands by the Melusines and their bright-eyed stares, he’d prefer to not dawn them.
Neuvillette shuts his eyes. His lungs intake a deep breath, stifling the sway of these trivial inconveniences before they cause any ripples.
Once he’s certain there was no jagged edge to his stare, lilac hues peek back upon your figure.
By now those fits of giggles had faded into a tranquil lull, your content face focused on the stitches. Body relaxed against the back of the chair, weaving the needle through the sides of the tear.
Subconsciously, his frame begins to mimic yours, rigid muscles melting against the wooden support.
Lavender hues follow the disappearance of a sliver point, then catch its emergence from the fabric.
The torn and frayed edges draw closer and closer together by the coaxes of the thread, each stitch attentively placed by your graceful hands.
“Neuvillette?” Your serene voice interlaces with the placid interlude.
He hums an answer.
“That night by the entrance… you said ‘You're bound to this cove as well’.” The pace of the needle slows.
“Why did you say that?” You finish your question.
Observant, a characteristic of yours he’s always deemed quite commendable. Ever so keen on the nuances of his sentences.
The piercing stare of draconic eyes weighs on your shoulders, despite that the cadence of the needle didn’t falter. A ripple makes its appearance within a placid pool.
“Do you really wish to know?” He warns.
You hum resolutely. A bitter taste creeps its way up his tongue, the recollection of the string of words which damned him here.
Instinct advises him to swallow them back, to conceal his shame from your awaiting ears. However, answering the call of your curiosity should be enough of a repayment for repairing a coat.
“For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides. That is the curse set upon this body,” he reveals.
The needle stops.
“A curse?…” you stammer out.
Under your breath, Neuvillette hears you recount the disclosed secret. Repeating it to yourself as if to decipher the syntax, to find some answers to his condemnation.
The answer was sitting just in front of him.
“…For the rest of one’s life… well, how long do dragons live?”
To mortals, it’s time who is the reaper of their existence. From the moment a newborn sounds their first cry to the final draw of air on their deathbeds, it was the hands of a clock who ruled over them.
But such hands could not touch a being such as him.
“The life of a dragon begins and ends in the Fontemer Sea, born from it, made from it, and shall return to it to be born again.” He wonders if mortals could grasp such a concept.
“Oh…” Your tone grew more somber.
Judging from your tonality, you must’ve pieced the allusions together.
To be contained within these stone walls with only a pool of seawater he could not touch as the opening, is to bestow upon him immortality he never asked for.
For the Hydro Dragon could not return to the Fontemer Sea.
Even if dragons had long lives, it didn’t mean the humiliation of immortality. The true cruelty of this seemingly kind curse.
“Why?” Your voice just barely above a whisper.
Why was he cursed? Why is he in this sham of a mortal body? Why did he reveal the secrets of his brethren? All of this at the trifling sight of bitter tears.
“Because the people of Fontaine found my name and they wished for it.”
Why did he give you his name? And why did you then give it away? There are many questions left unanswered by that tale.
Why did a proud dragon bow to the whims of a mere mortal in that fairytale?
A creature as potent as a dragon should never bow, not to the ordinances of false gods, not to the turbulence of fate, and not to a mere mortal.
Why did a maiden wish for a dragon to become a human like them? Water is an adaptable element, able to take on any shape it pleases. However, it yearns to always return to its natural shape.
Perhaps, his ‘natural’ form appalled the devil too much. So much so, she used that one wish to confine him in the form she favored most.
More confoundingly, why did Neuvillette allow such a request? A creature favored by the usurpers dared to wish a dragon to abandon his heritage, to cross over the threshold of humanity just for their sake.
Why would a dragon ever bow to a mortal’s request?
The commandments of a false god and the howling thrashes of wind can’t make a proud dragon bow, but the weight of love might be enough for a prideful beast to lower his head towards a mortal.
A traitor to his own fallen brethren is much too dignified of a title for Neuvillette. No, it’d be better to call him for what he is: A Fool.
What a spectacle it was that day, even those fickle gods peered down just to watch. A fool who lost his form and authority was imprisoned beneath the tides.
A stir shakes that pool, whirling and writhing, the billows of bitterness mounting.
“… could it be wished away?” Your voice beckons his thoughts to return to the present.
Unlike how it was written in those tales, a curse can’t be ‘broken’. Not by a kiss, and not by clasping one’s hands together in prayer.
“Not even a miracle could make a curse vanish, a curse only ever goes away once its clauses have been fulfilled.”
Until the stars burn out, until the sky caves in on itself, or until the oceans of this uprooted world dry up, he shall remain here. The retribution a traitor deserves.
He shall remain in this sham of a body, unable to become the form he desired the most in the next life he’ll never reach.
Not a human, not a dragon, just an atrocity somewhere in-between. This must be what humans call ‘purgatory’.
“I see…” Your attention never leaves the half-stitched garment sprawled upon your lap.
A heavy silence fills the space between you and him once more. To conclude a conversation on such a doleful note would be a disgrace.
However, what is he to say? What words can salvage this situation? Neuvillette has no talent for small talk, he doesn’t have the same mortal heart as yours to provide you with any solstice.
Amidst his contemplation, a soft hum resounds through the quietude, and the melodic rhythm of a lullaby begins. It seems that you took matters into your own hands, ending the doleful silence at your own discretion.
Once more his back reclines into the wooden chair, pointed ears indulge themselves in a nostalgic tune.
It’s strange, that rippling pool is swaying back to equilibrium. The surface returns to its placid rest as tension melts from his muscles.
Unaware of the hushed pitter-patter of a curious audience, drawn in by the gentle song as their bright eyes peer ever from the cover of the door frame.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Madame! Look I got more Pluie Lotuses!” Kiara’s little steps rush across the marble floor.
Getting up on the tips of her feet to show the bundle of fresh blooms, salty water still dripping from their petals, as her bangs stick flush to her face still damp from the sea. Her pink tail swaying behind her.
Your body turns in her direction just in time with Neuvillette.
“Kiara…” A subtle layer of disapproval emerges from lilac hues.
“Remember to dry off before entering the estate, the floors can become quite dangerous when wet.”
“But…” the flowers lower. “I wanted to show Madame the lotuses…”
There’s a drop in her tail and horns and a sharp sting to his chest. Her sisters were gathered around in a circle, a story having just concluded, he could feel their stares upon him. Adding to the sharpness of guilt.
“My apologies, Kiara, I only meant to warn you.”
She nods her head silently, tail still dragging on the floor. Ah, just what should he do? A frown begins to weigh down his face.
“Thank you, they’re wonderful, Kiara.” Your gentle chime breaks through the stalemate.
You take the bouquet from her mittened hands, placing them atop a counter, in exchange you offer her a towel.
“But Neuvillette is right, it’s not good to run through the halls right after you returned from the waters. It’s dangerous, okay?” Your voice as gentle as the towel rubbed over her hair and horns.
A content smile returns to her round cheeks as she diligently nods, promising that she’ll be more careful next time. Tail lifting up from the floor as the fluffy towel wipes away the ocean droplets.
Once fully dried, she joins her sisters. The Melusines cast shifting glances toward one another until one finally steps out from the crowd.
“Madame…” Carole calls out softly, tugging a few times the hem of your long dress.
“Hm?” Giving her your full attention, a towel set aside.
“I overheard you inquiring about names with Monsieur in the library once, could you be…” Her eyes downcasted.
Oh. This time it was Neuvillette and you who exchanged glances, eyes both reflecting the same dread.
They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to hear those slapdash guesses.
He never meant for them to find out. Always careful to never discuss such matters in their earshot.
For how could he bear to tell them that their cozy village was actually a prison?
His mind was unable to conjure up an excuse, tongue unwilling to speak it. They weren’t supposed to find out. Oh, what shall he do now?
“Could you be expecting?”
Huh?
Two pairs of eyes widened with bewilderment, mind stunned into silence and lips just as confused.
Somehow they’ve huddled even closer than before, encircling you and him with their bright eyes and tails swaying with anticipation.
“Will there be a new addition to the village?”
“How long do we have to wait?”
“Are we getting a brother or sister?”
Their chatter and probes homogenized into a jumbled symphony his flustered conscious just couldn’t distinguish. Trying to reel his senses back from this unexpected turn of events. Neuvillette clears his throat.
“No,” he coughs out.
A collective ‘aw’ resounds through the air, their tails and horns drooping down at the announcement. Guilt pierced its nail through his chest once more. However, he couldn’t lie to their bright eyes.
“N-not, yet.” You add to his statement.
A wave of inquisitive‘oh’ ripples through the crowd. Tails picked up from the ground as the glimmer in their eyes returned.
A sweet lie sprinkled over the truth neither of you dare tell, that blood and water can’t make wine.
“Then, do you want a little prince or little princess?” Carole chirps.
You remain silent, only gazing down at their faces as they stare back.
A lilac stare was also focused upon you, his curiosity awakening at this question as well. He watches you take a slow breath before leaning down.
“I’d like to have a daughter, sweet and kind like all of you.” Your hand strokes her soft trestles.
Her head nuzzles into your palm as giggles fill the air. Only draconic eyes study the small smile upon your lips, dipped in bittersweetness.
Did you have a lover back on the surface in this life? Perhaps someone who was promised to you. A real prince this time.
Did you have dreams of basking in the grace of the sun, cradling a bundle as a pair of tiny fingers encase around your own?
Was this the hard-earned happy ending you yearned for?
“Monsieur…” Mamaere tugs on his slacks.
Neuvillette reigns his thoughts back from their escapade, he angles his head down.
“Where does a baby come from?”
The smile on your lips stiffen just as Neuvillette’s body does.
If there’s a god who’s peering into this cavern deep below the land and sea, must they send such dilemmas his way?
How does one navigate through this treacherous domain?
“Oh dear! I just remembered.” Your hands clap together.
“There’s a few ribbons and clips in the fabric room, do you girls mind getting them? So we can braid Monsieur’s hair?”
At once the Melusines stand at attention, focus diverted over their excitement at the prospect of decorating snowy locks.
The patters of their little steps trample down the hall, allowing you and Neuvillette a well-deserved moment of reprieve.
“Thank you.” His posture drops slightly as a hefty sigh leaves him, lids shut for a moment of rest.
“Of course, Sébastien.”
His eyes crack open, casting you a glance with a raised brow. The ghost of a grin barely contained by delicate lips. By this time, Neuvillette couldn’t recall all the past attempts.
“Regrettably, that is not my name.”
“Was it at least a decent attempt?”
He could hear the pout in your voice, one that didn’t last long before a light-hearted laugh follows it.
Closing his eyes once more as he indulges in those chimes, he nods ever so slightly. It was a good attempt, for it brought out those sounds he enjoyed.
His lashes flutter open at the sensation of his hair getting gathered in your tender hold. Passing the carved wooden teeth of a comb through his snowy locks.
Careful to not pull or tug on them as you coaxed the tangles out of their knots. The heaviness upon his shoulders leaves with a deep exhale which left his body, indulging in your attentive touches.
Subconsciously, his gaze trails up at the bundle of flowers resting along the wooden table. It wasn’t the periwinkle blush of the delicate petals that commanded his attention.
No, it was that salty, oceanic wisp mingled with the flora aroma. A fleeting essence of the sea.
“Do you miss the sea?”
Ah, it seems that his stare wasn’t as subtle as he had hoped. Neuvillette turns away from the flowers as if he had been caught amidst a scheme.
Facing in front of him, your paused hands signal your wait for his response.
“I suppose it’s only natural for me to long for it.”
After all these years, Neuvillette believes he has finally grasped it, an answer to that void filled with ‘whys’. As if he had seized the reflection of a star from the bottom of a deep lake.
Neuvillette thinks he understands why you and the devil yearned for the sunlight.
Perhaps the one similarity between proud dragons and arrogant humans. They both ache to return to where they came from.
One yearns for the sea. One yearns for land.
For there and only there, could their sins and grudges be purged. To gain the most restful sleep before the hands of fate shape them anew from the element.
“Hmm,” you hum in acknowledgment.
Fingers gentle and slow as they brushed through his hair. You hum a lullaby to accompany each pass of the comb. Melodies that made his ears yearn for more, craving for more sounds to leave your plush lips.
His hair had always been an inconvenience, capricious strands that were seemly curious of everything in his environment.
Snowy tresses find themselves gravitating towards door hinges, door knobs, and even the minuscule gaps in ornate furniture.
However, your patience hands untangled those unruly stands.
When a knot proves to be particularly stubborn, you tend to lend closer to hone in on the troublesome tangle.
It just so happens that a stubborn knot appeared, causing you to decrease the proximity between your bodies.
The heat radiating from your frame sends delightful pickles along his skin, a delicate warmth making his flesh grow feverish.
A hunger deep within begins to grumble and wallow, a greed that wishes to dig past those frivolous fragrances to get to the true taste he craves.
An ugly gluttony pleading to delve into your soft flesh. Ah, he recognizes the cause of this turbulence now…
Neuvillette clears his throat.
“I believe I’m beginning to feel unwell, so please refrain from venturing into the cellar for the next few weeks. I should quarantine myself.” Too ashamed to turn back and face you.
“Oh?...” The comb stops.
At this distance, he was well aware of your scent. A fine fragrance no water or bloom could hope to imitate. Concealed under a layer of lavish soaps and oils dropped from the surface was an aroma that was wholly yours and yours alone.
A gloved hand reaches up to cover his nostrils, seeking some barrier between that tantalizing whiff.
“Please, excuse me…” He pulls away swiftly.
The sudden action must’ve jostled his hair too much, for the sultry sensation of your fingertips was felt along azure ‘strands’.
Just a minor touch against his horns, yet shudders rack up his nape. His teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip, sharper than they’re supposed to be, anchoring those ravenous voices at bay momentarily.
He needs to leave now. For your sake.
Rushed strides stow a distance between his body and that delectable warmth of yours. His back turned to you as he couldn’t bear to see the expression upon that saccharine face.
Just what expression were you making as a dragon retreated?
The cellar of this estate was always cold, its stones never having once touched the sunlight before, thus they only brood in their frigidity. A somberness fitting to quell a heat which yearned to burn.
The fever has consumed his body wholly, each pant leaving trails of foggy wisps. Neuvillette burrows deeper into the hoard of sheets, pillows, and blankets. The brush of the soft fabrics prickles his skin.
How strange it is that despite the fever of heat igniting each corner of his flesh, despite the numerous thick covers twisting and burying his bare form, he’s still shivering.
A chill ingrained so deep it’s in his very bones, skin alight but bones frozen over, just what is this purgatory?
Annually it happens, a period where primal instincts exude past the rigid confines of a mortal form. Making its influence in the resurgence of draconic features over the mortal flesh that traps him.
No matter how raw his true form claws to be released, the mortal prison doesn’t relent. A curse he’s brought upon himself.
Laceratations of gluttony and cardinal sin sink deeper with each provocation. The creeks of the floorboards above and the sweet voice which leaked through the woods, the morsels of you that stirred the waters of instinct.
From the depths of the torrent, he’s so desperately suppressing came the unquenchable thirst to lure you in. Beckon you down to this shadowy cellar so that the ugly and primal waters could swallow you wholly.
But he mustn’t. Those soft touches and smiles had just been bestowed upon him, the twine of trust still delicate. How could he ever squander such privileges? For those lovely eyes of yours to look at him filled with nothing but fear and disgust, he’d rather be chained down here for the rest of eternity.
He must endure it for a bit longer, he knows it’ll be over soon. The gale which sweeps through him is slowly lessening its blows.
Even if the waters of primitive instincts howled and stormed, Neuvillette refused to leave this tangle of blankets and pillows. An unwavering grip refusing to submit to those demands. Thus nature had to find its own way to subsist off a drought.
The heat hazed over his mind, conjuring up fantasies to appease the ever-unsettled water from its vapid reality.
“Neuvillette?” A soft voice calls out.
Just like now. Desire fogs up his senses to create a delusion, mimicking the way your warm voice beckons him. It’s nothing but a figment of his depraved lust.
“Neuvillette?”
He buries his ears further into the down covers to block the alluring mirages. Tickling him to submit to the temptation. But he mustn’t. Nothing more than a manifestation of lust.
The phantom donning your sweet voice calls out for him, and gentle touches send shivers through his nerves. Ah, he must vanquish this mirage before the fraying line of his self-restraint splinters apart.
Nothing but smoke and mirrors conjured by desire, a rigid arm expels out from the covers to dissipate the siren’s lure.
However, it wraps around something warm, a heat which his fever wails for. Intrinsically his shivering body covets that warmth, to be buried flush against the source so that this chill may finally stop its torment.
So like any greedy dragon, his claws enclose around temptation and drag it into his decrepit cave of blankets and sheets.
A satisfied purr judders through his stalwart body, a warmth which could finally reach his very bones. Thus, he burrows his face deeper into the shoulder of this phantom, a lovely aroma beckoning him to pull their soft body closer.
“Neuvillette?…”
His eyes snap open, realization flooding through him just as the chill that had been ingrained into his bones. This wasn’t an illusion. You weren’t an illusion.
He tears himself away, just as a moth does once they realize a hypnotic flame had set their wings alight. Trembly arms firmly planted on either side of your body, snowy locks falling onto your face.
“Are you alright?...” The sapphire luminance of his elongated horns shines across those sinless eyes.
The strap of a nightgown halfway down your shoulder from when he snatched you beneath his savage form.
“You… you shouldn’t be here,” he breathes, voice unsteady and taut.
“You’ve been away for an awfully long time… I-” Your eyes were blown wide and lips pressed together, aghast gaze not daring to glance down at the raging rigidness pressed against the silk of your nightgown.
Frenzied shivers of pleasure jostles through his veins, tremors racking his body all the way to the tips of his horns. In desperation his rigidnesses pleaded to feel you, throbbing so painfully a hiss leaves his lips.
“You need to leave, quickly please.” Leave before he traps you again.
Before this pathetic excuse of a sovereign loses against himself, before he makes a fool of himself. Neuvillette tries to pull away, against the weeping wishes of his erections. Face too ashamed to even look at you, but a pair of tender hands guides his cheeks back.
“...But I missed you…” You whisper.
Why are your hands embracing his face in this unsightly state? Are they not appalled by the patches of scales littered across them? Like a flame reaching out towards a moth.
“Leave, please.” Don’t tempt him like this.
“... Don’t you miss me?...” Your hold doesn’t budge.
Why do you look at him like that? Irises filled with warmth as his image is reflected in the flickering candlelight. Gazing wholly up at him. A cerulean glow tinting your hair and supple body.
“Don’t…” He reasons, the last of his sensibility crying a warning of a sinful fruit.
“Please, Neuvillette… won’t you hold me for just a bit? I missed you so much….” The shift of your shoulder causes the nightgown to slip further off your shoulder.
Don’t call out to him like that. No, not as your bewitching body was so close to his. The glow of a candle illuminating the curve of your cheeks, disheveled hair framing your wide eyes.
Don’t show him such a sight, for he’ll salivate to devour you until his teeth rot.
“Please?...” Coaxing his head down so that his forehead rests against yours.
Your warmth, your soft touches, and your delectable aroma, they parch his throat so much it pained him. Just as painful as attempting to swallow down sand from a hellish desert, it aches and lacerates his throat.
And here you were offering a lustrous fruit, so juicy and filled of sin, in front of his famished eyes. A cruel, cruel mercy.
“... May…May I?” It’s unbearable, this parchedness in his throat, would you be so kind to quench it?
Your sweet hum grants him permission. Eyes closed just as you turn a blind eye to his ravenousness, still stroking his tender cheeks. Neuvillette couldn’t deny himself any more of the warmth he’s coveted for oh so long.
Thus, he delves head-first into the glimmer of that enchanting flame. Burying his nose into the crook of your neck, so vulnerable and complacent, to hoard your bewitching fragrance all for himself. His skin flushed against yours as his bones delight in your heat.
The reigns of self-respect slip out from his hands as they let go in favor of running along your curves and edges. Each feature, your shoulders, and hips, aligns with details he’s long ingrained into his memory.
His fervor touches pushing down the silk fabric which dare disturb his worship. Nevuillette cants his head up momentarily, puffs of smothering breaths clouding the frosty air.
Lilac eyes drink up how the chilly air made your delectable breast perky, trailing down the goosebumps lining your torso, and landing on your exposed thighs.
A dryness itches in his throat as callused hands bite into the tender skin and he parts those placid legs away.
Oh, how could one ever take their eyes off that shiny, succulent fruit held out so openly in the hands of the tempter of all tempters?
They reveal to him the oasis he’d been hallucinating these grueling weeks. The tip of a serpentine tongue slips across his parched lips.
Since you so brazenly offered your body up to him, you wouldn’t have any objects against him finally getting a taste, right?
His foreboding figure traverses downwards until his delirious face is right between the cusp of his salvation and demise.
Dilated pupils peering up at you for approval, an invocation for clemency from this drought. A merciful hand graces his cheeks once more, granting him his salvation and demise.
His tongue escapes past his parched lips, as lengthy as it was insatiable, it licks a slow and passionate strip up your slit. A taste he once would only recount in the depths of his recollections.
Does this new body of yours still have the same weaknesses? Will you still writhe in madness if he sucks on that delectable little nub? Or how about those hidden points concealed deep within?
Could this tongue of his bring you past the brink of insanity in this life as well?
There was only one way for Neuvillette to grasp the answers he sought. A long tongue slips past the entrance of your satin walls, welcomed with a lewd squelch.
Grip parting your legs from his path further. Those quivering calls of ‘Neuvillette’and the pawing of your small hands against his head beckon him deeper.
Ah, redemption, it’s far too late for him now. For Nevillette has taken a bite out from that forbidden fruit, the evidence of it was dripping down his chin.
Ah, these slick velvety walls, he missed them. They clamp down with such ferocity along this beastly tongue, extensive enough to reach the deepest cavern of you.
A divine nectar begins to pool, Neuvillette retracts his tongue just enough for the heavenly taste to slide down his throat. Your sweet musk sends his olfactory system into chaos, rampant tongue returning to ravish you.
Not one drop of restraint left within him. It’s beastly how he’s devouring you. His tongue craves more of the delicacy he’s denied himself these past years, a thirst no water could quench. Wet muscles sliding up the whole length of your slit in a meticulous long lap, his nose bumping into your clit.
Your mewls and sobs echo off the walls when he flicks his tongue over that sensitive nub. Your body jolts violently as the length of his tongue ventures into the honeypot, toes curling in the air, but his iron-clad grip doesn’t allow any room for escape.
Delicate fingers now entangled into his tussled locks, grasping onto illuminated horns. You were likely trying to find something to ground your dissipating sanity, how unfortunate that your actions only flamed the fires.
A guttural growl echoed. Tongue now plunging further, slithering back and forth along your walls. For being such a sweet sacrifice for him, he’ll give a reward. Slithering tongue making sure to drag against that spot he’s memorized.
Judging from how your feet were arching off the sheets, it seems this sinful detail of yours was repeated as well.
Your body writhes, no longer docile under the white searing pleasure frying the ends of every nerve within your being. Unrelenting rhythm slipping in and out of your convulsing walls, your body twitching and flailing in reaction.
Trying to find some way to handle this surcharge of sensations. Legs instinctively wanting to shut together as if to cease this turbulent sensation, unfortunately, your pitiful strength gave no resistance against his rigid hold.
He could feel your muscles begin to seize up, slick walls clamping harder on his writhing tongue. Was this foreign sensation too much for you already?
His long tongue explores every last crevice, tastebuds lapping against those weak spots deep within as his nose bumps and grinds against that lewd clit. This unsightly side of you.
There’s more fervor in the lashes of his tongue, slurping up the nectar trickling out your greed, mixing with his spit dripping down his chin.
Your legs trashing but unable to go anywhere in his unrelenting hold, only able to pull on his silky locks for dear life as sobs tumble out. A flood of arousal adds to the mess on his chin. One he gladly laps up.
Oh’s and ah’s were the only choked sounds your lips could make as your eyes rolled to the back of your scrambled mind.
Neuvillette still relishing in the elixir he’s denied himself for too long, not even the purest water could compare. Reveling in the taste until every last drip ran down his parched throat.
Pulling away, a trail connects his lips with your quivering folds. Callous hands dig further into your legs, making room for his body. Watching as the movements of your chest slowed, his brute figure engulfed your frame.
The ache was unbearable now, each impatient throb reprimanding him for delaying their greed. Neuvillette couldn’t deny their request any longer.
Back sitting up straight, his cocks thrumming against his abdomen, precum exuding out from their swollen heads.
The cool air did little to calm the throbs of his fervors, the girthy shaft standing tall as its engorged tip weeped precum, its twin weeping just the same.
They hover over the softness of your belly, sharp pupils trail up the shadow they cast, heralding to where they crave to be buried.
The heat of his body was suffocating, the burn in his throat greater than ever before. But why? He had drank from that forbidden oasis, it’s dripping down his chin, yet why has his thirst grown greater than before?
Neuvillette was so… so close. If he had only endured it for another day or two, the gale within him would’ve relented and retreated away in defeat. But oh how viciously it’s gloating in its victory. Getting a dragon to bow his head to its cardinal blows.
“Do you… feel better now, Neuvillette?” Slow pants leave your curled lips as your hands reach up to caress his taut face.
This brazenness, this shamelessness, this insolence. Ah, these characteristics have followed you through the grave and into this life as well. You weren’t skilled enough this time around to hide your desire glazed across your pupils.
Did you do this in hopes of making him indebted to you? Offer your sweet body in return for stealing his name from his locked lips? Was this why you traversed down to this dark cellar so late in such flimsy silks?
That gleam in those deceptive eyes, the audacity to believe you could tame the sea with just a flick of your finger. You devious temptress.
“Better?… you’ve only fanned the flames, you devious woman.” A snarl from the depths of him.
Before another word could leave your lips one torrid hand pins your wrist to the sheets. Nails much too sharp to be human dig into those fickle and troublesome fabrics hiding your skin from his touch.
An all too satisfying rip resounding through the air along with your yelp. Scraps join the tangle of sheets.
Did his mortal prison deceive you too much? Did his mild mannerisms trick you into believing that he’s a merciful soul? Or did you always ignore the warnings?
A monster with a human face is still a monster. To believe that one’s patience is endless, only a human could be this impertinent.
His other vascular hand slides down the curves of your body, settling on your hip as your legs hook behind his firm thighs. The ridges of his lower cock drag against your slick folds, wetting his girth from its leaking tip sliding down against your swollen clit.
Precum mixes with the concoction as the glossiness spreads about his length. A pair of shaky breaths mingle as Neuvillette positions his engorged tip at your dripping entrance.
The sensation must’ve cleared the daze from your mind, your head cants downwards to stare at the two oddities.
“A-are both of them going to…” Your grip tightens on the sheets, a subconscious search for comfort.
Ah, now you remember danger. Now you realize your insolence to believe that a mere human could ever tame a proud dragon.
“There won’t be any point in breaking you so quickly,” he snarls. Not missing the flutter of your hole as the weeping head dragged over it. It wouldn’t be good to break you so quickly. His sweet little sacrifice.
Taking the erection which hung lower, he rubs its flushed tip along your slit. Each flinch and tremble sparked gratification through his veins.
The lashes of his tongue had aided in the preparation of these sinful walls, but the girth of his beastly tongue could not compare to the thickness pressed against these leaking folds.
The ghost of his breath flutters over your prickling skin. Neuvillette takes deeper breaths as the weight pressed against your core grew, the bulbous tip inching past the puckering entrance.
The stretch was maddening despite the restrained pace. Your walls fluctuate in a surging dance between clamping down and trying to remain relaxed.
As Neuvillette sinks his girth in bit by bit, its envious twin slithers against your aching clit. The sensitive bundle of nerves drags against each ridge and vein, sending jolts of searing pleasure through him and causing your satin walls to flutter.
A velvety sack kisses against your slick folds, signaling that his length has reached its end. The fat tip of its twin resting just above your naval indicated just how deeply he was buried, trapped between your soft flesh and his sculpted body.
It’s crowded inside you, girth parting and stretching these satin walls while the length is pressed against the deepest most intimate part of you.
Forcing delectable little whimpers and gasps from your haughty lips. Quivering legs now locking ankles behind his back, like a pitiable attempt to hamper him.
That arrogance disgraced to nothing but obscenity upon a wanton face. To see the devil so helpless and lewd under the manipulation of a dragon. What a wonderful sight.
Surely your body remembers his. If not, then he’ll ensure it does now, he’ll engrain it into you for the next life.
One cock slid against the satin ridges of your walls, the other indulging along your searing skin and grinding against your clit. He can’t deny how addictive your body always has been.
Dragging as far back as your locked legs would allow him, the flushed head of one dick kisses your twitching clit, and he sinks back in.
Grunts and purrs reverberate through his throat, teeth clenching as your heat engulfs him again. Reaching deeper into your welcoming core as your lips fall open.
His pace is methodical and controlled to his liking. Drawing out his cock inch by thick inch, sloppy trails of arousal caught on each ridge.
Each time making your core empty and yearning to clench around his girth. Just as a whine would leave your drooling lips, his hips would return to you what your core longed for.
Pushing each tantalizing inch to stroke your starved walls until his skin claps against yours with a wet kiss. Back and forth, back and forth the resounding slaps echoed. Mingling with his low groans and your pitched gasps, creating a sacrilegious yet divine hymn.
Your hand rakes deeper into his toned back possessed by desperation.
A few snowy strands are trapped between your writhing fingers. Pulling him closer to your smoldering skin, causing your clit to grind intensely against his swollen cock, as its twin twitches within your velvety folds.
Those babbles falling from your fed lips, were they pleas for him to bestow upon you leniency or begging him to speed up?
“Do you wish to climax?” A polite façade purrs into your ear.
Lilac eyes were not ignorant to how a devil keens under his body, her gaze drunk off a feverish potion of lust and desire. He could feel it, these velvet walls aching for more, for his girth to jostle your core more, to extinguish this all-consuming ache within you.
“That’s too bad.”
His hips remain steady contrasting against the unevenness of your own pants, unaffected by your desperate mewls. You’ve been selfish enough, you’ve been greedy enough. If he were to grant you a taste of ecstasy, then it’ll be on his terms.
He hasn’t gotten his fill yet, no, he wants to pound his shape forever into these lewd walls. The way they contract and squeeze around his girth with each drive of his hips, they’re practically begging him to.
Thus, he accelerates just a bit more, then a bit more, then a bit more again. Nearly folding you with how flushed he was against you.
The heavy scent of lust, the smothering heat, his unrelenting and unshakable thrusts amalgamating into a spark. One which set the both of you ablaze. Your nails digging into his skin and eyes reaching the back of your head. Sobs and incoherent prattles resound through the room.
Your devious walls clamped around his length with maddening convulsions, gummy muscles suckling to guide his throbbing head to your deepest greed. It was too much.
Neuvillette was powerless as his body pressed yours deeper into the damp sheets, trying to grasp onto any fleeting wisps of control as euphoria overtook him.
Sinking his ravenous teeth into the tangle of the sheets beside your neck, he stifles the admission of his defeat.
A heftiness is spilled within your walls and paints the expanse of your skin in an all-consuming wave. Thick release coating every corner of your core, to finally quell that ravaging heat.
Each subsequent twitch pours more into your crowded cavity and stains your skin. The filthiness of it all seemingly prolongs your sinful depravity.
Chest expanding with pants, pressing your erected nipples against his taut chest. Neuvillette remains buried against you, brutish arms holding your body flush against his.
As if to anchor you, to not allow the turbulent waves of madness to sweep you far from him, or him from you. Keeping your quiver body safe against his.
In the darkness behind his shut lashes, he felt it. Your soft caresses his silky tresses and heaving body. Even as your body heaves and quivers in exhaustion, why must you touch him so tenderly?
Why must you be so cruel? If your hands keep caressing his clammy skin, stroking his peeking scales, he’ll misunderstand.
He’ll believe the delusion that you love him.
Him and not the swaying flower fields of the sunkissed surface.
Whispers cut through the haze of lust and passion, warnings crying for Neuvillette to escape. So he pulls his face from the tangle of sheets, lungs huffing as his eyes find yours.
Exhaustion muddles the hues of your gaze, but not enough to completely smother that glimmer still present. Ah, he knows that that glimmer was.
Even in his heat-induced daze, he’s not naive enough to believe the sincerity presented in your eyes was anything other than duty.
He doesn’t want to be reminded that those hands, which cup his face with such tenderness, are bound by a sense of duty.
A reminder that he’s merely just a stepping stone on the path of your true desire.
He doesn’t want to see it.
The head of his cock parting with a deafening squelch. A darkened gaze follows the pool forming between your splayed legs. Disgruntlement muddles lilac hues.
But such discontent couldn’t last long when the twitch of a neglected length protests. Its bulbous tip longed for its turn within those sticky walls. A primal ordinance he couldn’t resist.
What to call this sensation, to scorn yet desire you just as much.
It wasn’t long before your hips were maneuvered up, your plush ass now up in the air as your quivering arms and face pressed into the sullied sheets.
As one hand supports your unsteady hips. Sharp eyes surveying the puffiness of your cunt, glistening with temptation and dripping with sin.
Hooked fingers slides up the weeping slit, collecting the sacrilegious mixture. Earning an addictive whimper from you when his digits pulled away. Spreading them in front of his gaze, tracing over the stringy nectar stretched between them.
How strange, those lying lips of yours whimper for ‘rest’ and a ‘moment to catch your breath’. Yet your body is still so eagerly exposing itself to his eyes, agape cunt so eagerly twitching and slick.
You don’t even try to writhe yourself away from his hold, not even a single attempt to hide yourself from his hunger.
How skilled you are at fanning the flames, perhaps it's a talent inherent to devils like you. The tempter of all tempters.
You’ve always been like this since the very first rendition.
If only you weren’t so strong-willed. If only you weren’t so clever to trick him. If only you weren’t so enchanting.
Then he wouldn’t have bent to your whims, the sea would’ve cleansed out the mortal filth from stolen land. Then he wouldn’t be trapped in this disgrace of a body. Then he wouldn’t be in love with you.
The betrayal, the disgrace, and this punishment would’ve never happened if only a fool didn’t surrender everything for a mere, fleeting creature.
Why must you make him repeat the same mistake again?
There it was again, that surging torrent within him making its voice known in the echoes of his mind. Whispering the hint on how a dragon would defeat the flame that had scorched him those years ago.
Smother the flame with the tides of depravity and vulgarity. Taint your arrogance with shame.
There wasn’t an ounce of gentleness remaining within his eyes, a beastly hunger taking its place.
Yes, you must pay the debt of reducing him to such a humiliating state.
His neglected cock prods against that greedy cunt of yours. Unmerciful hands bruising the plushness of your hips.
The sinful concoction from the previous sessions allowed his tormented length into your walls without resistance.
The neglected cock finally indulging in the spasms of your abused walls, it’s its turn to bully those weak spots with its thick head.
Sobs sung in broken chokes leave your drooling lips. Trembling fingers enmeshed into the fabric as if to find some ground for your senses to land after their fall from euphoria.
He won’t allow you reprieve. No, not even for a moment. He’ll shatter your sanity and arrogance once and for all.
Nothing interrupted the pistoning of his hips as he fucked you through overstimulation, heavy balls slamming against your swollen lips.
The previous twin cock was now experiencing the hard nub of your engorged clit running along its veins and ridges.
There’s no room for an exchange of words. No, the two of you have long been pasted that point.
No sandy ground beneath as the two of you sank under the ravenous tides of primal instincts and pleasure.
Cacophonous growls, whimpers, and sobs filling the absence along with the thwacks of skin against skin echoed back from the cellar walls.
You keen under the ram of his hips, jostled head writhing against the soiled sheets. The motion allows your hair to fall over your shoulders.
Exposing an untainted patch of skin. Sharp pupils watching how beads of sweat trailing down your nape reflect the azure glow of his body.
An itch assailing his fangs even has his hips continue their barrage against your soft ass. Those lovely vulgar moans wane out from his hearing as his senses could only obsess over the untarnished expanse.
Ah, what if there’s a way for him to pin you here until the stars themselves burn out? You were given to him as his bride.
An offering made to him.
So why can’t he forever confine you within his clutches? Just as you were the original sin which damned him to this cove.
Long tongue dragging along the fresh skin, feeling the jolts of your body.
He’s done it once before, he’s cursed you before. Imprinting a curse upon your very soul, one which followed you through the hands of death and even when the hands of life reformed your body from the earth.
Why not renew it?
Neuvillette pins your upper body further into the tangled bedding, one hand abandoning your hips in favor of raveling in the mess of fabric.
Your heated skin felt against his exhilarated fangs, hungry to sink into your nape.
‘Till death do us part’, that’s not enough.
Such fleeting mortal oaths are much too meek for dragons.
No, those atrocious murmurs in his thoughts command him to curse you in the next life. And the next one, and the one after that as well.
It’s not like your muddled head would understand, nothing but mindless prattles and mewls from the suffocating pleasure only he could ever give you.
But that’s fine, just drown nicely in lust and desire. He’ll always be waiting there at the bottom to drag you down deeper.
Just as the tips of his pointed teeth broke through quivering skin, delicate fingers grasp upon burly a hand.
Intertwining their grasp together upon rumpled linen, a subconscious search for comfort.
An action that remits an iota of reason back to his foggy mind, hazy eyes moving toward the sight of your hand clutched around his.
Even as he’s ravishing your weeping walls, flooding your body with his filthy essence which trickles down your thighs and ass, and chasing his own carnal needs… you still reach for him.
Shamelessly pulling his touch closer, even when the throes of rapture banished all thought from your jostled mind.
A whisper resurfaces amidst the fog and clamor of instinct and rage.
However, it’s a whisper which made his incisors dare not budge another inch. The inkling of truth which he thought he had silenced within the depths of his heart.
The accuracy that this wasn’t love. No, what his instincts craved was not love, it was obsession.
For love was not this sadistic possession, not to curse you just to ease his own damnation.
No, love is supposed to be much like the warmth of your palm flushed against his knuckles.
He remembers now, the lesson you taught him all those years ago. A demonstration witnessed with his own eyes.
Love was sacrifice, just as how you offered yourself to the tides, quelling the rage of a vengeful dragon. Because you loved your village too much to allow them to drown.
Retreating away from the transgression almost committed, fangs repressed behind closed lips. Neuvillette presses a sweet kiss against the shallow wound.
To love you isn’t to steal you away from the embrace of the star who’s forsaken him. It’s to hoist you up to that beloved sunlight. Just where you belonged.
Oh, how could he not love you?
The bride offered to a dragon in a white dress who once dared to command the great beast to stand still as she braided flowers into his hair.
A brazenness contrasted with the gentleness of her smile.
The voices of heart and cruelty rang out in vociferous battle in his mind, Neuvillette buries his face into your shoulder. Pursuing the savor of your skin, pinning you deeper into the tangle of bedding.
Providing more simulation for the pulsing cock wedged against your swollen clit and messy sheets. The neediness of his movements exposed just how close his undoing was.
The hand on your abdomen pulled you impossibly close, adding pressure to the bulging outline of his cock.
Amplifying the ecstasy coursing through your veins, abused walls clamping down on each ridge and each vein of his heft girth. The shape engrained into your wanton core, marvelous sobs and mewls echoing off the empty walls.
Soon those moans become shattered in your throat, eyes rolling back further with each heavy thrust and slap of his balls. Lungs cease all function as rapture unravels you wholly and exhilaration becomes your undoing.
Sloppy contractions mix the repercussions of multitudinous ruination, dripping out your convulsing cunt. Just before a hot surge replenishes the brood that oozed out on the sullied sheets.
Grunts vibrate against your back reminding your body to breathe.
Thick ropes paint your belly and sheets, making an absolute mess. Contracting walls trying but failing to contain the aftershocks from his cock buried deep within, already stretched to their limits, capacity long exceeded. Shudders rack your body and his the same.
With hands still entangled, he coaxes your body around. Granting him a mesmerizing view of your debauched face.
The face he’s so enamored with that he bows his down closer, bodies still connected as he wishes to echt every last detail of you into his being. So that eternity may remember you.
Softness resurfaces in his bones, a tender kiss pressed upon your fingers. Soothing those tremors as he guides your consciousness back to reality.
He holds you, remaining inside as to contain his greed spilled deep inside. The heftiness of his cock prods against your shuddering walls. Every last fiber of your being overstimulated with pulsing pleasure.
Yet, your hand refused to let go. Still holding him toward your exhausted figure in the dying light of the candle.
Whimpers and coos exchanging in a duet of devotion, a hymn so placate it quells the vapid torrents ever so slightly.
Placid fingers drawing circles into your sore back. A gentle lilac gaze keeping watch as your teary eyes retire behind heavy lashes.
Blood and water no matter how much they’re mixed, won’t produce wine.
However, just for tonight in a realm heavy with lust, passion, and phantasm, they’ll craft a wine of delusion. One filled with nothing but wishful fantasy.
However, this wine of delusion shall be enough to quench the thirst of lascivious compulsions and vengeance.
The gentle caresses of steam ghost past your leaden lashes, lukewarm ripples lap against your skin. Your sore body propped up against the porcelain, as Neuvillette drags a dampened towel along your skin.
A pang of guilt stung him each time the cloth passed over a discolored imprint. No amount of diligent rubs would purify your skin of those bruises in the shape of his fingers.
A stir from muscle gradually awakening from slumber reflected in the wavelets of the bath. The sensation of a damp towel must’ve further jolted your senses back to alertness.
A cerulean glow glistens off the polished surface as your vision finally centers on the figure rising warm water over your limp body.
Attentive eyes immediately connect with yours as he scans your expression for discomfort.
“Are you hurting anywhere?” Neuvillette halts the towel.
You respond with a slow shake, your throat must be too sore to answer. Despite how he tries to conceal them behind a robe, blotches of azure painted along his fair skin.
Proof that draconic influence was still in rebellion of his body. All the while he’s very much aware of your eye’s every move. What an appalling sight it must be for you.
“If I make you uncomfortable I’ll leave promptly, this was just the only solution I could find to bathe-”
“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Voice hoarse as your frame melts closer to his, delicate fingers intertwining with between the spaces of his own scaly fingers.
Allowing your breaths to minge in tandem in the steam-damped tiles of the tranquil bathroom.
“Does it hurt?” A warm thumb traces soft circles along the rough scales along his hand.
Did you catch the subtle twitches and jolts of his muscles? A mortal body rejecting draconic influences, draconic influences revolting against a mortal cage. Still, he shakes his head. Lilac gaze watching your eyes trail between the scales and his eyes with skepticism.
“I’m not quite sure as to why I’m still in this… state.” Neuvillette gives a preemptive answer to the question he assumes to be hanging off your tongue.
“Do you… miss the sea?” However, it seems you had another inquiry hidden in your ever perplexing mind.
A deep sigh resonates through the tranquil air. He stares at the tips of his fingers dipped into the warm water, a taunting substitute for the sea that called for him.
“I suppose it’s natural that I yearn for it…”
A hum was your only response, eyes hidden behind closed lashes. Neuvillette just couldn’t decipher that smile of yours, curled lips reflected over the rippling surface of the steaming water.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Your body is still delicate, please let us return back to the estate-”
“I might actually grow roots into that bed if I’m to rest there any longer.” A pout was evident in your voice.
Taking a few greater strides, your body pulls in front of Neuvillette’s pace. It was only momentary of course, for he swiftly rejoins your side.
Observant eyes not missing the subtle wobble in your steps along the pastures of the village.
“Please just don’t stray too far.” He relents, offering up his arm for support.
With a gracious smile, your arm curls around his, interlocking your fingers with his as two pairs of steps ambled along the grass.
Soon a familiar pool of water came into view, enticing two pairs of eyes with its glimmering ripples.
What it strange sight those waters showed, a cursed dragon who yearned for his place and a cursed mortal who longed for the sun, two cursed beings holding hands in the reflection along the pristine surface.
“I believe this is far enough. ” His arm pulls your frame closer, a subtle hesitance tainting his tone.
However, your body didn’t budge. Resolute stance not moving even one bit watching your reflection warp and contort in the water. A deep breath echoes off the wall.
“Neuvillette… do you miss the sea?” Your stare parts with the water, now peering straight into his lilac hues.
‘Do you miss the sea?’ You’ve asked him this question many times. He's always given a composite response, but maybe his flowery words diluted the meaning too much to your ears.
“Yes, I do miss the sea.” His candid yearning.
There was a question his lips didn’t dare ask, ‘Do you miss the sun?’, Neuvillette wanted to riposte your questions with this question of his.
But he knew it would be pointless, for he already knew the answer. Wordlessly written all over your melancholic stare into the pond, the longing to return to the sun, to be with blood and not water.
To love you, would be to hoist you up to where you longed to be, in the embrace of the warm sun. Neuvillette had thought he made up his resolve long ago.
However, would it be too selfish of him to wish to turn back?
To convince you to back into the tranquil estate where the Melusines await your return with those dishes you taught them how to cook.
Or maybe would at least try on those gowns still untouched? Could you wait until all those books in the library were read through by your sweet voice?
Would you be oh so kind enough to hold his hand just for a moment longer? At the very least, would you allow him to memorize your warmth?
His grip on your hands tightens ever so briefly, a shaky breath trembles in his chest before he releases it along with the tension in his fingers.
No, it wouldn’t be fair to stall any longer, you deserve your happy ending.
Calmly, the dragon bows his head closer to yours. Ignoring the aggrieved voices that cried for him to swallow back to secret just about to spill from his tongue.
The ending of this tale won’t ever change, for a dragon is just as foolish as he was before.
“My true name is-!” His voice was stunned as a pair of soft lips silenced him.
Your lips pressed against his own, forcing back the secret. His bewildered eyes hone in upon your face, but your lashes were shut as your hands pull his face closer. The resolve wanes from his bones as he sinks into your embrace.
As your lips pull away, gasping for breath. He places his hands atop yours, searching your face for an answer. All he got was that indecipherable smile.
Pulling his face down closer to yours again, your lips find themselves right next to his pointed ears. Under a faint breath which left your parted lips came the secret he kept locked away.
Since when? When did you find his name? Or… did you know this whole time?
Neuvillette reels back in the embrace of your cruel hands. Lilac eyes stare deep into yours, peering through the cracks in that enchanting façade of yours.
Ah, this whole time, did he not discover the false innocence in the irises of the deceptor of all deceptors?
A foolish moth fell for the deception of a devil once again, flying to the flicker of a candle until his wings were charred off into ash.
Those sentences written upon parchment weren’t lies, all other monsters fall secondary to the devil. Even a dragon.
“Why?” Was all he could muster, oh cruel devil why did you play him a fool once more?
“Because I wanted to see you again… but I knew you wouldn’t quite share the same sentiment since the moment I heard your voice… so I lied,” Those audacious eyes of yours never looked away.
Ah, how could he forget how crafty and observant a devil is with her schemes? The charming enchantment as she performs her deceptions. Speaking shameless lies with those bewitching lips.
“If you wanted to see me… then that day at the loch… why weren’t you there?” The stir of the torrent within put a snarl into his throat.
Why must you keep lying to him?
Ah, from the start, Neuvillette should’ve listened to the clamorous cries of his instincts. To withdraw away from the flame, to extinguish the hell fires before they left another lesson learned upon his skin.
Yet, he’s still within the embrace of your cruel hands. His body just wouldn’t pull away.
Just what is this level of stupidity called? For a moth to still crave the warmth of the flame which charred its wings into ash. Just what is this lunacy called?
“The nobles locked me away after those tyrants stole your name from my tongue, they locked me away.” Torment brewing in those irises which reflected him.
A chill staggers the surge of the torrent, an icy sting which stupefied the rampaging currents.
For generations upon generations of scribes and poets never penned this detail down in any rendition of a classically beloved tale.
“I begged them, I banged against the bars of the cell, even clawed at the stone walls until my fingers were raw, but they left me there to rot in the cold… I just wanted to see you one last time, just once more.” Those bitter pools formed in your penitent eyes spill over.
This wasn’t how the tale was supposed to end. The maiden, who deceived a dragon for her people, was supposed to be hailed a hero. You were supposed to have a happy ending, so why didn't you get that?
“All I ever wanted was for you and me to walk amongst humanity… look where that got us…” Tears descend from your cheeks and onto the grass below, a humorless chuckle.
Was this another lie falling from those saccharine lips of yours? Sugar dusted on the shell of a vile trick? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore.
“That foolish wish of mine… it must’ve been so painful. I’m so sorry.” Your thumb traces over the scales dotted over his cheek, evidence of a draconic rebellion against a mortal condemnation.
Does your touch scorn or soothe him? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore.
“I’m sorry. I’ll say sorry one thousand times if you wish.” A tremor in your voice.
The surge within him couldn’t sustain itself, faltering and receding back to a placid, pathetic ripple. Perhaps… It's tired.
Tired of holding onto this futile grudge. Not when the bitter answers its tides were ravenous for had finally sunk in.
He takes a deep breath, collecting his resolve.
“...what… what do you wish for?” Just how will this rendition end? Neuvillette doesn’t know.
But he knows his hands should hold onto yours, desperately etching the details of your tender touch into its memory. Rations to sustain him for the rest of a solitary eternity.
He hears your slow inhale, preparing your throat to speak your selfish desires.
“I wish for your curses to become mine alone to bear.” You reveal your selfish wish, pressing the voucher of freedom into his hands.
He had that look on his face again. Disbelief stupefied each muscle of his dashing face, wide eyes peering into yours trying to find the hint of a jest. Your gaze doesn’t waiver as your finger tightens around his.
“Grant me my wish… please.” Lips stretching with a reassuring smile.
His lips press into a thin line, face returning to its place between your warm hands, he takes a deep breath. Perhaps it’s just his sense of responsibility and fairness that compelled him to fulfill this wish.
Or maybe, the dragon just couldn’t help but submit to the whims of his beloved, a statement that remained no matter what rendition of the tale it was.
Releasing the breath he held, the shift in the air was palpable, a lightness in his chest. The pond off to the side billows momentarily, drawing focus toward its excited ripples.
Releasing his hold, feet leading him to the side of the saltwater before his mind could process his own actions.
He could hear it again, the hymns of the water singing the end of his exile. Reaching out a hand, it sinks past the cool surface, the tides welcoming back their prince with mellow kisses.
The ocean calls for him, so why is he still staring back at you? The one who’ll never embrace the sea again for the rest of her life, nor ever feel the sway of Summer days in a field full of Pluie Lotus. His eyes conveyed a question his lips couldn’t bear to ask. Thus, you give the answer he seeks.
“Think of it as my reparations to you, an overdue apology for my mistake, for making you to suffer so much.” That glimmer in your eyes, one he understands now.
Moving the hex to a body whose true master was the mistress of time, a body blessed with mortality. If a miracle isn’t enough to make a curse break, then perhaps the tides of time could.
Taking a piece of the curse with each tick of a clock, just like how the waves take with it grains of sand from warm beaches.
Once a withered mortal body is called back to the earth, the clauses will be fulfilled after many centuries. Unsettled grudges eroded away like those sandy banks.
Until the pull of the ground makes its visible influence on your skin. Until your locks come to resemble the snowy shade you’ve lovingly run your fingers through. Until the sweet earth hums for you to embrace it once more, you shall remain here.
What a clever scheme it all is, a masterful plan which could only ever be conjured by you. You devil, oh so devious, devil.
“You can hate me, I won't hold it against you,” you whisper. “May this tale end in your happiness, let me do this much for you.”
A bitter bile festers at those lies of yours. How could such lies fall from your lips so easily when they always left such a vile taste upon his tongue?
Gaze honed in upon your frame, watching the gentle smile hold back the slight quiver of your shoulders. He stands back up, slow strides returning him to your side. Taking your hands into his larger ones, placing your soft touch back along his cheeks.
“Silence… I won’t hear such deceit.” Snowy locks brushing against your fingertips.
“But I wasn’t lying…” Confusion furrows your brow, but your hands remain cupping his face.
Moving away, he studies the rivulets of regret and anguish that leave bitter trails down your cheeks. He swallows back the objections clawing up his throat, such vile words don’t belong on your tongue.
“How could I hate you?” he confesses.
Neuvillette has finally come to a realization. All those renditions, all those differing retellings of a classic tale. He had read them all wrong, basis clouding his interpretation.
For the princess did love her dragon. Just as he loved her, all this time.
Together in the depths of a cave away from the prying eyes of the divine. Breaths in time with one another as they stand in the embrace of one another, until the dragon bows his head back down.
Touching his forehead to hers, so that maybe Neuvillette could get a glimpse into that ever mystical mind of yours.
“How can I ever hate what I’ve coveted for so long?” He asks.
That ever-stirring torrent, that spiteful surge, where did it go? Those clamorous voices with their vengeful snarls and cynical bellows, why weren’t they intrepid enough to direct those foul words toward you?
Not you, never you. How could they ever hate you, the heroine of a Fontainian fairytale they’ve pitifully yearned for so long?
“Am… am I loved then?” Your lashes were squeezed shut as if death was rapping upon them. Too cowardly to face the verdict.
“Yes… yes, you devious devil…” Neuvillette couldn’t help but chuckle at such an endearing sight.
He feels your fingers tense around his skin, astonishment in the features of your face. It soon melts away into those welling pools as a smile pushes against the corners of your eyes.
Pressing your forehead to his, a warm droplet rolls down your cheek and over the curve of your lips. He simply rests his head against yours.
Only now in the last sentence of this retelling of a tale which has been twisted, distorted, and embellished away from the initial narrative did an unwritten truth emerge.
A clever maiden was just as foolish as a proud dragon. The weight of their foolishness was so great it dragged them beneath the waves and kept them in a cove deep away from the prying eyes of gods.
However, if this idiotic dragon could intertwine his fingers with yours. If he could be by your side until the hands of time call you back to the earth in this final rendition.
If he could be the happy ending you deserved, then he wouldn’t mind in the slightest.
Fin~
©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS.
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The Stolen Pen
Azriel x Fem!Reader
Summary: Azriel inadvertently steals a pen from Y/n, his crush. His covert operations to rectify the situation spirals into a comedy of errors…will Azriel be able to return the pen and admit his feelings, or will he forever be labeled as a thief?
Warnings: None, just fluff with stupid decisions, a sprinkle of jealousy, silly mistakes, and perhaps too many details about pens.
A/N: So I was supposed to be writing my other fic, but I was a bit stumped on where to take that…So I started this with the intention of it being a cute, short, one-shot or blurb…but here we are…7k words later….this is a fluffy mess.
“Ohhh there come the lover boy”, Cassian whisper-yells, as Azriel silently slides into the chair next to Nesta in their shared criminal justice elective. His attempt at stealth, however, is foiled by that not-so-subtle announcement. With a scowl aimed at Cassian, Azriel attempts to shrink further into his chair, hoping that their professor remains engrossed in her lecture and oblivious to his tardiness.
“Shhhhhh” Nesta whispered, smacking the back of Cass’s head, giving Azriel some support before she smirked, “He’s not lover boy yet. Have you even been able to say something beyond hello and goodbye?
The question hits Azriel with the force of a freight train, his cheeks burning with a flush that he prays is hidden by the shadow of his hoodie. He's saved from having to voice his defeat by the TA, who chooses that moment to distribute study guides for their impending exam. Grateful for the distraction, Azriel takes out his pen, only to catch the curious—and amused—gazes of Nesta and Cassian directed not at him, but at his hand.
Always self-conscious about his scars, he hunches further into his hoodie, but as he follows their stares back to his paper, Azriel's heart sinks. In his hand lies a distinctly feminine, pink pen adorned with a star or flower emblem at its tip, an object so glaringly out of place in his grip that it screams for attention. The realization hits him like a wave, leaving him momentarily speechless. Oh. Oh.
“Please tell me that's whose I think it is," Nesta teases, barely containing her laughter as she observes Azriel's stunned silence.
At Azriel’s complete silence, Nesta waved a hand in front of his face, glancing at Cassian and mouthing did he stop functioning? To which she got a shoulder shrug in response.
Her attempts to elicit a response from him were futile; Azriel was lost in a haze of embarrassment, fixated on the damning piece of evidence in his hand. Nesta's playful pokes did nothing to snap him out of his daze, and in a moment of sheer mortification, Azriel let his forehead meet the desk with a thud loud enough to turn heads. If he thought he was invisible before, he's anything but now.
Azriel was mortified.
He was utterly and completely mortified. Azriel felt like he was living in a nightmare, one where embarrassment was the main theme, and there was no waking up. He wished for anything—a magic trapdoor beneath his feet, or maybe a sudden, convenient superpower to teleport himself out of this situation. But no, the reality was far less accommodating, especially since he was holding onto something that wasn't his. A pen. Not just any pen, but one that belonged to you, given in a moment of desperation.
Azriel let out a groan, which Cassian tried to cover with a cough that was more like a shout, and Nesta with the dramatic slam of her books. Their attempts were valiant but futile against the tidal wave of Azriel's mortification.
He thought back to earlier in the day, in the calculus class he shared with you, the one in which he always sat in the back corner and one day you came in late, and sat next to him. Somehow, since then, you kept coming back to that spot, and though he replied each time to your good mornings and goodbyes, he wanted to speak up. Maybe ask if you were new because he would've noticed you in the previous math classes. Or maybe inquire if you had transferred, under the guise of offering a tour of the campus. Yet, whenever he caught sight of your ebony hair and the spark in your eyes, words fled from him, leaving silence in their wake.
Just like today, where for once he was there after you…he had made it a bit of a habit to be early to that one class, mainly because it was a class that was important to his major. Of course, he couldn’t finish his computer science degree if he failed multivariable calculus, and the…added benefit of watching you walk into the building from the windows and then up the stairs, always giving him a smile before sitting down, was just that…a benefit.
But yes, today he slept through his alarm, got trapped in a conversation with his elderly neighbor, the one he didn’t know how to escape without Cass or Rhys, was almost run over twice on his motorcycle, and arrived as a verifiable mess to class. After jumping into his seat, he patted himself down so rigorously and nearly up-ended his entire bag trying to find a pen, needing to copy down the partial derivatives he knew the professor would showcase on their next exam.
His frantic search for a writing instrument ended when you noticed his plight and offered yours with a simple, "Do you need a pen?" Frozen, Azriel could only nod, accepting the lifeline you offered but cursing his inability to say anything more–Oh, caldron boil and fry me…
“You stole her pen?”
“I–I didn’t steal her pen, Nesta”
“You stole her pen.”
“Her mount blank pen”, added Cassian, smiling cheekily behind his phone.
“Whose what–Cass, don’t smile at me with fries sticking out of your mouth.” Feyre joins them in their usual diner, sliding into the booth next to Az.
“He stole his crush’s pen,” Cass continues, swallowing his food this time, after Nesta pinched his thigh.
“I didn’t steal her pen!”
“You stole someone’s pen?” Rhys joins, sliding next to Feyre and setting down a tray of milkshakes.
Azriel's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, if that was even possible, under the relentless teasing of his friends. "I didn't steal it. She lent it to me," he mumbled, his voice barely rising over the din of the diner.
"Ah, but you've yet to return it," Rhys pointed out, a mischievous glint in his eye as he took a sip of his milkshake. "Sounds like a classic case of pen-napping to me."
"It's not like that," Azriel protested, but the laughter from his friends suggested they weren't buying his defense. He glanced down at the pen in question, its sleek design and the way it perfectly balanced in his hand making it all the more precious now that it was a symbol of his hapless affection.
Feyre, having quietly observed the exchange with a gentle smile, finally chimed in. "Maybe it's fate, Azriel. That pen could be your excuse to finally talk to her."
Azriel's heart skipped a beat at the thought. Talk to you. Use words this time instead of just nodding like a lovestruck fool. It sounded so simple when Feyre said it, but the mere idea sent his pulse racing.
His thoughts were interrupted by Feyre's voice again, pulling him back to the present. "Wait, Az, can I see it?" Her curiosity piqued, she leaned sideways, her gaze fixed on the pen he held so carefully.
With a hesitant motion, Azriel passed the pen to her, but before she could comment, Rhys's whistle sliced through the din of the diner.
"I take that back, this is definitely a case of pen thieving," he declared, an unusual seriousness lacing his tone that drew the eyes of the entire table.
Rhys sighed, muttering under his breath about uncultured friends, a comment cut short by Nesta's sharp look. "Azriel, that’s a Mont Blanc Pen."
"That’s what I said! A mount blank pen!" Cassian echoed, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and amusement.
Sitting up straight, a sense of urgency overtaking him, Azriel looked from one friend to another, their faces a blend of jest and genuine surprise. Rhys continued, "What that means is it’s quite an expensive pen, Az...I’m sure whoever you borrowed it from will want it back."
The words hit Azriel like a cold wave, his anxiety spiking anew. The fear that you might see him as a thief, as someone who took advantage of a moment of kindness, gnawed at him.
Azriel's mind went back to this morning, the moment of leaving the classroom flashed vividly before his eyes—your parting words, something about the pen, but all he had managed in response was a series of nods, mesmerized by your smile. The possibility that you might have asked for it back, only for him to unwittingly refuse, twisted in his gut. Did your smile mask pity, or was it simply to avoid the brief intimacy of touch?
"Oh, cauldron, I am a thief. I did steal her pen," he muttered, the realization settling in with a weight that was hard to bear. The joke had turned into a confession, the humor of the situation evaporating as the reality of his inadvertent theft dawned on him. He had to make it right, to return the pen and clear the air, hoping beyond hope that you wouldn’t think less of him for this misunderstanding.
“Oh Az, I’m sure it’s not that bad” Feyre hands it back to him, trying to provide words of comfort. “It’ll be fine as long as you see her again.”
This must have been the sixth stare Azriel received, as he shuffled in front of the large windows in the building’s hallway. He supposed he cut quite a figure, dressed entirely in black, complete with a mask and his hoodie covering his entire head. But he was here on a mission, no matter the next group of students he saw from the corner of his eye, whispering and pointing at him. He needed to keep watch and see when you would be walking up to the building. He could only think about your pen for the past 2 days, cursing whatever entity who’d assigned this calculus class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He needed to give it to you today because he wasn’t sure if he could handle the anxiety all weekend.
At first, he just wanted to leave it on your regular seat and skip class today. Maybe leaving behind a cute note with the pen, asking to treat you to coffee in return for his unintentional theft. But, then he spiraled, what if you no longer went to the seat next to him, thinking of him as some ungrateful and lying douchebag. He couldn’t just leave it there for someone else to pick up, especially after Rhys mentioned its exclusivity. He didn’t want to accidentally lose your pen and ruin all chances of ever getting to talk to you.
But as the minutes ticked by, the usual stream of students thinned…and the bell that marked the start of class echoed hollowly in the emptying hallway. You didn't appear. Confusion, then concern, wound its way through Azriel's thoughts. You didn’t appear. Confusion, then concern wound its way through Azriel’s thoughts. Had something happened? Or had you simply decided to skip class? The latter was a possibility that he simply hadn’t considered, having seen you in every class since the start of the semester last month.
With a heavy heart, Azriel made his way to class, the pen still in his possession. The seat next to him, your seat, remained empty, a silent testament to the day's ruined intentions. As the lecture on derivatives and integrals droned on, Azriel couldn't help but feel the gap next to him acutely, an empty space filled with missed connections and unspoken words.
The clatter and chatter of the diner wrapped around Azriel like a familiar blanket as he sank further into the booth, an attempt to escape the scrutiny he knew was coming. The weekly Saturday breakfast with Rhys and Cassian was usually a highlight, a chance to decompress and share laughs over greasy food. Today, however, Azriel felt the weight of his unresolved dilemma like a lead apron around his chest.
Rhys slid into the booth, arching an eyebrow as he took in Azriel's disheveled appearance. "Looks like someone hasn't slept in days," he commented, his voice laced with concern and a hint of amusement.
Azriel could only groan in response, the word "sleep" feeling foreign and elusive. Cassian's next words did nothing to improve his mood. "He's still a thief," he joked, nudging Azriel with his elbow.
Rhys's surprise was evident. "You still haven't returned the pen?" He shook his head, disbelief and curiosity mingling in his expression.
Cassian leaned back, sipping his coffee. "He hasn’t been able to find her. She skipped class."
The conversation paused as a waiter delivered their usual array of milkshakes and waffles, a temporary distraction from the topic at hand. Rhys, ever the problem solver, wasted no time in offering a solution. "I can see if I can pull some strings, and find her contact information. Or at least her email."
Silence descended upon the table, thick and heavy. Both Cassian and Rhys turned to Azriel, expecting confirmation or at least a nod of approval. Instead, they were met with a profound silence that spoke volumes. The shock on their faces was almost comical.
Rhys was the first to break the silence, disbelief coloring his tone. "Don’t tell me…"
Cassian's eyes widened. "You don’t know her name??"
"Not even her first name???" Rhys added, his voice an octave higher in astonishment.
Azriel felt a flush creep up his neck, coloring his cheeks a deep shade of red. The truth of the matter, laid bare amidst the remnants of breakfast, felt absurd even to him. He had spent the week agonizing over a pen, over missed opportunities and unspoken words, without ever knowing your name.
“But you said she’s in your compsci class?” Rhys continued
Azriel shook his head, “No, we're in multivariable calculus together. But she’s definitely new.”
At Cassian and Rhys's blank stares, Azriel elaborated, “It’s one the hardest math classes, I would have noticed her in the previous levels.”
“Wait Az, pull out the pen again.” Rhys reached his hand over.
His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, flicking between Azriel and the pen before he floated an invitation his way. "Why don't you take and break and join Feyre and me tonight? We're catching up with my childhood friend—the one who introduced me to Feyre. Actually, Cass, join us and bring Nesta along. We’re meeting at Rita’s as usual so Mor will be there too.
Azriel, however, wasn't so sure. "I don’t know…" he mumbled, lost in his whirlwind of thoughts, missing the significant glances Rhys shot towards Cassian.
As if on cue, Cassian's boisterous encouragement broke through his reverie. "Oh, come on, Az. It's not like the pen's going to grow legs and run off!"
And with Rhys adding, "Give us some company, won't you, Azriel? My dear friend will feel left out among the couples."
With a mix of encouragement and playful ribbing, Azriel found himself agreeing if only to escape the orbit of his own overthinking for a while.
Thus, Azriel found himself stepping into Rita's coffee shop, transformed at night into a cozy jazz club, clad in his finest casual attire. Gone was the hoodie, replaced by a crisp black shirt, his best jeans, and the leather jacket that felt like a second skin. The pen, its significance magnified beyond reason, was securely tucked inside his jacket, close to his heart.
Entering the cafe with Nesta and Cassian, who both looked effortlessly chic, Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement beneath his apprehension. Rita’s transformed at night from a quaint coffee shop into a vibrant jazz club, complete with dance floors and hidden alcoves, a favorite haunt for their group.
Curiosity about this mysterious friend of Rhys and Feyre nibbled at the edges of his thoughts. Described by Rhys as a "childhood companion" and by Feyre with glowing terms of talent and kindness, she seemed almost too good to be true. Feyre’s stories painted her as a guardian angel of the arts, guiding Feyre through her first year with museum visits and personal tutorials in art history, a beacon of support that enabled Feyre to pursue her dreams in Fine Arts.
Azriel couldn't deny the intrigue, a part of him eager to meet the person who had inadvertently brought both his brothers' such happiness and given him such close friends.
Rita's was a place of warmth and music, where coffee aromas mingled with the sultry notes of jazz, and where the dance floor beckoned the brave. It was here, amidst the casual elegance of his friends, that Azriel hoped to find some semblance of peace.
His heart was already racing from the anticipation of the night, but nothing could have prepared him for the moment he stepped into the semi-circle of his friends and saw her.
The back of a girl, her black tweed jacket adorned with intertwining threads of red and gold, caught his immediate attention. It was a unique piece, one he recognized because it hung over the chair next to him just days ago in calculus. As if on cue, Cassian nudged him forward, breaking his trance and thrusting him into the moment he had been both dreading and longing for.
Time seemed to stretch and bend, each step toward the table feeling like a journey in itself. Then, as Rhys and Feyre stood, pulling the girl up with them, the world snapped back to its rightful pace, but not for Azriel. For him, everything continued in slow motion, the ambient noise fading into a distant buzz, drowned out by the sudden pounding of his heart.
"This is my childhood friend," Rhys began, his voice cutting through the fog in Azriel's mind.
"And my first college friend, Y/n," Feyre added, her smile bright and welcoming. “She just came back from a year abroad, so everyone welcome her well!”
Rhys continued with the introductions, but Azriel heard none of it. His gaze locked with Y/n's, and in that moment, everything else fell away. Her eyes, a captivating mix of curiosity and warmth, seemed to hold him in place, rendering him utterly speechless.
"Oh hi, Azriel!" Y/n's voice, clear and cheerful, attempted to bridge the gap between them. But Azriel remained frozen, caught in the storm of his own emotions, unable to muster even the simplest of greetings.
Then, the silence was shattered by Cassian's laughter. "Sorry about that, Azriel is just too shy, isn't that right?" he joked, clapping Azriel on the back hard enough to jostle him from his stupor. With a friendly push, Cassian maneuvered him into the booth next to Y/n before sliding in next to Rhys and Nesta.
As Feyre drew Y/n back into the conversation, wanting to connect her with Nesta over their love for books, Azriel couldn't shake the feeling of the pen in his pocket. It was as if the object, a simple tool for writing, had become a symbol of all his unspoken words, his hidden desires, and his fear of reaching out. It burned against his thigh, a constant reminder of the words he had yet to say.
As the night wore on, and their friends' laughter filled the air, Azriel found his eyes constantly drifting to Y/n’s, wanting to capture every smile, every glance, every subtle expression that danced across her features. The ambient light of the club, dim and forgiving, cast a warm glow on her face, highlighting the contours and the genuine joy that seemed to radiate from her.
When the girls got up to join the dance floor, a tidal wave of reality crashed over Azriel. Rhys and Cassian's sudden attention, their probing questions about his unusual quietness, felt like spotlights on a stage he wasn't prepared to stand on. "I'm just tired," he managed to say, the words feeling like sandpaper against his throat. "And a bit worried, you know." But his attempt to deflect only invited more scrutiny.
Rhys immediately saw through the facade. "She's the girl, isn't she? That's why she said your name before I introduced you." At Azriel's silence, Rhys elaborated further, “She’s also the one I assumed was the owner of that pen, Y/n has an entire collection of Mont Blanc, and she fits into your description, being technically new as she just returned from abroad.
Azriel’s flush, heavy and telling, confirmed his friends' suspicions without a single word spoken.
“Then this the perfect moment!” Cassian continued. “When she comes back, give the pen and ask to buy her a drink as an apology for the delay”
Rhys perked up as well, hitting Azriel on the shoulder, “Cass is right! I know Y/n, and she’s not one to hold a grudge, especially if you apologize. In fact, get her a tequila daisy, she loves those.”
At his friend’s encouragement, Azriel felt his spirits being lifted. He could do this, he thought, the Mother blessing him with such good luck that he found the girl he was looking today. He should take this as a sign, telling him that this was his time to have courage. As Cass and Rhys shooed him up, spotting the girls returning, Azriel shot back his drink and stood up. With a slightly steadier step, he decided to take a little detour back to their table, positioning himself so he'd see Y/n first. It was a small thing, but it gave him a moment to steel himself, to prepare for her smile, her presence. "Alright, let's do this," he thought, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.
As Azriel navigated his way back to the table, a sudden wave of nervousness washed over him. The confidence he had just moments ago seemed to evaporate with each step he took. By the time he was close, he found himself unable to meet the gaze of his friends or even Y/n, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, a beacon of his newfound apprehension.
He made a beeline for the chair adorned with the distinctive tweed jacket, so caught up in his thoughts that he completely missed Cassian's worried glance. With a heart racing and a mind swirling with rehearsed apologies, Azriel reached out to tap the shoulder of the person he assumed was Y/n, all the while starting his practiced spiel. "Hey, I just wanted to give you this, I--uh--I'm so sorry couldn't before--let me buy you a drink to make it up—"
His words faltered, dying in his throat as he finally mustered the courage to look up, only to find Elain's familiar face smiling back at him. The confusion was immediate, his brain struggling to catch up with the reality in front of him as Elain, seizing the pen from his grasp, chimed, "Oh, Az, my birthday's still a week away...but thank you so much!" The affectionate kiss she planted on his cheek was meant to be a sweet gesture, yet it only served to heighten Azriel's horror as he watched her examine the pen.
“Oh, that’s so preetty Elain! Mor stumbled by, the alcohol clearly catching up to her by now. “But, why do you have a pen right now? Don’t work, come dance with us! She said laughing, grabbing Cassian on her way back.
Azriel, now left alone with a blushing Elain, had no idea how this happened. One moment he thought he’d finally get to confess to Y/n and the next moment, he’s given perhaps her prized possession, which she lent him, to another girl. It turned out that he was incorrect before, it's clear that the Mother brought up the worst luck he could have.
He needed to fix this.
Now.
And tell Elain that he did have something for her birthday…just not that. Yes, it had to break it to her now.
“I know you said you’d be busy and couldn’t make it to my birthday, but you didn’t have to get me something, Az! This is just my color though…”
Azriel stood there, his mind racing with a mix of panic and disbelief. How had he managed to entangle himself in such an awkward situation? The irony of it all was that he had known about Elain's soft spot for him, a sentiment that had grown perhaps from the time he had escorted her back from class to keep her away from her troublesome ex.
He had considered the possibility of returning her feelings, had even tried to envision something more between them, but his heart never quite made the leap. Elain was wonderful, truly, but the spark he was supposed to feel just wasn't there. And deep down, he knew she deserved someone who could put her at the center of their world, something Azriel couldn't do.
Before he could get a word out, the din of laughter and chatter signaled the return of Rhys and Feyre, their expressions shifting from amusement to confusion as they noticed Elain holding the pen.
Azriel's eyes pleaded for help, a silent, desperate appeal that Feyre caught instantly. She stepped in, her words a flurry of explanations aimed at untangling the misunderstanding. But the situation took another turn with the arrival of Y/n and Nesta, their approach cutting Feyre's explanations short. In a panic, Feyre grabbed Elain's arm, insisting it was late and they needed to leave, effectively dodging the impending awkwardness but leaving the air charged with unsaid words.
Y/n and Nesta returned to find the table enveloped in an unexpected gloom, Rhys and Azriel's expressions painted with unmistakable dismay. The contrast to their earlier mirth sparked immediate curiosity.
"Where did Feyre run off to?" Nesta inquired, her words slicing through the heavy air just as Y/n, with a mixture of concern and confusion, reached out to Rhys. Her fingers brushed his forehead gently, a silent question in her touch. "Are you sick, why do you look so pale?"
Azriel hated the jealousy that sprung up at her actions, especially after what he had done. He immediately chastised himself for the feeling, fully aware that the concern shown was purely platonic. Yet, he couldn't help but long for a similar connection, a moment of care directed towards him, especially from Y/n.
Nesta couldn't resist a teasing jab, her observation laced with humor yet not entirely devoid of truth. "Lovesick more like it," she scoffed, her comment hanging between them like a challenge, prompting a momentary flicker of amusement to dance across Rhys's otherwise somber features.
Nesta’s words, though teasing, unwittingly mirrored the turmoil swirling within Azriel, a turmoil stemming from his unvoiced feelings for Y/n.
Amid the group's subdued atmosphere, Y/n took the initiative, her concern for her friends sparking into action as she decided to fetch water and some food for the table. Once she was out of earshot, Rhys leaned in, his voice low, "Remember when I said she's very forgiving? Well, Y/n is a bit possessive over letting others use her things." Azriel paled considerably.
Upon returning, Y/n placed the food down with a gentle smile, announcing, "I'll find Mor to say goodbye before I have to leave."
Nesta's questioning gaze prompted Y/n to share a bit more about her plans, revealing her Sunday brunch with her father. It was a tradition, yet one that held mixed feelings for her. Rhys, catching the underlying sentiment, ventured cautiously, "First time since you're back...any welcome presents?"
Y/n's nod was accompanied by an eye roll, her voice tinged with a mix of amusement and resignation. "He'll probably gift me a pen, as always." Then, leaning closer to Rhys, she confided in a whisper, "He still thinks I don't know his assistant keeps buying them." Their shared laughter, though tinged with sadness, was a brief respite from the tension of the evening.
As Y/n waved goodbye and made her way through the diner, the weight of what had transpired settled heavily on Azriel's shoulders. Rhys’s earlier statement now mixed with what he had just heard father gets me a pen…hates sharing…
The pen he had intended to return to Y/n, now in Elain's possession, wasn't just any pen; it was akin to a token of her father's affection…
He was so, so doomed.
If Azriel thought he was mortified before, well, it couldn’t be compared to now. His current stakeout, crouched in the dense foliage outside Elain and Nesta’s apartment, felt like a scene straight out of a spy movie—only infinitely less glamorous and with higher stakes.
After searching the entire night for the pen, he realized that you really were Rhys’s friend, the resell prices he found made him want to throw his computer out. But even if he could afford it or request Rhys for help, it seemed that the version you had was sold out. He didn’t even know they made limited-edition pens, let alone ones of this price, were they made of gold? he thought pulling up the product description….set with a pearl…Oh.
Well, that led to his current predicament, knee-deep in the bushes outside Elain and Nesta’s shared apartment. Given that he had borrowed Nesta’s key, which was carelessly strewn on the table of his and Cass’s apartment, he knew she wouldn’t be back for a while. The problem now was getting Elain and it seemed Feyre out…which was why he had texted Rhys an SOS.
As he waited, hoping that no one noticed him acting like an absolute creep, he finally saw Feyre pulling Elain out, something about a project with Lucien?
Whatever, that wasn’t important now. His phone buzzed in his pocket with an aggravated all-clear from Rhys. He knew he owed him and Feyre a lot…and technically Elain and Nesta too. The plan was simple: get in, find the pen, get out.
He had been to their apartment before, but always with the company of someone else, usually Cass when he went to pick up or drop off things for Nesta. It felt…eerie being here alone, and he tried to ignore how much of a creep he felt looking through their things. Yet, despite his efforts, the pen remained elusive, a realization that sent a wave of panic crashing over him.
Mother above, where would one keep a pen?? He checked the various surfaces in all the rooms, he checked Elain’s desk, her vanity, and even her bedside table….he looked at the bathroom counters and even scanned through Nesta’s room. As he debated how many more boundaries he’d cross by opening the drawers, his phone buzzed again, with a text from Rhys, feyre said it's with her *crying face emoji* *crying face emoji*...
It’s with her…it’s still with Elain?! The words echoed in his mind, a mantra of frustration and defeat.
Needing to escape the claustrophobia of his failure, Azriel abandoned his search, the apartment, and any pretense of dignity he had left. He found himself wandering aimlessly, feet leading him through the city's streets with no destination in mind. Hours passed, his thoughts a tangled mess, until the financial center's impersonal skyscrapers towered over him, indifferent to his turmoil.
It was there, amidst the steel and concrete, that a familiar voice pierced through his haze of self-reproach. "Azriel?" Y/n called out, her presence like a beacon in the dimming light.
She emerged from a store, the elegance of her white lace blouse and black slacks contrasted sharply by the vivid red purse she carried. It was the bag she swung from behind, adorned with the same white flower symbol as the pen, that captured his attention, a silent testament to the reason for his current state.
Azriel was at a loss for words, his surprise at seeing her mirrored in the way she regarded him. “I’m surprised to see you here, what are you doing?”
Caught off guard and scrambling for an explanation, Azriel mumbled something about needing a walk, a half-hearted attempt to mask his real reasons for being there.
Y/n's gaze held his, a hint of curiosity mixed with understanding flickering in her eyes. "A walk that led you all the way here?" she asked, her voice soft but pointed.
Azriel felt the inadequacy of his answer hang between them, an invisible barrier he wished he could dissolve. "Yeah, it's been one of those days," he admitted, his voice trailing off, the truth of his statement more profound than he cared to explore.
Y/n studied him for a moment, her intuitive eyes reading the layers of unsaid words. Then, breaking the tension with a smile that seemed to light up the dimming city around them, she said, "Well, in that case, I could use a bit of company. I was about to grab some coffee. Join me?"
Azriel hesitated, the weight of his earlier mission pressing down on him. Yet, there was something about Y/n's offer, an earnest simplicity, that cut through his reservations. "I...yeah, coffee sounds good," he finally said, not surprised at his own eagerness.
Seated in the cozy enclave of the coffee shop, with bookshelves brimming with tales and plants that whispered of care, Azriel found himself enveloped in a warmth that the stark lines of the financial district rarely offered. The glow of the setting sun, filtered through the tall windows, bathed Y/n in a soft light, casting her in an almost ethereal aura. Her laughter, light and easy, filled the space between them as she caught his look of pleasant surprise.
"This place isn't quite the corporate café you were expecting, is it?" Y/n teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
Azriel chuckled, nodding. "I was expecting somewhere... more stiff. This is a nice surprise."
Leaning in, Y/n shared her secret with a whisper, "This café is my little escape. Not many know about it here. But trust me, the coffee’s unmatched, and you have to try the food."
As Azriel began to protest, not wanting her to treat him to even more, his stomach betrayed him with a timely growl. Y/n’s laughter rang out again, full and genuine, just as an older lady approached with their order. "Here you go, dear," she said to Y/n, then turned to Azriel with a warm smile. "First time I've seen her bring someone. You take good care of her, okay?"
Y/n’s protest that they were just friends, and really just classmates, did little to deter the lady's knowing look, leaving her a flustered shade of pink as the lady departed. Y/n then explained to a bewildered Azriel about the café's significance to her, a place discovered during times she'd rather forget waiting in her father's stark office, with the building being down the street.
As they shared the meal—Y/n insisting Azriel try her favorite sandwich and a tart chosen especially for him—Azriel marveled at her attention to detail, at the fact that she'd noticed his fondness for blueberries. "How did you know?" he asked, his heart aflutter at the realization that she paid him such mind.
With a shy glance away and then back, Y/n admitted, "I noticed you always carrying around blueberry bars. It's the little things, you know?"
Azriel, moved by her attentiveness and kindness, found himself unworthy of her attention. How could he let her remain ignorant about his transgressions, and watch her smile and laugh with him? But he also couldn’t bear to let her go, not when she made him feel things he thought he’d never be able to. Azriel decided then and there that he would admit his faults and then he would beg, he would plead for her to forgive him, or at least continue to talk to him, after he returned the pen from Elain. And if she refused, then he would accept it, but he would grovel as much as she allowed, if only to not lose the smiles that she sent his way.
"I... I don't deserve your kindness," he confessed, his voice a whisper of turmoil. "Because I'm a thief."
Y/n's eyes widened, confusion and concern mingling in her gaze, "A thief?" she echoed, her head tilting slightly, inviting him to explain.
Azriel's words tumbled out in a frantic cascade, a confession spilling forth about the pen, his failed attempts to return it, not knowing her name and the catastrophic mix-up at Rita's that saw Elain inadvertently receiving what he thought was Y/n's treasured possession. "I know it was a gift from your father... I'll get it back," he assured her, his heart sinking as he prepared for her to walk away, to maybe throw the coffee in his face, for the soft warmth of her smiles to vanish.
But instead of anger or disappointment, laughter bubbled up from Y/n, rich and unrestrained. Azriel lifted his gaze, bewildered, only to find her smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine amusement. It was a moment Azriel wished he could freeze and live in forever, were it not for the fear of her next words.
From that dreaded black bag, she produced a sleek box, emblazoned with Mont Blanc, and Azriel's heart sank. This was it, the moment of reckoning. He half-expected her to reveal a price tag that would make his eyes water, a reminder of his foolishness. Instead, Y/n unveiled a pen, its body a dance of blue and white lacquer, sparkling with what he could only guess were jewels.
Y/n shared a piece of her past with him then, her voice soft and nostalgic. She spoke of her younger self, who found more joy in the worlds of books and art than in the dry texts of study.
"I used to collect colored pens, fancy ones that made writing notes less of a chore," she explained, gentle laughter threading through her words. She revealed how her love for calligraphy had blossomed from there, a passion she had hoped would catch her parents' attention.
The story took a turn Azriel hadn't expected. "For every achievement, every missed event, every return home, I got a pen. I thought it was my father remembering my words, but," she chuckled, shaking the elegant pen in her hand, "it turns out it was his assistant who remembered. My father doesn't even use fountain pens."
She waved the decorative pen with a flourish, proclaiming it beautiful but utterly impractical. "They're more for show than anything else, the nibs aren’t even correct for the type of stylized calligraphy I enjoy. I still keep them, just locked in a drawer at my apartment. But for everyday use, I stick to the rollerballs from Mont Blanc. They're just easier."
Y/n paused, eyeing him with a playful curiosity. "The pen was pink, wasn't it?" At Azriel's nod, she continued, "I swapped that one with a friend. Not really my color, but she wanted to exchange it for a white version that wasn’t available abroad.”
Azriel nods, still caught in the whirlwind of his own confessions and fears.
She shrugs lightly, her gaze drifting down to the black box, "Mont Blanc treats me too well and sends me many extras because I’m on their VIP list due to my father’s assistant. I don’t mind, though. It’s nice to know they’re going to someone who appreciates them."
Azriel's mind races as he tries to process this. The pen, the source of so much turmoil, was just one of many to Y/n, an item of little consequence. Yet, feeling a sense of responsibility, he insists, "I’ll get it back for you. It was yours, after all."
Y/n's response is a gentle wave of dismissal. "You don’t need to worry about it, Azriel. You didn’t steal it. I told you to return it whenever you wanted. I just...hoped it would make you think of me." Her voice fades, a note of melancholy creeping in as she turns her face away slightly, hiding the vulnerability in her eyes. "I guess you didn’t, though. Do I bother you, sitting next to you in class?"
The earnestness in her question, the raw hint of insecurity, pierces through Azriel's defenses. He reacts instinctively, his words tumbling out in a rush to bridge the gap his silence had created.
"Bother me? Y/n, you’ve been...I’ve been trying to find the words to talk to you since you first sat next to me. You don’t bother me; you distract me because...because I think you’re beautiful."
The confession hangs in the air between them, a fragile truth that sends a blush creeping up Y/n's cheeks. Azriel's heart pounds in his chest, his earnest declaration laying bare his feelings.
"So, friends?" Y/n ventures after a moment, her voice steady but her eyes searching his for an answer.
"Friends," Azriel agrees quickly, too quickly, perhaps, because what he really wants to say is so much more. "But, I'm hoping for more than that," he added under his breath, a vow to himself as much as to her.
Y/n's smile in response is shy but hopeful, a silent agreement to the unspoken question hanging between them. In the quiet of the café, amidst the scattered pens and the remnants of their past misunderstandings, they find a new beginning.
A/N: The pen Y/n received above!
So, I have no idea where this story was meant to go. I just had the idea to write about Azriel doing something silly because he was so distracted by a crush, which became him unintentionally stealing a pen. After all, I have an obsession with pens due to the same reason Y/n said...And then this spiraled a little too much into my own uhh grievances with pens, calligraphy…and uhh parents. ANYWAYS, I hope this made you all laugh and fyi Mont Blanc does make great pens, I highly recommend their roller balls and fountain pens, though some are so extravagant I can’t imagine ever using them.
#azriel au#azriel shadowsinger#azriel x reader#azriel x y/n#acotar series#acotar#acomaf#acowar#azriel x oc#rhysand#morrigan#acotar fanfiction#azriel acotar#acotar modern au#silly aus#i rushed the ending#should i continue Azriel's silly antics?
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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
HOUR TWO
in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni, eddie is especially mean in this one (be warned), mentions of blood (in metaphors, not literal)
→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader
→ wc: 4k+
→ a/n: i just wanted to take a quick moment to say thank you for all the love on the first chapter of this!! i appreciate it beyond words <3
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
◁ previous part, next part▷
2:00 ─ㅇ───────────────── 24:00
HOUR TWO - 5:00 PM
It’s a miracle. Eddie is surprisingly quiet for the first hour after your small kitchen dispute.
He resides reading a book on one end of his couch as you sit awkwardly on the other end, fiddling with your hands before finally caving and deciding to scroll mindlessly on your phone. You exhaust every social media app you have downloaded – Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr – before finally turning to Tik Tok. Adjusting your volume doesn’t even cross your mind.
That’s all it takes to finally set Eddie off.
It starts small; he shifts around after the first video, a prolonged sigh after the second video, a quick side-eye after the third video. Finally, after the fourth video and no sign of you turning down the volume, he huffs and snaps his book shut.
“Do you have to watch that shit so loudly?”
His tone is laden with utter annoyance. You’re caught off guard initially, having blatantly ignored his previous signs of being irritated by the noise, and your head whips up in his direction with wide eyes. The shocked look on your face quickly contorts when you catch his stare, full of hatred and vexation.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you scoff, “Let me just die of boredom I guess.”
“I didn’t say you had to do that,” he narrows his gaze and matches your attitude with ease, “Just… solve the boredom quietly. Like I did.”
“You were quiet because you had a book. I don’t have a book.”
He waves an exasperated hand towards the coffee table where you catch sight of a few magazines, “Please, take your pick.”
You lock your phone reluctantly, tucking it beneath your thigh as you lean forward to glance over your options. There’s one about cars, obvious by the shiny vehicle that sits pretty on the cover, and a few hidden beneath it. You reach out and shift the laminated papers about and catch sight of a Rolling Stone cover.
That one piques your interest, but stubborn as ever, you won’t admit it.
“Those are the most boring fucking magazines I’ve ever seen. Who the hell likes to read about cars?” you deadpan, holding the car magazine up with a scowl.
“Me.”
“Predictable. What’s next, a Playboy?”
“You’re hilarious,” he says without a hint of amusement, “Truly a comedian. Can’t you just see the tears streaming out of my eyes from how hard I’m laughing? Incredible.”
You decide to not entertain him any further. Your hand grabs the Rolling Stone magazine, ignoring his burning gaze before you settle back into the couch.
If he wanted to be a dick, that was fine. You were used to it by now; you’d spent the last year growing accustomed to his cold shoulders and his bitter moods around you. At this point, you expected nothing less from him. Spending a little extra time together didn’t magically change it – at both your cores, you harbored a disdain like no other. You fundamentally hated Eddie, and Eddie fundamentally hated you. The confined space, forced proximity, ticking doomsday clock, and promise of cash did nothing to put any notches in those feelings.
“Interesting choice,” he murmurs under his breath, beginning to relax back into the cushions as well.
“What? Is it a crime for me to like-” you pause, flipping the magazine shut to check the slick cover for what the specific issue was even about, “-The Ramones?”
So maybe saying you liked The Ramones was an overstatement. But at this point, you’re only picking a fight for the sake of picking a fight. Because you don’t know how else to communicate with Eddie aside from with a sharp tongue and turbulent sense of sarcasm. Because when it came to the two of you, there was no such thing as small talk.
Everything was always big. Loud. Screaming matches, bold assumptions, critical insults.
“Pump the bitch breaks,” his eyebrows furrow, as they always do when he glances your way, “I was trying to be civil.”
“I didn’t think civil was in your vocabulary when it came to me.”
He exhales deeply, letting his head fall back in contempt for a moment before he lifts it and looks at you, “Is this really how you want it to be?”
You don’t reply, and he takes it as his cue to continue.
“Do you really want to keep up the miserable act the entire twenty four hours? Won’t it get exhausting acting like a spoiled brat for that long?”
“I’m not acting like a spoiled brat,” you snap, the magazine now discarded and draped across your knee, open to a random spread, “As far as I’m concerned, it’s not an act. Make no mistake, Munson, I am only doing this for the cash.”
His book lays to gather dust on the coffee table as he leans his elbows onto his knees, twisting his body ever so slightly to face you more fully, “Really? There’s gotta be easier ways to make cash. I’m sure if you asked Stevie boy real nicely, he would have let you put that mouth to use for a quick buc-”
You cut him off, because you know how this sentence ends, and it’s too far. He’s crossed a line. You had expected it, should have seen it coming sooner, but it’s crossing a line all the same.
“Stop,” you firmly instruct, holding up a finger, “Not that it’s any of your miserable business, but me and Steve are not like that. At all. So you can fuck right off with that comment,” you only pause briefly, and you’re glad when he doesn’t interrupt you, “And, may I remind you, you’re also getting payment out of this. I could say the same thing to you, dickwad.”
It had been a curious itch beneath your skin – you knew why you needed the extra cash so badly, but you had no idea why Eddie did. Beneath all the hate, all the irritation, the question had come to mind briefly. But it had been pushed down by disinterest in all things regarding the man before you. At the end of the day, you didn’t care what motivated him. You didn’t care about what he did for work, you didn’t care about what magazines he read, and you definitely didn’t care to know if the five hundred was as necessary for him as it was for you.
This was a means to an end – nothing more, nothing less.
“Dickwad?” His nose crinkles as he parrots your words back to you, “Jesus, did you ever learn any new insults past middle school?”
You’re ignoring him once more, picking the magazine up off of your knee and burying your nose in an article about the greatest punk albums of all time rather than letting yourself be dragged into further conversation with him, trying to send the message that this discussion was over.
The message isn’t received. It flies right over his head.
“Pardon me for the assumption,” you can see him hold his hands up in mock surrender in your peripherals, “You and Harrington just seem close.”
You should just keep ignoring him. You should actually read the words inches from your face. You shouldn’t say another word; your gut is screaming at you to not say another word.
But you ignore your gut, just as he’d ignore your disinterest in talking to him.
“What happened to being quiet? I think I liked it better when you weren’t speaking to me,” you try to say casually, keeping an air of indifference. You should have known better. As your mother always said, once you start feeding a stray, they continue to come back.
“Sounds like it’s a sore spot. Are you and Harrington that close?”
“Not in that way,” you grit out behind the pages, “We’re close, but not like that.”
Your answer doesn’t satisfy him like you’d hoped, “Oh, it is so a sore spot.”
When you finally drop the magazine to properly look at him again, it only fans the anger. He looks smug as he crosses his ankle atop his knee, leaning back and looking you over as if he can read you like cellophane.
“It’s not,” you stress, “Seriously. Drop it.”
In all truthfulness, it wasn’t a sore spot – not when it came to Steve. You’d always been strictly platonic, fitting fairly effortlessly into his and Robin’s friendship.
“You definitely want to fuck Steve.”
“You know what I actually want right now?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“To knock your teeth in.”
The magazine is tossed back onto the table, nearly sliding off the edge from the force behind your throw. He’s relishing the way you’re continuing to get more upset, the way he’s still inching beneath your skin in a grating motion. To him, this is all just a joke.
“I’d love to see you try, sweetheart,” he mocks, smiling with his teeth as if to taunt you.
“Why did you even agree to this?” you finally turn your body towards his and mirror his position, “Is it fun to you? Is that what it is?”
The smile widens, “You know what? Yeah. It is fun to piss you off.”
“Yeah?” you imitate him, putting on a forced smile in an attempt to look as ridiculous as he did right now. You fold your hands and prop your elbows onto your knees, continuing to mock mercilessly as you balance your chin atop them and bat your lashes dramatically, “Please, tell me more. Tell me all about how fun it is.”
In an instant, you drop the smile and begin to return to your previous position. It was rhetorical – you don’t expect a response, and yet he offers one nonetheless.
“Well,” he begins, “First of all, the way you go red in the face is fucking hilarious. Seriously, it’s just like the cartoons. Absolutely ridiculous. I think by the end of this, I’ll get to see steam come out of your ears,” you’re already reaching for your phone, tuning him out, as he continues on, “And then it’s the way you’re just so damn easy. I mean, come on. Sometimes, all I have to do is breathe, and it sends you on a tirade. You just make it too simple, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The nickname is prickly and as uncomfortable as ever, lodging into your ears against your better judgment. It creeps across your brain, travels down your spine, numbs your fingertips. You hate the shockwaves it’s capable of sending down your nerves.
He’s right, at the end of the day. These days, you hardly put up a fight in expressing all your negative emotions towards him. If necessary, you could pinpoint a time where he really did simply breathe and you had proceeded to curse him out for it. Sometimes, just the sight of him can sour your entire mood. He’s an ever-present, persistent, irritating rain-cloud that looms on the edges of your life by circumstance. You can’t get rid of him. You can’t get rid of your hatred for him; you’ve always had a preference for sunny weather.
“Careful,” you hum, not looking his way as you glance down at the time that glows from your lock screen: 5:46 PM. “It almost sounds like you enjoy my presence, Munson.”
Indifference. You needed to practice indifference to survive the next twenty three hours.
“Oh, that couldn’t be farther from the truth,” he says, “You are the worst part of my days. You’re like bad leftovers – everytime I see you, the bile immediately rises in my throat. Whenever Steve mentions you’ll be somewhere, I cancel plans. Whenever you show up without warning, I start counting down the minutes till I can get away from you.”
The indifference begins to break. You finally look at him, keeping a steady expression.
“You could go missing, you could vanish off the face of this earth, and I wouldn't blink an eye. As a matter of fact, I’d probably celebrate. Why my friends are so enamored with you, I will never understand.”
It hurts. It might be Eddie, and you might be used to his spiteful words he uses as weapons against you, but it still hurts. The sting resembles a slap as you process each of his words. Each deliberate syllable – the specific referencing to the group as his friends and not your friends, the unblinking glare of his dark eyes, the insinuation that your death could bring him joy – drives deeper into your chest. It’s a human reaction; it doesn’t matter if the boy before you is the enemy, it still bruises to hear anyone say such things about you. The human need to be accepted, to be liked, to at least be tolerated, still twists in your gut.
And he only presses forth. He doesn’t catch the pain spreading in your limbs because you don’t let the hurt raging in your chest spread across your face. You don’t let him see you bleed.
“I’d attend your funeral with a party hat and sparklers. Confetti, even. The whole nine yards along with my finest bottle of champagne,” he hammers the final nail into a coffin, one that you’re not sure of whom it belongs to. Maybe it’s yours, sealing you six feet under with your cursed emotions. Maybe it’s his, locking him into the tomb to dwell in his ability to always take things too far.
You won’t let him see you bleed.
You stand abruptly, making him flinch in the slightest. You keep your face turned from him as you take your phone and storm off into the hallway wordlessly.
“Hey! Where are you going?” he calls after you.
But he’s not following you. No footsteps echo your own as you turn into the only other doorway aside from the bathroom.
He has a clear line of sight of you from the couch, and he can see you disappear into his room.
The door slams shut behind you with a riveting bang. Your nimble fingertips fumble with twisting the lock into place, chest heaving as you finally let your eyes burn.
He can’t see you. You finally bleed.
The tears are feverish as they roll down your cheeks one by one, taking slow steps backward as you squeeze them shut and will them away. There are no accompanying whimpers, or sobs, or hiccups. It’s just you, the salty streams, and the now overwhelming scent of him.
He’s only managed to make you cry, make you bleed this way, once before. The night of Steve’s party, the night you had attempted to make him bleed in retaliation. You’d harbored the need to cut him open desperately that night, to crack open his chest and assure yourself he could bleed the same scarlet as you, that there was still a weathered heart behind his calloused ribs that could beat the same as yours.
But you never did. At the end of that night, you had been the only one left bloodied and bandaged, aside from Steve’s glass as collateral damage. He remained unscathed.
The door knob shakes suddenly, and your eyes flash back open. Another shake, and you hear him huffing.
“Seriously? Did you just lock me out of my own room?” His voice comes from the other side of the door.
The bleeding stops. The wound seals. Even if he can’t see you through the door, just to know that his presence resides on the other side of it is enough to put an end to your trembling breaths.
“Fuck off,” you call out hoarsely.
“Let me in. It’s my room.”
“No.”
He sighs, and a thump sounds that you assume is his forehead falling against the wood in defeat, “Why do you insist on acting like a child?”
“You’re the one with a collection of action figures!” you fight back with your weakest insult of the night. He twists the doorknob without fruition a few more times, a couple sharp knocks sound as you turn to get a better look at the room you’d run into without observation.
It’s nothing extravagant, which makes sense. He has an entire apartment to spill his wretched personality across, which means there’s no need to condense it into the decor of his bedroom. He doesn’t have to express himself in a limited space as you do with your dorm. There’s a few posters of various bands hung crookedly on the wall, a dresser with a few of the drawers half open with assortments of clothes peeking out before they overflow onto the carpeted flooring, and a bed left unmade. His jersey sheets are plaid, worn and clearly well-loved. Despite the expected mess trailing about the rest of the floor, the space beside the bed is left cleared, and you decide to settle yourself down onto the patch.
Your phone buzzes in your tight fist as your back settles up against the side of the bed.
“Unlock the door,” his voice persists impatiently again.
“Go to Hell.”
“I’m already there. Stuck with you.”
Maybe the wound isn’t quite sealed, because the words fall like salt into your chest.
“Why my friends are so enamored with you, I will never understand.”
There’s more to say, but the chiming of a phone cuts off your thoughts. You glance down to your cell phone – not yours.
The ringing is more muted, behind the door. With Eddie.
It’s Eddie’s phone.
You’re about to call out a snarky remark about him getting that, but the ringing cuts off before you have the chance. It’s clear he’s walked away from the door as the echoes of his voice fades, the conversation inaudible to you through the walls.
Your fingers dig into the carpet beside your thighs as you pull at individual strands that stick out, finally discarding your phone on the opposite side. Eventually, your touch trails closer to the edge of the bed, plucking, plucking, plucking until you collide with laminated paper sticking out from beneath the bed.
What’s this?
Just as you’re about to pull what you assume is a magazine from beneath the bed, your phone begins to buzz violently, this time the ringtone being your own.
The screen lights up with Steve’s contact photo. It can’t be good.
“Hello?” you answer once you pick the phone up after a few moments of pause.
“You can’t lock him out of his own room.”
“Oh, hey, Steve. I’m great, thanks for asking. Really living the drea-”
“You can’t lock him out of his own room,” Steve repeats with more emphasis, disregarding your sarcastic tone completely.
You stare across the room at an acoustic guitar resting on a stand. This machine slays dragons, it reads in bold, white lettering.
“So you were the one who called him,” you mumble.
Steve sighs over the line, “No. Nance called him, because you haven’t sent the proof to the chat yet. We were trying to give you guys a grace period, but-”
“But you assumed we’d already murdered each other,” you finish his sentence.
“Can you blame us? What did he even say to make you board yourself up in his room?”
You scoff softly, “He didn’t tell Nancy?”
The moment Steve mentioned Nancy was the one calling Eddie, you’d simply assumed he’d filled her in.
Before you’d weaseled your way into the friend group, there had been clear, strong bonds already set in place: Robin & Steve, Jonathan & Argyle, and Nancy & Eddie. Three sets of best friends who all wove together to form their large friend group with ease.
You were the odd man out. They never treated you as such, except for Eddie, but it was an insecurity that could eat you alive if you ever gave it the time of day. And maybe that was why Eddie’s earlier words had cut so deeply. He was voicing a fear you always tried to bury deep down.
“No,” Steve says as if it were obvious, “He just started going off about how you had locked him out of his room amongst…. Um, amongst other things.”
Other things. You could guess what those other things had been; no doubt, he’d spent his time on the phone bitching about you. He’d probably called you every crude name in his rolodex of hatefulness.
“Right,” you drawl, eyes flickering around the room to seek out another distraction to mindlessly stare at. Suddenly, you remember the magazine you had discovered just as Steve called, “Well, nothing surprising. The usual, really. Just how he hates my guts, he finds me annoying, he wouldn’t care if I died-”
“-What?”
You ignore Steve’s gasp of disbelief and carry on, “-All the classic insults you would say to your arch nemesis.”
Steve says your name softly, still carrying an air of shock, “He didn’t mean that. I- Listen, he’s an asshole sometimes, but I guarantee he would care-”
“Who cares?” you interrupt, “I don’t blame him. It’s fine. He doesn’t have to care if I meet my untimely demise. I kind of figured he was going to murder me anyways, remember?”
“Yeah, but that was… that was joking around, he…” Steve trails off, because you both know he’s full of shit.
There was no joking around between you and Eddie. A painful truth, considering when you first joined the friend group, you had such high hopes of getting along with him.
“It’s whatever. Do you still need me to send proof?” you ask, fingers now playing with the crumpled edges of the magazine. Even half-hidden, you could see there were pages that had been dog-eared.
You almost don’t hear Steve as he tells you that it’s fine, that now they know the two of you are definitely together. It’s already nearly time for the next check in anyways.
“Alright, in that case…” your tongue peaks out as you begin to tug the magazine out of hiding. The moment the magazine's title comes into sight, you gasp, frozen as the phone nearly slips out of your hand.
Fucking jackpot.
“You good?” Steve asks.
Playboy. A goddamn Playboy magazine.
“Never better,” you rush out, eager to hang up so you can utilize this ammunition against Eddie, “Talk later, Steve-O.”
You don’t give him a chance to echo a goodbye before you hang up, tossing your phone off to the side with a muted thump. Your focus is entirely on the magazine before you, crinkling as you hold it in your hands and bite back laughter.
Against your better judgment, you open the cover, mouth falling open as you flip through page after page of nude women and cigarette ads. Some pages stick together, and you don’t dare to peel them apart, cringing at the thought of just why they’re sticky. You come to the first page that had been dog-earred, and your jaw clicks as your mouth falls agape.
Fucking pervert. He’s a goddamn pervert.
A well-timed knock sounds at the door once more, Eddie’s knuckles sharp in their three strikes, “Can you let me in now?”
It’s the closest to a please you’re going to get.
“Sorry, busy!” you call out in response, still staring at the spread.
The nude woman eerily resembles you. Same hair, same skin tone, similar noses. The Universe has dropped the most loving of gifts in your laps in the form of this magazine, something you know you can use to get under Eddie’s skin as severely as he had done to you.
“Busy?” he protests, knocking on the door again before you hear the shaking of the doorknob again, “What the fuck are you doing in there? I told you, don’t touch my shit.”
You bite your lip, smile curling the corners of your mouth as you finally stand from the floor, knees cracking as you keep the magazine open to the photo. Eddie has gone scarily quiet, and you can’t even make out his breathing. His shadow has stilled completely as it peaks in from under the doorway.
He’s never living this down.
You’re still grinning with ill-intent as you shout, “Wow. Who knew I was right about the Playboy?”
Those words are all it takes for the frantic pounding on the door to begin.
taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @imtryingahh @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @liv0679 @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @eddiemunxson @ohmeg @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @whosbettysstuff
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taglist is now closed. <3
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#twenty four hours#i still can't believe this got as much attention as it did omg thank y'all
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𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭.🖋️
———
Fandom. DC - Batman - Red Hood
Pairing. Jason Todd x gn!reader
Genre. fluff/soft/sfw🍊
Word count. idk, not a lot
Warnings. A bit of cursing
Req. This was not requested, I just felt motivated and inspired(for once)!!
Summary. Just Jason reading and always having a book on him cuz my mans a nerd and I love him for it🤞😛 this is not proof-read!!!
Notes. Idk how to explain this layout or what it is, but it’s some kind of mix of a short drabble and some head-canons, yk?
———
“Did you pack an extra pen?”
“‘Course I did, I always do.”
Jason almost sounded a little annoyed at you, not that he really was. He always brought extra pens with him when it came to books.
“Just making sure.” You say, raising your hands in defeat with a soft, breathy scoff. Jason rolls his eyes at you, hurriedly grabbing his bag, books clattering against each other as he swings it over his shoulder.
“I’ll be out then.” He announces, messily stepping into his shoes. You walk to the hallway, arms crossed over your chest as you lean against the wall, watching, as your big, beefy, book-worm of a boyfriend struggle to shove his feet into his shoes.
“Just untie them and step into them normally, Jay-“
“Oh, piss off, I’m behind schedule.” He quickly cuts you off, finally slipping his heel into the shoe successfully.
“Alright, alright.” You chuckle, stepping forward as Jason yanks his jacket off of its assigned hook. “Bye,” you kiss his cheek, a matching kiss meeting your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. “love you! Say hi to Alfred from me, please.” You remind him, both that you love him and to say hi to his beloved (and absolutely amazing) butler.
“Will do.” He says simply, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Love you too, stay safe and don’t burn down my kitchen.” Jason reminds you, hastily, as he makes his way out the door, jacket carelessly resting over his arm, rummaging through his bag.
“Our kitchen, Jason!” You yell after him, shaking your head with a stupid grin on your face, the door to your apartment falling closed. You turn around to leave and return to the kitchen before the door swings open again.
“Babe, I need my pen. Have you seen it?”
You whip around, frowning with a soft, confused look as Jason stands up the doorway, halfway inside, open book folding in hand.
“Did you not just say you had it?” You question, cocking your head slightly to the side as you go to the nearest countertop, moving various books to try and search for his pen.
Jason rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair.
“Just give me my pen, please.” He pleads, a mix of annoyance and embarrassment lacing into his tone. You laugh, grabbing his pen from a half-finished book. You walk to the hallway, throwing it to him. He grins, shoving it between his teeth in a small grin before he waves, disappearing out the door again.
—— ≛ ——
He forgets his pens all the time. He can’t help it, let my poor man be.
He always has a book on him. As a man who mainly wears cargo pants, he always has a book in one of those side pockets. A book small enough to fit and slip right into and out of his pocket when needed. 5 minute bus ride? He’s reading. 10 minutes walk? You best believe he’s reading while walking.
Jason writes every first thought into his book. He analyses everything, scribbling down on the pages, slapping on sticky notes if he runs out of space.
He cracks the spines of all his books(same). He doesn’t mind the messy look, he likes to think they look a bit more, loved, if that makes sense.
He doesn’t own a single bookshelf. All his books are piled on anything but bookshelves. Sure, the mansion has a library, but so does he. In the form of a kitchen cabinet, top of his fridge, beneath his bead and the floor. Works just fine!
He has a very specific system when it comes to writing in his books. He’ll underline a lot of stuff, but it depends on the thickness of his line, what the line makes him feel. The thicker the line, the more emotion.
He once got a book where whenever a character spoke, there was no “__”, not even a -__-. He spent double the time reading the book because he to re-read and self insert the “__”’s. Never bought a book from that author again.
#proudcolleenhooverhater (he’s never read her books but Babs said they were a no-go either way)
He loves to gift you books he’s already read and annotated. Once gifted you a book and whenever something reminded him of you, he’d make a little star beside the line.
This man cannot spell the word ‘lullaby’. (This has nothing to do with the headcanons, I just thought abt it.)
Jason has a 36 hours long playlist for reading (and assigned vinyls if he feels more for vinyls)
He does not give a fuck about where he is, he will read if he wants to. Gala? Ok. Family dinner? Dick stfu, he’s reading. Patrol? He has cargo pants, let him be.
Jason uses reading glasses but only when he’s at home, in the safe walls of his apartment because he will not be giving his siblings bullying material FOR FREE.
#I hope this was half decent because I am TIRED#it’s way past 1 am rn and I should most defiently be eeping#Jason Todd#jason todd x gn!reader#Jason Todd x reader#Jason Todd reader#jason todd headcanon#Jason Todd headcanons#dc#dc x reader#dc masterlist
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warm; draco malfoy pt 3
part 1 part 2
summary: after many gentle touches and stolen kisses, draco finally asks you the question you've both been anticipating.
warnings: suggestive
as the morning light filtered through the curtains, you stirred from your peaceful slumber, feeling draco's steady heartbeat beneath your cheek. with a content sigh, you opened your eyes to find him already awake, watching you with a soft smile.
"good morning, love," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before trailing his lips down your jawline, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses that sent shivers down your spine.
your breath hitched as draco's lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their on your skin. every touch, every caress, sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, until you were lost in a haze of desire.
just then, the door to draco's dorm room creaked open, and blaise zabini sauntered in, a mischievous grin on his face.
"well, well, what do we have here?" he teased, raising an eyebrow at the sight of you and draco tangled up in each other.
draco rolled his eyes, but a hint of amusement danced in them as he reluctantly pulled away from you. "mind your own business, zabini," he retorted, amused.
blaise chuckled and flopped down onto his own bed, feigning innocence. "just making sure you're up for breakfast. wouldn't want to miss the feast, would we?"
with a shared eye roll, you and draco pulled yourselves from each other's embrace and got ready for the day ahead. as you made your way to the great hall, hand in hand, draco's touch lingered on your skin, electrifying every nerve in your body.
breakfast was a lively affair, filled with laughter and light-hearted banter. you couldn't help but steal glances at draco, who sat beside you, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on the back of your hand, sending shivers down your spine.
after breakfast, you found a quiet corner of the common room and took a deep breath, preparing yourself for what was to come. it was time to tell pansy.
"pansy, can we talk?" you began, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach.
pansy looked up from her book, her curiosity piqued. "of course, y/n. what is it?"
taking a seat beside her, you took a moment to gather your thoughts before speaking. "i... i wanted to tell you about me and draco," you started, your words cautious yet earnest.
pansy's eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly recovered, a smile tugging at her lips. "oh, I see. well, it's about time, isn't it?"
relief flooded through you at her supportive reaction, and you couldn't help but return her smile. "you're not mad?"
pansy shook her head, her expression softening. "of course not, y/n. I just want you to be happy."
with a grateful nod, you wrapped pansy in a hug, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. as you pulled away, you caught sight of draco watching you from across the room, his eyes filled with warmth and affection.
after finishing up the days homework, you and draco decided to go on a walk around the castle to have some much needed alone time with each other. you found an empty room on the third floor, hidden from prying eyes. with a hunger in your eyes that mirrored draco's own, you pulled him close, your lips meeting in a fevered kiss. draco's hands found their way to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he deepened the kiss, his touch igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you both. your fingers tangled in his soft blonde hair, a soft moan escaping your lips as you felt the heat of his body pressed against yours. his lips were warm and demanding against yours, his tongue tracing the outline of your lips before delving into your mouth in a passionate dance. every touch, every caress, sent waves of desire coursing through you, until you were lost in a haze.
in the days that followed, you and draco explored every inch of each other, giving in to the passion that burned between you. every touch, every kiss, was a symphony of desire that left you both craving more.
and as the weeks turned into months, draco finally found the courage to ask the question that had been lingering between you.
one evening, as you lay entwined in each other's arms near the lake, the moonlight casting a soft glow over your bodies, draco took your hand in his, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.
"y/n, there's something i've been meaning to ask you," he began, his voice husky with emotion.
your heart skipped a beat as you waited for him to continue, your pulse quickening with anticipation.
"will you be my girlfriend?" he asked, his eyes filled with admiration.
a smile spread across your face as you leaned in to kiss him, the answer to his question clear in the joy and love in your face.
"yes, draco," you replied, your voice filled with desire. "i would love to be your girlfriend."
draco's eyes sparkled with relief and joy as he held you tighter, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. "y/n," he whispered, "i've dreamt of saying those words to you for so long."
your heart swelled with affection as you traced patterns on his chest with your fingertips. "i've dreamt of hearing them," you admitted,
draco's lips found yours again, this time with a newfound urgency, as if each kiss was a promise of a future together. and in that moment, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.
but amidst the happiness, a nagging thought tugged at the edges of your mind. draco's father, lucius malfoy, loomed over your perfect romance. his disapproval could spell disaster for both of you.
as if sensing your unease, draco pulled back slightly, concern etched into his features. "y/n, i know my father... he won't be pleased about us."
you nodded, your heart sinking at the reminder of the obstacles ahead. "i know, draco. but we can't let that dictate our happiness, can we?"
draco's gaze softened, his fingers tracing circles on your back in a soothing rhythm. "no, we can't," he agreed, determination flickering in his eyes. "we'll find a way, y/n. i promise."
hope this was okay !! @ameliat-13
#draco x reader#draco x y/n#draco imagine#draco lucius malfoy#draco malfoy#draco malfoy x reader#draco smut#james potter#marauders#harry potter#fanfiction#remus lupin#drarry fic recs#blaise zabini#harry potter fanfiction#draco malfoy smut#slytherin boys#harry potter universe
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i really loved your bucky fic, sex-ed, and saw this tiktok which i thought would be a cute idea for a teacher!reader and maybe a teacher!bucky or coach!bucky where bucky has a huge crush on reader so he’s always fixing things in her classroom <3 thanks in advance if you can, and no stress if you can’t! love your work not matter what !
That is so cute! I love it!!!
Mr Fix-It
P.E teacher!Bucky x f!teacher!reader
Warnings: none
WC: 1871
The textbooks were going to seriously hurt you one day. If it wasn’t from the fact you couldn’t see where you were walking, it would be from the strain on your back at carrying them from the resource room to your classroom. You had almost made it to your room when you realised the door was shut, the wedge you had driven beneath it when you left somehow halfway along the corridor - a student no doubt.
“Here, let me get those,” Mr Barnes offered as he jogged the length of the hall.
You tried to avert your eyes respectfully but it was impossible not to stare as his luscious dark hair bounced with each step and golden skin peeked out from the top few buttons of his shirt left open. He was the reason the numbers for his elective - physical education - had skyrocketed. The once male dominated class now overflowed with teenage girls and you could not blame them.
You sighed as the heavy weight was lifted from your arms and he easily balanced them in one heavily muscled arm as he opened the door with the other. “Thank you, Mr Barnes.”
“Mr Barnes was my father,” he said with a grin, “call me Bucky, please.”
His smile was charming and disarming, no wonder everyone fawned over his attention, it was a gravitational pull to be around.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You smiled back. “For saving my back I will let you know where the secret stash of decent coffee is hidden in the staffroom.”
“You mean, you don’t enjoy the mud that Cheryl makes?”
It took you a moment to think who Cheryl was until you remembered the sharp tongued but pretty English teacher who deigned anyone to call her by her first name, and you wondered how he earned that privilege. Shaking your head, both in answer and to clear the intrusive, possessive thought that snuck into your head, you pointed to your tidy desk for him to set the books down.
He almost seemed perplexed when you pointed to the desk, as if he had forgotten he was carrying a significant weight in his arm. “Right, oh, books.”
“What else would you do on the desk?” you asked, blood boiling with disbelief at the words, a cringe growing on your face.
He scratched the back of his head as he seemed to ponder answering but thankfully the bell rang and he jutted his thumb over his shoulder. “I better go, uh, have a good day.”
“You too, Bucky,” you said with a wave before dropping into your chair. You were grateful the second bell was five minutes away, hopefully it was enough time to recover from the flames burning your neck.
Your classes ran relatively smoothly but you were still grateful for the final bell ringing and the students clearing out. In the silence that descended you could think clearly and you walked around the room taking an inventory on what was missing or broken or what had inadvertently been added to your room.
You wrote down all the fix-it jobs in a neat list so you could slowly make your way through them by the end of term and placed the sticky post-it note on your desk. Closing the windows and locking the small stationary room, you made sure everything was secure before gathering your bag and sweeping the papers that needed grading into a pile. Satisfied you had all you needed, you kicked the wedge out from under the door and left through the deserted halls.
The next morning a paper bag full of fresh cookies were clenched between your teeth and two steaming mugs of coffee filled your hands. You had spent what remained of your evening, after marking the papers, baking more than you could eat. Like honey to a bee, the scent of cookies drew Bucky from his office inside the gymnasium and he grinned at your entrance.
“Is this from the secret stash?” he whispered conspiratorially as he took his mug that he always drank from in the staffroom.
“Shhh, you know there’s eyes and ears everywhere.” You opened the bag of cookies and held it out for him. “That is sensitive information and you can’t be too careful ‘round here.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement and he dramatically mimed locking his lips shut and throwing away the key.
“You’ve got something stuck to you there,” he said as he reached for the side of your shirt and you hoped it wasn’t anything embarrassing as he plucked it off. “Door handle, 3 x desk legs, hole filler? Dare I ask.”
You snatched the post-it back and tucked it into your handbag it had slipped out of and rolled your eyes playfully. “Nothing nefarious, just a growing list of things I need to fix in my room.”
“You know there is a caretaker for all that.” He took a sip of his drink and groaned at the taste. “I see why you keep it a secret.”
“If I am going to be put through the ringer by a class full of teenagers every day then I need the right caffeine supplement. As for Mr Harkins, I feel bad asking him for anything - he’s already under the pump as it is.” You frowned at the thought of the caretaker who should have probably retired 10 years ago, but he was a sweet old man who tried his best. “Anyway, I should get going. Here, take the cookies, you look like you don’t need to worry about the calories.”
His laughter echoed in the empty gym and he lifted his shirt, showing the washboard abs that the material had hidden. “I worked hard for these.”
Your mouth was suddenly dry and you nearly spilled your drink as you lifted it to your parched lips. “I don’t doubt that. Enjoy the cookies, Mr-, I mean Bucky.”
He seemed to enjoy seeing you flustered, if his actions were anything to go by, so he passed by close enough that your arms brushed as he opened the door for you. You dipped your head so he wouldn’t see you biting your lip and waited until you were around the corner and out of sight before you leant against the gym's cold brick wall.
“Are you alright, miss?” One of your students asked as they spotted you.
Straightening yourself, you plastered a smile and nodded. “Have you studied for your test? You have until the fourth period to revise.”
The student groaned and hoisted their bag higher up their back. “Yes, miss.”
They darted off quick enough that you knew they hadn’t studied and were about to throw themselves into it before the bell rang. Shaking your head and clearing the lingering thoughts of Bucky and his flirtatious nature, you made your way to your room for the day.
You missed him in the staffroom that day, even though you rarely spoke in the busy space since everyone wanted a piece of his attention, you still missed seeing his smile and interactions. You lingered in the room right up until the bell rang hoping for a glimpse but he didn’t show so you made your way back to your classroom.
Confusion crumpled your forehead as your fingers closed around the door handle, one that opened easily and without the clunky rattle that announced your arrival. Your confusion grew as you found half a dozen post-it notes stuck to the walls and you crossed the room to see the neat linked handwriting on them.
‘The plaster is wet, don’t touch.’
The stark white of the plaster that filled the holes that had appeared over the years through accidents and unruly teens stood out against the blue paint that covered the wall. You plucked the first note off and moved to the next.
‘It’s tempting, but don’t touch it.’ You giggled and pulled that one off the wall too.
‘If you touch it, I will have to come back after your class and fix it.’ You were gathering a small stack of the notes now.
‘On second thoughts, touch it.’
You hurried to grab the rest of them as the first student entered the room and you felt like you had been caught doing something you shouldn’t as you hid them behind your back. You shoved them deep into your desk drawers and sat down while you waited for the rest of the students to take their seats.
You couldn’t wait for the class to end as you felt the notes burning a hole in your desk and when the last student, who had lingered well after the bell had rang, left you reached down for the drawer. You nearly bumped your head when you shot up at the sound of a knock on the door to find Bucky filling the doorway, three metal poles in his hand.
“Just came to check on the plaster,” he said with a wink. “And get your answer.”
His smile dimmed at your confusion and you placed the notes onto your desk, flicking through them until you found the ones you hadn’t yet read. ‘I like spending quality time with you.’
‘How about dinner?’
You looked up from the final note to see him waiting patiently, and somewhat nervously for such a confident man. “You want to go to dinner with me?”
He leaned back to see your name on the door beside the room number and grinned. “Yeah, definitely you.”
He strode deeper into the room, pushing down on each desk until he found the ones with wobbly legs and flipped them upside down, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt. You were still in a state of shock when he finished screwing the legs in and bundled the broken ones up under his arm.
“There’s no pressure, I didn’t do any of this to get you to go on a date with me,” he said as he made his way to the door.
“I want to,” you said before he crossed the threshold. “I would love to actually.”
He turned with a smile that illuminated his blue eyes. “Are you free tonight?”
You would be free every night for him but you didn’t say that out loud when you nodded. “Pick me up at 6?”
He licked his lips and you lost all ability to think, only just managing to give him your address when he asked for it. You couldn’t believe what was happening and gone was your evening plan of grading papers and planning lessons. You were actually going to have a life outside of work.
He chuckled as you quickly gathered your bag, shoving the notes he had written you safely inside and swiped your heavy set of keys from the desk. The caretaker's shed was on the way to the staff parking lot so he kept you company along the way, pausing only as he reached the rusted shed to deposit the broken parts he carried.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“See you tonight, doll.”
Your heart skipped a beat at the endearment and you gripped your bag tighter so it could anchor you to the ground while your head felt ready to float between the clouds.
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x poc!reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes x you#bucky fanfiction
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The master
Paul: Y/N is playing hard to get
Paul: Little do they know, I'm a master at playing hard to get rid of
Prompt/inspiration from @alistair-strange
"Come on sweet cheeks just one small date, I'll be real good I pro-"
"I don't think they're interested Paul," Dwayne was quick to jump in and defend you, glowering at the blonde while he leant beside you where you were perched upon the railing, "go chase some other bird."
He had been going at it for weeks, ever since Dwayne had slipped up and exposed his little reading buddy to the rest of them, and thusly to Paul's whoreish behaviour.
But he couldn't help it, he just found you so cute. Such a quiet little spitfire who had somehow gotten the most defensive of them to open up and adore you, and who was very content to keep Paul ten feet away from you at all times.
Even so, Paul had managed to catch you alone a couple of times, finding you exposed when Dwayne had been out hunting before meeting you, even going so far as to follow you home and throw tiny stones at your window until you threatened him with a bat.
"Nuh uh uh! Gotta hear it from them dude," Paul turned and smiled at you, eyes twinkling like light reflecting on the ocean. It was tempting, truly, but Paul was someone who you would actively avoid if it weren't for your relationship to Dwayne.
He was irritating, persistent, and childish.
But you knew he wasn't doing it out of actual interest in you, he wanted you the same way a child wants to watch a movie they've been told is rated too high for them. You were a challenge, a game, a prize to be won, and nothing more.
Rolling your eyes you leant back, throwing yourself over the other side of the railing and jumping down, ignoring the look Dwayne sent your way as you disappeared into the crowd in hope of finding something decent to do with your night.
"Leave them alone, Paul," Dwayne grabbed his friend's arm before he could follow you, pulling him back roughly, "this one is off-limits."
Paul rolled his eyes, muttering a small 'whatever' and going over to tussle with Marko, who was making small jabs at him in their mind link.
-
You were having an amazing week, each day the weather had been exquisite, the sun shining down gently and a slow breeze passing by.
Even better your aunt had come to town and had taken you out shopping for new clothes.
Clothes which you were currently wearing.
And hey, heaven forbid you actually fit in with the rest of the people in your small town.
Though the cropped denim jacket and tight orange crop top didn't do you any favors in keeping away men and women alike. At least three people had hollered at you as you biked down to the boardwalk, your feet couldn't pedal fast enough.
Now you were sat at the far end, sat on the railing with your legs swinging over the edge, watching the sun vanish beyond the horizon,
Sighing whimsically you wondered if this was how characters in your books felt, watching the great fire in the sky simmer away beneath the waves, their arms around their lover with the sweet night breeze blowing softly through their-
"Something caught your eye babe?-"
"HOLY SHI-" you barely registered what was happening, whether it was the figure that had magically appeared behind you, how dark it suddenly was.
Oh and how cold the ocean got at night.
For some reason, your mind had forgotten how to swim. Despite living by water your whole life your body could do nothing more than sink to the bottom, looking at the mass of lost shoes and random clothes clearly abandoned by beach goers.
Then you were being pulled, a long arm curling around your midsection, bringing you back to a firm chest.
Once you had resurfaced your lungs were burning and you found yourself being pushed against one of the metal ladders which led down into the water.
"What the hell were you thinking-" someone was rubbing your face, pushing the cold salty water away from your eyes and holding your face in their palms, "-have drowned, the railings aren't even that comfy."
You finally registered it. The voice.
It was Paul.
Dumb, blonde, tall, strong, handsome, puppy-eyed, Paul.
Growling you shifted away from him, reaching to pull his hands away as you met his eyes, shivering slightly when the ocean air hit you.
"Y-you- you-" his eyes were filled with something, worry, but it was being defeated by his growing playfulness, "why did you scare me like that! Idiot-"
He huffed, wading back into the water.
"Gee what a way to say thank you, sweets."
You glowered at him, but he merely chuckled at you, eyes shining brighter with every second.
Instead of responding you turned, gripping the ladder with firm hands, climbing to the top where you were pulled up onto the boardwalk by your dear friend.
"You okay?" nodding you leaned into his warmth, letting Dwayne wrap his jacket around you.
David was watching you with a small smile, clearly enjoying the show.
Whereas Marko was leant over the railing, "come up Paul, unless you'd rather spend the night swimming with the fish!"
-
He kept on sending you looks from across the bonfire.
You didn't bother reciprocating them, instead you were sat on the beach ground with Dwayne beside you on a log, your head leaning on his thigh as the fire dried you off.
You were pissed. That much Paul knew.
Not only had he made you fall into the cold ocean, but your new clothes were feeling less soft and fresh and more crunchy and doused in salt.
They would be salvageable but they would never truly be free of sand.
And holding a grudge against the blonde was pretty satisfying.
Paul opened his mouth to say something, quickly shut down by Dwayne's dark look.
Marko's snickering distracted him soon enough, sending them into a tussle that threw even more fucking sand in your direction.
#the lost boys#tlb#the lost boys imagines#the lost boys x reader#dwayne tlb#marko tlb#david tlb#paul the lost boys#paul x reader#paul tlb#the lost boys paul
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PREVIEW - A Town Called Hope
Hey all! The current draft of chapter one is under the cut (to save people on mobile from a long post), and the Mp3 file can be found [HERE]
The audio isn't the best, but it's serviceable
Cheers!
A Town Called Hope
Chapter One
Grey clouds hung heavy in the evening sky, the threat of rain rumbling within them. The trip had been uneventful, but looking at those clouds would give anyone pause. Reynard was no exception. Uneventful or not, he was not about to drive through that approaching storm in the dark. It looked like the next village he found would be his home for the night.
It was hard to tell if the sun had set by the time the lights of next the village came into view. ‘Blackwood’ the faded sign by the road announced. A fitting name for the place. Dark woods pressed in on the little village from all sides- expect the one that was pressed in by a broad lake. The clouds Reynard had been trying to avoid had settled into a dark blanket over the woods and thatched rooftops, and by the time he pulled up to the village Inn, the rain had dropped. It clattered like marbles on the windshield of his tiny yellow car, and for a moment he debated sleeping in the back seat. He glanced back at the seat in question. No. He was not going to scrunch himself in there just to avoid getting a little bit wet. Not again. Taking a deep breath, he snatched his bag from the passenger seat and swung the door open.
In the few seconds it took for him to sprint across the carpark to cover of the Inn, Reynard was soaked through. He hunched his shoulders against the cold highland air and hurried inside.
A wave of relief washed over Reynard as he stood there, dripping on the doormat. It looked like most of the town was in that night. To get away from the rain? Or to not be alone during the storm? The warm air was full of circling chatter and laughter, interspersed with the occasional crack and pop from the roaring fire at the far end of the building. The sounds seemed to hold up the old wooden rafters overhead, giving the place a life all its own. Reynard received some warm smiles as he dripped his way over to the bar, but everyone seemed content to keep to their little circles and conversations. That was until he made it to the bar and caught the attention of the young lady behind the counter.
“Excuse me, Miss? I was wondering-“
The young lady turned to face him, tucking a wayward strand of bleached-blonde hair behind her ear. The second she laid eyes on him she let out a small, shrill squeak- then covered her mouth rather quickly, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Oh no, Reynard thought to himself.
“I- I’m so sorry, I don’t know where that noise came from,” She waggled her hand in the air between them. An anxious tick maybe? “You’re Reynard Walker! You must get this a lot, but I’ve read all your books. I’m really a huge fan.”
He didn’t ‘get that a lot’. The few books he had written had been poorly received by the public. They much preferred the articles and fluff he wrote for magazines as a part of his day job. This young lady seemed to be one of the few exceptions. He felt a smile pull on his lips and nodded politely. “I really appreciate that. It’s a pleasure to meet a fan. Miss…?”
“Shit-“ she covered her mouth again, cheeks burning, “I mean, um- Anna. It’s Anna.” She took a moment to calm herself down and did her best to keep her hands from fluttering about. “S-so! What can I do for you?”
“A room for the night, please. And maybe a mop.” He glanced at the line of puddles he’d left on the flagstone floor behind him.
Anna followed his gaze. “Oh gosh- I’ll sort that in a second.” She fished about beneath the counter. The click of a lock. A soft clink. A key set on the bar. “We have more than enough rooms this time of year. No one hangs around after the end of the Autumn festival. Not unless they’re hungover.”
Reynard raised an eyebrow as he picked up the key. She might have floundered before, but Anna had been quick to find her stride. Not the worst fan he’d come across by any means.
“If you don’t mind me asking-” Anna continued as she went back to pulling pints for the locals. “What brings you all the way out here? Didn’t think there would be anything worth writing about in these woods. Unless it’s a personal trip? You getting yourself away from the big city for a while?”
Reynard felt his lips tighten. “Personal work.” He said flatly, “Not here though. I’ll be heading up to Hope in the morning.” He saw the way her eyes lit up. Anna wanted to know more. Reynard was not going to give it to her.
Anna sighed and smiled. “I suppose I’ll just have to wait, then.”
Reynard blinked. He was surprised there had been no attempt to push. His shoulders relax and smiled again. He was too used to being around other journalists.
Anna waved her hand at him, shooing him away from the bar. “Go on now. Go get yourself dry. We don’t want you catching a cold and having to stay here when you’ve got work to do.”
---
Reynard found his room upstairs, dropped his things and showered before heading back down to the bar. Tucked away in a quiet corner, he watched locals drift in and out with the breaks in the downpour outside. Anna brought him dinner at one point. As he ate, he fished out his phone and tapped out a text.
‘Hey Chris, finally stopped for the night. Cute town. I think you’d like it.’
Almost immediately his phone rang in his hand. It was Chris. He picked up.
“Glad to know you’re still alive. Not one text. All day.” Chris was clearly annoyed, but Reynard could tell she was happy to hear from him, “Anyway, did you make it to the border, or is this another cute town you’re talking about?”
“Not at the border yet. Storm held things up.” He could hear her relief through the phone. Relief that he hadn’t pushed through the storm and into the night no doubt. “It’s nice here though. Little village, nice Inn. Chatty locals.”
“Oh you must love that.” She laughed, and Reynard smiled. “Alright I’ll let you go now I know you’re alive, but you have to tell me when you arrive tomorrow, okay?”
“If there’s any reception. Otherwise, It might be a day or two before I get back here.” He could hear the little noise she made in disapproval. “Hey, at least Hope’s an empty town. How much trouble could I get into?”
A few tables across, a stranger tilted his head, listening to the writer’s half of the conversation.
“Oh my god, Ren! Now you’re for sure going to get into trouble. It’s like saying ‘what could possibly go wrong’.” She was laughing. “You just can’t help yourself can you. Listen, have a good night and I’ll send the police if I don’t hear from you in a week.”
“You know they won’t come again.” He teased, hearing the roll of her eyes.
“I’ll use a fake name for you. Goodnight, Ren.”
“Night, Chris.” Reynard looked at the blank screen of his phone after the click. After a moment a flicker of movement at the edge of the table pulled him from his thoughts.
A young man stood there. Long dark hair framed a tired-looking face. But those eyes were anything but tired. Reynard recognized that look. That spark of curiosity. He’d caught it on his own reflection many times. Reynard tucked his phone away, his gaze set on the man as he waited. An awkward pause dragged on before the stranger spoke in a hushed voice.
“I overheard you talking to Anna. You’re heading to Hope-” Reynard frowned, the young man hurried to explain himself. “Wait- Look, I know you don’t want to talk about it. I gathered that much from your talk with Anna. But I… I have something that might be of interest to you.”
“What makes you think that?” Reynard’s tone was calm. Where was this going?
“You’re a writer, yeah? A writer going to Hope for a ‘personal project’.” He fixed Reynard with a stare laced with- what? Understanding? Urgency? Another pause. Reynard gestured to the seat opposite him. The stranger slipped into the booth, a little smile on his face. “I’m Roman, by the way.”
“Reynard.” He offered. Then, with a hint of humor in his voice, “Though you probably ‘overheard’ that too.”
“Maybe.” Roman chuckled, “Bad habit of mine. I’ve read some of your work too. Your research is solid. That’s why I think you might want to take this.”
Roman pulled a battered notebook from inside his duffle coat. Its spine was reinforced with tape, and the pages of the book groaned from the sheer number of notes stuffed between them. He set it on the table and pushed it across to Reynard.
Reynard picked up the book and turned it over in his hands. Thumbing through the pages, his eyebrows raised. The book was full of research notes. Photos, fragments of maps, cuttings from newspapers across the decades. It was all about Hope. Roman had puzzled together a record of the town’s cryptic history, right up until it had gone dark in the late 40s. Pieces were missing, but it was as near a complete a report Reynard had ever seen. As he turned another page, a photograph fell out. Faded and water damaged, it showed children running in a schoolyard while a woman watched on.
“How did you get all this?” Reynard almost whispered, staring at the photo on the table. The water damage had made the woman’s face impossible to make out, but something about her was familiar. It made him uncomfortable.
“I’ve been looking into the town on and off for a few years.” Roman glanced over his shoulder. Paranoia maybe? “Figured with you being a writer and all, you might be able to get some use out of them.”
Reynard tucked the photo away and set the book down on the table. “You would pass over ‘a few years’ worth of notes to a stranger because you overheard me talking about the same town at a bar?” He didn’t even bother to hide the suspicion in his voice.
“Only if they have a ‘personal’ reason for going there.” Roman locked eyes with him. “No one has been there since the town was fenced off decades ago, and there’s no evidence that anyone ever left the town before it went dark. At least not in the records. But what if off the record, there was someone who made it out after all-“
“They would be dead by now.” Reynard cut in sharply. He pushed the book back across the table and stood. “Nice meeting you.”
“Wait! I- Shit!” Roman moved to stand- and his phone rang. Whatever it was, it was enough to make him hesitate in going after Reynard.
Reynard didn’t hang around. He strode out of the bar, up the stairs into the quiet of the guestrooms.
---
Sat in the quiet of his room, Reynard pulled a battered leather case from his things. Resting his thumb on the latch, he stared at the worn edges and patched corners of the case. His hand was shaking. Roman’s words rattled through his brain. Someone had gotten out. But having Roman pin him that quickly had been unsettling.
He couldn’t do this to himself. Not tonight. Overthinking it all would do him no good. He tucked the case back into his things and pushed them under the bed. ‘Tomorrow’s problems’, he thought.
Thunder rolled overhead as he turned off the light. Rain against the windows pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
#Darkbloom#The Deep Archives#A Town Called Hope#Reynard Walker#Roman Hart#Anna Stevens#Christine Burroughs
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omg ur most recent blue lock fic was so cute 😭😭😭 pls i need a part 2 😭😭😭😭😭
(but dont stress urself over it im just saying its rlly cute and wholesome lmao remember to take care and have lots of breaks ❤️❤️)
If I recall correctly- this was about my fic: "All The King's Men"; which thank you so much btw! I appreciate the kind words! I wasn't originally planning a sequel but after getting this ask and thinking about it for a hot minute...yeah; we can make a part two! :D I hope you like it, anon!
Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):
@myreygn @cupcake-spice13
“Get his leg, boys.”
Yorrichi Isagi may have lacked Chigiri’s speed, Nagi’s control and Barou’s power- but that didn’t mean he was weak.
With a sudden twist, he gathered up the blankets and pillows, shoving them into their faces as he rolled off the bed, diving beneath. Move, move, MOVE! He willed his body to go as Barou swore, blinded. The door opened with barely a creek.
“He’s getting away!” Nagi called as Isagi barrel rolled out, scrambling to his feet as he ran. In a leg race, he was done for- Chigiri would have had him in seconds. He just needed…
There!
He dived into the nearest locker room as footsteps approached, running into the showers. Once there, he slid into a stall, peeking through the gap.
“Gotcha…huh.” Chigiri blinked, looking around the empty room with curious eyes. “Isagi? Are you in here?” The redhead poked around, turning to look back at the lockers. “Isagi?”
Crawling on his knees, the brunette shimmied under the stall dividers, the smell of bleach burning his nostrils. Well- at least they were clean. When he got to the one closest to the door, he poked his head out, finding Chigiri checking the last stall at the end.
“I swear this place is haunted…” He poked his head into another, and another. Isagi dived behind him and into the locker room.
And- because he felt like it- he slammed an empty locker shut on his way out.
“SHIT!” Chigiri’s squawk of surprise nearly took him out as he booked it.
“Chi? What’s up- there you are!” Nagi cried as he came around the corner. Isagi yelped before flying down the hall again, pumping his legs with all his strength. It wasn’t long before Nagi was slowing down- all his endurance giving out as he waved a weak hand. “Wait- wait, come…back.
“HA!” Victory!
Soaring around the corner, he found Barou waiting for him.
“OH SHI-” He doubled back, just narrowly avoiding Nagi. He dove into the kitchen at the last second.
“Damn, Isagi- would you hold still!” Barou called, chasing after him with a moderately exhausted Nagi on his heels. “You’re like a damn worm!”
“What’s wrong, King? Can’t catch the gingerbread man?” Isagi laughed as he put the table between them, diving the opposite way Barou went. Nagi tried enclosing him, but Isagi simply moved tables. “Too slow! Hehehe!”
“You son of a-” Barou began just as Chigiri came flying in, closing the distance fast. Isagi squeaked and bolted, but his fate was already decided when Barou climbed OVER the table.
“NO! No no nohohohooo! Wahhahait!” Isagi yelped as he was grabbed, squished between Barou and Chigiri as they met in the middle. Nagi, who had positioned himself near the door to act as guard, whooped. “We did it!”
“The hell do you mean we?” Barou threw the brunette over his shoulder, carrying him back to the room the same way he did Chigiri. “You literally gave up.”
“No I didn’t- I simply prioritized my usefulness.” Nagi shrugged as their room came into view, taking his place as Isagi was tossed back into his bed. “You two had him- and now I do THIS!”
“Na-GI!” Isagi cried, laughing before anything started as Nagi threw himself across his torso. Within seconds, he was dead weight, holding him down as the others took their places on each side of him. “Wahhahait, wahahhait guhuuhhuys pleahahhase!”
“Any last words, gingerbread man?” Barou glared down at him, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Ehehehrm, do you know…the muffin man?”
“The muffin man?” Nagi asked automatically.
“THE MUFFIN MAN!”
“A lot of movie references, lately.” Chigiri mused.
“Enough shrek talk! Get em!” Barou commanded, and within seconds Isagi was laughing like a child, feet kicking as he squirmed against the bed. Nagi was at his waist, digging into the soft spots of his belly and sides with lazy prods and pokes. Chigiri had his legs, kneading his thigh with the precision of a sports doctor, and Barou was at his head, jabbing at his armpits whenever the opportunity arrived.
“Gehahahhahhahahaha! Guhuuhuuhuhhuys, pleahahhahahahhsae! Gehahahahahhaha pleahhahahhahe wahhahahahhahit!” He tried waving a hand out, but any move he made introduced more spots to tickle. “Aheahhahhahahha it tihihiiihihickles!”
“That’s kind of the point, Isagi!” Nagi giggled against him, moving his hands up to his ribs. When he poked his lowest set, Isagi squealed. “Is this a bad spot?”
“Can’t be as bad as here.” Chigiri wormed a hand under the pair, squeezing Isagi’s hip. “This is bad, yeah?”
“Oh please- you two are amateurs. This is a bad spot.” Barou wiggled his fingers against the back of Isagi’s neck and ears. “Aren’t I right?”
“Yeah, Isagi- tell us who’s right!” Nagi nodded.
“Who’s tickling you the most right now?”
The answer? All of them were terrible. Isagi would have said that if he wasn’t currently dying from laughter, cheeks red and laugh on the verge of silence as he kicked and thrashed, howling with mirth. “PLEHAHAHAHAHHAHSE GUHUHUHUUHUHUYS!”
“Hm- he’s a bit red. Yo- reel it in.” Barou reached out, tapping Nagi on the shoulder. Chigiri had already stopped, pulling his hands back as he helped Nagi climb off a now exhausted Isagi. “Don’t wanna suffocate him. You good?”
“Ahehehe…hehehehe…hehe…yehhahah.” Isagi sighed, too tired to say more. Nagi raised a hand in victory before flopping into Chigiri, leaning on him so much they rolled off the bed.
“GAH! Nagi!”
“Carry me.”
“Carry yourself, you lazy sloth!”
“But it’s too faaaar~”
“Oi, these two- come on, Mr. Hassle.” Barou got up as well, giving Isagi a quick hair ruffle as he did. Too tired to watch, Isagi curled into himself, pulling his abandoned blanket up and over his body.
In the distance, he swore he heard muffled fits of laughter.
He dreamt of bumblebees that night.
Thanks for reading!
#blue lock#tickle#tickle fic#fluff#sequel#part 2#barou shouei#chigiri hyoma#isagi yoichi#nagi seishiro#Lee!Isagi let's gooo!#should we mess around and make this a trilogy?#I'm honestly down for a final part with Rin and his team if y'all want it#just let me know in asks or in the replies
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How to Distract a Rogue
[Mal Volari x Daenarya Masterlist] [Mal’s Orphanage]
Pairings: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!OC)
Book: Blades of Light and Shadow
Word Count: ~800
Rating: Teen (just to be safe)
Prompts: @choicesprompts Rewrite Challenge: Psych "Ferry Tales" / dialogue exchange as requested by @promptnonny [Scene (first 28 seconds)]
Synopsis: Daenarya devises a new way to keep Mal distracted.
Daenarya and Mal found themselves at the bustling docks of Port Parnassus. The air was alive with the sounds of merchants haggling their goods and seafarers preparing their vessels for their next adventure. The pungent aroma of freshly caught fish filled their senses, mingling with the comforting salty breeze that gently caressed their faces.
Daenarya took his hand, dragging Mal forward through the throngs toward the small ship waiting just ahead. She had timed it perfectly, but they didn't have any time to waste. They were heading toward a remote island community off the coast to lend a hand in the cleanup efforts after a violent storm had ravaged the community.
"Where are we going?" Mal asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
Tempering her smile, Daenarya led him onto the ship's deck where other volunteers prepared for the task ahead. "We're heading to Ambermoor."
"Why would we go there?"
"To help them clean up after the storm," her voice filled with determination, as she pulled him further onboard.
"If you had told me we were boarding a boat to the Ambermoor Islands to clean up, obviously, I would have said no," Mal replied, a hint of reluctance in his tone.
"That's exactly what I told you," Daenarya nodded in amusement.
"And what did I say?" Mal protested, placing his hands on his hips, certain he had protested this once already.
"You said no," Daenarya agreed, a knowing smile on her lips.
"Then why am I here?" he whined, scanning the surroundings for an escape route.
"Because you're easily distracted," Daenarya answered, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
"What? When it comes to mental focus, I'm sharper..." Mal's protest came to an abrupt halt when Daenarya presented him with another fresh, juicy Purple Parnassian. "Ooh! Thanks! I was starved." He eagerly took a bite, savoring the fiery flavor as it burned down his throat. The snack's tell-tale purple liquid stained his lips. "You know, when Alfonso says these things really satisfy, he's not lying. So packed with flavor..."
As they settled on the weathered deck among the crowd of volunteers, the sounds of the bustling dock faded into a distant murmur. The wooden planks beneath their feet creaked softly with each step. The call of seagulls sang above them, hoping for just a taste of the tempting treat Mal held in his hand. The cool, salty breeze caressed their faces, welcoming them on their journey. The ship began to rock with the lapping waves as it began its slow departure from the dock.
Mal's pout returned, noticing his exit window had closed. "Oh, man."
Daenarya smiled, pleased with her successful diversion. "And, done."
"How could you trick me like that?" Mal whined. His shoulders slumped as he stamped his feet in playful frustration.
"We agreed that if we borrowed things without permission and without the intention of bringing them back, we would do one thing to make up for it," she reminded him.
"That doesn't sound like me." His right brow arched questioningly. "Was I drunk?"
"Yes." Daenarya brushed her fingers against his, her touch relaxing him. "That changes the outcome, how?"
Mal's mouth began to open in protest, but Daenarya swiftly interrupted. "And before you answer with something like I can't trust your words when you're drunk, let me remind you of some other activities you mentioned that were very, very enjoyable for the both of us that night."
Mal sighed, groaning in reluctant defeat. "Fine."
"Cheer up—" She pressed a fleeting kiss on his cheek as she laced her fingers with his. "If you're a good boy and help out with the cleanup, I'll show you another more hands-on distraction technique I've perfected."
"What did you have in mind?" His mood lifted at the prospect of her proposal.
"Well, I was thinking.—" She chewed her lower lip, her gaze hungrily raking down his body. Her fingers danced up his chest, pulling on his collar slightly. "—we could sneak away and find a more secluded spot where I could give you a nice reward for all your hard work."
A roguish grin filled his face, but it faltered a moment later as his gaze narrowed on her suspiciously. "Are you just saying that to get me to go along with this plan?"
"Maybe..." She teased, leaning in, her voice a whisper against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. "Or, maybe... I like the thought of you all hot and sweaty from working, your shirt tightening around your muscles. Mmm!" She hummed; the thought alone lit a fire burning within her. Her fingers traced teasing patterns along his arms, relishing in how he responded to her touch. She playfully nipped his ear. Her hot breath lingered, "I guess you'll have to wait and find out, Mr. Magnificent."
The pair drifted through the crowd, settling against the side of the ship.
Mal's hand brushed against the smooth railing, the coolness of the polished wood offering a comforting spot to rest against. His gaze fixed on the growing expanse of ocean surrounding them. The now calm waters gave little clues to the storm that had passed. Daenarya wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder as he pulled her closer. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.
I hope you enjoyed this silly little rewrite. @promptnonny sent me this scene a few months ago and I never got around to writing it, but I figured since @choicesprompts is hosting a rewrite event, now might be the best time to finally fill the request. Thanks for the inspiration @promptnonny! I absolutely adore Psych so this request made me smile so much!
#mal volari#mal volari x mc#mal volari x oc#malarya#daenarya#mal x daenarya#blades of light and shadow#bolas#choices#playchoices#choices game#fan fiction#lovealexhunt#july2023
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janAUary - roleswap au
ship: bedbugs [ rolseswap au, antares/lawrence ]
word count: 1380
summary: lawrence makes a deal with a demon.
He sighs, looks down at the empty white on his screen.
He cracks his neck, leans back in his chair. Closes his eyes. The fading memory of his dreams swirl into the expanses of his mind.
He thinks of that…Thing.
He shudders, and taps his fingers against his keyboard. He types a few vague sentences from the clouded nightmares he can barely remember.
One word sticks out to him, emerges from the fuzzy ghost of an idea; It fronts at the center of his thoughts. Like a bright neon light, it shines through the turmoil of his consciousness. Something at the back of his mind pokes at him, urges him to indulge this form.
His fingers pad the keys again. He presses them hesitantly, gently.
A memory flashes before him. A dream, distant but vivid.
Come on, Lawrence. I can help you.
His heart pounds against his ribs. One of the many nightmares that's plagued him for months, since he's stepped foot in this house.
No wonder the asking price was so low.
He deletes it. A chill runs down his spine.
He types it again.
The cursor blinks at him.
He mutters the name, heavy on his tongue. It feels wrong.
Maybe, if he typed it again, got used to the feeling…
Something urges him, prodding him. The script needed a title, anyways. He scrolls up, and types it a final time.
Antares.
He startles at the shock he feels burn his hand, drawing them back with a yelp. Had his laptop short circuited?
No, it was still running.
And his document was filling itself with that name, repeated down each line without his help -- without anyone's help. Maybe it was broken.
It's not broken, Lawrence.
His eyes widen, he jumps up, stumbles backwards from his chair, knocking it over in the process.
“How --”
It catches his eye then, in the corner, engulfed by shadow. A single finger flicks towards the laptop, which shuts itself.
“I find screens so distracting, don't you?”
“Who -- Who are you?” he trips over his own feet, landing hard against the wall. He struggles to pick up one of the many books that are piled besides him, and holds it out in defense. It laughs.
“Don't look so surprised, babes. You called me.”
He gasps as it steps closer. He knows this creature.
The one from his dreams.
“But you're not –”
“I am very real, Lawrence. Hello,” it waves a hand in his face.
He doesn't greet it, rather he turns with a half-hearted scream and makes for the door.
Which closes. And locks.
“What an awful host you are.”
He finds himself turning back, not of his own volition, and walking towards it again. His heart thunders in his chest, which constricts making it very hard to breathe in the presence of the creature.
“Oh, please. Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”
“You're not going to…To…?”
“Kill you? Jesus, Lawrence, if I wanted to do that I would have a long time ago. I’m your pal. Your friend. We're a team, you and me. Or…We can be. Just say the word.”
It's not much of a comfort, but it's something. He calms down, just a little, and nods. The supernatural force holding him releases its grip, and he wrings his wrists. He takes time to let his mind clear of the many burning questions that fester.
“Go ahead, ask.”
He doesn't like that it can read his mind.
“Okay. What are you?”
“I’m a dream demon. A dreamon, if you will.”
“Like a succubus?”
“Like a -- What goes on in those dreams of yours that I’m not in?” it pauses, uncrossing its arms, and when Lawrence sees just how sharp its talons are as it approaches him slowly, he suddenly feels very, very small beneath its shadow.
“No, not like a succubus. A mare, in human folklore, I believe is what they decided on.”
“Night mare?”
“Keen observation, Lawrence!” it flashes fangs, now behind him, fingers curled around his shoulders; A chill runs the length of his spine and he can't tell if it's from the cold touch of its long-dead hands, or the idea that this thing was truly straight out of his night-terrors.
He moves, afraid of allowing himself to turn his back to it – but as he does he realizes it's gone already. He hears a rustling behind him. He turns back, and finds that it’s stood near the far wall.
As he cautiously approaches, he sees that it's intensely scanning his bookshelf, a majority of which bear his own name.
“Say,” it glances towards him, grin wicked, “Betelgeuse? Been there once. The men there are such drags. And I mean that in the best way possible,” it tosses a copy of Thing from Saturn towards him, and he barely catches it, startled.
“Named after a star, huh? Hey, so am I! We're not so different after all!”
“We are very --”
“Listen, pal, I think you and I are just meant to be! I mean, what are the chances?”
He blinks, still confused. He felt…Strange, with this thing, here that knew so much about him already. And he felt so small, so helpless knowing so little about it.
“So…What do you,” he hesitates, unsure of his wording, but finding no other way to ask it rolls bluntly off his tongue, “Do?”
It smiles, turning its head just as agonizingly slow.
“I do many things, Lawrence. Inspiration, mostly. They call me the Muse.”
“They do?”
“No. I don't think I can say what they call me, or else this might not get published.”
“...What?”
“Anyways, half the shit you've ever read, ever heard, ever seen. All me, baby.”
“You're not serious.”
“Ever listen to Kiss? God of Thunder?” it's voice mocks the famous musician’s grumble, “I was raised by the demon?” and just as quick springs back to the jaunty, raspy undertone, “Think Gene was lying? C’mon now, Larry, put some respect on the name.”
“Don't call me that.”
“Hey, but enough about you, let's talk about me. I can help you, buddy. You won't find anyone better.”
“I don't need your help,” he averts his gaze, but bright eyes appear in his peripheral anyways, its voice echoes in the back of his mind.
“I've been watching you for a while, pal. You need my help more than anyone.”
“That's…” Probably true.
Lawrence sputters, “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That…In my head thing.”
“Can't help it, sweets. It's my domain, for now.”
“So, if I accept your help…What do you want, in return?”
“Presumptuous, I see.”
“Well, that's how these things go. You do something for me, and I owe you.”
Cautious. Smart. I like you, Larry.
“Well, not much. More of a favor really, if anything.”
“A favor.”
It hums, and for once, it's not an unpleasant sound.
“What kind of favor?”
It groans, “Quite the curious thing, aren't you? I should start charging per question. I’d be rich. Listen, Larry, it's nothing bad. Nothing too out of the way, no inconvenience to you, I swear. Quid pro quo is the name of the game, and I play fair, I promise. Cross my heart, and hope to die, and all that shit. You and I, we would make such a great team. I don't say that often, but I can see, you really do got somethin’ special about you, kid. All you need is a little --” he nearly trips at the force, inching closer to its extended paw, “Push.”
“...I still get full creative control and copyright ownership, right?”
“I don't do this for the fame, babe. You can have whatever you want.”
There's a moment of silence. His breathing steadies. He exhales. Takes its hand. Its nails dig into his skin. No turning back now.
“Deal.”
A wicked grin unfurls across its expression. A forked tongue licks at sharp canines. Its horns swirl bright red.
“Great choice, you won't regret it. You want fortune and fame?”
He nods. Shakes his head.
“Just…recognition.”
“Then you'll get it. And so much more. You just made the best decision of the rest of your life, Larry.”
Something in him tells him he hasn't, and that maybe this was a mistake.
What had he just gotten himself into?
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one for the tales — j.ww
༉‧₊˚✧ for my 1k event ! (now closed)
requested by @nayuyeons : HI CHOL MY LOVE *bops nose* CONGRATS ON 1K IM SO PROUD AND HAPPY AND ILYSM YOU DESERVE THIS AND MORE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! also !!! for ur event, can i request a wonu writing? and,,,, im between a royalty au (bc pls imagine prince wonu IM SWEATING JDKSJSKSK) or or or,,,,,,, BIKER WONU since hot is out now like JXKSJKX okay okay !!!!! u can do whichever genre u like, i will love whatever you write my chol<3333
a/n: hi nini 💖💖 thank u for requesting something and i hope this is the prince!wonu of your dreams WHSJAJS i chose the royal au bc someone else requested a biker!wonu au so we get the best of both worlds >:) 🫶🏻
word count | 1k
pairing | jeon wonwoo (svt) x gn!reader
genre | fluff, royal au
warning(s) / includes | none (please lmk if i missed anything!)
Some nights, the fear of the crown prince being caught with you keeps you up. You can already imagine the rumours that would inevitably surface if anyone were to ever find out about your clandestine meetings with him.
What you can’t imagine, however, is not being able to see Wonwoo again. The king and queen seem kind, albeit distant, from their public addresses, but even the kindest have their limit, and you’re almost certain their son sneaking into a bookstore—where the owner also lives, no less—late at night is gravely testing theirs.
Though it’s moments like these that make the fear, the risk, the secrecy all worth it in your eyes. From behind a looming stack of books, you let your gaze linger on Wonwoo. There’s something magnetising about his perfect posture, handsomely sharp features, and silver-rimmed glasses that slide down his nose bridge every five minutes. In a sense, he’s the lantern hanging outside by your door and you’re the moth drawn to it, unable to will yourself to pull away.
As though feeling the weight of your stare, he looks up, his eyes finding yours immediately. You feign an air of nonchalance when he raises his brows curiously, hoping he doesn’t sense your panic at being caught ogling. There’s a lamp hanging right above you, but you don’t think it’s the source of the heat that blooms beneath your cheeks.
“Interesting choice,” you finally choke out, gesturing to the book he’s holding. You had recognised the cover the moment he pulled it out from its shelf, but chose to remain silent until now. “I thought fairytales were too…” your voice trails off as you try to find the right word, not wanting to offend him, “vapid for your tastes, Your Highness.”
“I changed my mind,” Wonwoo responds softly, offering a shrug before idly flipping a page. Is the light deceiving your eyes, or is that a smile crossing his lips? “Also, I thought I said there’s no need to use my title when we are alone.”
When we are alone. You wish your cheeks didn’t burn as much as they should whenever he says it. Then again, everything sounds better, more enticing when they come from his lips.
“R-Right. My apologies, Your H—Wonwoo.”
He hums. “To answer your question, I have… taken quite a liking to fairytales recently.”
“Oh?” You move to take a seat across from him to hear him better—at least, that’s what you tell yourself—and not so you can get a better glimpse at him. Your stomach does a flip as you take in his features, illuminated by pale yellow light that also creates flickers of gold in his irises.
“What changed your mind, if I may ask?”
With a light thud, Wonwoo sets the book down onto the table before lifting his head from the aged pages, his lips pursed as he looks off to the side in deep thought.
“I’m not too certain myself,” he finally says, “perhaps it’s the temporary reprieve from reality they provide that I’m beginning to enjoy.”
Your voice is tentative, barely audible when you ask, “Is… something troubling you, Wonwoo?”
“Ah, it’s nothing troubling.” The way he waves his hand is elegant, dismissive, in an attempt to ease your concern. “Father and Mother are simply becoming rather… impatient because I am not yet married.”
“But—but you’re still so young!”
“Not by royal standards, especially for a crown prince.” His lips curl into a wry smile, the amused glint in his eyes faltering for a second to betray a hint of regret. How ironic that you spend your days tucked away within your cave of bookshelves, and yet you’re unable to find the words to describe the uncomfortable ache that burrows into your heart.
Despite the heavy subject, Wonwoo chuckles. The deep rumble of laughter chases away the heavy silence that has descended upon the room; it’s warm like the comforting crackle of a fireplace in the frigid winter, rich like the hot chocolate they serve at the cosy inn on the outskirts of town.
“Hope is… a powerful thing,” he begins with a glance down at the book, “it will always be the greatest reassurance humans have for the complexities—even cruelty—of life. I’m beginning to find comfort in stories like this one where the protagonist lives a life of freedom with the person he truly loves, and I now understand why there is such an appreciation for them.”
You remember a time in the distant past when you, much like most commoners you know, believed the crown prince to be a stoic, unmoved man. Back then, you would’ve never foreseen him sitting across from you in your tiny bookstore tucked away in a dingy alleyway, arguing over the semantics of happy endings, hiding smiles behind cooled cups of tea.
“I cannot say for certain if my future holds the same,” Wonwoo continues, looking up from the page to hold your gaze, “but…” His lips are still curved into a smile, yet something bittersweet manages to peek through his flawless composure. It sends a gripping ache straight to your heart. “It is nice to hope.”
“Keep it,” you blurt out, earning a mildly bemused look from the prince. “The book,” you rush to clarify, hoping to whatever deity watching over you from the heavens that he doesn’t notice the mistiness in your eyes. “If it holds such significance to you, I’d like for you to have it.”
“That’s very kind of you, Y/N. But respectfully, I will decline. I’d hate to keep such a lovely story to myself, why not leave it here where it can bring others some much needed hope as well?”
An appreciative smile stretches across your face, one that Wonwoo mirrors without hesitation. “Thoughtful to your people as always,” you tease. “Very well then, it shall remain here.”
Curiously, your cat trots across the table before deciding the space between you makes the perfect resting place. Wonwoo hardly seems to mind, gently running a curled finger over her fur and grinning when she lets out a contented purr.
“What are the chances you’d allow me to have your cat instead?”
“I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that you only return here for Maisie for quite some time, Your Highness.”
His laugh rings clearly as your eyes meet; your heart skips a beat at the playful twinkle that not even his glasses can disguise.
“A most preposterous assumption, that I can assure you.”
a/n: skskkws i hope the second half makes sense 😭 as always tysm for reading 💖
please reblog and/or give feedback if you enjoyed my writing ! support the creators and content you wish to continue seeing <3
#ficscafe#caratwritersclub#kdiarynet#sol.writings#seventeen x reader#svt x reader#wonwoo x reader#jeon wonwoo x reader#seventeen fluff#svt fluff#wonwoo fluff#jeon wonwoo fluff#seventeen scenarios#svt scenarios#seventeen imagines#svt imagines#wonwoo imagines#jeon wonwoo imagines#wonwoo scenarios#jeon wonwoo scenarios#seventeen drabbles#svt drabbles
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PART II
notes | part i | poll winner: look more closely
What pulled you towards it you couldn’t say — maybe the sunken flesh, hanging loosely from the bones in a mockery of the moth-eaten rags that still adorn it. Something about the teeth, a grin that stretches farther than you should be able to see, a lifeless gaze fixated on the wall behind you and nothing at all to see with. And there, in the cavern of the chest— a still beating heart, pushing long-forgotten blood in a Sisyphean struggle, forevermore.
Blackness floods your vision, only for a moment, too long for you to not notice and too quickly for you to react before it’s over.
[Sense disabled: SIGHT. ⅘ senses remain]
When the accompanying wave of nausea leaves you blinking away lights, you move back, and think.
It’s odd, isn’t it?— for there to be a still body, still alive in some way or another, halfway rotted and not even nearly in the ground. Maybe you should bury it, you muse, give it a proper send off. Burn it, let it rage in a fire until there’s nothing left. Maybe you should give it to the wolves, let them fight over it instead of your struggling body— you don’t want to know any more about the blood that’s been pounding, rushing, drowning your hearing out.
There’s a snarl outside, and your thoughts melt into, Oh, gods, maybe I should just run.
So you do, up scampering up the ladder like a wild animal and dropping the trapdoor into place behind you with a muffled thump, too scared to be any quieter. The attic is small and dirty and unkempt, and there’s dust in your mouth and on your hands, but you’re not dead yet — you brush them off and look around you.
To your left, a bookshelf, stacks of books sitting around it in languages you can’t even begin to translate. There’s what might be a dusty scabbard in amongst the heap of moth-eaten cloth and rags beyond that, and beneath the barred shut window at the end of the room, the last fadings of daylight starting to whisper in is a chest, the only thing in the room not coated with dust. The lock catches the dull rays of the sun and you begin to step towards it.
Panic closes over your throat as the floor almost gives way under your foot with an alarming creak, rotten wood groaning and starting to splinter. It’s pulled back towards your body before you know what you’re doing, and you turn in circles, heart hammering as you consider your options.
There’s a baying outside — the door downstairs rattles under the force of angry paws and snarling mouths. Maybe you should have secured the door better, but there’s still a ladder between you and your predators. And then a thud, thud, a howl of pain, a crack of bone, and the house shudders as body after body slams into it without pause. You breathe.
next part
#choose your own adventure#creative writing#fantasy writing#writeblr#writers of tumblr#writing#am writing#writeblr community#body horror cw#body horror tw
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for the kiss prompts, frenrey, 36, pls?
(Kiss Prompt List)
Once I thought about this prompt in context of @melonsharks' Pirate!AU, I absolutely had to do it. This was supposed to end shortly after the kiss, with only a brief reference to what happens after, but then I wanted to write the cool climactic scene, and then I realized that the part after the kiss had taken up way more space than the part before the kiss. Ah well. Sometimes it's like that.
(Also, a savvy reader may recognize elements of the climax from a Redwall book, though I'll be danged if I can remember which one. I read all of them multiple times as a kid, so just trust me on this. It was a very cool scene.)
36: ...to give up control.
Gordon comes to flat on his back, and he must have only been knocked silly for a moment, because particles of wood and dust are still falling through the new hole in the deck that he’s staring up at. Through the gap, he can see a section of the mast and the sails, tattered at one corner where a cannonball took out a rope and tore the edge loose, sending the cloth fluttering in the breeze.
Overhead, there are pounding footsteps and shouts, but Gordon can’t focus enough to think about that right now - he’s too busy trying to pull air into his deflated lungs. His hook scrapes the planking he’s laying on, but he hasn’t got enough strength yet to haul himself upright. He can’t catch his breath - why can’t he catch his breath?
“Great shot, Bubby!” Coomer bellows from somewhere on the deck above, and Gordon relaxes slightly. He hadn’t realized he was still tensed up, and that movement allows air into his shocked lungs in a painful, burning rush. He wheezes a few breaths in, then kicks his elbows back and manages to push himself up far enough to see that there’s a spar of wood punched through his right calf.
“Where’s the captain?” Tommy’s voice yells, sounding more distant than Coomer’s.
“He’s right - oh. Oh, dear.” Coomer’s voice gets closer, and then his head is silhouetted poking over the edge of the new hole in the deck. “Ah! Hello, Gordon!”
“Is - how is he?” Tommy shouts. “Is he okay?”
“Now, Gordon, I wouldn’t suggest that,” Coomer says, and Gordon looks up from trying to yank the wood out of his leg and waves at him. He still can’t catch his breath enough to shout.
A cannonball whistles overhead, and Coomer’s head vanishes as another half-dozen gunshots ring out. The hole in the planks is partially obscured by smoke, and Gordon tries to set his left leg and pull himself off the spear of wood. It looks like he fell on a pallet of crated supplies which broke under the combined weight of his body and ten feet of deck, and part of the pallet is what’s currently playing peekaboo with Gordon’s leg muscles. Since the pallets are secured to the floor of the hold to keep their weight from shifting, this means that Gordon is effectively stuck like a bug on a pin.
Joshua collected butterflies like that, Gordon remembers, and the thought is enough to drive another gasp of air from his lungs. Joshua never killed any of the insects, but any time he found dead ones, he picked them up and brought them home cradled in the cup of his hands to add to the little box of wings beneath his bed…
“oh, shit,” a voice says, and Gordon’s head snaps up to see Benrey leaning over the hole in the deck, outlined in smoke and the fading light of sunset.
“Where’s your gun?” Gordon rasps, the words tearing at his throat. “You have to - fight back -”
“yeah, sure, right,” Benrey says, and hops down into the hold.
It’s an eight foot drop if it’s an inch, but the former stowaway doesn’t even seem to notice the impact. They’re immediately hurrying over to Gordon, peering critically at the impaled leg.
“clumsy lil boy, ain’t’cha?”
“Shut up,” Gordon hisses, hauling one of his pistols free. “Shut the fuck up - take this, and get -”
“nope, i gotta - you really fucked up big time,” Benrey says.
“It was a direct shot!” Gordon snaps.
“not direct enough to, uh, t’hit you, though.”
“Benrey,” Gordon barks. “Are there boarders?”
“uhhhh,” Benrey tips their head back and looks straight up. “no. they’re not, uh - not close enough yet.”
“I have to get back up there, then, to make sure they stay that way.” Gordon tries again to set his heel against the floor of the hold, but his boot slips in a mix of blood and what might be whiskey. What a waste.
“that’s probably - hey, you shouldn’t do that!” Benrey’s tone is alarmed enough that Gordon stops and looks at them. They’ve got both hands outstretched, one hovering a foot above Gordon’s pinned leg, and the other at shoulder level, like they’re going to push Gordon back to the deck - or like they’re monitoring another wound.
Gordon glances over and blinks, genuinely surprised to see a six-inch splinter of wood protruding from the meat of his upper chest. Maybe there are multiple reasons why it was so hard to catch his breath after the fall.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and sees Benrey nodding out of the corner of his eye.
Another shot whistles overhead, and Gordon curses again. “I’m the captain,” he says, probably nonsensically. “I have to - no one else can steer the ship.”
“i can - i could do that?” Benrey’s face is smeared with soot and sweat, but their dark headband is still tightly secured over their serious gaze. “i was, uhhhh first mate. first - first mate Benrey? maybe, uh - best mate Benrey?”
Gordon’s spectacles are chipped at one corner, but he still resettles them to stare blankly at Benrey. “...What?”
“i know how to steer the ship,” Benrey says patiently.
“No,” Gordon replies, and tries to haul his leg off the wooden spar again.
“no - wait, don’t -”
Something hits the railing on deck with a splintering crack, sending shards of wood spinning down through the hole in the planks. Gordon flings an arm up to protect his head, and Benrey ducks over Gordon’s legs as wood patters across their back.
Overhead, there’s a brief silence, then Bubby’s voice shouts “YOU MISSED!” This time, Gordon can hear faint voices yelling replies.
“Shit, they’re getting closer.”
“yeah, so - y’gotta let me help.” Benrey sits up and shakes the loose debris from their shoulders, keeping one hand extended to prevent anything from falling onto the wound in Gordon’s leg. Benrey does that a lot - Gordon will turn around and they’ll be standing there, one hand out like Gordon’s a fire and Benrey’s trying to warm up. He’ll admit it’s made him twitchy around the former stowaway, even after he cleared his residual resentment for having missed Benrey smuggling themself aboard. Even if they got Tommy’s help, he still should have noticed.
Sunkist gives a roaring bark, and there are several splashes like bodies falling into the ocean. Sunkist would never attack any of the crew, so that must mean the fucking Navy ship has finally closed the distance and has either sent a dinghy, or tossed lines over to attempt a boarding.
Gordon looks at Benrey. “Tommy said you got him out of Port Royal on a hijacked dinghy. Is that true?”
Benrey shrugs. “yeah, i guess.”
“This isn’t a dinghy. Can you actually take the helm of a ship this big?”
“yeah, i guess,” Benrey says again, which isn’t the most reassuring thing to hear.
Above them, the clatter of grappling hooks filters through the smoky hole in the deck. “Damn it,” Gordon hisses. “I wouldn’t - I don’t even know where to go, besides ‘away’.”
“i do,” Benrey says, and checks the splinter in Gordon’s shoulder in a businesslike manner. They swipe some of Gordon’s mane of hair out of the way to look at his back, then make a muffled sound. “uh…that’s probably fine.”
“What does - fuck it, I don’t care,” Gordon growls, and loops his hook around Benrey’s shoulder to tug them close. “We have to get away from these fucking bootboys, yeah? Just - get us away.”
“uh-huh,” Benrey says faintly, face flushed and eyes very wide. And Gordon’s been holding back a little, because he’s listened to Benrey’s singing at night and watched them play with Tommy and Sunkist and listened to them pester Bubby until he shows them how to pack blasting powders into explosives, and he’s not blind, okay? He’s seen Benrey watching him back.
Lines creak horribly as the wind catches the sail at a bad angle and the ship lists. Gordon huffs out a curse and feels his own breath reflected back at him from Benrey’s proximity. He reaches up and unclasps his locket, tugging it free and slinging it over Benrey’s head, pressing their lips together as he does to keep Benrey from noticing the complicated motion his fingers make to lock the clasp. He can’t lose the locket - it’s far too important, for far too many reasons.
Benrey presses back immediately, one hand cupping Gordon’s good shoulder, the other braced on the floor as they return the kiss with enthusiasm. Gordon pulls back and swallows, then tucks a finger under the locket and picks it up, letting it roll over his fingers to display the heavy back of the case. He flicks the tiny tab that’s hidden near the hinge, and a length of metal slides out with a soft click.
“whuh…that’s a key,” Benrey says, their eyes nearly crossed to focus on the locket. Gordon clicks the tab again and the tiny key folds back into the pendant.
“When you get to the wheel, there’s a slot on the back of the king spoke, where it meets the barrel of the helm.” Gordon lets the locket fall to thump against Benrey’s chest. “Fit the key into that slot and it’ll unlock the wheel.”
“sneaky,” Benrey says appreciatively.
“Cautious,” Gordon replies. “Coomer’s idea. We stole her once. Didn’t want anyone stealing her back.”
Benrey nods and rises to their feet. The shadow of their headband makes their eyes look like tiny pinpricks of reflected light in the darkness of the hold, and for a moment Gordon wonders if he’s made a mistake - but only a moment. Benrey has proved time and again that they’re on the same side as Gordon’s crew, even though they’ve been annoying as hell along the way.
“m’gonna go - do that. with this.” Benrey gestures at the locket, and Gordon realizes with a spike of delight that they’re flustered. That’s hilarious.
“Benrey?” Gordon reaches out and tugs on the trailing end of the sash that’s tied around Benrey’s waist, unable to reach anything higher.
“yeah? huh?”
Gordon smirks up at them and slaps his loaded pistol into their empty palm. “Fuck ‘em up.”
Benrey’s mouth curls up in a feral grin, their teeth gleaming red in the glow of a sudden explosion from the deck. “on it, boss,” they say, then pause, and carefully add, “captain.”
“Finally,” Gordon snorts. “Knew I could get that out of you eventually.”
“more where that came from,” Benrey says, and then makes a standing leap for the edge of the splintered hole in the deck before Gordon can parse what the hell they meant by that.
In a surprisingly short amount of time, the chaos on deck seems to subside. Gordon can hear water rushing against the hull, so he knows they’re moving, but he’s surprised they managed to fight off the Navy sailors that quickly - unless none of them made it onboard in the first place. Sunkist’s immense head peering over the railing has certainly repelled boarders before, so perhaps it worked again.
Gordon hears footsteps trotting across the wooden planks behind him, but before he has to worry about drawing his other pistol, he hears Coomer’s cheerful voice. “Ah! Hello, Gordon! I see you’re still in a sticky situation!”
With his help, Gordon is able to prise his leg off the spar of wood without tearing too much more muscle, and they make their unsteady way through the hold, Gordon leaning on Coomer, to reach the actual stairs up to the deck. There is debris on the steps, too - the battle left quite a mess, and Gordon winces as his good foot slips on a piece of wood and almost goes out from under him. Coomer catches his weight without appearing to notice, which Gordon is grateful for.
“I’m not sure where young Bipple is taking us, but those dastardly bootboys are having trouble keeping up,” Coomer says as they reach the level of the deck, “and that’s all I care about. Bubby was almost out of bombs!”
“Bite your tongue,” Bubby snaps, holed up near the forecastle and hurriedly pouring dark powder through a paper funnel into a small container tucked between his knees. “I’m never out of bombs.”
“Good to hear,” Gordon rasps, and Bubby glances up sharply, eying the dust on his clothes, the bandage on his leg, and the spear of wood still sticking out of his shoulder, secured tightly with cloth padding. (Coomer had decided it was doing better to block the potential bleeding where it was, but Gordon was hating the fact that it left him with minimal use of his good arm.)
“All right, captain?” Bubby asks cautiously.
“Just fine,” Gordon replies, “as long as these bootboys stay back. Any casualties?”
“Not on our side,” Coomer says brightly, and Gordon leaves it at that.
They make their way across the deck, skirting the edge of the large hole Gordon was thrown through, and head for the quarterdeck. At the helm, Benrey is outlined in an eerie glow. Gordon blinks. The Navy ship is too far back to be casting that light, and anyway, it’s the wrong color, shining a sickly blue that makes Benrey’s skin look wan and washed out. They resemble nothing so much as a corpse, and Gordon stumbles to a halt, staring up at them as they shift the wheel slightly, sending the ship a few degrees to starboard.
“Is…that…?” Gordon starts, and at his shoulder, Coomer nods.
“St. Elmo’s fire,” he says quietly. “None of us have been able to talk to them since they took the helm. But they had the key, so…I assume that was your doing?”
“Yeah,” Gordon says, distracted. “I…gave it to them. Are we - do we trust -”
“Cap’n Freeman, you’re okay!” Tommy appears from behind the mast, and Gordon blinks.
“Do you know where Benrey’s taking us?”
“Oh, I, um…no,” Tommy says, reaching out to scratch Sunkist’s ears as the enormous dog wiggles around some rigging to reach his side. “But we’re in a, um, some kind of current, because they’ve got more sails but they, um, it looks like they can’t catch us.”
Gordon’s gaze follows his pointing finger. The Navy ship does, in fact, have a full set of sails up and belled out in the breeze, visible by lantern light even from this distance. Since Gordon’s ship has at least one damaged sail and is a smaller vessel to boot, there’s no way they should be running ahead of the heavier Navy ship. And yet, here they are.
Gordon looks up at Benrey again, who doesn’t seem to know that anyone else is nearby. “I’m going up,” he decides. “I’ll talk to them.”
“Gordon, I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Coomer says. Tommy, usually Benrey’s primary advocate, stays conspicuously silent.
Gordon shrugs, then winces when the splinter of wood in his shoulder bites into his flesh at the movement. “Someone has to do it, and I gave them the key. I’ll go alone,” he adds, pulling away from Coomer before he can protest.
The staircase up to the helm has a banister, and Gordon leans on it as hard as he can as he limps his way up the steps. The air begins to feel charged as he nears Benrey, and he can see little sparks of blue light flickering curious fingers out from Benrey’s shoulders, from their clothes, from their hair. The entire wheel is glowing from this side, Gordon notes, and decides it’s probably best not to touch anything.
“Benrey,” he says from the top of the stairs, his hand still on the railing and his hook looped over a rope to keep him steady.
Benrey’s lips are moving, but they’re silent, staring straight ahead, eerie blue light dancing across their features. Gordon doesn’t know what to do. He’s only seen St. Elmo’s fire once before, on the rigging of a sinking ship during a thunderstorm, and they’ve all heard the stories of what it means. The fact that it hasn’t spread to the sails is immaterial - its presence says that one way or another, they’re all doomed.
At a loss, Gordon takes an unsteady step closer and raises his voice. “Benrey?”
That gets a reaction. Benrey turns their head slowly, like they’re underwater, their hair fluttering against the wind above their headband. Their eyebrows gradually come down as they make eye contact with Gordon, and when they open their mouth to speak, the words sound like they’re coming from very far away.
“oh…hey…you’re up. cool,” Benrey says, and starts to turn back to face the wheel. Behind them, the Navy ship fires a single shot - they must have dragged one of the guns around to face forward. Maybe Bubby’s taunting struck a nerve. The shot whistles harmlessly through the night and splashes down well aft of the ship’s stern. Benrey frowns again.
“s’not very…nice,” they say quietly, and Gordon watches a line of bright blue lightning flicker from their shoulder over the railing. He turns and sees it streaking across the water until it reaches the place the cannonball splashed down, where it leaps from the dark sea and follows an arc back toward the Navy ship, as if it’s tracing the shot’s path in reverse.
When it lands, there’s the distant sound of an explosion, and several screams. Benrey smirks, and doesn’t look back.
“What the fuck is going on?” Gordon rasps, dust and smoke still thick in his throat and feeling thicker. This is - this is magic, or religion, or something, and he’s not prepared for it today. Tonight. Whatever.
“don’t worry about it,” Benrey says, and their voice sounds clearer, though they still face forward, both hands on the wheel. Gordon’s locket gleams bright gold on their chest, somehow untouched by the blue-violet glow of the St. Elmo’s fire that wreathes the rest of Benrey’s body.
“Where are we going?” Gordon asks unsteadily.
Benrey’s lips curl up in a smile, their teeth gleaming and sharp. “a trap,” they reply, and raise one hand to point, blue lightning flickering around their wrist and fingers like playful snakes.
Gordon turns to look, squinting his eyes to see through the ambient glow. Far ahead, but getting closer, there is a shadow on the water, what looks like a hole sunk into the sea…
His mouth goes dry. “Is that a maelstrom?”
“...dunno what that is,” Benrey says after a moment. “s’a whirlpool, though.”
“That’s what a maelstrom is, man.” Mesmerized, Gordon steps forward and his leg gives out, sending him crashing toward the railing in front of the helm. He forgets that it’s currently flickering with blue light and reaches out to catch himself, jarring his shoulder and his leg in the act and gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.
Benrey makes an unhappy noise, but Gordon can’t look at him yet - he’s too busy staring at the flickers of blue-violet light that are dancing across his knuckles on the railing. It doesn’t feel like anything, which is a surprise - but this close, he can hear a faint crackling, like a distant fire burning hot pine logs. He stumbles away anyway, and feels Benrey’s hand in the small of his back when he does.
“sorry,” Benrey mumbles, pushing him gently back toward the stair railing. “might wanna…hold on.”
A single thread of blue light stays anchored to Gordon when Benrey pulls their hand away to return it to the wheel and Gordon stares as it flickers around the curve of his hook, the other end jumping between Benrey’s shoulder and their forearm. It looks like a bolt of lightning in miniature, jagged and jolting, but it still doesn’t hurt.
“TOMMY!” Benrey bellows, and Gordon twitches. “HANG ON TO SOMETHING!”
“Aye aye!” Tommy yelps from below, and Gordon can hear him shouting it up to Coomer and Bubby. Benrey does something with the wheel and reaches up - and finally, several fingers of blue light dart up to dance through the rigging and skip along the sails. The ship slows, and Gordon can hear startled shouts from the Navy vessel.
“Benrey, you can’t run us into that,” Gordon says. “It’ll - maelstroms aren’t big enough to eat a ship, but it could tear the hull apart and put us in the water anyway, and that’s basically the same fucking thing.”
“this one’s big enough,” Benrey says, then adds “i made sure of it.”
What? Gordon stares at them. “What? What does that mean?”
Benrey shrugs. “means i made sure of it,” they say, then send the wheel into a rattling spin. The rudder creaks and the ship lists hard to port just as they reach the edge of the vortex’s current.
Gordon looks over the railing at it, and abruptly realizes that what he was looking at was an actual hole in the ocean, still quite distant. He’s never seen a maelstrom this big, and certainly not one in the middle of the sea, with no land to knock about strange currents that might build something like this.
“Holy hell,” he whispers as the hull shudders and settles into the groove of the spinning current, slingshotting them around the edge of the vortex.
“something like that,” Benrey mutters, and behind them, the Navy ship charges forward in pursuit.
“We’ve got them now!” A posh voice cries. Gordon glances over his shoulder to see that the Navy vessel has closed much of the distance between them. Sailors holding lanterns lean out over their railings, but they seem cautious about firing another shot, and Gordon notices several arms pointing up at the blue glow dancing through his rigging.
“Benrey?” Gordon asks slowly. “What’s the light?”
“it’s, uh…helping,” Benrey says, their voice sounding distant again. “don’t mess with it.”
“How the fuck would I do that?” Gordon starts, then has to slam his hook into the banister as the ship abruptly lists hard to starboard. “What - did we just hit something?”
“no. s’fine. don’t worry about it,” Benrey says quickly. The black hole of the maelstrom’s mouth is getting closer, frothing white water at the edge marked by moonlight and the mix of lantern light and violet witchlight before it drops away into darkness.
“Benrey?” Tommy’s voice quavers from somewhere on the quarterdeck. “We’re getting awfully close…”
“it’s fine!” Benrey calls down. “don’t - it’s okay!”
“Okay!” Tommy replies, and Gordon can hear the relieved smile in his voice. Just like that, huh? But Tommy’s always been trusting. Gordon is less so.
“If you wreck my ship I’ll - I’ll drown you,” he says, which is probably rude in the situation, but tempers are high.
“like t’see you try,” Benrey mutters, then spins the wheel again as the Navy ship pulls broadside across the mouth of the vortex.
“Oh, shit - TAKE COVER!” Gordon bellows, but it’s too late - he already sees the flashes of light from the Navy guns going off. Fuck, have they even reloaded their own guns? Bubby and Coomer probably took care of that, but -
Gordon’s train of thought screams to a halt, then cataclysmically derails. There is…something…rising out of the black maw of the maelstrom, and it’s caught the cannonballs and flung them back somehow. He can’t exactly tell how, because the…thing…is as dark as the mouth of the vortex itself, and he can only see it where it blocks the light from the Navy ship. Even then, his mind struggles to perceive what he’s looking at - is it some sort of curtain? A feral whale? Is it a serpent? Is it Scylla herself, rising from the depths of Charybdis to hunt for human blood?
“don’t worry about it,” Benrey says sharply, and the wheel clacks as it spins in its housing and their bowsprit swings away from the whirlpool.
Somehow, the current lets them go. It should be impossible, but the sea clears ahead of them, and Gordon’s pretty sure he sees flickers of green and blue lights along the edges of the still water, like the reflection of lanterns lining an avenue.
“Did they miss again?” Bubby’s voice comes from below, and Gordon realizes with a start that, because he told them to take cover, none of them saw the thing that rose from the maelstrom.
“Oh dear,” Coomer says softly, and Gordon spins to look back beyond the stern just in time to see the lights on the Navy ship go dark one by one, the mast tilting as the vessel begins to drop prow-first into the vortex. The rush of the current seems muted, and the Navy ship is quiet and dark as it slips out of sight beneath the waves with a faint rush of cracking wood and creaking ropes.
Gordon breathes very carefully for a few moments, thinking hard. There’s still witchlight dancing around Benrey, but the flickers of blue that had leapt so energetically into the rigging and sails have returned to the helm and seem rather subdued, as if they’re dogs expecting a scolding. Gordon watches one dart close to his hook before it appears to think better of it and lunges back to Benrey, instead.
Gordon shakes his head. St. Elmo’s fire doesn’t think anything. It’s not alive. No one knows what it is, but they know it’s not that. Although...Gordon thought he knew that maelstroms couldn’t get big enough to destroy a sloop, let alone a Navy man-o-war, yet he just saw it happen in front of him. And he’s starting to rethink his initial dismissal of Benrey’s statement that they aren’t human in light of this…well, light. And everything else, of course.
The thread of blue connecting him to Benrey jitters as Gordon steps toward them. They take a step back, but keep one hand on the wheel, looking worried.
“are we, uh…was that okay?”
“That was brilliant, Benrey!” Coomer shouts from the staircase. Gordon swings around to glare at him, and he hurries back down the stairs with a chortle.
“are we…okay?” This sounds even more hesitant.
Gordon steps up next to them and sets his hand on a spoke opposite to the one Benrey’s holding. Their gaze flicks down, then back up to Gordon’s face, and they swallow. Slowly, Gordon reaches out with his now completely glowing hook and gently taps Benrey’s chest. There’s a bzzt like static discharge, and their hair stands on end for a moment before flopping back into its usual messy sprawl above their headband. Most of the unearthly glow around them goes dark, leaving only a few flickers of light across their shoulders like a glowing stole.
“That was pretty brilliant,” Gordon concedes. “But uh…maybe some warning, next time? I don’t know what the fuck I just saw, but I think -”
“oh shit, you weren’t supposed to see that,” Benrey interrupts.
“What did I see?” Gordon asks stiffly.
“uhh…”
“Do not say -”
“don’t worry about it?”
“You fucking -” Gordon lashes the wheel with a practiced sweep of his hand and lunges after Benrey, who takes off, cackling their way down the stairs. Tommy catches them on the quarterdeck, because Gordon can’t move very fast right now and his crew is nothing if not fair. Bubby and Coomer smack Benrey cheerfully on the back, and Tommy squeezes them so tightly that they squeak as Gordon makes his way down the steps toward them. Flickers of blue-violet light dance through the rigging, keeping pace with him as he goes, and he decides that if things like coral can be alive, then maybe light can, too. Especially light that knows better than to touch his locket. He smiles as Coomer steps up to reach for the dressing on his shoulder, now that they finally have time to breathe.
Gordon watches his locket bounce on Benrey’s chest as they laugh at Sunkist pushing Tommy over and sending all three of them sprawling across the deck. Perhaps there will be time for other things, too, if he allows himself that chance. He thinks of Benrey’s eager mouth on his, and figures that maybe he could try that again, to start with. They’ll have to see where it goes from there, afterward. But they’ve got time.
* * *
Far behind them and getting farther, where shortly before, a maelstrom devoured a ship whole, moonlight shines on smooth, dark water, broken only by the eddies of natural currents. Nothing lies lurking beneath the waves. If anyone came looking for a sunken Navy ship, they would never find it. The only evidence of strangeness is faint sparkles of green and blue light refracting off the surface of the sea - or maybe it’s just the reflected light of stars, silent and watchful in the vault of the midnight sky.
#hlvrai#my words#kiss prompts#snippets#askbox#verdantelf#swearing#mild gore#killing and violence#canon-typical violence#they/themrey#thalassophobia#maybe#there's a whirlpool anyway#st. elmo's fire#the phenomenon. not the movie.#pirate au#half life vr but the ai is self aware#frenrey#let me know if i fucked up any pronouns#i started writing with he/him benrey then went back to reference something and went 'oh whoops'#did a lot of editing for that. still may have missed some#this bitch is almost 5k words. why do i do this to myself.
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Blank Canvas 11
Read on AO3.
Word Count: 3153
Summary: Kaneki has a specific image of himself on the beach.
Chapter 10
Chapter 12
Master Post
When Kaneki imagined himself on the summer beach, it went something like this:
The salt on the wind. The tantalizing scent of sizzling meat. Pelts of laughter from the others. A book in his hand, and him peacefully turning the pages beneath an umbrella in a chair.
(He also imagined Takatsuki nearby with the same book. They would pause after every chapter or so and discuss their thoughts, both similar and different. Her ideas burned hot and angry, yet they could be comforting. His shifted like water, yet they could topple buildings. They would blend together into a steam that differentiated between none and became all.)
Or, perhaps, he would be drawing the scenery. The tide, calm or aggressive, lapping at the shore. The smoke from the grill curling into the air. Everyone’s smiling faces as they kicked up the sand with their feet. Stories always needed moments of levity to counterbalance and enhance the pathos. A vacation like this was perfect for ideas. Takatsuki had some lighter moments in her short stories, but she was surprisingly hands-off with him. She never said why, and he’d never tried asking. It was just how things were.
(He should’ve asked Chie for a camera. Oh well.)
Regardless, Kaneki was not sharing thoughts beneath a private umbrella by the shore, nor was he holding a sketchbook and rubbing graphite between his fingers— both things that he would much rather be doing. In reality, his book and his drawing materials were in a bag next to Miza and Takatsuki. He never thought he’d be jealous of his belongings, and to such a high degree, too.
Takatsuki had her hair pulled back into a messy bun. At this point, he was sure it was her favorite style besides having her hair down, given how easy it was to do and how often she did it. As for her swimsuit, she wore a black wetsuit with bright white sleeves underneath a T-shirt and shorts.
He allowed himself to stare for a moment. Even at the beach in the summer sun, she insisted on covering herself head to toe. And again, she never said why, and he never asked. At least this time, she was underneath an umbrella, helping Shiori build sandcastles with Miza.
Kaneki was not so fortunate. He had the privilege of being beneath the sun, no protection, and staring at Naki, Tatara, and Big Bin— all shirtless, all muscular (which would make for a good reference later)— through a network of net. A net-work, his unhelpful brain supplied.
Middle Bin, hands on his hips, sucked in a breath and said what Kaneki was honestly thinking. “I dunno about this, Ayato. I could probably take Naki, but my brother? And Tatara?”
Ayato glared. “You implying I’m not up to the task?”
“Sorry, sorry, it’s just, well… Yeah, you’re strong, but let’s face facts: it’s Tatara. Tall, athletic, competitive. He’s the whole package.” He gestured to the man stretching his impressive biceps across large pecs. “I’m all for a friendly match, but a fair one, this is not.”
“Middle Bin.” Ayato folded his arms. “My sister’s the top fighter in her judo class. She has a winning ratio against everyone who's ever dared to fight her.”
Kaneki screwed his eyes shut.
“Her lowest ratio is against this guy.” Ayato jabbed a finger at Kaneki.
There it was. “I-It’s really not that big a deal.” Kaneki waved his hands in the air. “Besides, judo and volleyball are two completely different things—”
“You clowns ready to rumble?!” Naki shouted from the other side, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Nobody here actually plays volleyball, Tree Branch,” Ayato said hastily. “So it comes down to synergy and ability.”
“Sure,” Middle Bin said, “but c’mon. Look at them.”
If Kaneki didn’t know any better, Naki was a large kid on a sugar high. Big Bin stretched his legs (very impressive calves and thighs). Tatara rolled his shoulder, radiating competitive, though friendly, menace.
“Hey.” Ayato, also looking at the opposition, clamped a hand on Kaneki’s shoulder. “Take off your shirt too.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Take off. Your shirt. Too,” Ayato repeated. “We need to intimidate Naki.”
“What does me being shirtless have to do with—”
“Naki might not seem it, but he’s incredibly perceptive— when it comes to someone’s physical strength.” He hastily added the last part. “We need to give him a reason to be nervous. It’ll help us if he messes up early.”
“But that’s only once! Once they see me in action, it’ll fall apart!” Kaneki could already see himself with a face full of sand. Takatsuki might laugh at him. That might not be so bad, making her smile. He’d consider it if the team started losing badly.
Ayato rolled his eyes. “Dude, you’ll be fine. I believe in you or whatever. Just do it.”
“But—!” He inadvertently glanced toward Takatsuki, who was paging through a book. He wondered what book it was. “I, well, I—”
Ayato followed his gaze, saw Takatsuki, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. His voice lowered to a whisper. “You’re hopeless, dude, you know that? You and I both know she wants to see you shirtless.”
“No she does not,” Kaneki hissed back, even though he was curious to know if she did.
“You done yet?” Naki asked impatiently. “If you want Sasaki to take his shirt off, you gotta try harder than that!”
Kaneki saw Takatsuki, for the briefest of moments, flick her gaze up, before immediately going back to reading. Middle Bin approached him and Ayato, grinning. “I think you’ve got your answer, Sasaki,” he whispered. “Go on.”
With a resigned sigh, Kaneki, red as a tomato, discarded his shirt and took his position.
It was a normal body, he told himself. Just average, like anyone else. Sure, when he looked at himself in the mirror, he occasionally saw that scrawny boy again, with bruises across his arms and occasionally his chest, but those were days long gone, and they weren’t coming back. In place of bruises were toned muscles trained by himself and by Touka. With them, he would defend that scrawny boy. He would—
A sudden sputtering noise interrupted his train of thought. Everyone— everyone— turned to see Takatsuki choking on her drink.
“Sorry!” she coughed, waving them off. “Wrong pipe! Fuck—”
Shiono, manning the grill, immediately went over to check on her, while strangely enough, Miza burst out laughing.
Kaneki’s ego, meanwhile, roared from its pit, demanding to feed upon the swelling pride expanding across his mind and threatening to spill over, but he was vigilant. When its claws found purchase on the surface, he beat it back the way a hero slew their enemies. A protagonist of humility. Takatsuki had simply choked on her drink— correlation, not causation.
In public, he cleared his throat. “I-I’m ready!” he said, trying not to scratch where the sun tickled his bare chest.
“Alright,” Yumitsu called from a high chair, playing referee, “First to five points wins!”
“Ready to get crushed?!” Naki shouted.
“We’ll see about that…” Ayato grumbled, rolling his shoulders.
“Let’s have a clean match, guys!” Big Bin grinned.
Kaneki glanced between Ayato and Middle Bin, who looked excited to play. It was almost infectious, and the more he thought about it, the less he minded the idea of winning. It’d make for a good story to tell Hide.
He wondered if Takatsuki would be impressed if he won.
Alright, yeah.
She didn’t seem the type, but on the off chance she was, well—
Yeah. Let’s try to win.
It wouldn’t hurt.
Win…
—
“Left, left, left!”
“Okay, a bit more forward! Oh, back back back!!”
“S-Sasaki— Pffhahahaha!!— Wrong way, dude!”
Humiliation was not the right word to describe how Kaneki, stumbling dizzily about in a blindfold (with his shirt back on) for watermelon splitting, felt at the moment, but it would have to do.
Honestly, he should have expected the loss; Big Bin, Naki, and Tatara had far more synergy and experience with each other than he, Ayato, and Middle Bin did. It wasn’t a slaughterfest, but it wasn’t exactly close, either. There were a thousand ways he could have improved, but the benefit of hindsight was forever cursed to come after the fact.
“Go, go!”
“It’s right in front of you!!”
Oh, thank goodness. He swung down with all his might, and felt the bat sink into a fleshy material. A direct hit.
“Alright!” he heard Ayato shout. “A rematch, like you said, Naki! One-on-one if Tree Branch got a hit!”
���Woo!” came Naki’s response. “Let’s do it!”
Kaneki was just grateful he didn’t have to play again.
The beach didn’t last forever; the sky turned orange, people got tired, and the fireworks show was soon on the horizon. It would begin early in the evening, so any time in the hot springs was reserved for after.
On the large porch at the resort overlooking the city, a few tables and chairs were set up. Naki and Shiono had cooked up a huge feast for all to enjoy. Kaneki stood in the background, letting everyone take what they wanted before going for something himself. He wasn’t a very picky eater, anyway; sure, he had his favorites, but he’d make do with the leftovers. Besides, he technically wasn’t even supposed to be here. By that logic, any food for him should be leftovers.
Alas, a storm of energy with hair like grass beneath the sunrise had other plans. She was the first to grab two(?!) plates and fill them up, but instead of sitting down and getting started, she marched straight up to him and held one of them out.
“You look hungry,” Takatsuki commented. “Go on, take it.”
“Er…” He wasn’t sure how to respond. “I-I can get the food myself; you can—”
“Take it,” she repeated, more insistent this time. “Don’t tell me you’re turning down your favorites!”
He took a second look at the plate: a few corn cobs, some spears of asparagus, two slices of tomatoes, a glob of mashed potatoes, and a large slab of a familiar meat.
(It was just a little begging…)
Across their culinary adventures the past few months, he supposed he had gravitated towards similar things throughout. However, that wasn’t because he was picky; he just had never really been one for adventuring beyond his current palette, which was more than enough for a healthy diet.
He hadn’t realized that his… acquaintance in those adventures was actually looking at his plate while she sampled as much of the menu as she could in a single order.
Kaneki stared at it. “You…?”
“I am an author.” She shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”
It would be rude to turn her down after all the trouble. “Thank you…”
She smiled. “Enjoy the show, Haise.”
“Um, actually, I—” he began, but when he looked up, he saw her mane of hair disappear back indoors.
Before he could follow, someone bumped against his shoulder and stopped him.
“Sh-Shiono!” he stammered.
“Hey, Sasaki!” Shiono had a fresh plate of food and a drink. “Talk with me a bit?”
There was an unidentifiable edge to his voice that made Kaneki nervous, and as Shiono led him far, far away from the others (or as far from them as they could be on a porch, even if it was a large one), the feeling only worsened.
What could Shiono possibly want to talk about? All sorts of scenarios ran through Kaneki’s head. Was the script not up to par? Was his art just that disgusting to behold? Was he being interrogated for misconduct in the workplace? Ami never really liked him; had she filed a report? Had he overstepped his boundaries?! Was this vacation all just a ruse to let him down gently?! That was… kinda cruel, honestly, but at least he had a good meal to eat when—
“Are you in love with Sen, or am I misreading things?”
What.
What was once a growing fear turned into abject horror and embarrassment. Kaneki would rather get fired a thousand times over than hear that question. “W-Well, I— I don’t—” He scratched wildly at his face as it itched with heat. “I wouldn’t say— I-I mean, that is to say that I, um, well—”
Shiono laughed. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to embarrass you, but it seems like the others’… efforts to get you two to say something isn’t working, so I figured I’d give it a shot.”
‘Efforts’? “Efforts?”
His brow furrowed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Your tickets to the play, the room arrangements— Ever since it came out that you were getting invited here, Miza and the Bins’ve been bending over backwards to get you alone and get either one of you to say something to the other.”
“But I don’t— I mean, she doesn’t even—” Kaneki sputtered. ‘Say something’? Really? And ruin all these months of hard work?
Shiono rolled his eyes. “Sasaki, I’m gonna be straight with you— Sen’s been head over heels for you for a while now.”
If Kaneki had had the stomach to eat during this conversation, he would have spit it out over the edge of the handrail.
“I’ve been raising the kiddo for thirteen years now.” The weight of that statement made even Shiono shiver slightly. “I know when she likes someone.”
Kaneki latched onto that first statement. “W-Wait a minute, you’re her—?”
“Father, more or less. Second adoptive one, to be more specific.” Shiono took a drink. “Her first one died, and she spent about a year in an orphanage before I entered the picture. As for her biological father, he’s alive, but, well… Yeah.”
Kaneki, relaxing, took a thoughtful bite of some meat, chewing to focus and digest the new information. Noroi Takatsuki had adopted Takatsuki, then died in the incident with Kasuka Mado. Takatsuki herself was involved with that event, but instead of having her record stained, she was sent to an orphanage, and Donato took the fall due to an unknown party.
“As you’ve probably figured, I met Sen when she was fifteen.” Shiono swirled his drink in his cup. “She wanted to submit what would become Dear Kafka, and I was the one she talked to for that. She was wearing unwashed clothes and shoes stuffed with napkins to fit her feet. She kinda smelled too, but don’t tell her I said that.
“I remember thinking, ‘Poor kid.’ She had that look in her eyes, the kind that told me that she’d lost something precious, and now she only had herself to count on. Most people would say, ‘she’s so mature’, but what kinda kid is self-reliant at fifteen? It’s messed up, is what it is.”
Kaneki happened to glance at Ayato, who was cackling at a joke Yumitsu had cracked. Ayato and Touka hadn’t always gotten along, and she once confessed that he’d run away from the orphanage they were at once, after an argument neither remembered anymore. He didn’t get far— he was only twelve— but Kaneki shuddered to think of what would have happened if he’d actually left.
Takatsuki must have experienced something similar. All alone, with no one who understood, except for the halls of her own mind.
“She was so nervous too, rubbing her wrists and glancing around like she might get attacked any second now. I didn’t think it then, but that was probably when I decided I’d adopt her.” Shiono glanced out at the ocean, toward that distant memory.
It must have meant so much to her, Kaneki thought. Someone who brushed aside the bad stuff and embraced her, even if they didn’t really understand. He felt the same about Hide, Touka, and everyone at Apes & Dobers. So many friends and experiences, even if their pieces didn’t quite fill the hole.
“That’s all to say,” Shiono took a swig of his drink, “kiddo’s had it rough. She’s gotten better, yeah, but part of that pain’s never really gone away, even though I’ve tried my best. Unfortunately, there are some things I can never fix, both as her friend and as her father.”
Kaneki’s brow furrowed. Where was he going with this?
“This’s a bit weird to ask, Sasaki, but… Be good to her. Can you do that for me?”
He tilted his head. “Er, sure? I, um, wasn’t planning to be… bad to her…?”
Shiono blinked, then burst into laughter. Full peals, sort of like Takatsuki. He really was her father.
“W-What?”
“Nothing, nothing! You’re a funny guy, Sasaki.” He put his drink down. “I can see why Sen laughs and smiles far more with you.”
She did? “Sh-She does?”
“You’re oblivious to your influence, huh? You’re just like Sen. Maybe that’s why she likes you so much.” Shiono shrugged with a smile. “She doesn’t have to explain why to you; you just get it.”
“But I—” I’m just her artist, her coworker, he wanted to say. An acquaintance of a few months. And even then, there are others far more qualified than— “Me?”
“Is it so hard to believe? Sen wouldn’t keep you around if she didn’t like you; she’d toss you out to the wolves instead.”
Kaneki chuckled at that. “Hopefully not literally.”
“Hopefully not literally,” Shiono repeated, then pat Kaneki’s shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying that you’re the perfect partner for her or anything, but I am saying that she picked you for a reason. And that reason’s why she’s brought you to so many things. I mean, who drags a mere coworker to Cochlea in the middle of the night, right?”
Kaneki’s laugh was a bit more nervous this time. When viewed from that angle, it made sense; Takatsuki trusted him to a very high degree to not say anything regarding that. A weirdly high degree, too.
“So I’ll ask again: are you in love with her?”
Kaneki looked away. “I…”
He could lie and say no, and Shiono no doubt would let the whole ordeal go. Hell, he might even tell the others for Kaneki, save him the awkwardness of apparently disappointing everyone. Things would continue as they had been, and eventually, the book would be completed and Kaneki would part ways with Shiono and Takatsuki both. The world would keep turning, wholly oblivious to the whole ordeal.
Or… he could say yes. Tell the truth. Say everything he’d been wanting to say for months. Cast his pride aside and make that faithless leap across the abyss. Would he fall into its depths, or would he make it to the other side? There was no way of knowing until he tried.
Kaneki grabbed the chains shackling himself down, then slowly undid them. It manifested in a small, “Yes.”
Shiono smiled. “Well, don’t tell me, then.” He made a shooing motion, chuckling. “Go on.”
Kaneki, with a bit of weight lifted from his shoulders, nodded, and cleaned his plate.
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Wolgraha week day 4: sacrifice
[I know everyone else is doing something with Crystal Exarch and that sacrifice there, but I challenged myself to only write within Crystal Tower questline era, and that means we get this bit of fluff. fluff for the soul.]
"I demand," you begin, on that swelteringly hot day, "a sacrifice."
"Oh?" Is all Raha says, looking over the pile of books beside him to peer at you, an eyebrow raised. "A sacrifice?"
"I demand that you get me some icewater." You continue, laid down on your back and grimacing at the feel of your clothes sticking to your skin beneath your robes. There was a perk to Summoner's Robes, yes -- they held very deep pockets for holding all matter of things, magical components or books or whatnot -- but they were also heavy and trapped in heat. And in Mor Dhona, it had been tolerable enough, but you -- and several other Sons of Saint Coinach, and Raha themself -- have relocated to Eastern Thanalan for a brief while, poking at that large amount of corrputed aether in the Burning Wall.
Ostensibly, you were there to protect the six or so researchers from Mirrorknights, which were a secondary reason why you'd come here. They were of Allagan make, after all, and with the struggle to open the doors to the Syrcus Tower, NOAH as a whole would take whatever Allagan knowledge you could get your hands on. But you figure everyone kind of expects you to not do anything -- you'd done your best to not stumble too much, but you're still recovering from your bout of worse sickness a week prior, and you are still sick. You think that the real reason you're here is because Raha is, but no one would question that. The two of you have been attached at the hip somehow or other -- from him worrying over your poor health, or you showing up to watch while he combed through pages of research and tomestones.
Regardless. It was far too hot, and Raha was laughing at you. You pick a small little stone off the ground and throw it at him, though he dodges. "Where am I to get icewater from?" he asks, infuriatingly amused. (You love him. You remind yourself that you love him, even as he laughs at you. You envy his apparent immunity to the heat.)
"We have ice crystals." You grumble. "And don't laugh at me, I'm melting." Here, you pick yourself off the ground and flop over onto Raha's lap instead. "The heat will surely kill me, my beloved." And there is far more honesty in that sentance then your earlier dramatics would suggest.
At the shift in tone, Raha looks at you, pupils narrowing. They set their book down -- you think they place a bookmark in there somewhere as well. "Truly?" Raha says.
You sigh. Heavily. Then you regret it, because drawing air back into your lungs is harder. "The heat makes my sickness worse." You admit. "I've been nauseous all day."
Raha narrows his eyes at you. "You said you ate."
"I did! Just. . . not a lot."
A blink that's almost painful with how dry the air is, and Raha's sighing now, pushing your bangs away from your face with their hand. "I wish you had mentioned such sooner. Are any of your other symptoms worse?"
"Breathing hurts more." You admit. "And I get dizzy when I stand. More than normal."
Another sigh. "Well. I suppose I shall have to get your sacrifice of icewater then, my love. Will you be alright here?"
You make a little noise of confirmation, and then you peel yourself off of Raha's lap, settling onto that warmer patch of ground that he'd been sitting on as soon as Raha gets up. Thankfully, there's a rug and tend set up, so the researchers can be somewhat shielded from the elements.
"I will return with your icewater anon." Raha proclaims, and you wave a hand in acknowledgement. You'll curl up here and wait. (You hate the heat. Ugh. Terrible, terrible, terrible. If you could avoid Thanalan you would do so for the rest of your days.)
Laying on your side -- for ease of breathing -- you inhale the lemon-and-beeswax scent left behind. Raha's been sitting here long enough to leave a trace of his scent behind, and it's comforting. Makes you settle in further, comforted by it. (Lemon oil for his bow and beeswax for his bowstring, he'd said once. It's important to upkeep your weapons.)
Raha will come back soon enough, but for now you let your eyes fall closed and simply breathe. (If Raha tries to convince you to go to Thanalan again -- well, you'll still go with them, but you'll complain the whole time. You deserve it, you think.
But when Raha gets back with your icewater -- you'll give him a kiss. Just a small one. As thanks. As lovers do. That will be nice.)
#bound with thread | original posts#ink gone dry | writing#divine being of crystal and star | k'pheli tia (sae'pheli'ehva)#g'raha tia#wolgraha week 2023#wolgraha#anyways reminder that k'pheli is chronically ill (like me)#he has POTS (like me) and then also has his aether sickness which is a separate thing. but they share some symptoms#anyways heat is not good for POTS. remember to hydrate and get enough salt in your diet. don't be me and forget to do that
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