#Reminiscent. Oddly enough.

[emotinalsupportturtle]

Isaac being an absolute icon; reading a book in any situation

[albertxylin]

Fading Muscle

You know what they say about riding bikes. But I've gone years without riding and I find it does fade. The paint gets worn away by sunlight, And all the metal rusts. No oil can preserve a chain for decades.

Rusty is a good word for it. The feeling of everything slightly stuck, Squeaking and protesting, Weakened and eaten away, Nothing being quite like you remembered it.

But you still remember it. It's still in there. It's just baked into things you haven't thought about in years, Mixed up piecemeal like a handful of chocolate chips.

Riding, from the feeling of the wind in your face as you raced friends downhill. Pedalling, from the exercise bikes you always had to try at an uncle's house. Balancing, from when your dad held your back as you went without training wheels for the first time.

A bike can rust and disintegrate, Fade like all memories do when worn away by time, But there are more than enough spare parts to build another.

[haztory]

a matter of principles

— diluc ragnvindr x f!reader; arranged marriages, best friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, miscommunication trope, unrequited/requited love, lots of angst, fluff ending, she/her pronouns

— word count: 24k

— photo source: freminent hearth’s screenshot from hoyolab

— summary: Arranged marriages, Diluc finds, are the most atrocious of practices that Liyue has ever had the audacity to uphold in their commitment to contracts. Very much a Monstadt originated belief, but a sure one, he thinks. He heaves a breath, one that shudders at the slow cracking of his ribs and heart. “Surely, you don’t want me to make the decision for you?” “No… but advice would be welcome.” You say. “Fine.” He settles into his seat, noting with little amusement that he suddenly can’t get comfortable anymore, “Tell me.”

Prologue:

The number of friends Diluc has is often a point of teasing by many a drunkard who enter into Angel's Share. And while the banter would usually earn a simple glare and a cutting off of the drink, its lack of an answer has caused quite the festering of gossip in the tavern. Everynight it seems, whether the man is there or not, Diluc's social life becomes a topic of conversation. 

Pestered and prodded upon with surgical precision, both in day and night. Names are thrown out, each person wondering if said individual  would be considered a friend to Diluc, or even an acquaintance. And while Diluc would never outwardly venture forth to call a Knight of Favonius a friend, his lack of denial does little more than stir the flames higher. 

Jean must be a friend, right? A reliable confidant, at least. 

One did see Diluc conversing rather animatedly with Barbara at the Springvale Seasonal Gathering. 

What about Kaeya? someone asks only to meet the unanimous and vehement shake of heads. 

It isn't until Venti pries just enough that the answer is revealed.

"One," Diluc says with a sigh, wiping a glass down with a white rag and beyond tired of being the subject of this routine conversation. "I have one friend."

The whole tavern is suspended in silence, each member looking at one another with unsatisfied curiosity, silently nudging the other forward. All begging for the one question to be asked.

Until Venti takes the bait, "Who?!"

—

Diluc knows of you, in parts. 

Remembers the separate fragments that make up the great whole of you— each moment stained in the wonderful tint of happiness, fitting together like a masterful mosaic that he pedestalizes in his head. Yellows, and pinks, and warmth spreading across his mind, all from you.  

He remembers you in childhood, in the middle years, in the now; He reminisces on the happy parts of you and him, wistfully smiles at the sad ones, finds himself lost in thought at the great constellation of scattered fragments.

A child in the customary Mondstadtian colors of white and black, and another in the Liyue garments of dark reds and oranges, fretting across the span of closed eyelids and reliving the joyous memories. 

He would never outwardly admit that you take up the great measure of his thoughts, but when he finds his gaze fixated on the flames of the dancing fire in his study, business ledgers strewn on his desk and exhaustion nigh, the colors ring eerily familiar and he swears, swears, that in the crackle of the wood that Adelinde has started, he hears a laugh oddly similar to yours ringing throughout the room; Sees your figure dancing in the swirling and heightening flames. As quick as he sees it, does it disappear. Embers crackling and images fading in the instant and it is then that he does come to terms with the circumstances at hand. 

A friend he still considers you to be. One of the greatest to him. He isn't sure if the sentiment is reciprocated much these days as fall turns to winter; Oranges turn to white, liveliness turns to barren and with it, the fate of your treasured friendship.

His one and only.

Interlude: Fall 

The friendship began before Diluc’s impeccable memory began to serve him. 

An introduction through family, as all friendships are at such a tender age. Your father, one of the biggest exporting merchants in Liyue struck a good enough agreement with Diluc’s own about wine exporting to warrant a warm and frequent visit between the two businessmen, the children tagging along as all children do. 

It wasn’t an immediate kindling, but one in the making, as the more he saw of you the more he grew to you and you to him. Friends, eventually; Playing in between the vineyards of Dawn Winery or exploring the cabins of your father’s ships while your respective handmaidens shouted and begged for your return. While his brother, a shadow of blue, followed close on your tails.

To no avail; Wherever it was that you wished to run to, it was hard to get Diluc to change his mind and do anything but follow you— stubborn, he is and was to a fault. 

Even as the working relationship between your fathers’ came to an end with the death of Diluc’s, there were always the brief moments facilitated by the strength of the surviving bond itself. Letters and gifts, planned visits, ears attuned and pressed to the ground for rumors holding each of your names that crossed nations. The most entertaining of which being a whisper he heard during his time as a Favonius Knight as he patrolled the pathways right before Wuwang Hill, two elder women in their travels whispering of the esteemed Liyue merchant’s daughter finally receiving a vision! 

Diluc, in that tender age in which he had hardly learned that the best way to learn details was to listen without looking, all but stared at these women— awaiting their tales. He soon discovered, just before being reprimanded by the two traveling passerbys, that you were suddenly granted the gift from the gods in the form of the Vision of Hydro. 

A neatly written letter from you arrived in no less that one week after his hurried and hastily written one to you that would reveal that falsity behind the rumor. That you weren’t by any means gifted with such a vision, nor would you be granted one soon. It wasn’t in your nature, you wrote. 

‘And how terribly offensive of you to think that the grannies of Liyue would soon learn of my gifts before you! For that transgression alone I will heartily withhold the details of my recent mythical learnings from my visit to Mount Hulao. That will certainly teach you.’

(The shame he felt was unlike anything he’s ever felt before, shame in being so invasive, but a subsequent visit from you a few months later would quickly quell such feelings. The sight of your smile and the sweet fragrance of you being more than enough to tame that which runs rampant within the flames of Diluc.)

There has never been a moment in which you weren’t at the forefront of his consideration; Of his time.

 A friend, Diluc considers you to be— one of his most trusted. 

You’ve arrived at his home today, the second week of the Fall season and the height of the vineyard sales, in what seems to be the finest carriage in all of Liyue— no spared expense for the only daughter of a wealthy Liyue merchant. 

Diluc meets you at the end of the path trailing to his manor, a small smile on his face as he opens the door to your cabin and holds a hand out for you to step down with. Tendril of his red hair swaying with the breeze that has suddenly been brought forth on this day, no doubt by your arrival. 

Elzer and Hartman are already at the back of the carriage, unloading your bags with smiles on their faces.

You take his hand, white silk gloves in his black leather ones, grip tight as his own and he feels the reflection of his own longing and deep yearning become electrified in the meeting of your palms. A feeling he swears must also plague you, one he only feels more compelled upon when you step down with the warmest of grips of your hand in his and the warmest of glints in your eyes. 

An enchanting one, a sight Diluc can hardly tear his own practiced measured gaze from. 

“Diluc,” You breathe out, grin erupting into a toothy one, voice airy and light and horribly, horribly, wonderful to hear after so long. The both of you are older now, clearly, in the way that he is no longer part of the Knights of Favonius, but the owner of Dawn Winery and you are no longer just learning the ropes to your father’s business but the actualized Ambassador to his overseas ventures. Seasoned and traveled, twenty-eight and twenty-five, adults still smiling at one another like children.

He says your name just as breathily as you have uttered his, followed with a gentle bow of his head.

“I hope you didn’t mind the late notice of arrival. This is all incredibly sudden and I’m terribly sorry for that. ” Your smile is overly apologetic, and Diluc scoffs. Come rain or shine, planned or otherwise, Diluc could never mind an appearance from you and you should know as much. Would be horribly blind if you didn’t. Diluc had less than a day of preparation for your arrival and yet Dawn Winery was ushered upright and ready for you by the pull of one thread by its master.

“Of course not,” He says. Mind, he never does, yet with his measured and calm tone, he cannot deny the fact that the abruptness of your visit and short notice itches within him. Something that, try as he might, he cannot scratch. 

That nagging detail is quickly quieted by the latent realization that your hand has yet to let go of his, and, he begins to note, the danger of the creeping truth in the fact that he doesn’t mind it at all. In fact, he relishes it. 

“Dawn Winery is always delighted to welcome you home, Ambassador.”

You smile brighter at both the sentiment and the title, if such a task was even possible. Warmth of the grin rivaling the rivulets of the sun, more blinding than the dazzling glow of cor lapis. The exact stone that sits on the corner of his desk after all these years and often finds itself the object of his fixation many an afternoon.

“I am glad to be home.” You respond in kind, a gem of amber brilliantly shining through the words and it takes every ounce of Diluc to return his attention away from your smile to the task at hand of guiding you into the home. His home. 

Your home.

But he does, with the lightest of curls on his lips that he doesn’t even realize has made permanent residence upon his face now.

—

It is always a reunion when you manage to grace Dawn Winery with your appearance. 

Adelinde shines with a smile that seems endless as she steps towards you in a warm embrace, a dramatic turn around from her very pointed sighs that are usually targeted towards the master of the house. Elzer is much the same, the older man alight with a jovial sparkle as he greets you, taking your bags in his hands without a second thought, and eagerly engages in conversations of matters other than business with you— a renowned feat that even the most skilled of conversationalists find hard to accomplish with the graying businessman.

Diluc, the master of the house and employer to his affable attendants, is all but pushed to the side the minute you’ve stepped foot into the threshold of the door, the congenial and loving welcoming imparted upon you in great Mondstadtian manner.

“Welcome back, dearest!” Adelinde exclaims, propriety thrown out in favor of obvious affection as she throws her arms around your shoulders and squeezes. “It is so wonderful to have you back. It’s been too long!”

“I have missed you greatly, Adelinde.” You say in kind, the same excitement and candor laced in the breathless laugh you exhale as the older woman smothers you in her embrace, swaying from side to side.

The head mistress all but shakes you vigorously when she pulls away from you, holding your shoulders in her hands as she addresses you. Mother henning instilled in the widening of her eyes. 

“Have you eaten? Surely you must be hungry after such a journey to us. Come! I’ll prepare something for you. A Northern Apple Stew, perhaps? Or Sweet Madame! You were quite fond of that one last time!”

“Adelinde, please.” Elzer cuts in before either you or the neglected Diluc are able to intervene, a quiet scolding in his tone, “Let our guest breathe the air of nostalgia for just a moment rather than drown in the overwhelming one you are no doubt suffocating her in.” 

He turns to you, bags in hand and a crooked elbow held out for you to grab. Gently smiling, “Come, my dear. We shall unpack and get you settled before Adelinde stuffs you to the brim with food and endless questions.”

Scoffing, Adelinde all but throws her hands down, slapping her palms against her apron-cladded thighs. “Oh, Elzer, how can you send a guest to their room on an empty stomach? After such a long journey, too! Liyue is a whole nation away and yet you would rather enslave her to the schemes of chores than a proper meal. Have you no shame?”

“I ask only for a moment, my dear Adelinde. If you can not even spare to be parted for one, then I must beg you to reconsider who should be shamed.”

And so begins the low clamor of a bickered argument, the two keepers of the manor diverting their devotions towards each other as they nip and poke at the other on the best way to treat you, their beloved guest. A frequent occurrence— exhausting, nonetheless. A look is shared between you and Diluc, one of annoyance from him and only pure amusement from you, that of which, turns Diluc’s own sour look into one of less acidity. 

“Actually,” Diluc clears his throat, silencing the boiling argument. Your own delighted gaze darts to him in captured attention alongside the two head attendants of the house. Diluc folds his arms behind his back and gazes at his onlookers with little more than happy indignation— a feat only manageable by the likes of him. “Dinner preparations for our esteemed guest will be handled by me. I will also be seeing to the arrangements of the Ambassador's room, for old times sake. You both are dismissed for the evening.”

If life were a comedy, you were sure that this moment would be met with a thunderous roar of laughter. Elzer and Adelinde stare owlishly at Diluc, mouths open in stunned stupor as they stand almost a hair’s width apart, their fueled arguments replaced with something else entirely. Something more… bewildered.

“You… sir?” Elzer asks after a beat— a long, awaiting beat.

“Cook?” Adelinde follows, her voice raising in octaves as she takes in the master of the house, the boy she has raised.

Diluc rolls his eyes, “I manage a tavern, Adelinde. I can cook.”

“But can you cook… well?” Elzer questions after sparing a side glance to the graying woman. 

“In all my years,” Adelinde mutters, more to herself than anyone, “I have never seen you cook, much less know where the kitchen even is—”

“Yes, that’s quite enough, thank you.” Diluc interrupts, eyes of garnet turned to slits, “You both have been of great help to us this afternoon, but I think it best we let our guest settle.”

“Well, if you’re interested in expelling yourself to such lengths for this arrival, maybe you would be interested in seeing to the manor’s gutters?” Elzer says with a knowing look and a teasing tone as Adelinde hides her laugh with a cough. “Now that you’re doing things you’ve never done before—”

Diluc’s eye twitches.

“You both are dismissed.” He hisses, but neither attendant takes much offense to it. Instead, they only let the playfulness of their smiles broaden on their faces. Their heads downward in acknowledgement to both you and the master of the house before exiting as prompted. 

It isn’t until the sound of the door closing behind you two in the great entrance hall of the manor that the vibrant echoes of your laugh finally resound around the room. Diluc is quick on his heels to turn to you and point a finger in your face, a sternness to his voice and a furrow to his brow. Quick to halt the teasing before it begins.

“I will be pressed to remind you—”

And yet—

“Dinner?” You howl, and the sigh that escapes Diluc is enormous. Not that you could hear it, what with the volume of your fervent giggles masking it. He tuts, crossing his arms over his chest and watching with well-tempered amusement as you practically fold in half at the waist in laughter. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. This is hardly out of the ordinary.”

“That is not what Adelinde says.”

“Adelinde does not know of my late night eating habits.”

“I would wager a guess to say that she knows more about you than either of us do.” As your laughter begins to peter out, you lift a finger to your eye to wipe a stray tear. “What is the occasion, my dearest Diluc?”

“Your arrival.” 

You scoff, “I’ve arrived many times before and you’ve never demanded to cook for me.”

“I hardly demanded—”

“Insisted, then.”

“Then, there is no occasion. Only my wish to do so.” He says neutrally, hardly a rise or fall to his tone of voice as he says the words, but maybe that’s the tell all on its own. He doesn’t need the rhyme or reason in order to do as he’s never done before— no special date, no pertinent news needing to be shared. 

Only ever really needs—

Your smile widens tenfold and you shake your head at the man before you. You're removing your gloves, finger by finger, then throwing them haphazardly onto the great dining room table that has been host to many of your great laughing fits. Hands of great elegance are revealed and soon placed onto your hips as you stand in the middle of his open foyer. 

He should take offense to the gesture— should at least reprimand you for the lackadaisical way in which you make yourself at home. Prim and proper Diluc should not at all condone any kind of reckless behavior, especially in his own manor, but he hardly minds. Only huffs a breath through his nose at the sight of the gloves that now sit on the mahogany. The soft white of the fabric a stark, yet pleasant, contrast to the dark wood.

You stare at him, a slight shake to your head and the knowing smile on your face. “Well then, I shall insist that you allow me to be your sous-chef and assist you. Archons above know you Mondstadtians could benefit from some more spices in your life.” 

You turn on your heel, leaving the great hall lined with the portraits of his family, of the great arts and literatures of Mondstadt, and enter into the kitchen held off to the right side of the manor. 

The great entryway is one that he’s seen many times before, yet derives little comfort from. It’s a farce, of sorts. A living mausoleum of all that was and all that could have been, left to him to haunt the halls with. He’s confided this to you before, many years ago when it was too late to be called night yet too early for morning. Detailed it to you over the slow heat of a dying fire and the steady pace of a chess game, with your rook creeping eerily onto his knight, he confessed how much he hates the darkness of his home. How trapped he feels in it at times, how despite the many candles he lights, and the windows that Adelinde cracks open, it always feels cold.

Funny that, he had said, a pyro-user lying frigid in his own home. 

Does it ever not feel cold? You had asked curiously, softly, genuinely vying for the answer. Orange hue of the fire lighting the side of your face as you studied him. 

When you enter the dark manor with dark hardwood walls, and dark curtains this time, just as the many times before, you glow. Bring indescribable life to the empty home that only awakens upon notice of your incoming arrival— stays awake as you float from room to room, knowing the home as it is your own, and lay pieces of you across random surfaces. 

Shining, effervescent cor lapis in the great abyss of this manor. 

Sometimes, Diluc remembers responding quietly. Engrained even further, he remembers the gleam of the smile you gave him as it's the same smile he receives now. The one thrown over your shoulder as you prance forward into the kitchen, another tease rolling off of your tongue. 

“I offer my home and my services to you, and get repaid in insults?” He finally speaks after willing his tongue to renew itself from sludge to form words, a false scoff in his tone. His feet follow behind you, spurred on by the geniality of a core memory as you pad across the tiled floor and wash your hands within the basin.

“A helpful tip!” You rejoice, “Seeing as you’ve suddenly decided that today was the day for cooking—” 

“I have a penchant for burning things, you know.” It’s a thinly veiled threat, one that falls flat as you both meet eyes. 

You smirk, “All the more reason to let me assist.”

“You are a great nuisance, Ambassador.” He says, discarding his coat to the side and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, left then right, almost missing the fixating of your eyes on his newly revealed skin, and how quickly you avert your eyes; Face contorting into a quiet scold. As though you were punishing yourself for indulging, for losing propriety in just glancing. 

He should enjoy it, find delight that you find the muscles that have been earned through years of claymore wielding strength and battles to be admirable— but something mirs your tone immediately after. Something secret, solemn. A slight twinge that no one but him would catch, would understand to know that something was amiss.

Quickly, you grab a handful of vegetables from a box placed on the rack against the wall and bring them to the basin to wash. Potatoes and carrots galore. 

You forcibly smile, “Oh, you love it.”

The itch flares tenfold. 

—

Barbatos Ratatouille takes approximately four hours to make. It’s a slow cook, the lengthiest portion of its preparation being the time needed for it to remain covered on the stove on low heat. However, the most arduous part of the meal is the design of it. Not necessarily due to difficulty, but in the way that the carrots must be thinly sliced and laid in proximity to the cubed potatoes and strips—decorated to perfection. It’s halfway between a stew and a casserole, but alive with flavor as it simmers on a low boil. 

A herculean dish, an amateur culinarian’s nightmare; Diluc’s personal choice for your arrival.

Truthfully, he should’ve begun the meal before you arrived—should’ve had it ready for when you entered the manor. But, with the dish on the stove and three hours to kill, the suggestion of a walk around the winery as a means of relaxation and much needed catching up is hardly punishment for his error. Even though you have already been chatting throughout the duration of your meal preparation, discussing nearly everything and anything that comes to mind. 

But, you both reason, there is much he must show you.

The sun sits just above the horizon as you exit the manor, the great sky of orange and pinks lulling you both into a gradual and steady trot down the paths of the winery. Through the greens of growing grapes, he walks to the right of you, pointing to the items that have been updated since your last visit. Namely, the irrigation system to the vineyards. The slow and onerous move from a drip irrigation to one of a pumping unit handcrafted by Wagner located a few miles behind the manor. A hassle to craft, install, and maintain, he tells you with a tired smile, but a necessary venture for productivity. 

It reminds you to recount the traditional manner of tempered inundation that you witnessed when you finally obtained traveling papers to Inazuma. Farmers cultivating their crops to the cycle of the rivers, relying solely on its seasonal rise and fall to serve as a means of irrigation.

“And what happens when the rivers eventually decide to break tradition and flood?” Diluc asks with dumb amusement as your conversation leads you down the path that turns to gravel, winding away from the vineyards and down towards the lake. He means it as a rhetorical question, knowing in both science and anecdotal evidence nature makes a great fool of prediction. 

A large rock obstructs the pathway, and while it doesn’t take much effort to climb over it, he nevertheless holds his hand out in assistance. Nevermind the fact that this trail and this particular rock is one that you and he have taken many times before, one that you are fully aware that contains a rocky terrain as you walk nearer towards the body of water, and yet, ever the gentleman he is as he offers his assistance, you take his hand.

“Inazuma is the land of eternity.” You tell him succinctly, “They would be more pressed to believe that the world would end before the land and its dutiful Shogun would disrupt tradition and predictability.” You step over the large rock with great ease. Diluc makes sure of it.

“How archaic.” Diluc mutters once he knows your feet are on stable ground once more. You shake your head with a smile.

“That is only a matter of perspective. To Mondstadt, it is limited. To Inazuma, it is nature.”

Diluc only hums, his eyes narrow as carmine irises dart across your face. Any opinion of the idea, if you even had one, is imperceptible. Hidden carefully behind a neutral gaze and the generality of your statement. Trained, you are, to be as open and peaceful with any and all walks of life. Barbatos knows Diluc would hardly be able to bite his tongue with something he strictly disapproved of. 

“Born and bred for the role of Ambassador. I would've offended a whole nation if I were in your shoes.”

“Nonsense,” You smile as you link your arm with his, hand holding onto his bicep as you both resume your trek to the waters, “I think you would make for a wonderful advocate for the people. You are tough and unmoving. The kind of person everyone would be lucky to have on their side.”

He says nothing more to that, content to let the conversation die and allow nature to become the fixation of your thoughts. 

Compliments have never rendered well for the likes of Diluc. He knows too much about himself, of his nature, of his own beliefs, of all that he has done to ever be convinced by another that he is at all a good man. Especially on the basis of one’s words.

They never mean much anyway. Words are never strong enough to be binding; They are the buffer between hope and disappointment, and oftentimes find themselves leaning to one side more than the other. It is why he never makes promises he cannot keep, it is why he hardly believes in things that come from another’s mouth unless he himself has experienced it. The sting of old promises and their frosted bite are too ingrained within Diluc to compromise on. 

Add that to one of many things Diluc knows to be true of himself.

He is too prideful, too stubborn, too controlling, too set in his ways to believe in anything other than what he knows to be true about himself and the world. He is the stark contrast to you, and, not for the first time, he wonders how a friendship of such strength could remain when he burns too bright and you—oh, you—

Where you are amenable and compromising, he is rigid and sure; Where you are appeasing and complimenting, he is static and blunt. He does not care for the pleasantries as you do when he doesn’t feel them warranted. He’s entirely sure, as sure as the sun that sets every day and as resolute as you are on the charm of cor lapis, that he would make for a horrible dignitary considering how opposite of you he is and how well you fit into the role. 

But… the way that you say it. The way that the statement rolls of your tongue with hardly a second thought, the way that you seemed assured of his nature as though it were truth— the way that you seem to believe him an honorable man despite being worldly traveled and knowing many of many honorable people—

Gravel turns to sand and a quick glance your ways reveals the brightening of a smile as you both near the lake and all the tumultuous thoughts, the internal fight over the slightest of compliments and the need to extract the lies from the truth within them, silences as he looks to you. 

Diluc burns, and he burns bright, and you extinguish the flames of him that itch and ache to hurt. This isn’t a new realization, but it is a staunch one as it hammers away at the walls of his mind and heart. 

Everything about this is as it has always been, and yet, the habit of cynicism so ingrained in him makes it feel as though things are different. That behind these immortalized affections from he to you and you to him hides something of greater importance. As though something lies in wait behind the florals and flowerets of your arrival. 

As his mind thrums with his well known truths and his heart sings with the surprise of your presence, he can’t help but wonder when the other shoe is to drop— he tries to never be doubtful of your words, but he trusts his intuition more. 

And it tells him that whatever he is waiting for, is coming.

—

“To the water, Diluc!” You call to him, already throwing your shoes off of your feet and hiking the skirt of your dress up as you inch closer to the crystal blue waters. 

He shakes his head, tendrils of red strands displacing themselves from his ponytail as the wind blows gently. While his face remains stern, contorted into the serious disposition many a Monstadtian recognizes, his hands are slowly removing layers of his clothing— the boots, first. Then his socks and cuffing the pants of his slacks. All the while, following behind your prancing figure.

“I find water to be rather disagreeable.” He calls out after you and you bark a laugh. One that echoes around the empty space of the open lake and high mountains. It dances on the wind, pirouetting its way back to him, sticking to him like honey— sweet, warm, sticky honey. Slowing his thoughts down in the sinewy constitution of it. 

“What isn’t disagreeable to the great Duke of Mondstadt?” You tease as your toes brush against the edge of the chilled water. Though the blue certainly isn’t as warm as many of the lakes in Liyue tend to be, the change in climate isn’t an unwelcome one. Refreshing certainly, and as the chill jolts its way through your bare toes and travels up your spine, it’s an appreciated embrace when in the presence of such a ferocious source of heat like Diluc. 

Diluc who sets things ablaze with his stoicism and piercing gaze, Diluc who uses such talents to stare at you from afar— the flames of something sparking in his irises— and the urge to drown yourself in the cool waters grows tenfold. 

A determined reminder of things that you have shoved to the side for too long, truths that you were hoping to dismiss for just a moment.  

Not an uncommon feeling to experience whenever you’re around him. Latently, you can hear the whispers of a wry voice belonging to a Favonius Captain comment on how he too wishes he could drown himself when in the presence of the tycoon, and you laugh quietly. Anything to distract yourself from the feeling of a heavy stare on you. 

Your question, as redundant as it may have been to you, hangs in the air unanswered, but it doesn’t bother you much. Find your brain too swayed by the heat of his gaze and the chill of the water to think much of even trying to find an answer.

But he does. Silently, in the train of his thoughts that never end, the answer is abundantly clear. 

You are entirely too agreeable to the Duke, he thinks, as you wade further into the water with a joyful yelp. The water halfway up your shins with your skirt bunched in your hands and your face furrowed as you will yourself to move further into the lake. You are entirely too agreeable, he thinks, as he finds himself approaching the edge of the same lake and following in after you—even though he knows it probably isn’t the wisest decision, safety reasons, all encompassing. 

Should something emerge through the treeline, something he wasn’t particularly anticipating, and he were soaking wet— there would be a late reaction, late preparation in being able to protect the both of you. Or, if a Fatui officer were to find their way here to you both, with you being visionless and him impacted by the counteracting measures of water against his pyro, it would be a hassle to say the least. While he vigilantly patrols the acres of his land in strict routine, there is always the chance of those bastards infiltrating his lands. He would be remiss to put his guard down, especially when they’ve been establishing encampments only a couple hundred miles from his home, as of late. 

Or, what if—

“Something touched me!” You squeal suddenly, running away from your place almost knee deep into the water and back onto the shore. It happens faster than he’s able to comprehend, but the sound of your yell is enough to have him propelling forward. 

He’s rushing to you in fevered panic just as you rush into him. His left arm encircling around your waist and lifting, a flame already erupting in his right hand, aimed at whatever enemy has made an appearance. Your legs fold upward into his chest, your own arms tightening around his neck as your unintelligible squeals erupt from your mouth and into his ear. 

“Where?!”

“I can’t—“

“Who goes there?!”

“Diluc—“

“Show yourself!”

“I think it was a fish!”

Chaos quiets in a second, Diluc’s burning fury splashes cool as his senses catch up to one another and the realization of your words corroborates his vision. He sees no enemies, clearly one couldn’t have slipped by in the few minutes since your entrance to the water. He does, however, see the speeding trail of a Medaka swimming away beneath the water. 

The flame then extinguishes in his hand, “I loathe you.”

He feels your head rise from its burrow in his neck, “It scared me!”

“It’s a fish—“

“I didn’t know that! It could’ve been the tendrils of a slime!”

A bitter retort finds itself on the tip of his tongue, an item he is ready to unleash just as he turns his head to face you, only to feel it die at the sudden realization that—

—You are in his arms. 

Held tightly to him, your body melding into his and your faces hardly more than an inch apart. Your eyes wide in residual panic, sparkling with the blend of humor. And then…he’s drowning.

Choking on the feeling of closeness, suffocating in the swarm of feelings in his lungs as he realizes that as abnormal as the occasion is to have you in his arms, it feels pointedly normal. He’s startled at how quickly he had thrown away the makings of a gentleman the moment your arms wound around his neck; Lost—completely, entirely, unabashedly—at how the weight of your gaze buoys him in the tides of a long lived affection. 

An image of eternity finds him, then; A quick flash in the stagnation of thoughts, a future he had never allowed himself to fantasize of before— a cinder of hope to wake up tomorrow, two days, two years, two decades from now, and have this.

Knowing that it is something that he can never have, however, fills his lungs with a choking fluid.

“Enough of the water.” He mutters quickly, his cheeks tinting red in what you can only surmise is anger. “We should return for dinner.” 

He’s lowering you back into the water then, making a short effort to remove your limbs from him and turn his back towards you, trekking towards the shore at a brisk pace. 

It’s whiplash; A ferocious brand of rejection heats your body even as your feet are placed back into the cool lake. You stare at his retreating figure in dismay, but shock isn’t a feeling that registers. When he’s bitten by the bug of his own tumultuous thoughts, it doesn’t take long for Diluc to turn cold despite all of his heat. It’s a tell tale sign, one you can predict, but have never been able to fix. You can only pretend to understand what went through the mind of the Great Duke of Mondstadt. 

Whatever it was that made him so cold, made the lick of heat that you’ve always associated with the man disappear in an instant, clearly is one he’s not ready to share. He has always been stubborn; An adult he may be, but a child he frequently can become. That, however, is always something you have been able to meet with equal measure. With a roll of your eyes, you follow after him.

“But Diluc!” You protest, rather immaturely, hand finding his and tugging him back to the water. “We just got here!” 

He hardly budges. “I dislike the water and clearly, you dislike the fish that reside in it.”

“An overreaction on my part! I wasn’t mindful of my steps.”

“You haven’t brought any extra clothing. You’ll be walking home soaking and cold.”

“Then you can just snap your fingers and make me warm again!”

Diluc sighs heavily, “Ambassador—”

“So formal, Diluc. Let go, for a second. Come have fun with me!”

He yanks his hand away from yours, turning to face you in a ferocious manner. “Is that what you came all this way for? To have fun?”

All joy seems stripped from you in that moment as you halt in place, “Do you… not want me here?” 

“Of course I do.” He says, and while the statement is true, his tone is stoic and cold—almost making you wonder about the validity of his claim. 

He watches your brows furrow, watches as the skirts of your dress dampen as you no longer care to hold them upward but instead stare deeply at him. Watch as something clouds his mind that he cannot seem to shake off. 

Shame, mostly, for his anger. “I just… am curious. You’re busy these days, my friend.” He says, eyes softening as he meets yours. You give him a gentle smile.

“As are you, dearest Diluc. I just wanted to see you.” 

His heart should flutter and soar at this measly proclamation, but it doesn’t. Because in all the years that he has had the pleasure to know you, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That your arrival isn’t for any reason, that your touch is lingering, and that there is something you aren’t telling him. 

He doesn’t confront you about it even though his mind races and wars and urges for him to. You will tell him in your own time, that much he trusts. If he confronts you now, when no initiative has been taken to show that anything is awry other than his own confidence in knowing you, then you will lie. Tell him that everything is alright, nothing is wrong.

Diluc doesn’t trust words, despises lies more— even if they do come from someone as agreeable as you. So, he says nothing. Only insists that you return home lest the food burn. And you do as he asks; Walking beside him in silence and climbing over obstructing rocks without his assistance. Feeling both of your skins burn despite no longer being close enough to touch the other.

—

“Well,” you say, peering over his shoulder and onto the food that he neatly plates onto two white porcelain dishes, “It looks edible.”

He huffs in laughter despite himself. A scolding tone far from his realm of view as he spares a sideways glance towards your face hovering above his shoulder. 

“I can still arrange for it to be burnt.” He says, without any real threat.

“It was a compliment.” You meet his gaze in kind— soft over the warmth of his creation, diluted in the wake of previous tension.

“I recant all previous judgements of your character; You make a horrible foreign dignitary. I am terribly offended.” He says flatly. 

“I hardly think my skills in flattery uphold our relationship.”

“You’re right. They destroy it.”

“The Great Duke, Mondstadt’s very own Darknight Hero, in need of reassurance?”

“Would you look at that?” Dilic begins boredly, his eyes half lidded as he looks at you, his index finger held upward in the air and a flame dancing atop it, “I suddenly have lost control of my motor functions.”

—

Dinner, even in the simmering of side glances and veiled suspense, is much like it has always been between you two. Easy and warm, seated beside one another despite the great length of the table; Him at the head of the hall table, and you to his left, finding one another and enjoying the closeness in company with a surprisingly well-made meal. 

You tell him as much, with a shrug, a raise of your brow, and a disbelieving nod of your head. “It’s edible.”

He glares, you smile, and the ire of before dissipates into nonexistence. Neither of you able to remember what caused it. 

The company at the table extends beyond dinner. Plates scraped clean of their respective meals, yet you remained seated. Weaving through the ebbs and flows of bountiful conversation and comfortable silences. Diluc listens with quiet interest as you recount the mining operations, the new additions to your family, friends and their gossip, books you’ve read and you, in turn, let him interject his dry responses that then turn into debates on trivial items. Most recently, the introduction of a new card game that you can’t understand the rules of no matter how many times it is explained, much to Diluc’s mild exhaustion.

It hardly lasts long, before you’re mentioning something and discussion is renewed. It is the most Diluc has spoken in months. A surprise to everyone but him. The night ticks on, a fire stoked and the familiar orange hue cast on your person and all is right once more. 

It is in discussing ledgers and letters that it happens. The itch is finally revealed. 

“Have you received any?” You ask, head tucked downward as you swirl your glass of wine, avoiding his eyes. 

Diluc stares, and can only stare, startled upon the realization that he’s forgotten himself once again. Got lost in the intricate tethers of commonality and the sanctity of long-awaited reunions that he forgot that at the basis of he and you, lies a fundamental difference. 

Between upbringing and duty, between values and expectations, between daydreams and reality. He knows exactly what you are asking, girl from the land of contracts. 

“No.” He lies, easily.  Diluc dons the farce of nonchalance that strains against the lines of his face at this very moment. He doesn’t need you to know of the large box that he tosses the offers in at the end of every day, the box that Adelinde insists he keep. The box piled with letter after letter that he hardly spares a second glance at. “Have you?”

He knows the answer. Maybe it’s hoping otherwise that has him asking anyway. Such is a stupid, stupid notion.

“Yes. A few.” You say, eyes still averted, neutrality in your words. No excitement or dismay, no begging or joy; Just fact. He nods, emptily. A motion without purpose.

“Have you accepted any?” He questions further, and it’s then that the mask slips. The air of coolness he so expertly concocts suddenly grows hot with invasive curiosity, with burning bitterness. His jaw pulses and his knuckles blanche beneath the table. Your eyes meet his, honest and open and he finally sees it.

The teachings of prim and properness fade and you crumble with the weight of emotion, too. Something, in your eyes. Slight and small, but noticeable to him— for he’s seen these eyes in every shade and situation. In childhood, in mourning, in light, in dark, in duty, and in dreams. Diluc knows your eyes better than his own; Sees them in every phase of the moon and every Spring. 

He knows of longing well enough to be able to see it surface in the pools of your irises. He knows you, girl from the land of contracts. And the itch, that blasted thing, starts to be scratched.  

“A decision is expected soon,” You say with a thick swallow, placing the napkin on the table yet never losing his heady gaze. The air shifts, the stale politeness gone and replaced with something more ignited. 

You adjust in your seat and he watches. Shoulders stiffen, neck elongating, posture righting itself as if you’ve now realized the revelation that came to Diluc only a moment before, regarding the stiffness of the air; Regarding the mutuality in the suppression of all things inherent and true, burning and blazing alight. 

“I wanted to speak with you before I gave an answer.”

He wants to yell, wants to throw the plates off the table, shout to the gods above about the cruel and cynical games they make him play, but instead he does as he has learned to do and stares. Looks at you, soft and comfortable, entirely at home in his manor. The manor he has made to be suitable for you. 

Arranged marriages, Diluc finds, are the most atrocious of practices that Liyue has ever had the audacity to uphold in their commitment to contracts. Very much a Mondstadt originated belief— a city of freedom— but a sure one, he thinks. 

He heaves a breath, one that shudders at the slow cracking of his ribs and heart. “Surely, you don’t want me to make the decision for you?”

“No… but advice would be welcome.”

“Fine.” He settles into his seat, noting with little amusement that he suddenly can’t get comfortable anymore, “Tell me.”

“There’s Liu Fuey’s son, an aspiring noctilucous jade merchant—”

He hums discontentedly and you pause in consideration of it. You look at him, and he places his index finger against his temple. “You couldn’t possibly think that an advantageous match, could you?”

You lift your cup to your lips speaking into the glass and shrugging lightly. “His son is quite nice. A bit too young, however.”

“Nice is one thing; Prosperous is another.” 

You tease a gentle gasp, a coy smile curling onto your face as you ask, “Whatever do you mean?” 

Diluc rolls his eyes. Sarcasm, unfortunately, a color you wear too well in times where it’s less than appropriate. You must know what he is going to say, wouldn’t be the inheriting child of one of the biggest exporting businesses in Liyue to not know— your father would all but roll over in his eventual grave before he ever let you exist without the capabilities to be exactly as you are now. And still, the fact that you're even contemplating a match of this nature turns him acetic. 

The fact that this is happening at all turns him more bitter than the drinks he makes nightly.

“I hardly meddle with Liyue affairs and yet even I know one cannot derive a great fortune from the noctilucous jade market. Too much supply, little demand.” Diluc says after a gentle pause.

“Controversial opinion.” You smile at him and he must turn his gaze away before the cracks of an ill-tempered scowl breaks out onto his face. 

“Yet, you agree with me.” He mutters.

Your smile—it’s too ill-fitting for something like this. He can hardly stomach it, much less fathom how you can even muster the curl of your lips when taking the businesslike approach to this. To think of your potential spouse as a transaction than what it actually is: the tying of life and body. It’s archaic; It’s depriving; It is the death to the bloom of life; It is not befitting for his beloved of Liyue that shines brighter than the most carefully extracted gems and blossoms with the incoming warmth of the replenishing seasons. 

This is not you—but it’s not as though he could really say more than that. 

He meets your amused gaze with little more than a stoic one, “Continue.”

You detail, with fine-lined trepidation and mirth, a number of other suitors that have been presented before you. Isamu from the Yashiro Commission, a match considered for the strengthening of national ties and Diluc grits his teeth because that’s hardly a bad option. Shabandar, the Navbed of Sumeru for merchant dealings and exports and while it certainly isn’t a creative choice, it’s a solid one.

“And—” You pause and Diluc raises his gaze. Hesitation flashes for the briefest second before you gather yourself, etiquette kicking in to disguise the weakness with mere coincidence. But he sees it, he sees all of it. 

And he waits with a sip of his drink. 

“The second son of Tsaverich, who will soon be taking over the overseas branch of his father’s merchant operations.” His glass of grape juice stays perched against his lips, halted at the words and weighted. 

“Mikhail?” He repeats seriously, once the words have settled— albeit thickly— and you nod. “Mikhail, the one that engages surreptitiously with Fatui officers and embezzles from lowly merchants when he can. Namely, merchants here in Springvale; That, Mikhail?” 

There’s a sharp edge to his tone that digs and pierces you at every syllable. Try as you might to not physically cringe at what he’s said, you can hardly suppress the waver in your voice as you speak.

“They’ve offered a grand sum for a marital union—”

“He’s a criminal.” Diluc spits and you sigh. Fingers place themselves onto the center of your forehead and press, attempting to soothe the beginning pulses of a tension headache.

While you hadn’t expected this conversation to be one of ease, you certainly hadn’t anticipated the extent of which this pit of turmoil would lie in your stomach. This surge of angst that causes your shoulders to tense and your heart to thrum with exertion. You’ve had far more heated negotiations with merchants and political officials that did less damage to your psyche than this. 

You should’ve known better. 

A conversation of this nature with Diluc would not only be painful, but would serve to have you aching and longing for a different fate altogether. One where he looked at you with less contempt, one where the conversation around marriage was less centered around other men and more around him, one where your hands were intertwined with his rather than clenched and white-knuckled. 

You discard such a fantasy with the release of a heavy sigh, and begin once more. “The only reason you know that is because you interfere with Fatui business in an equally surreptitious manner. To everyone else, he’s just a wealthy young man. To my father, he’s a handsome prospect.”

Diluc scoffs, flaming and burning, aimed directly towards your heart. “And you would agree to a marriage and condone such immoral behavior? That is not you.”

“It’s not like I can make such a claim without evidence, Diluc. Tsaverich is funded by a number of businesses across Teyvat. They all have an interest in him and your preventative measures for some of his endeavors have caused quite the stir.” You explain, leaning forward in your seat if only to put yourself further into his blazing eyesight. If only to make him see.

“I’ve had a hard enough time convincing merchants to not pursue the Darknight Hero on their own volition, it would be even harder to convince them of Mikhail’s bad behavior with Fatui. Especially when he is the one fueling the hatred for your alter ego.” 

Your words meet the side of his angular face as he finds his body slumping into the wooden dining chair. This is nothing he doesn’t already know, nothing you haven’t already transcribed in your monthly letters to him as he dons his nighttime persona and you wield the mantle as his political protector in the daytime. Nothing you haven’t discussed moments prior to this.

“Would you rather I expose your nightly endeavors in the presentation of proof and have the consequence be multiple nations come down against you and Dawn Winery for interference in business?”

His averted gaze meets yours once more, quickly. But he’s even quicker in his reply, “If it means you don’t marry him, yes.”

It is your turn to roll your eyes, as you throw yourself back into your chair, “Oh, please.”

“What I am hearing is that you would be okay with marrying a murderous, thieving, criminal—”

“I am not. I just don’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice—“

“The Tsaverichs have been the most enticing opportunity that’s been presented thus far and my father’s never been much for politics anyway. And… hypothetically, if I were to marry Mikhail…” Your voice trails off, as though the mere mention of marrying the man were enough to have bile pushing up your throat, “Hypothetically, I would have more political leverage and be able to wield it in favor of the Darknight Hero and—” 

“Do not use me as your excuse. I would never ask this of you.” Diluc adds, missing only the liquid of venom for his statement to be rendered poisonous. It stings nonetheless.

You shrug, defeated, “Your consternation is just a matter of principles, but you mustn't forget that this is just what it must be. I am just trying to consider all the positives here.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

“A contract is a contract—”

“One you haven’t willingly entered into yet.”

“Only because I was able to barter for some time of contemplation with my father. My time is running out.”

Diluc breathes out a wry breath of amusement through his nose, “Hence why you are here.”

His tone is bitter and disapproving, but you can only nod in agreement for it is the truth. “Hence why I am here.” You repeat, and Diluc turns his head to the side with a heavy sigh. 

“How long?” He asks, eyes finding the window, watching as the wind sways the orange trees and leaves descend to the fading green grass. Silence encompasses the room and drowns in the undercurrent of his ire and bitterness. Thick and unrelenting.

“Until Spring.” You supply lowly, and he scoffs. His head shakes, fingers finding his chin. 

The food that once brought great warmth to you now churns unpleasantly within your stomach. Maybe it would’ve been better to have made a decision in private with your father and inform Diluc through an invitation to the ceremony— it certainly would’ve saved you the exhaustion of the debate you now found yourself glued to. But such a thing is a matter that you would never find it within yourself to do. 

There is too much respect for Diluc, too much admiration, too much love to do something so cruel to him. Maybe, it is even crueler to make him privy and liable to the decision you make here, too. 

You had prepared early on for the day requiring this commitment— knew in the depths of young childhood and the blossoming of your role as Ambassador and heir to your father’s business that this fate was inevitable. It was easy to separate yourself from it when understanding it to be a part of your duty. There were no tears, no despair, no tantrums thrown when your father presented the candidates he deemed most viable to a marriage. You had anticipated such a resignation of yourself throughout the duration of your choosing and eventual betrothed.

Here, sitting before Diluc in the home you know too well, in the space of memories that belong to him and you, and drowning in the heat of his anger, does such a resignation wilt and the weight of your repressed feelings come forward.

“Tsaverich does not fit with your name.” Diluc mutters after a moment.

There is one man you would choose without a moment’s hesitation, but he is not a candidate. Has not made himself to be one, no matter how often you wish he would. Unsure if he has ever thought about you as more than a beloved friend.

That is something you could live with—being his beloved friend for years and years, if only to have him close to you—but, you fear, as this conversation grows more sour and the figurative space between you seems to increase in size, that the berth has become too wide and a bridge of reconciliation is too weak to span such a distance. There are few things you dislike more than Diluc being upset with you.

But you try for remedy, nonetheless. 

“I… knew,” You begin quietly after a moment, and Diluc finds his eyes drawn to you without much more of a reasonable request other than the sound of your voice, “I wouldn’t be able to get your blessing. But I figured I could at least get your advice. Or comfort… in your presence.”

He takes a moment’s pause, voice only finding grounding once he’s able to temper the severity of his feelings to little more than a dull ache in his chest. He’s monotonous when he says it. 

“Is that what you want? My blessing?”

“I want to make a decision. And I want you to be happy with it.”

He scoffs once more, vicious and mean, and unafraid to be so because it’s you. You, who knows him in and out, through years of flaming moods and dark lows, who knows what he thinks and says before he even gets the chance to. He, who sits astounded because how could he ever say, in the gentlest ways possible, that his happiness on your betrothal to anyone other than him is something that would never be granted? And more importantly, how could you not know that?

“My happiness?” He responds, no longer trying to hide any disdain, “And pray tell, of what use could my happiness serve in making that kind of a decision?”

You tilt your head in soft dismay, “Diluc—”

“Would you like me to choose for you the best man I see fit, is that it? Lay the offers out on the table and have me select which seems to reap the most monetary benefits for you?”

You shake your head, “No, that isn’t what I—”

His tongue grows more ire, the toxin that resided in the depths of his soul is now unlocked, and seeping through him. Gasoline to the flame, and he burns, burns, burns. “Oh, I see. You’d like to make me equal, if not worse, to the role your father currently plays in this hell of a mess. You’d like me to select in accordance with familial values. What would make father happy, is that right?”

“You forget yourself.” You spit at him, equal in the anger that he has pushed you to. “Not all of us were born in the land of freedom. Some of us have duties that must be seen through.”

Diluc leans forward, elbow braced on the table as he pushes his finger into the hardwood for emphasis, “This isn’t duty, this is atrocity.”

(Diluc has only ever known duty to himself and the Dawn Winery. Diluc only expects that your own duty would be so aligned— duty to yourself and the business you hold dear. A voice speaks from the recesses of his mind, the parts not addled by fire and brimstone, reminding him that he has always had a duty to you, too.)

“Arranged marriages are common!” You speak with a broken laugh, in disbelief as the red-haired man stands from the table with a violent push of his chair back. 

“A violation against the wants of the person, in favor of what?” Diluc paces around the table, feet taking him towards the walls decorated with paintings yet hardly sparing a glance. He turns back to you, hands placed on his hips and brows furrowed in desperate anger, “Connections? Land? Wealth?”

He looks to you in charged silence, awaiting an answer. You shake your head at him.

“It isn’t a simple answer, Diluc. You know that. It’s culture, and duty, and—and the need for security. I want to—”

“This isn’t what you want.”

“And how do you know what I want?” You narrow your eyes and such a thing would be insulting we’re Diluc already not a few stops short of a blown fuse. “You’ve spent most of this conversation speaking over me to know what I want.”

“Because I know you.” He insists harshly. “This is your father’s doing.”

He takes a step forward, “And if it's money he wants then tell him I have more than enough that I know not what to do with. If it’s land, tell him I own acres of Mondstandt with the plans for expansion. Your children, your grandchildren, and their children will have land to their name, I will make it my life’s mission to make sure of it. Connections?” He holds his hands out, letting them drop to his thighs with a resounding clap.

“You bring more of that than I ever could.”

To anyone else, his words sound much like a proposal. 

To you, it sounds like a proposal. 

Your breath hitches, and the words are practically whispered. “...What are you saying?”

And the truth that you both know in your own respective manners, yet remains unknown to the other, comes forward on his tongue. It waits there, stagnated yet burning in his mouth. 

He should just say it, make the feelings that survive deep within the depths of his soul actualized in this very moment— where you demand them to make their appearance. Tell you that he says these things for the sole purpose of making himself the contender for your hand in marriage. Tell you that he says these things not so that you could abide by duty, but so that you could have the freedom to choose. 

So that you could choose him.

The words are desperate in their crawl up his throat, digging their nails into soft tissue and drawing blood. His mouth floods with the ichor, too stubborn to swallow and too scared to spit. 

So, he does nothing but choke.

“Freedom… within the contract.” He says quietly, cowardly. “I will… sponsor whatever fee or promise may be necessary if only to give you what you want. The chance to choose whomever it may be that you wish to marry. This decision isn’t mine to make. Nor should you make it because of me. And to be frank, I don’t want to be a part of it.”

Silence encumbers the space.

A look of measured disbelief sits ill on your face, and in feats unlike him, he finds himself raging. At this, at you, at himself. His decision feels like brittled tar coming off his tongue, settles in the room like a death sentence, and yet the stubbornness within him threatens the burning flame of truth in his stomach like a hovering guillotine. The blade shining with the promise of an ill fate.

“...sponsor?” You murmur.

Behead the hope before it can take flight. The blade descends.

“Yes. Sponsor.” He bites, “Until you can rid yourself of that inane notion of duty.”

You stare at him, a heartbreaking silence filling the room as fragments of the friendship seem to crack and shatter in place. Baring your soul to him, open and honest, vulnerability displayed at the most monumental decision you could make, when you were desperate for comfort, and he spits at you. Treats you pedantically, insulting the very thing you care deeply enough about to ask for consultation on; Throws things as insignificant as money your way and tells you, more or less, to leave him alone.

This is a Diluc that you have heard of yet, seen on occasion, but have never met. Angry and distanced, cutting strings before they have the chance to vibrate against him. You don’t like it. It sparks something within you, something equally as vitriolic and vile. 

“What is it about this situation that angers you, Diluc? Hm? Because I believe that you are misguided in directing your anger to me.” You return to him woefully digging for a futile truth that Diluc has already locked deep within him, key thrown into a fire and burned with no remorse. If only you knew how close you were to uncovering it, the root of his ire. How your hand almost brushed the cage of his heart, fingertips barely scraping along the bars of its confinement.

He yanks you away, “You sit there content with this, amiable as you always are. You always want to placate, you stand up for everything but yourself when you clearly must. Then, you bring this to me, seeking help in something I greatly disapprove of, something I do not wish to be involved in, and yet I am misguided for trying to save you—”

“I don’t need your money, Diluc. And I certainly don’t need saving.” 

“Then what could you possibly be doing here, then?���

“I apologize for inconveniencing you with my need to seek the comfort of a friend. How burdensome of me, how juvenile. Because I forget that the great Master Diluc can handle these things on his own, so why should I do anything different!”

“I gave you my answer.” He says, eyes burning. An ashen field of the garden of your friendship reflected in his stare, “I suggest you take it.”

And for the second time today, you feel the hot brand of Diluc’s rejection.

He doesn’t need to spell it out, his words are as clear as day to you— the professional linguist in Diluc's veiled bluntness. He has no intention of respecting your decision, nor does he intend to be involved any further within it. 

The room is silent once more, this time in a way that is entirely different from the other instances. This is a silence of heartbreak as Diluc embraces the characteristics of his nature that he knows well and fine to be true of himself. This is the silence of heartbreak that shatters your soul and clogs your throat as it comes to actualization that your long held resignation of this fate was not born out of duty, but of hope that maybe, Diluc had felt the same way about you as you did to him. That from this, maybe, survived the chance of an outcome unneeding of your intervention, but instead a mutual confession that would sweep you off your feet. 

Such a thing will never happen.  

He does not return your feelings, nor will he ever. He sees you only as a pitiful friend in need; A friend that he can help free from the shackles of inane duty like a good gentleman should. You aren’t sure what stings more— the unrequited feelings, or the insult against your capability.  

Diluc may be a formidable blaze that anyone may stand intimated by, but it is equally remiss to take you as something not equal in that strength. As a damsel in distress, as a child, as someone in need of a savior. He, of all people, knows better than that. 

This is the silence of a heartbreak at the realization that a dear friend has misunderstood you horribly— romantically or otherwise. And born from its stillness is a blade of your own.

You rise from your chair. Vermillion eyes follow you with focused intensity, titillating as you waver not. Steel becomes you, and it is in the few moments like this that Diluc is astounded that the gods did not grant you a vision. 

“That is an honorable offer, but I will not subject you to a stipulation of pity. This is not a horrid fate, it is a duty I have and will continue to embrace.” There is no amiability in your words despite the cordiality of them. Your tone is the embodiment of the negotiator that you have assumed completely in your adulthood.

Surely, he could back down now— apologize, admit his foolishness, but that would mean accepting the circumstances of the arranged marriage and that is something he could never do. He holds his head high. 

Optimism lies decapitated most cruelly on the floor between him and you, two blades now stained with the blood of a lost union.

“A duty that I accept without remorse. Something I thought you of all people would respect. I see now that I was wrong.” You bow your head curtly to the gentleman of the home. “Thank you for the enlightening dinner and your hospitality, but I believe there is nothing further to be discussed. Good night, Master Diluc.”

You return to your bedroom without a glance backward, the sound of the bedroom door slamming echoing loudly throughout the manor. The mansion is soon thereafter submerged in a freeze that etches away at his skin. He stands there, the last witness of the murder. 

If there was something to do, if he had an idea about it, maybe he would’ve handled the next moment more appropriately. But he doesn’t; he returns to his room a few moments later, stopping only to briefly glance at your door. No light peeks from underneath the door sill and no noise sounds when he leans his ear against it. 

Sleep doesn’t come. Dawn breaks and his eyes ache with the need to fall yet his mind roams. It ambles around in so many directions he hardly notices the sound of movement in the hallway as the sun breaks the night and pinks and oranges become the day.

It isn’t until he receives silence when he knocks on your door that the thought of doing something becomes a tasteful thought. He knows it’s too late. Your room and all of your belongings are vacant by the morning and he does nothing but stand there. 

—

Your sudden departure with a written note of goodbye on your neatly made bed inspired all of a twelve-hour huff and puff from Adelinde and a stern shake of the head from Elzer, but the deep scowl on Diluc’s face stops any further questioning cold in its place. Diluc is more than aware that such a response, particularly a nonverbal one, leaves much to be desired, but truth be told, he has no desire to explain himself. 

Whatever transpired between you two rests solely between he and you, no one else; No matter how strong third party affinities may lie. He will honor the privacy of your friendship by keeping your argument under wraps and, subsequently, his rather… brutish behavior unknown to further scrutiny. 

(Let it be known that that was hardly the deciding factor in his secrecy. His shame pride. No, of course not. Rather, he believes it pertinent to only describe a story if both sides are there to present it, lest any details become muddied by perceived rights and wrongs, transgressions and righteousness, little he said, she said’s. It is best to act accordingly, with honor to the other even if they aren’t there to defend themselves. Which is why he pledges his silence to the issue.

Even as he spends minutes, hours, days mulling over his words, reliving the argument and the kind of temperament that was exalted from him in response. He can hardly be ashamed by the genuinity of his anger, it is a direct reflection of his morals and to be dismayed by those is to be deceptive of himself. 

So, no. He does not tell Adelinde and Elzer the intricate details of your battle, unsure as to whether he would omit certain phrases he had uttered or not, in honor of keeping the situation between the war of morals and opinion between you and he. 

Or so he says.)

“You needn’t be concerned.” He tells the vexed headmistress, keeping his breath and stare as neutral as one could possibly muster when one hardly believes the words they say. “It was a minor incident. It will be nothing in two weeks’ time.”

The words do not placate Adelinde. They only serve to make the older woman shake her head in agitation and return to the kitchen in a brisk walk as she prepares breakfast. She mutters something underneath her breath, but Diluc is too concerned with pretending to focus on ledgers to listen intently to the words. If he did, he’s sure there would be some vernacular strung together to express the sentiment of “foolish” and “idiotic”. 

And he’s likely to agree with them. 

Winter

Fall exits Mondstadt with haste and winter follows on its heels with great delight. Nipping at skin and verdure mercilessly, the wind gusts powerfully from Dragonspine, expelling its subzero climate onto Mondstadtians as though it had been waiting for lifetimes for the chance to taste skin once more. 

It has sparked many an overheard conversation. The weather being the heated topic of discussion, irony of the statement notated with a hearty laugh— even within the Dawn Winery.

Adelaide remarked to Elzer one frigid morning how unfathomable it was to even try to adjust to the suddenness of the cold as she wrapped a third quilted cardigan around her shoulders. Much too vicious, she screeched. Elzer nodded with little more than a mumble, trying to play off the chattering of his teeth as purposeful, pondering what could have brought forth such a merciless chill so quickly; So violently. 

The answer seems obvious to Diluc, but that is a truth he keeps held tightly to himself. 

Punishment, he thinks. You took the warmth from the manor and all of Mondstadt when you left. Absence of heat has left an arctic presence in its retreat. He tries not to focus too much on it; But the days grow colder, the days fall shorter, and life is ever more bleaker. Trees are barren, snow builds on the veranda, and the lake you once pirouetted and danced in freezes over. 

Even worse, Ernst exemplifies himself as Mondstadt’s greatest mail courier in his commitment to delivery despite the freeze and danger. Diluc sees him every mid-morning, the man trudging through the blockage of snow with a wagon in tow. 

Diluc nods courteously to the man’s gloved wave. Sometimes a greeting is verbalized, other times the two men meet eyes and continue on with the day, and yet try as he might to deny it, carmine eyes linger on the postman in repressed desire. Hoping even as the man treks past the deciduous trees and his figure becomes smaller and smaller in Diluc’s line of sight, that maybe, just maybe, the man will stop in his place. Maybe, he’ll look into the wagon that holds the great number of tied mail, and turn around in surprise. Run back to Diluc with paper in his hand and a hearty laugh, forgot your mail, Master Diluc! The phrase caught on the wind and swirling its way back to him. Your script on the front of the letter. 

It never happens. 

Ernst fades into the white blanket of snow and Diluc finds great difficulty in trying to take his eyes off of his figure. It is only when the chill finally catches up to him and Adelinde screeches a scold to him that he returns inside. No letter in hand. He can't say that he’s surprised.

It’s been a little more than two weeks and the incident remains frigid. Only, no longer is it a crime scene of stained blood, but a coffin buried in the ground. A headstone hidden under two feet of snow. 

Reading: Here lies the friendship I once knew.

—

"Ah, Master Diluc. What a pleasant surprise."

"Kaeya."

It isn’t a surprise to see the owner of the Angel’s Share doing as he usually does behind the counter, but both men know that. To find Diluc in the sanctity of the tavern, away from the emptiness of the manor and in the warmth of the hearth  is almost traditional. But there is a certain stink that circulates throughout the tavern this morning; A pitiful one, sour and rancid. It emanates from the bartender in a choking waft that is even more pungent than usual. Kaeya almost coughs. 

Sauntering over to the counter, Kaeya seats himself with the kind of confidence that exists uniquely to him, hesitation hardly a recognizable shade in the man when asking for his usual. The request is met with a visible eye roll, but other than that, the two remain silent. 

Angel’s Share is empty this morning, save for the owner— understandably. Seven feet of snow lines the buildings within the walls of Mondstadt and were it not for the official weather advisory granted by the Knights of Favonius, business most likely would have come to a standstill on its own. Not Diluc, though. Never the honorable Master Diluc. 

His business stays open despite sending all of his workers home for shelter during the cold. How noble, how sweet. What a kind capitalist he is, one that knows exactly how to make Death After Noon just as Kaeya likes it.

Kaeya sips from the glass before finally deciding to break the silence. 

“Lovely weather we’re having, wouldn’t you agree?”

Diluc grunts disapprovingly. Kaeya takes another languid sip. Despite being appropriately dressed for it at all occasions and all hours of the day, Kaeya knows rather intimately Diluc’s averseness to freezing temperatures and strikes of chills.

“There is something so beautiful in the snow. Shame that our neighboring nations don’t get to see it too often. I’ve recently returned from an expedition to Liyue,” The corner of Kaeya’s mouth curls upward as he swirls his wine around in his glass. A knowing smile in the fact that even as Diluc maintains a focused gaze on the glass that he is drying, he has his complete attention. Caught at the mention of the nation, of what resides there. “Whispers of an outgroup seizing trading merchandise a little ways beyond Stone Gate led me there, and I must say I am quite envious at how un-winter-like Liyue can be.”

“Fascinating.” Diluc drolls, placing one glass down only to pick another up. Kaeya plows on, hardly bothered by the man.

“The snow practically stops at the edge, right before the marker of the two nations. Pretty impressive, if you ask me. Apparently they will see the rare bout of snow pull in from Dragonspine in a particularly cold season, or so I’ve heard. From a… friend.”

There is no room for insinuation, it couldn’t squeeze into the damn place even if it tried. Your name all but shouted throughout the emptiness of the tavern. Diluc grits his teeth, and try as Kaeya might to find some smugness in this—sadistic joy in the way that the man grows uncomfortable and fights the urge to run— he cannot.  For, try as he might to deny, Kaeya is and always remains his brother’s keeper. 

And Kaeya knows a man in longing when he sees one.

He figures he might earn some deductions on his ledger of sins for ending the other man’s suffering early. So he begins again. 

“You know, I was told a story during my time there. One, in particular, that I think you would find great value in.” Kaeya places the cup down, the sweet liquor of Death After Noon blossoming on his tongue, “Of course, it is a tale told to the children of Liyue to teach them certain morals, so I think you will be rather challenged in this story. Would you like to hear it?”

“I can’t imagine that I have much of a choice.”

“You don’t. Do try to pay attention.” Diluc gives nothing more than a bored glare at the man across the counter. Kaeya plows on. 

“This story began with a question: When roads converge, do we assume them as fate, or do we impose our will upon them?”

And so he weaves a familiar tale of the target of two gods, Morax and Guizhong. The brawn and brains, the seal of a contract and the cursive words it comprises of written by plume, stone and dust; The firm and the wise. An unlikely partnership formed throughout the centuries, the makers of the era.

A tale of Morax, who has always been much too hard-headed, incapable of seeing the path laid before them, and Guizhong— sweet Guizhong, whose smile settled ashes and her wrath decimated stone to particles— finding herself as Morax’s advisor. The growth of wisdom from shouldered burdens and friendship, an unexpected term that hardened stone accepted in time. 

A tale of growing affections, hidden smiles, and intertwining fates, lingering in the coiling of their lives together yet never voiced. Always dancing beneath the grounds of sand and stone. Until war ravaged their land of prosperity and brought an end to their union—Guizhong laying stricken upon the Guili Plains, her ichor forming into the rivers of the land, her flesh becoming one with the grass. Dying, in his hands, bemoaning their fate of all that was left unspoken.

“And Morax looked down upon the fallen god with what one could only describe as deep sorrow and asked, ‘Why has this happened? Why could you not have waited for me?’. Guizhong, taking her last breath, said to the god of stone, ‘I would if you had asked me.’” 

Kaeya draws a finger around the rim of his cup, his one revealed eye flicking up to Diluc, knowing stare boring into the red-haired man. “A tragic story of missed opportunities. But of course, it is just a fable.” 

Diluc says nothing, but meets his brother’s stare with a stoic one of his own. Cold and void, as it always is, but swirling in the iris of flames lies the starting spark Kaeya was looking for. The twinge of reminiscence; The flint striking against stone in the flicker of realized parallels. 

“Riveting.” The barkeep says, tearing the windows of his soul away from the man who rivals him in skill of knowing all. But, is it really in the silent ability to read the room or is it in knowing Diluc well beyond any shadow of a doubt that has Kaeya acting as lighter for the wicker of ignition?

"I heard our friend came into town."

“You heard correctly.”

“I heard she came with a question.”

Diluc stills and Kaeya hums. As though he had nary a worry in the world and all the time for this moment, he brings the cup to his lips and takes a slow sip of the wine. Long and obnoxious and captivating for all the wrong reasons. Diluc can’t help but watch as terse silence settles between the two of them, the fire of frustration licking at the nape of his neck just as Kaeya seems to grow colder in his seat. 

If only arrogant Kaeya would stop playing his mind games. 

Detached and quiet and entirely too pleased, Kaeya sits at the fact that as much as Diluc tries to deny it, they both know he is dying for Kaeya’s next words.

 If only precious Diluc would stop being so stubborn and admit that he needs help.

The glass is placed on the counter with a gentle clack, and neither man can deny the weight that escalates at that moment. “The poor girl practically offered herself on a golden platter. Well, as much as a dignified noble woman could.” 

“She asked for my opinion on her suitors—”

“And she was hoping you would make yourself one of them.”

“That—you do not know that.” Diluc seems affronted, almost scandalized.

Kaeya sighs this time, loud and obnoxious, “No, of course I don’t. It’s not like she and I remain friends outside of you.”

Gloved hands place an ivory piece of paper on the wooden bar surface. Beckoned forward by unfettered curiosity, Diluc wastes no time in picking the item up, hardly remorseful even if a smirk settles onto the tanned man’s face. 

“If you do not make yourself known, someone else will. Sooner rather than later, it seems.”

The paper reads: Kaeya Alberich, you are cordially invited to the wedding of Mikhail Tsaverich and — 

Diluc tears his eyes away before he can make out the neat script of your name on the paper. 

“I know that you have a tendency to make a fool of yourself, but do try to not waste the opportunity that is presented before you.” Kaeya raises a brow, leaning his head on his closed fist. “The gods have made the mistakes so that we do not repeat them.”

Vermillion eyes meet crystalline ones, perfect fragments meeting together. 

“I am, unfortunately, rooting for you. I quite like our girl.”

The words linger within Diluc far longer than he would like to admit. They swirl around him even as Kaeya makes his teasing departure—Until next time, he said. They echo in the emptiness of the tavern, they trail behind him as he rides horseback to the manor. His boots are caked with the frost, and his ears are bitten with the freeze, but all that he can feel is the steady pulse of his Kaeya’s words. 

Do not waste the opportunity before you.

Night falls but sleep eludes him. He sits in his bed and ponders, before deciding that he must do what he does with all of Kaeya’s keen words of wisdom and ignore it. 

Imagine his surprise when he finds that he just can’t.

—

Rage finds Diluc in the guest bedroom a month later. Your bedroom.

The snow is at its thickest, wet and cold, blanketing all of Mondstadt in its frosty embrace and daring them to try to escape. No one attempts to compete with the force of nature, even the valiant Ernst throwing in the towel as blizzards obscure the pathways and the days begin to blur together in the white wall of relentless snow. 

The manor is kept warm by the fires that Adelinde stokes, but it does nothing to soothe the deep and aching chill that settles within Diluc. It grinds his teeth, has him pacing the rooms. Unable to sit with the unease now in being so cold all the time. 

(He remembers a time like this once before. When the shadows of blue and red converged so violently, only to part in equal fierceness. The kind of wintry bitterness that stings from the hollowness of a severed bond. The immediate aftermath of his father’s death.

Quietly, he wonders what Kaeya is up to.) 

Adelinde, for all her mother henning, seems to understand that the discomposure that runs through him isn’t something she can solve. So, she keeps the fires warm, lights the candles in corridors and arched niches of the home, and keeps her distance. Although, if Diluc didn’t know any better he would think she’s keeping him out of her way. Annoyance and ire from the woman has been kept well fed and loved by her hand if her continued scoffs and mumbles are anything to bear in mind. It leaves her just one hair's width away from lecturing him once more—not that he needs anymore of it. He’s at the receiving end of his own indignation plenty.

Tonight, however, that familiar bite of his own self hatred is sparked by the flames. 

In the crackle of the wood, he hears a laugh oddly similar to yours ringing throughout the room; Sees your figure dancing in the swirling and heightening flames. As quick as he sees it, it disappears.

He had been attempting to write a letter—an unfortunate consequence of Kaeya’s lingering words. At the very least, an explanation behind his behavior, a request for an update on your life, and maybe even, hidden beneath the flowery description of a cold Mondstadt and the dull season of the wine business, a quiet apology; A plea to reconsider. Each attempt is more pitiful than the last, the words becoming less poised and more of a mad man’s ramble as ink scribbles across the surface; Looking more jagged and unsteady than the previous. Paper after paper is thrown into the inferno and with it, his patience. 

Frustration leads to the rage. He has no clue as to what parasite of uncertainty has bitten him so deeply, and that pushes him further. Hating that he has no idea where this has come from, why it is happening now after so many months, why this blasted thing won’t go away. Macabrely, he wonders what limb he needs to cut off to finally rid himself of its unabated punishment. It burrows so profoundly within him that he’s willing to take a gamble and partake in self-mutilation of all visible skin until he is fixed. Hack away at each joint of meeting bone with his claymore until the solution is found. 

Until his mind is rid of your violent eyes and your corrosive goodbye. Maybe then he will find some semblance of sweet relief. 

Diluc is proud fire and acidic sulfur. He does not and should not doubt himself. It is unbecoming of him to be so dubious of his own actions. Were you to stand before him now and pose the same question that you did in the Fall, he would have largely the same response that he did then. He’s sure of it. He would still be unmoving in his confidence that an arranged marriage was a barbaric idea; He would continue to rage at your disposition in being so accepting of it; He would maintain his morality in asserting that you need not be bound by such a restricting design. There was no need, no purpose. 

But…if he was to be largely the exact same now as he was before, why does he keep replaying the memory in his mind? Running every look, every sigh, every word that comes off your tongue over and over and over. Wondering what could have been said differently to make you see what he meant; Wondering what he could have posed more nicely and less igniting to have made you stay. 

He quickly shakes away the thought. No— there is nothing he could have done or said that would not have been a compromisation of his own ethics. He himself is not only to blame. You were equally as acidic, as defamin of his meaning in the height of the argument. 

Such is the truth and the truth is final. The truth cares not about feelings. He has grown accustomed to that notion. 

(Then why are his so hurt?)

His feet find himself in the bedroom before he knows any better. In search of… something. An answer, maybe, in an item left behind. Any sign of you that he can conjure up seeing as three months have passed since that wretched argument and he has nothing to show for the fate of the friendship other than its ashes.

No letter and no lingering scent of you; No gifted cor lapis and certainly no mundane detailing of day to day life, and thoughts, and jests, and imparted wisdom that he knows to only come from you. That he only listens to if they come from you. There is nothing left but a raging mind and the burning lacerated wound of a scorned memory. 

It’s a fool's game, he knows. Adelinde had gone in and cleaned the room after her long stew of anger upon your departure, so chances are if there was anything for Diluc to find, it is long gone now. Having been taken away by Adelinde’s hand. The thought of that fills him with a quiet seethe that he knows is beyond irrational. It’s his fault he hadn’t entered the room after you left, much like it is his fault that he hadn’t entered when you were still here. Even with the light off, he should’ve entered, admitted his faults and come to a truce. If only to still have you. 

The room is dark upon his entrance, lit only by the dying fire previously mended by the headmistress. The bed is made neatly, royal ruby covers folded with expert precision and the curtained posts drawn back to reveal the array of pillows that decorate its surface. 

This room has, more or less, always belonged to you. It is where his father hosted yours and when you tagged along on business ventures, where you stayed. That tradition remained. The room becoming less of a guest room and more of your own room, right between Diluc’s and Kaeya’s. Playing in one or the other when either brother decided they wanted your attention. 

Toys and Guoba plushies left behind remained in there, sometimes summer clothing and bathing suits would remain stocked and stored in the dresser drawers for your future arrivals. Remnants of you have always decorated the room beside his which is what makes its neat barrenness so much more jarring. 

The room is practically wiped of any memory of you, due in part to the natural passage of time— where plushies were replaced with whatever task you brought that is seen as the new fad taken up by young socialites, and summer clothes were outgrown and changed with wear that are appropriate for maturing young women, everything in this room has aged just as you and he— 

This is the natural progression of things, yet he remains resistant. This is what would have naturally happened; You would soon marry, arranged or otherwise, and this room that belongs to you would slowly become empty. Disused, void of you, unless you were to occasionally visit alongside your husband, whoever he may be. and your… children; because that too would be the natural progression of things. 

Then this room would become theirs, and he would make sure it was known that it was theirs. 

And maybe that is what bothers him the most. It never came to mind that this room would be empty because he had always assumed, one way or another, a part of you would always be in it—married or not. Ideally, it would have been you married to him. Or neither of you married. Together in the infinite in the ways and routines that are so known to you both, content with each other. 

He would have been elated, beyond happy were that the case. It speaks volumes to him that he hadn’t realized that sooner or later, you wouldn’t be. 

He is sat on the edge of your bed, lost in the thought of possibility, when Adelinde enters. 

“Would you like me to start a fire, Master Diluc?” She asks, quietly, head poking into the room. 

Diluc’s gaze is too fixed, too comfortable staring into the void, so he remains there. He says, “No, thank you. No need.”

“You are not cold?”

“If I was, I could surely start one myself.”

Adelinde hums noncommittally. She lingers for a second in the doorway before moving forward to him, sitting beside him on the bed. She heaves a great breath and Diluc prepares for the lecture. 

He will take it, as he always does. He just hopes she’ll cut it short this time. 

Instead, she asks only a question. “Are you going to finally tell me what happened or would you rather continue looking into the void?”

Quiet settles, in the same way that it has existed in this house for eons. Sobering, stilting quiet that aches and etches into the depths of bones. Weaving into the fabric of skin, unspoken truths tearing at the seams, begging for their voice.

It is through great misery and effort that Diluc is able to clench his teeth together and finally utter the wretched words. “She is… getting married.”

Adelinde’s face betrays no thought, unfortunately. There would have been great catharsis in being able to see some kind of validation seep into her face, but alas, wrinkled lines of wisdom remain soft. She hums. “To a good man?”

Diluc is quick. “No.”

“Does she know that?”

He grits his teeth, skin splitting further as the coal ignited deep in him simmers a low broil. “It was made abundantly clear.”

“Well, you have always had a way with words.” Adelinde folds her hands on her thighs with a sigh. “How do you feel about it?”

“Fine.”

“Hush now, child. Do not lie in this house. Your father taught you better than that.”

Offense should be taken at the reduction of age, but he cannot muster strength nor energy to deny the truth of the matter. The angst within him reduces him, grinds him, wears away the tethers of tendon to bone and makes him feel like the rageful child he once was years ago. Violent at the spring of growth, harboring resentment for a world that demanded so much from his father, from his brother, from him— 

He is eleven, again. Furious at the news of his mother’s death at sea, Adelinde whispering in his ear to voice the tense feelings of grief that he could not yet name, feelings that you smothered with the feel of your hug. He is eighteen, blade stained with the ichor of his father, readying it at the throat of another and willing to stain it once more with that of his brother, stuck in the aftermath of a solitude interrupted only by the delivery of your letters—letters he could not answer, yet. He is twenty, swallowing the thirst for revenge with the blood of fatui, traversing through Teyvat in search of answers that will forever be inadequate, writing to you (finally) from wherever he lands, detailing no more than his safety and a promise to return home. 

He is all of those at once, a child again. Sitting on this bed, feeling the emotion that turmoiled in his youth bubble once more within him. 

“...Angry.” He grits out, finally. The ability to voice that which festers within him is less of an achievement of emotional intelligence but instead the identification of the familiar taste of a fire that simmers on his tongue. 

“And why is that?” Adelinde probes. Diluc rolls his eyes.

“Because she should not marry him.” 

Adelinde blinks calmly. “Because she should not marry him or because you do not want her to marry him?”

A mirthless laugh tumbles out of his mouth. “Is that not the same thing?”

Adelinde knowingly hums and he can taste wrath that settles like burnt tar, charred pieces of skin that rolls around in his mouth before he finally decides to spit them out. “If you have something to say, Adelinde, speak it.”

She waits for a moment, a solid and silent beat that weighs in the air before she asks. “Why did you not offer?”

“Arranged marriages are barbaric. She should be free to choose whoever she wants to marry—”

“And she had her pick to choose from. Why did you not make yourself one?”

“Selecting from a batch of suitors is not a free choice. That is asking to pick the lesser of two evils, where is the freedom in that?”

“There is freedom in the choice.” She says, simply.

“It is a forced hand.”

“One that only you are unsettled by.”

Diluc’s head snaps towards the headmistress, his eyes narrowed in a venomous stare that she meets with fortified steel. “What is it that you trying to say?”

Adelinde shrugs elegantly, as though this were a mere discussion about the weather, or dinner options rather than a fated conversation about marriage, and love, and you. “You are attempting to rewrite rules to a game that has existed long before you. You clearly want something, and yet, you are unwilling to navigate the game to get it—”

“You believing marriage to be a game affirms that my position is correct.”

“Diluc—” Adelinde says, suddenly serious. “Did you not offer yourself because you are afraid she would not pick you?” 

Diluc stares widely into the woman, stomach dropping at the utterance of his great fear. Coal stifled in its blaze, water dousing the flame as he is realized in the words of actuality. 

He stares, eyes of vermillion boring into the motherly figure. Adelinde takes his silence for affirmation and speaks with a heaviness that should take to mean her conviction in the matter, or, the extent of her confusion. “Why ever would she not?”

Words unable to string together, he is a child again. Figuring out how to piece emotions together through crafted hand cards made by the headmistress for moments when he could not voice what he felt, but instead could point. His finger, made bloody with how often he picked at the skin, pointing to the card written in purple ink, stained with juices of grapes for emphasis. 

Humiliated.

He finds himself muttering, “You did not see how she looked at me.”

“As though she were angry?” Adelinde raises a brow, a quiet admonish to the man beside her that looks just like the boy she used to wipe tears from, “People are allowed to be angry at you Diluc and it mean nothing more than the fact that they were angry with you. Just as you were angry with her. It is not a statement of your character.”

“You do not understand.” Diluc begins again, self-hatred and reproach ready to be released from the confines of the mind that it has swirled around so viciously in for all of these months. He is tired. He is weary. He wishes he could wake up and have this be the end of the nightmare. “I am not a good match for her.”

“A decade of friendship would speak otherwise.”

“We cannot return from where we came because of how I acted. I was mean and insulting, and yet I had never been more true to my feelings. I could not hide my nature even for the one I love the most, how could anyone ever be deserving of that?”

“Did you ever think that, maybe, the severity of your feelings intensified your anger?” “That does not make it acceptable.”

“You are right. You are long overdue in issuing an apology, but my dear, you spoke without filter in the heat of a moment. It is but a mistake.”

“She deserves better.”

“Archons above, Diluc, one would think with your manner of speaking that you have violated her innocence! She is not a girl, she is a woman. Give her more credit to understand and make her own decisions—with,” Adelinde emphasizes, holding a finger up before Diluc could even think to interrupt her with a string of excuses explaining how you have, in fact, made your decision to marry, “all of the facts of the situation. Namely, how you feel about her.”

Adelinde scoffs. Tickled at her train of thought. “Besides, if either of you cannot handle one disagreement, then maybe marriage should be a tabled conversation.”

“This was a fight.”

“One you will overcome. Diluc, here you sit looking into a darkness that promises you nothing because you believe that is what you deserve. But I am telling you that you are deserving of a happiness that you may think is well beyond your reach, but it is right there. You need only to apologize and speak to her.”

“What if it goes wrong?”

“You have sat in rage for years, my dearest. Why not let yourself find joy in what you know will bring it?” Adelinde smiles. She steps closer, her fingertips brushing aside the stray crimson hairs that fall onto his face. “You forget, my darling boy, that I raised all three of you. I know each of you better than you know yourselves.” 

And for a moment, Adelinde’s heart aches with a pointed swell. She sees a young boy once more, eyes glassy, fear holding tightly onto a long-held hope.

“When you decide to stop looking through your own eyes, and start looking through another, maybe then you will see that they want it, too. So instead, ask yourself, what if it goes right?”

Equinox

The Tsaverichs are an ambitious bunch. 

Your father makes note of this characteristic to you in a low murmur, watching with little enthusiasm as your future father-in-law booms and bellows with audacious designs for the impending wedding. Gathered in your family’s office in Feiyun Slope, the Tsaverich Family sits opposite of yours as details of the union slowly begin to be ironed out—emphasis on slowly. 

Despite the eager receipt in which the Tsaverichs acknowledged your acceptance of the marriage arrangement, their propensity for grandeur is oftentimes contradicting and irritating to your father’s own demands.

(“Cranes are a sacred animal to Liyue. We will not be detaining five-hundred of them for release at the wedding.”

“You wish to invite… how many people?”

“Out of the question! My daughter will not declare herself allegiant to the fatui in her vows!”)

Your groom-to-be sits quiet beside his father, silent to his demands and hardly makes any effort to look you in the eyes. Ten meetings so far about wedding preparations and your groom has done little more than provide a quick nod of his head and offer a surprised gasp at his father’s mentioning of future children. (Another detail attempted to be negotiated into the preparations: the immediacy of an heir upon your union. Your father—your hero, really—is quick to strike that from the table altogether.)

You do well to hide your smile as your father huffs another sigh of annoyance underneath his breath, but it remains a difficult task. Especially as your future father-in-law preaches incessantly about how important the venue to the wedding is for the sixth time, about what it means for the union, and other details that you try to listen to but repeatedly find slipping between the threshold of reality and thought. 

Consciousness caught between the dismayed feelings of your reality, of the eerie creep of the winter chill that seeps through the floorboards despite the fire blazing in the corner; Thoughts linger on the remaining tasks for the day, impending ledgers to sign, travels to prepare for; Memories springing to the forefront of your mind, how you wish you were ten again, running through fields of open grass without a care or an obligation to a man who can hardly look your way. 

How you wish Diluc were around to keep you company. How unassuming he would find these negotiations to be, how you would make it your life purpose to get him to crack a smile at that very moment. How angry you are with him.

You sip at your tea, bitterly. 

“--and that is why we demand that the union take place in the Schneznayan Mountains, as a respect for our culture and a formal introduction of the bride into her new home nation.”

Your father heaves a great breath, rubbing the weariness out of his eyes with two fingers. “As mentioned before, Tsaverich, we do not oppose a celebration within Snezhnaya. This is a union of two families, we will have two celebrations.” 

Tsaverich guffaws, his rotund stomach jumping with the action. “I will take a firm stance that two celebrations are preposterous! We are already spending a fortune on the one alone, two is simply making a mockery of the whole affair. And it must be in Snezhnaya, where the bride will live and where her children will be born.”

“I take this as a grand offense to my daughter’s nationality, Tsaverich. Do you wish to erase Liyue entirely from my daughter and my future grandchildren? These were not terms we agreed to upon acceptance of your arrangement.”

“Of course not, my good sir, but you must consider this from our perspective.”

“I have heard of your perspective greatly.” Your father sighs before standing to address the whole table. “I propose a different solution altogether.”

An array of pensive gazes follow his movements, your own included. Your father is prone to his eccentricities, the many of which have become great friends of his during his time as an entrepreneur. It has made for moments like this, a simple gesture coupled with a phrase having the entirety of the room still in anticipation of his next movement. Your father, a monolith, in a room full of mortal men. 

“They marry in neither of our nations.”

Said monolith states his solution with little qualm, even as the entourage of advisors and planners emit a low gasp at your father’s suggestion and your own head snaps to him in earnest—beyond curious. It’s not an unheard of solution, but certainly a drastic one considering the company currently kept.   

Your father bypasses the general din of unease with little more than a wave of his hand. 

“If we cannot come to an agreement about either location, we shall find another means of compromise. Hence the idea. I believe I have sourced an appropriate and fair opportunity for this and I hope—” In perfect timing, a knock resounds throughout the office. The door behind your father being the spotted culprit. He turns towards it with comical eagerness, practically dancing on his feet. “Ah, right on time!”

He approaches the door with a giddiness that is hardly seen within a negotiation room— as though his victory lies behind the wooden divide. His trump card ready for presentation, willing to wipe the room and render everyone speechless. 

There is much to admire about your father, but his ability to forgo proprietary notions in business meetings will certainly always be a top quality. It never fails to pull the corners of your lips, much like it currently does. A small smile crossing your face despite the horrendous nature of the planning so far, particularly when your father’s hanfu sways with his flippant movements. It is hard to deny that your father’s own excitement functions as a social contagion, your own interest beyond piqued. 

“I present the solution to our venue issue!” With his hand on the knob, your father delivers a grand smile to the room of waiting attendants and a pointed wink your way. Opening the door, he announces his winning deal with grandeur and delight. 

“Master Diluc Ragnvindr!”

Said interest shatters at the mere mention. 

There is great fortune in the fact that the name of the individual is equally as egregious to your Snezhnayan counterparts as it is to you— your startlement quickly concealed by the furious uproar of your future father-in-law and gasps of his entourage. 

A vision of red and black steps into the room, hardened boots deafening a hollow sound on the wooden floor as his presence fills the empty spaces of the room not contained by the shrieks of shock. 

You stare in angered amazement; Three months of stilted silence and lingering wounds have obscured the memory of his face into something more treacherous, vicious, and unkind. But, as he stands in the room affronted with the great upset that his arrival has caused, in a room filled with people, his eyes find yours in a split second. And they hold. 

You remember this face, even as your heart has tampered with recollection to protect you from the hurt, made him into something jagged and meaner. But you know this face, know the softness of his skin and the sharpness of his jaw; Dream of the breadth of his shoulders and the hauntingly beautiful warmth of his smile. 

You have gone a great deal of time without seeing him before—such is the nature of a long distance friendship. But, this time, Diluc Ragnvindr stands before you exactly as you remember him to be— eyes still the same burning shade, sharp and narrowed and able to pick apart a person with little more than a quick flick up and down. He is dressed as intimidatingly as he always does and the air that surrounds him is much the same as it always has been, and yet— there is something entirely different about him.

He is not the same man that stood in the dining room staunchly opposed to you, alight with anger and a furrowed brow that creases the delicacy of his even face. He is someone new altogether; A renewed vigor. A sense of determination.

Handsome. Frustratingly so.

You do not dare to take your eyes off him, even as anger simmers beneath you and the memories of your argument fill the silence. He does not move himself either; He lets himself be scrutinized and the object of ire. Not a new position for him to be in, but it is clear from the direction of his gaze that he lets himself be seen—unabashedly, unwaveringly by the entirety of the room—for you. 

A familiar language seems to speak in the meeting of your gazes. The words natural and inherent even in the gliding fit of anger. Bad habits finding themselves once more. 

It is your future father-in-law that shatters the charged gaze. 

“My, this is absolutely preposterous! You have invited a traitor to our familial conversations. He is not welcome here and I find your behavior to be most insulting to us and our great nation!” The Tsaverich patriarch boasts a face as red as jueyun chilis, his head shaking from side to side in search of validation in his entourage’s gaze. 

Your father placates, his hands held up in surrender. “Please, Tsaverich. Hear us, for just a moment. Master Diluc is not only one of Teyvat’s greatest businessmen, but he is an upstanding gentleman and friend. His late father was my dear companion, and Master Diluc has come to be his exact likeness. He has been a most trusted advisor and also a dear ally to my daughter. Let bygones be bygones in pursuit of our children’s future.”

Only then does Diluc tear his eyes from yours, meeting the gaze of Tsaverich and his son with a polite bow of his head that you imagine he swallowed a great amount of pride to do. 

It is only then can you finally exhale the breath you had not realized you were holding.

“I come only to offer a solution.” He says, low and even. Steadied, as if practiced. Sure, as though he truly believed the words he had said. “In favor of a friend.”

“Unbelievable.” Tsaverich mutters, and you can’t help but agree. 

You find it difficult to believe, relatively unfathomable. You were made acquainted with a man blistering in fury at the prospect of your marriage to a Tsaverich and here he stands offering a solution. 

Insult to injury, practically. A machination of divine intervention, surely, for only the gods would be so interested in seeing the mortals squirm with discomfort. 

“I offer a venue in Dawn Winery.” Diluc begins again, his hands folded behind his back and his stature erect and poised. Standing beside your father, he appears the very picture of an intimidating man. The spitting image of his father, with the same sense of honor. “The couple can hold the ceremony on our grounds with the full assistance of the manor’s staff and complimentary wine to celebrate the event.”

“No. The couple will be married in Snezhnaya and that is final!”

“I offer Mondstadt not as a means to usurp your desire, but to find a middle ground. Mondstadt is a friendly and fair nation, it holds allegiance to both families. The couple marries on neutral lands and the families avoid a generational war of resentment. It is a fair offer, Tsaverich.”

Whatever logic could be perceived at the suggestion at this moment is thoroughly clouded by the vindicating sulfur of rage. Tsaverich ignores Diluc entirely, his gaze and finger aimed directly at your father. “This is an insult to our very name. You could not be honorable enough to suggest it yourself, you had to be in cahoots with an enemy to our great nation—”

“Not an enemy. Just banned from entry.” Diluc clarifies stoically and, finally, you find reason to interject within the conversation. Albeit, involuntarily. A huff of laughter escapes your mouth, one that you quickly try to mask lest you fuel fires further. (Either, the branding fire of anger belonging to Tsaverich or the slow burning flame in the eyes of vermillion that are waiting, begging, for the catch of wind to breathe life into it. You wish to avoid both. A glance upward reveals that you’ve stoked one.

Familiar eyes flicker to yours again and a corner of his mouth is pulled upward. For only a second.)

“For heinous behavior!” Tsaverich bellows again, finger wagging in the air. 

Your father begins again, tone soothing. “Once more, I beg you to let things remain in the past—” 

Tsaverich points a finger accusingly at your father, “This is all very odd on your part, my good sir. Are you intending to sabotage this wedding?”

“Why don’t we defer to the couple for their opinions on the matter?” Your father says, quieting the murmurs of the room. Eyes fall quickly to Mikhail for answer but you feel the flaming burn of a particular pair land on you.

Mikhail seems startled that things have landed on him. A cold sweat seems to emerge upon his brow as his hands wring together. “Me?”

“Yes, you! Out with it, boy!”

Mikhail hesitates, his eyes bouncing from his father to the other members of his party. His mouth opens, his own thoughts and words coming to the forefront—the first to have ever graced the many convened sessions of wedding planning so far— before they disappear entirely at the closing of his mouth. His father bores a heinous glare into him and, briefly, you see the rest of your life in this moment. 

Set forever to be sat at a table on the discussions of your marriage between three people. You, Mikhail, and his father. It is a desolate image and, not for the first time since this all began, do you feel the bile of dread push up your throat. 

Finally, Mikhail decides to voice an opinion. “I-I believe my father is right.”

“That settles it!” Tsaverich begins quickly thereafter, his hand clapping his son’s shoulder so hard it jerks the boy forward. “The couple wishes to be married in their future nation. Let us put an end to this nonsense—”

“There are two people to be married and one of them has yet to speak.” Diluc’s tone is that familiar bite, the kind that was aimed at you three months ago. It is a gentlemanly gnash of his teeth, but his intent is verbose. Poisonous as he tears his deathly glare away from Tsaverich before finally falling onto you. 

Eyes softening, only then. 

“You have not spoken.” He says to you, gently. 

And you’ve never been one to need anyone to offer you the stage—you’re a negotiator, an Ambassador. You’ve learned how to command things when necessary. This is not Diluc being a savior, but instead, him being earnest—interested to know your position, determined to hear your thoughts. Which makes this all the more confusing.

He did not want to hear your opinion three months ago. Diluc was wholeheartedly, completely, and violently uninterested in any conversation surrounding arranged marriages— and yet, here he stands. Asking for your opinion on your own. 

You hate how easy it is to give it upon being asked by him.

“Forgive my silence,” You begin after a long beat. Sparing a glance to the number of people in the room, you compose yourself as quickly as you can. “I meant only to consider all positions before offering an opinion.”

“Heartily forgiven, my darling.” Your father beams, sweetly. “This is your wedding, you are allowed to do and ask as you please. Forgive us for forgetting that detail. Tell us, what are your thoughts?”

You nod, fingers fiddling with themselves as you find the correct words to tell. 

“It… is as Master Diluc says. Mondstadt is not only friendly territory for the two families that have conducted business there, but it is also my second home. Let us abide by a matter of principles. If venue is the object of contention, then I vote for the compromise.”

Tsaverich looks heartily annoyed by your words while your father beams a perfect picture of a proud man. Entirely too pleased to see that his plan has worked, thus far. You find your attention, however, drawn to someone else entirely.

Diluc stares at you as though fate were predicated on you entirely. 

And it is. The words are heavy coming from your mouth, an admitted desire at the revelation of your long held truth. It is breathy and uneven and the unearthing of truths that shatters the foundations of carefully built walls.  

“Let us begin a marriage with peace and trust. End the stalemate. I wish to be married on Dawn Winery.” 

He looks at you, a burning flame in his eyes. And for a moment you can see the unspoken language, you can hear the whisper of what he means to say ring in your ear.

Your father claps, its startling sound resounding throughout the room. 

“Well! There’s our answer! It is the bride’s big day after all, I believe we should defer to her wishes on this matter. Let’s put this down as a tentative idea. I will gather with Master Diluc to discuss more of the finer details of the venue, but for now let us all break for a much needed dinner.”

— 

He is quick to follow you, right on your heels as you lead a path from your father’s office into the upper pavilion. Past the lingering staff and into the seclusion of your own personal office where high windows overlook Liyue Harbor and the sun casts its setting hue into the room. The warmth of orange bathes the quaintness of your personal items in a settling glow. Your desk is filled with papers, and ledgers, and charming trinkets given to you over the years; Pictures of your family, a childhood dog, and even him, scattered on surfaces. The room is hardly fitting for the arena in which your emotions threaten to spill onto the man before you, but you suppose neither was a dining hall. 

You and Diluc certainly are aiming to have a knack for disagreements emboldened in the safety of personal spaces. 

“Is this your way of mocking me?” You turn quickly on your heels as soon as the doors to the office close. The question is pointedly aimed and his face contorts into a furrow.

“No, this isn’t that at all—”

“Then petty revenge, is it? A final ‘I told you so’? Even if my father did come to you for assistance, you should not have involved yourself—”

“He didn’t.” Diluc interrupts quickly. He holds his hand up in gesture and you notice briefly that in the duration of the walk back to your office, he has removed his gloves. They remain folded in his hands. “I offered to your father the Dawn Winery as a venue for your wedding.”

Your head pulls back, confusion etched on your brow. “...You offered?”

“Yes.”

You blink owlishly and despite the discomfort, Diluc has never stood more surely on his feet. “I do not understand. You oppose this wedding.”

“I do.”

“You said you did not wish to be involved.”

“I did.”

“Then why would you offer?”

The question does not catch him by surprise. It is one he knew would be asked and yet it still renders him quiet. All that which he had rehearsed, fortified as explanation when sleep evaded him and his attention waning as he rode horseback between the trail leading to Liyue, falls through at the moment of demand. He is speechless despite having much to say. 

The only words able to fall through his mouth at the sight of your furrowed gaze and waiting figure is: “I was a complete fool—“

“Of epic proportions.” You interject, and he nods absently. Deservedly.

“Yes. And, in my foolishness, I realized that I do not wish to be right. I care only to have you speak to me again. I was wrong to dismiss what was so important to you, and it was wrong of me to treat you so coldly. That is not how one treats their friends, and it certainly never should have been how I treated you, especially not when you had come to me for comfort.” He grips the gloves tightly in his hands, fingers wrenching over the leather material. If you look hard enough, you can see the blanching of his knuckles. “I was prideful, and angry, and that is my nature that I am ashamed I could not hide, even for you. But, I had to come. I had to see you.”

The space between you two—where he stands by the door and you by your desk—feels like the proverbial sea splitting apart lighthouses. Both of you, lamps circling and splitting through the fog, just barely missing alignment with one another. 

"I am not, nor will I ever be, proud of the man I was that night." He says and there is no shyness to his tone. He almost seems to grow taller, more emboldened where he stands, displaying his seriousness to the words he speaks. He means to make no mistake with his words. 

He stands before you replacing the man of rage you saw all those months ago with an apologetic one. Believing everything he says.

The hue of the setting sun wafts across his figure pristinely, softening the sharpness of the features that your angry mind made him out to be. The sculpted physique that has turned him from boy to man. An honorable man, always and still. 

The fortified walls of your sorrow crumble at the sight of him. Three months of built steel and rage crumbling in an instant and it is pathetic, and pitiful of you. Your beating heart tears at the sinews and seams as the truth confronts itself once more. You are and will always be in love with a man you cannot have. 

You will live your life in union with another, and still think of the tenderness of his gaze and the honesty of his words. Of his care for you. To cross a nation and offer his home in something that he despises, solely for the sake of an apology. For you.

For his friend.

You pull your gaze away, looking instead to the gold inlaid hourglass on your desk. You spin the object, more content to watch the sand spin than to look at the man before you. "I am not foolish enough to think that I am blameless in this disagreement. I cannot fault you entirely for your response. I knew it would draw forth an argument and still, I sought your counsel. And then, I ran when I was hurt by your feelings that were the fault of my actions. But, it was not your temper that hurt me."

The floorboards creak with the shuffling of his feet, his nerves once safely concealed by the steadiness of his figure suddenly betrayed by the squeaking wood. "Then…it was what I said?"

You sigh, sadly. "It was what you didn't say."

Diluc swallows, almost stuttering. "What... what did you want me to say?"

Your eyes are drawn to him, then. Something burns there, something that was burning once before in your father’s office. Your mouth opens and closes, hesitancy shuddering through you like a frigid chill. 

It comes forward, the truth, "...Diluc." You exhale it away, softly, before shaking your head. 

Diluc steps forward, crossing the sea and approaching the gravel of your shore. “No, no. Please. Tell me. I would like to be better. I would like to have my friend back.”

He takes your reticence to mean ways in which he can be a better comfort, a better friend in times of need. It isn't what you mean at all. You know what you wanted him to say, what you wished he would do. 

Sensing you pulling away further, Diluc begins again. “I… do not know how to express myself so freely like you. I do not know how to express myself so freely to you. But in that inability I realized that I was at risk of losing one of the most important people in my life. So, please, tell me how I can be better and I will.”

It would be pathetic to tell him that you had hoped that he would declare a love for you that he has never given an indication of. How stupid of you would it be to admit that the love you held for Diluc is not in the way that friends do, but something deeper, something more consuming.

“Maybe we are no longer meant to be friends. Maybe this was meant to happen.” You whisper. There is a tightness in your throat, a stone forming in the depths that your voice cannot overcome. “I am to be married soon and off to another nation. The nature of our friendship will surely change. Maybe this is for the best.”

Diluc steps forward again, a desperate hurry to his movements as he draws himself ever nearer. “I do not believe that. And I do not believe that you believe that.”

“I cannot live with a crumbling friendship, Diluc. Let us end it, be done with it. This is too big of an obstacle, we cannot be as we once were.”

In a turn of efforts, it is Diluc then who is forcing himself into your eyesight. A sharp contrast to months ago when you were the one pleading to be seen by his avoiding gaze. He bends his head down, boring his eyes into yours as you try to lean away. “You mean to tell me that only I have lived in the misery of our silence for these past three months?”

And you want to lie, if only to further avoid the ache and the drawing out of this, but you cannot. Your heart does not allow it. Not with him. 

“No.” The sharp threat of tears line your eyes. Diluc’s hands move quickly. They cast his gloves onto the surface of your desk and rest on the sides of your arms, gathering you into his hold. Squeezing you softly. 

“You cannot live with a crumbling friendship, but I will never be able to live without you. Your company, your voice, just thinking of you keeps me sane. My words cannot be easily forgotten, I know, but I beg you, come back. Be angry at me, treat me coldly, I do not care. So long as you are here. I cannot live without my friend.”

“But can you live with a friend who has made a decision that you disapprove of?”

Slow moving and rolling fog of silence clutters the room. Diluc swallows. The answer is obvious in the wavering of his stare, in the tightening of his hands on your arms. You wait. 

His voice is a low and a desperate plea. “Do not marry him—”

“Diluc—” 

He remains determined. Words picking up in speed, in desperation.

“You deserve more than him. You deserve someone who knows you like I do, knows your heart—not your fortune. You deserve to be in a marriage that is happy, and true, and of your choice—”

“Some people are not meant to marry for love. Some concessions must be made. And that is my choice!” You argue, again. Shaking your vehemently. His hold on you remains fixed and in this battle you realize that his face has become so much more closer to yours. 

“You can. We can.” He insists. “Make a choice with all facts presented before you.”

“I have—”

“Marry me.”

Your mouth widens, falling open and shut in a foolish manner. Your heart stops beating altogether. “...What?”

It is only then that he seems to realize what he has said. It flashes across his face in a masterful play of emotions. Surprise, fear, disbelief all replaced soon thereafter with a blazing determination. 

It can no longer be denied. Diluc has run from this for too long. Words fall before he can catch them, truth and the resounding levity taking over him. His hands slowly move from grasping onto your arms, to cupping the underside of your jaw. Holding, gently, within his palms.

“I raged against the imposition of an arranged marriage because it forced me to confront the fact that I am a coward in not making my affections for you known. Yearning for your presence, your heart, your mind in every waking hour and yet having to discuss your future with another… A future without me. I could not bear it and so I was reduced to a child. Helpless, and angry, and afraid to lose you. But it has only pushed you away, because that is what I know best.”

Tendrils of loose hair fall onto his face, painting the perfect image of raw sincerity. He’s beautiful and it crumbles the remaining walls of your heart. “Three months without you have been agony. I wake thinking of you, I sleep dreaming of how you are. I would rather be near you than to ever be right about something, again. And I must tell you that I have been in love with you since I first saw you on your father’s ship all those years ago.” 

His thumb sweeps against your chin, sweetly and you find your own hands being drawn to grabbing onto his wrists. He continues, his head dropping and finally tearing from your gaze, “I love you enough to hope for the return of your affections, but I will love you enough to put your happiness above my own. Even if your final decision is to marry him, with all the facts.”

You breathe out, disbelief and incredulity stiliting your words.

“Diluc, I don’t want this if you feel as though this is your last obligated effort to save me from something. I don’t want this if you don’t feel this.”

He shakes his head vehemently. Dispelling your thoughts before it could even take flight. “No. It should have been my first effort. I should have told you my feelings long ago. But, I hadn’t thought it possible. And, I was blinded by rage.” A humorless laugh tumbles out of his mouth, “Kaeya and Adelinde were quick to inform me otherwise.”

It is your turn to cup his face, his face falling gently into the touch of your palms. “You are everything to me, Diluc, and have been for so long. How could I not be affectionate for you?”

He shrugs, “Because I am prideful, and stubborn, and you deserve… much more than that.”

“You say that as if I am perfect.”

“To me, you are.” He says quickly. 

“I am not. Our disagreement made each of our faults abundantly clear.” You insist.

“You are to me.” He says again, resolutely. “Even your faults are everything good. You are intelligent, kind, and beautiful and… the good things of me, what little there are, are because of you.” 

His hands, strong and ungloved, calloused from years of labor yet soft to the touch, grab onto yours, then. Gently holding your palms to his, fitting together as though they were always meant to. He brings your hand to his lips, a gentle kiss to the surface as he utters his words. “And I do not deserve your forgiveness, but… if you will allow me to try, I will spend every waking moment of this life and the next hundred, earning it.”

And it is everything you had hoped and more. Eyes of vermillion boring into yours earnestly as he descends onto one knee and procures a ring. A single stone of cor lapis shining in the center of an embezzled design.

“If you will have me.” 

Epilogue: Spring

It is finally accepted, the idea that was presented and discussed so feverishly once before. A ceremony will be conducted at Dawn Winery—with complimentary wine and the assistance of the full staff, as was promised. Which, fortunately enough, didn’t take much negotiation this time around, further doubling your father’s excitement. His sense of propriety and restraint was thrown out the window the moment you informed him of the change in plans. 

Or rather, the change in groom.

No event could be more worthy of grandiosity than this. His daughter’s wedding— the long awaited union to the man they had all hoped it would be; had prayed to the gods to enact their divinity in making it happen. And in their blessed favor, it had finally come true. 

Your father gleefully informed the Tsaverich family of the broken arrangement while shoving a drafted wedding invitation into their hands — one that crudely scratched off the Tsaverich’s last name beside yours and messily wrote ‘Ragnvindr’ atop of the strikethrough— and shouted from the rooftops in Liyue Harbor of the great news.

His beloved daughter was marrying the love of her life!

You had been more than content to have a small affair, and Diluc had been at peace to do as you pleased, but when your father in his great glory had appealed to your senses and emphasized how important it was to honor the union of your families and their respective nations—how great of a duty it was to respect the ancestral lines!— you both had acquiesced with little issue. 

It would end the same whether the ceremony was performed in the great peaks of Mount Hulao or in the ravines of Windrise, whether there were two hundred guests or two people.

You would be married to Diluc, and he to you.

(And Diluc—

Poor Diluc who found himself at wit’s end with how elated is, who has found himself lost for words despite never trying to speak. A kiss from you, of which have they become more frequent these days, quells the simmering rage and forges a new fire in him; One of great joy, of great desire that he hadn’t even thought possible.

Poor Diluc who lays beside you on your shared bed in the manor as you peruse a booklet of different colors for table linen, offering a sweet yet lazy opinion whenever you ask for it, his fingers trailing slowly up the curve of your spine. Exposed skin the fodder for his eager touch, brushing over splotches of red, revealed only after the intimate moment of the night prior. 

—realizes rather latently and with great awe that Adelinde was right.)

“This is a good look for you, my boy.” Your father had told him when it was just the two of them. You, having been stolen away by Adelinde and a few older women of your family to plan, plan, plan!, just a few moments prior. 

Diluc raises a brow. “Hm?”

“Happiness. It does wonders for a man.” Your father says simply, patting Diluc on the shoulder, “My dear late friend would be proud of the man his son came to be.”

It’s a warmth he hadn’t realized he was waiting to hear. An affirmation he hadn’t realized he wanted. It strikes him rather deep in his chest. Has his throat closing and a sharp prickling irritating the corner of his eyes.

That is until your father, for all his eccentricities, pushes the matter further. 

“He would, however, be humiliated to know that he now owes me ten-thousand mora.”

“Ten-thousand?” Diluc questions after swallowing the ball in his throat. “What for?”

“I wanted to formalize your union when you were children but your father insisted that you both would eventually find your way. Ah, the scruples of men from the land of contracts and freedom. We bet the amount on it.”

Diluc pauses, “Forgive me, sir, but it sounds as though you owe my father. We made the decision on our own accord.”

Your father hums, a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re right. It does sound that way. But it would not have happened without a little push.” 

Your father gives a knowing glance to Diluc, patting him lovingly on the shoulder.  Diluc huffs a mirthless breath, realization falling onto him. 

"She was never going to marry Tsaverich."

"Archons above, no. Me? Tied to that man? Puh. I thought she was going to finally confront her ‘secret’ feelings when I informed her of the need to decide. Or, that you would have made your sentiments known when she brought that wretched boy to you as a candidate. But, you two have always been a stubborn pair, so I was hardly surprised when she came home early slamming doors. I decided to take matters into my own hands and push. With a little help from some friends, of course." 

Diluc huffs a breathless laugh. Speechless. Curious how he hadn’t seen the two strategically placed agents in Kaeya and Adelinde before. “Ten-thousand, it is. I don’t suppose you have a preference on cash or check?”

Your father laughs heartily, “Keep it. Invest it in my grandchildren. Now go, your bride is calling you.”

You are married, twice, in the Spring. With the sun setting on the horizons and the cranes returning to the land from their winter migrations, blessing your union with their homecomings. 

It’s a beautiful event, one that habitants of Liyue and Mondstadt are sure to discuss for the rest of their lives. Unable to forget the melodious romantic hymns of a joyful bard, and the profound prose of a well-versed director who insisted that this was the most harmonious wedding he had ever seen.

Now, that life has settled and the routine has become normal— your life being lived between Liyue and Mondstadt, in the warmth of the manor that was always yours and in the arms of the man that always belonged to you—when bar attendants jokingly ask Diluc these days how’s that friend of yours?

He tells them the truth with a roll of his eyes and a small smile.

“My wife is very happy.”

And when the manor is soon thereafter honored to welcome another guest to the home the following Spring—a swaddled bundle of joy with the scarlet hair of her father and the warm eyes of her mother that the gaggle that is your conjoined families can’t keep their hands off of— 

Well, Diluc is all too pleased to admit how happy he is, too.

a/n: if you made it here, thank you. i have been working on this fic for four years now. its taken up so much of my heart and space. kind of in disbelief that its finished.

[lavenderstobins]

Eddie’s in danger.

He knows he’s in danger because there is a four year old beelining for him, trying very hard to appear like she’s not rapidly advancing towards him.

When Josie finally stops, she’s right in front of him.

He has no idea what might’ve spurred this. Best to play it safe. “Hey, kiddo.”

Josie blinks innocently at him. “You broked Steve’s mug.”

Shit. The mug. It had been an accident—he’d balanced it too precariously when he’d been doing the dishes and it had slipped. They have plenty of mugs so it shouldn’t have been an issue, except… it was Steve’s lucky mug.

Steve loves that mug. He always drinks out of it if he needs the good luck that day and swears that it never fails him. If he sees it has broken, he’d take it as a sign of, like, the worst luck ever, and that would be the end of that.

The break had been clean, at least. The pieces are currently hidden away in a shoebox until he has time to get the glue to fix it. It’ll be an easy enough fix, so Steve should be none-the-wiser.

Except.

“The luck mug,” Josie continues, presumably trying to raise an eyebrow but instead raising both of her eyebrows high up her forehead. It takes everything inside him not to snort at the sight.

“I’m fixing it,” he replies. Maybe this can be a lesson about white lies, or doing good, or something. There’s probably a lesson here, right? “Steve won’t know it ever broke.”

Josie blinks up at him again. “Be shame if he did.”

Eddie’s smile fades. “What?”

“Be shame if Steve knew you broked his mug,” she repeats, fixing him with a stare that’s oddly reminiscent of Erica.

Is he… is he being blackmailed by a child?

“Josie,” he starts, leaning forward so that they’re eye-to-eye and taking on a desperate tone. “You can’t tell Steve, okay? Nobody can know about the broken mug.”

She sighs heavily. It would be comical if not for the way his heartbeat has increased.

“I know,” she says, shaking her head. “But maybe I not know.”

“Don’t know,” he corrects, then squints. “What do you mean?”

“I know you broked his mug, Deedee.” Her tone is serious. “For Baby Sapphire, I not know. Baby Sapphire make it go—” She mimes an explosion with her hands, puffing out her cheeks. “Bye-bye.”

“Baby— What?”

Josie pulls out a crumpled catalogue page out of her pocket and holds it out. On it, in the corner, is a small, bug-eyed, blue plastic horse labelled Baby Sapphire. It’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. The nose isn’t even long enough for the horse to breathe. It’s like the pug of ponies.

Eddie looks up, meeting Josie’s pointed stare. It’s a battle he knows he’s already lost.

“Not a word,” he instructs, tucking the paper into his pocket. Josie brightens, beaming up at him, then skips away, merry as ever.

This is his life now. Blackmailed by a preschooler.

—

“Did you know Josie’s resorted to blackmail now?” Eddie says offhandedly. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter as Steve chops carrots, watching Josie play with her new toy from his view of the living room doorway.

“Earlier than I expected, honestly,” Steve says, not looking up. “What did she have on you?”

“Hmm? Oh, uh, not on me.” Eddie laughs, shaking his head. “I watched her extort Mike earlier.”

Steve glances at him, frowning. “Mike’s been out of Hawkins for two days.”

Fuck.

“I think Robin’s calling for me, actually.” Eddie slides off the counter, backing away as Steve’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “I’d love to continue this conversation, but, duty calls.”

“Robin’s out with Max!” Steve calls as Eddie makes a hasty retreat to the living room. “You’re fooling nobody, babe!”

Josie looks up as Eddie closes the door behind him, ugly horse in hand. Moments later, Steve opens the door again, one hand on his hip.

“What did you do?” He swivels from Eddie to Josie. “Josie, sweetie, what did Deedee do?”

Eddie stares at Josie, practically feeling the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Josie shrugs, still playing. “I no know.”

He’s filled with relief. Steve doesn’t look convinced.

“Are you sure?” he presses. “It’s important to tell the truth, Josie.”

She stops, then, squinting up at him. “Always?”

“Always,” Steve confirms.

“Like when you said Bel eated Mama’s food but it was you?”

Steve falters, mouth falling open. A huge grin spreads across Eddie’s face.

“You what?” Eddie asks delightedly. “Stevie, you didn’t blame our cat for eating Robin’s leftovers!”

“Okay, you know what?” Steve holds his hands up in surrender, taking a step back. “Keep your secrets. Let’s not ask questions anymore.”

Eddie’s already laughing, though. “Steve, Rob almost took Bel to the vet because she thought she’d eaten fried rice.”

“I know!”

“And you offered to drive her there!”

“I know!”

—

[now on ao3]

[sunsetchicane]

I love your post card series! Could I request Oscar with rodeo reader where they’re penpals and Oscar subscribes to the cowboy channel (that’s actually what it’s called) to watch his penpal and rodeo reader starts to watch f1 and then she gets invited to Austin?

love letters [OP81]

oscar piastri x fem!barrel racer!reader [from southern US]

word count: 4.2k

summary: The one where you meet a certain racing driver as you're both starting your careers and you decide to keep in touch.

warnings: fluff, fluff, oh and a little more fluff! angst maybe if you squint and tilt your head

author's note: To my dearest anon, this is MY love letter to YOU. Thank you for requesting this and letting me write about the rodeo; it brought me back to when I was just a little girl and was oddly healing?? Sorry for being a sap lol! I hope this is to your liking :) Feedback, comments, reposts, and likes are always appreciated!!! Peace and love babes. [xoxo elle]

“Speed. Agility. Determination. This barrel racing pair is one for the ages and the crowd here today knows it,” Janie Johnson says, a bright smile on her face while she stares down the barrel of the camera.

She turns her attention over shoulder when the crowd’s cheers hit a crescendo. You’ve just rode out into the arena, the American flag streaming by your side while you gallop around. Chants and cheers of your name fly from the mouths of onlookers, swallowing everything into a thunderous roar. For this moment, the entire world is yours. The other top riders follow you out into the dirt of the arena, hands waving and smiles flashing. There’s nothing quite like being at the rodeo. 

“And there she is, our winner today and her beautiful horse, Sweet Tea,” Janie says, unable to look away from the way you and your horse run the perimeter. You take your time, soaking up the glory of another win. 

You fly through your post-race duties, one thought constant in your mind: you have to write your letter to Oscar. It’s sort of a silly tradition, but you’ve been doing it for ages. After a rodeo weekend or a race weekend for him, you both would write each other a letter explaining everything in careful detail. You loved it. Even though the information about the rodeo and the race would be released ages before the letters arrived in your respective mailboxes, it was still amazing to hear about things from his perspective and explain your’s to him.

So, once everything is loaded up and you’re back on the road, you lean yourself back in your seat with a pen and pad of paper in your lap trying to put everything you’re feeling into words. Though your sports were different in a lot of ways, there were similarities that pulled the two of you together. The pressure, the adrenaline, the rush of a win. It’s what made you two so close even though there were vast oceans separating you. 

As you write, you can’t help but reminisce on the first time you ever wrote one of these letters. It was years ago, just as you started pro barrel racing. It was a rodeo early in the season. You were dressed and ready for your pool. Sweet Tea was edgy and nervous and so were you. You were the rookie pair that year, just a five year old horse and an 18 year old jockey. You remember that you felt way in over your head that day as you watched the vets take on the arena. 

To ease both of your nerves, you led Sweet Tea on a walk. Whispering to her with your head low, you didn’t even notice the group walk up in front of you. The voice of your manager made you tip your head up, looking at him under the brim of your hat. He smiled at you and introduced you to a group of young, thin, pale looking boys. He explained that they were from a Formula 3 team called Prema. You’d never heard of Formula anything before.

Your manager led the group of boys away after some small talk. They were nice enough, but you didn’t need any distractions. Just as the last of the boys followed your manager to your stalls, you thought you were free to go about walking Sweet Tea again.

“What’s your horse's name?” An unfamiliar voice with an unfamiliar accent said. You don’t get much for foreign accents at the rodeo, so it took you by surprise. Your eyes met his brown ones. His brown hair was cut short on the sides and the top drooped down over his forehead. He donned a white t-shirt that displayed the word “PREMA” in red, coupled with a pair of blue jeans and sneakers. It was the first of the few times that you’d seen Oscar Piastri in person. The memory lives clear and bright in your mind.

“Sweet Tea,” you answered him in a clipped voice. You were still uppity about your impending race and Oscar was quickly becoming a distraction. 

“Sweet Tea,” he echoed while taking a few steps closer. Tightening your grip on her reins, you waited for her to spook. 

“Wait-” you began to warn Oscar as he crept in closer. But you were swiftly cut off when all Sweet Tea did was bray and huff at him. You were nothing short of shocked. She rarely took to anyone, but she seemed to immediately like him. It made you curious.

“You can pet her, if you want,” you encouraged him while continuing to gauge Sweet’s reaction. Together, the two of you stroked the soft brown of her coat. You could tell that her mood was suddenly a lot sunnier, the moodiness exiting her body as you and Oscar brushed your hands over her.

“What’s your name?” you asked after a while. 

“Oscar,” he replied, his eyes darting up to meet yours over Sweet Tea’s head. For a moment, you studied his face. He looked perfectly calm, peaceful even, in the intense atmosphere that surrounded you. It didn’t surprise you that Oscar’s tranquil nature helped to set Sweet’s nerves at ease. His demeanor was even helping you. 

“She likes you,” you said, giving him a small smile while you dragged your hand over your horse’s nose.

“I hope so,” he said, his eyes flicking from you to Sweet and then back up. 

Everything after that was history.

You and Sweet Tea ran better than you ever had, placing in the top three. It was your best result yet and set you up for success for the rest of the weekend. You saw Oscar every day of the rodeo. He would stop by to say hello to you and Sweet Tea while you were prepping for a race or catch you after your pool. Awkward teenage conversation fell away quickly, giving way to long, easy conversations. 

On Sunday, you and Sweet Tea took it all. It was a huge payday which would boost the rest of your season. You were on cloud nine. Oscar walked with you while you led your horse back to the trailer. Back and forth you talked about the race and how it felt. You were so glad to have someone to talk to about all this. You used to talk to your grandpa about everything, dissecting the race and your rides with him. He’s the one who taught you how to race. But, he died shortly before the season started. He never got to watch you race at this level and you didn’t have him to talk to anymore.

“Sorry, I’m rambling,” you said while turning away and adjusting your hat, suddenly embarrassed at yourself. Oscar wasn’t a rodeo kid. He probably didn’t care how tight your turns around the barrels were or how responsive Sweet was today. 

“No,” he said, quickly cutting you off. “It’s alright. I like to listen.”

Not convinced, you stayed silent.

“It sounds a lot like how I feel when I race, you know. So, I get it,” he admitted then, his shoulders coming up into a shrug. You eyed him from under your hat, glad for the way the wide brim covered most of your face.

“I used to talk to my grandpa about this stuff,” the words tumbled from your mouth before you could stop them. If it would have been anyone else, you would have died from embarrassment. But, Oscar just blinked at you and waited patiently for you to elaborate.

“You remind me of him,” as you said it, you want to punch yourself in the face. You really went two embarrassing moments for two that day.

“Thank you?” he said, a small chuckle coating his words. He smiled at you so warmly that it thawed the icy shame in your chest slightly. 

“I just mean that,” you tried to salvage what you thought was meant to be a compliment but just came out really weird. “You’re a good listener, like him.”

Oscar nodded, his small smile still on his lips. His perpetually tired-looking eyes were soft and kind while he watched you walk your horse. You believe that it was in that moment that you became friends, good friends.

Coming up on your trailer, you slowed your pace, wanting to prolong your last moments with your new friend. Feelings that had been growing steadily over the weekend were at their peak, downing you in an intense feeling of longing. If you could do anything to never let him leave your side ever again, you would do it. In a heartbeat. In the span of just a few days, you’d grown so close that it felt like there’d never been a time where you didn’t know him. Friendly affection wasn’t an apt description of what passed between the two of you. A four letter word danced around in your teenage mind. But you couldn’t say that to him. You’d only known him for 72 hours. 

“We leave tonight,” Oscar said then, shoving the toe of his shoe into the grass. You leaned into Sweet Tea, stroking her neck and avoiding looking at your brand new best friend–your brand new obsession. Emotion roared like a tide inside of you, threatening to spill out from your eyes in tears and from your mouth in a confession. 

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?” your voice was thick with your southern accent. It always got heavier when you were emotional.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. Your eyes flicked to his then, taking in the soft look that graced his features. He seemed so sure of his words. It placed a little peace in you to know that he was just as intent on not letting go of the relationship you’d built as you were.

“Can I write to you?” you asked suddenly, not sure why this is the way you wanted to keep in contact with him. There was something inside of you that longed to write to him. Handwritten letters seemed deeply personal, intentional, everything that you wanted to convey to him. 

“Write…like letters?” he asked, his small smile turning into an amused grin. Instead of becoming embarrassed at your suggestion, you held firm. Nodding at his question, you sent him a small smile. He shook his head a little and asked for your phone. You handed it to him and he typed in his contact, only filling out the address line and his name. 

Once your phone was back in your possession, he said a goodbye to Sweet Tea while stroking her nose lovingly. She whinnied at his touch, tossing her head affectionately. Then he turned his attention to you, he stepped closer than he ever had. Invading your air, you thought he might kiss you. Your heart stopped for a moment, teenage love sending sparks across your eyes. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you, giving you a tight squeeze. Your arms slung easily over his shoulders, holding him close. You relished the feeling of his chest against yours, his breath against the back of your neck. 

That’s the feeling that you’ve held onto over the last four years. It’s the feeling you hold close on lonely nights on the road. It’s the feeling you remember every time you pen a letter to your closest friend, wishing that you could’ve had the chance to be something more.

Over the years you’ve kept up with Formula racing, just for the sake of watching Oscar. Though, you’ve started to become quite the fan. Especially now, as Oscar is tearing it up for McLaren. He’s had an exceptional season. In his faithful letters, he writes in his subdued way about how thrilled he is about this season. His humility never fails to make you smile. It’s one of the things that makes him Oscar. 

He also writes about watching you on the Cowboy Channel whenever he can. You’re always surprised and warmed when he includes details of your race or compliments your skills. His words, though concise, are eloquent in their own way. Whenever you read his letters, you can hear his voice in your head.

So, as you wrap up your letter, you’re already anticipating his response. Your eyes drift to the window once you’ve tucked everything away. The familiar rolling fields of perfectly parallel rows of crops lull you into a sleepy trance. Dreams of seeing Oscar again flood your mind when your eyes slide closed and fall comfortably asleep.

The final turn into your gravel driveway pulls you from your nap. You’d slept for nearly the entire drive. You’re warm from sleep, your eyes still heavy but your body feeling refreshed after a long weekend. 

You and your small team unload the horses and the equipment quickly, desperate to return to your respective homes for a meal and your own bed. There’s nothing quite like returning to the ranch after a rodeo weekend. As you sling up your last saddle, you wonder if Oscar feels that way about home after a race weekend. You make a mental note to ask him about it in your next letter.

Before heading into your home, you run out to the mailbox and place your letter in it. Flipping the red flag of your mailbox up and walking away, you’re already anxiously awaiting his response. 

Instead of dwelling on your letter and Oscar, which will definitely send you into an anxious tizzy, you decide to catch up on a couple of work related things to keep yourself distracted. Snuggled cozily into your bed after a long shower, you pull out your laptop and open your email. There are a dozen different unread emails from rodeo crews, journalists, and ranch staff. However, one unfamiliar sender catches your eye.

It’s from McLaren.

Ignoring everything else for the moment being, you rush to open the email. Rarely have you received emails from the McLaren F1 team. Every once in a while, they send you PR gifts or things of the like because of your connection with Oscar. But this one looks different. It’s more personal than that.

When your eyes read the contents of the document attached to the email, you nearly fall off your bed. It’s an official invitation from the McLaren team to join them as a guest for the Grand Prix in Austin the following week. Slack jawed, you mindlessly follow the directions on how to accept the offer. Nothing matters right now except for this.

After four years, you’re finally going to see Oscar again.

—

Walking onto the Paddock, you feel oddly at home. The hustle and bustle of a race weekend reminds you of your weekends at the rodeo. Team members and journalists and officials stream around you, everyone hellbent and on a mission. You’re swallowed into the excitement of it all, fading into just another body in the masses. It brings you peace that you weren’t sure you were going to find here. 

“Miss?” a voice says from just behind you. Narrowing your attention to them, you turn around quickly. A small girl with bright blonde hair sends you a quick smile. She’s adorned with the bright papaya of McLaren. Her eyes drag from your hat-covered head to your boot-clad feet. Your light colored Wranglers hug your curves and flair out over your boots. A matching blazer covers your shoulders and the white button-up with the first few buttons undone. The look is complete by a dark orange, silk bandana tied loosely to one of your belt loops. You know you look like the epitome of country, but it was all intentional. 

The McLaren employee confirms who you are before offering to lead you to the garage. Swallowing hard, you trail behind her, cutting your way through the sea of people. Nerves dance around in your stomach. You feel like you’re back on top of Sweet Tea the day you met Oscar, wide-eyed and anxious as all get out. But there’s something deeper that keeps you moving, a desire–a need–to see Oscar again. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of for years. 

Every letter has been in preparation for this moment. Every word you’ve ever written to him saying the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say all those years ago. For the past week you’ve been rehearsing exactly how you’re going to tell the love of your life that you’ve fallen for him, that you’ve loved him since you were just 18. There’s nothing that could stop you, not even the fear of rejection. Four years of longing have put you in indescribable agony. There has to be some sort of resolve, good, bad, or otherwise. Today is the day that you’re going to share the one secret that you’ve ever kept from him. 

The blonde employee, Julia, leads you into the garage and begins introducing you to the team. Smiling and snapping photos with some people, you lose count of how many names you’re told and hands you shake. Not that you’re really trying to keep track, your mind being pulled in a different direction. Desperately, your eyes scan the small garage for the only face that really matters. 

You’re in the middle of discussing your latest race with one of the engineers when some movement from the back of the garage steals away your attention. A mop of brown hair and a dashing smile that you’d never forget comes into view. He’s rounding the car, chatting with his engineers and crew while laughing. He’s dressed in his race suit, the arms tied around his waist and showing off his skin tight fireproofs. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him. The rest of the world fades into a blur while your living, breathing dream shimmers like a mirage in front of you. 

Finally, finally, he turns around with the soft smile that you’ve missed so much on his face. From across the garage, over the massive car between you, you lock eyes. Tears spring to your eyes as his jaw goes slack. You barely have time to blink or breathe before he jerks into action. He’s rounding the car in a hurry, whispering rushed apologies as he gently shoves people out of his way. You break away from your conversation with an ‘excuse me,’ meeting Oscar halfway.

The force of his hug knocks your hat clear off your head, but you hardly notice as he sweeps you up off the floor and into his arms. His arms, which are much larger than you remember, strangle you into the tightest hug you’ve ever experienced. His face presses roughly into the crook of your neck. Smiling like a fool, you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, never wanting to let go. 

When he finally sets you back down, you pull only one hand away to wipe furiously at the tears that have slipped out of your eyes. Sniffing, you laugh at what a mess you’ve become. But when you look up to find Oscar’s tear rimmed eyes and bright smile, you can’t help but choke on another sob.

His hands are still on your waist while you try to sort yourself out. Eyes shining, you take him in fully. He’s so grown. He’s tall and broad and all man. Except for his eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes, and his boyish smile. Those two things have stayed the same. Looking at them now, it’s like your past and your future have collided and coalesced into one man. Sighing, you shove him playfully in the chest.

“When did you go and get all grown up?” you say, your voice thick with emotion. He captures your hand on his chest, taking it into his own. With his fingers wrapped around yours, you feel perfectly at home. A slight blush has crept into his cheeks, painting a soft rose across his ivory skin. Your chest squeezes at the sight.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says quietly while reaching down to pick up your hat. Playfully, he shoves it back onto your head with a small smile. 

For a couple of comfortable seconds, you just stand there in each other’s presence. Soaking in everything he is, you bask in the moment. He’s here with you. Finally. And the way he’s looking at you with those brilliant brown eyes makes you feel like not a day has passed since he left. The feeling that was born inside of you when you were 18, is reborn with double the intensity. Your love for the man in front of you is overflowing; it’s drowning you.

“Do you have a minute?” you ask after a while, your eyes darting around to the crowd around you. Oscar snaps back into reality with you, following your gaze to the stray looks you’ve been getting. Nodding, he leads you by the hand back to his driver’s room. 

It’s a tiny space, just big enough for a couch and a small closet. But it’s private enough to have the conversation you’ve been equally needing and dreading. Oscar sits next to you on the tiny couch, his side pressed into yours. You can’t tell if the contact makes you more nervous or sets you at ease. For as many times as you’ve thought about and planned for this moment, nothing could have prepared you for the real thing.

Fiddling nervously with the hem of your bandana, you avoid looking your friend in the eyes. But, you can feel him staring at you. Suddenly, a large hand closes around both of yours, causing you to cease your fidgeting. Turning your eyes to his, you take in the crease between his brows and the small frown that pulls at the corners of his lips.

“Is everything alri-” he begins but you’re quick to cut him off. 

“Ah, hell,” you mumble quickly, making a knee jerk decision.

With both hands you grab him by the neck and yank his face to yours. His head knocks your hat back on your head, giving you enough space to kiss him. Pressing your unmoving lips to his, you hold him there in desperation. 

So much for the carefully crafted speech that you’ve spent four years on. 

For a couple heart wrenching seconds, he doesn’t move. He’s gone completely still under your hands, his lips slightly parted in shock. Shame pools low in your stomach as you begin to pull away. But your heartbreak lasts only a split second before his hand is on the back of your neck, keeping you in place while he bursts into action.

His kiss is just as desperate as you feel. Pressing into each other with all the passion you’ve been harboring for four years, you’re both consumed by the heat of the moment. Your head swims as his lips glide against yours, his tongue skimming over your bottom lip before pressing deeper. 

His free hand reaches out, grabbing your knee to haul you onto his lap. Sliding home over his muscular thighs, you sigh into his mouth. Nothing has ever felt more right. Perfection doesn’t do Oscar justice. He’s everything. 

He holds your waist tight between his large hands while your kiss slows down. Lazily, you suck at his bottom lip while he chases you backward. Once again his chest is on yours, your memory flicking back to the last time you saw him. You knew then that you were his, and he was yours. Nothing could keep you apart, especially not now. 

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips, your breath hot and voice soft. You’d never been one to beat around the bush; so why even try when it matters most?

The payoff is better than you could have ever hoped. Oscar doesn’t waste a second before both of his hands cup either side of your face, holding a searing kiss to your lips. He’s firm but kind. He’s Oscar.

“I love you,” he replies breathlessly after a couple seconds.

Your heart soars, leaving your soul in outer space. Seeing stars, you lean your forehead against his, a small laugh bubbling from your chest. Oscar chuckles with you, his chest rumbling under your hands. Pulling back slightly, you take your time to just look at him. Soft brown eyes meet yours and there’s a look there that you know you mirror with your own gaze. Affection, longing, love.

“I had this whole speech ready, you know,” you accuse while adjusting your hat on your head. Oscar’s mouth falls open slightly, faux offense coming over his features.

“You’re the one who kissed me!” he accuses right back. “I was all prepared, too. But someone was just over eager to jump my bones.”

Pinching his side playfully, you watch gleefully as he yelps. Shushing him quietly, you place a chaste kiss on his lips. Silently, an agreement that this was far better than any words you could have said passes between you.

Shaking his head, he settles his arms around your waist and smiles despite himself. With callused fingers, you trace constellations between his freckles. Your heart sings and you wonder how you were ever able to stand being away from him. With Oscar next to you, with his breath on your face, and with his smile for just you, you know that this is it for you.

Four years have been spent dreaming of him. Now, the rest of your life will be spent dreaming with him.

[elsa-fogen]

Oh! Image if the first time Alastor and Rosie met, he confused her for his mom

Like he only sees her from behind at first and having been missing his mom for so long can't help but run up to her like a little kid

Only to then be met with eyes reminiscent of the midnight sky, darkened pitchers, voids unlike any

It's his first time in hell, he has not acclimated, involuntary, it fills him with dread. Her sharp smile isn't helping either. Still though, there is a kindness in her demeanor that oddly enough puts him at ease some

(I just thought it cute if she reminded him of his mom and having not seen mom in a while, mistook the two. They are in hell after all and it seems most get some changes when falling down)

UWUWUWUWUAWUWAAAAAA

This is so sad 😭😭😭 this is not my hedcanon but

Alastor knew that his mother can't be here, she was too pure to end up in this place, but still... part of him wanted to see her here so desperately, no wonder he mistook her with this lady. Later he questioned himself, how he could even for a second thought that he would meet his mother there, and he decided that he doesn't want to meet her ever again... he wouldn't bear to see disappointment and sorrow on her face.

bonus

yeah... i ws almost killed while i was drawing this, so i hope yall will be happy

[sm-baby]

I think the funniest thing to do with the siblings is just lie actually as I was typing this could you imagine the siblings reminiscing on stuff that never happened and it's canon the circus members already have some form of memory loss/amnesia so how alienating or crazy they must feel that while these siblings are npcs and "aren't real" that they have lives with stories of you both that never happened and they know this, you know this, but it's kind of like playing house/pretend or improv and I'm just imagining one of the main cast having a bad day and the siblings being supportive and they just go

"Can you tell me about (event that never happened)?"

"Oh! Sure!"

And the sibling narrates a heartwarming memory that never happened but the cast member relaxes a little falling into this bubble of reassurance/safety in this make believe oddly enough in the weirdest way even if it only happened with one person achieving a little what Caine wanted even if it's delusional

Giggles

[clairdelunelove]

love thy neighbor

neighbor!itadori yuuji x f!reader, brief mentions of megumi

genre: insane amounts of fluff, comfort, slight angst?

warnings: suggestive, 5.6k words

synopsis: getting a new neighbor was bound to be a hit or miss. and in your case it's a miss. that is, until you're sharing the elevator with a guy that looks like he belongs on the cover of the latest calvin klein magazine. and suddenly, things don't go as planned because he's oddly… sweet?

a.n. had neighbor!yuuji on my mind for a while so I decided to push myself and write smth sickeningly sweet! missed writing longer works so I hope you enjoy! <3

-

-

-

you wholeheartedly believe that your new neighbor has more than 24 hours in a day. 

the incessant noise is an indicator of that. blaring music, doors slamming at odd times, and the animated buzzing of the television during the neighborhood’s quiet hours all filter through your apartment’s worn walls. wails of a melodramatic actress haunted you in your sleep. initially, you chalked it up as a coping mechanism for your neighbor. perhaps she was going through a messy breakup and found comfort in rewatching the same movie series– several times, in fact– to help manage the heartache. you understand; it was a vulnerable type of growth that needed to be dealt with. however, it’s been the exact, aggravating routine for the past two weeks and it was driving you crazy. it had gotten so bad to the point where you were absentmindedly mumbling the corresponding dialogue whenever you were preoccupied with household chores. 

and you’ve never seen her, per se. you’re just assuming that your neighbor was a young woman that reminisced her college days by cranking up the speaker to the highest volume and bouncing around to the beat. deafening stomps to the carpeted floor. at least, that’s what you hear before a piece of furniture inevitably falls from the prancing and it goes dead silent. 

so imagine your surprise when a man steps into the elevator you’re wobbling into and rushes to press his designated floor number. it’s still relatively early. the sun is barely peeking out and the first flush of morning arises to allow the day to commence. yet, he’s panting as he trickles in behind you, squeezing himself through the metal doors before they can close and he’ll be forced to wait a couple minutes. 

“oh,” he utters while noting that you pushed the illuminated button to his apartment floor already, “thanks!” 

his voice is sleek and smooth. it’s cute, quite frankly. it rises in accordance with his gratitude, so much so that you’re intrigued to get a glance at this well-mannered stranger. and gosh— you’re not disappointed at all. 

he’s taller; not at a height that’s towering over you but it’s enough for you to take note of. it’s a fantastic change of pace from the elderly tenants that typically inhabit the building and your eyes eagerly roam to discover more about the male beside you. his hair is, remarkably, pink. a tone that matches the tinge of blush that glazes over his skin due to the sweat that he desperately tries to wipe off. he’s clad in gray workout shorts and a muscle tee, both of which accentuate his toned physique. your mouth literally drops as you openly stare at the cuts of raw, powerful muscle that glisten on his body from underneath the tacky fluorescent lights. 

and, immediately, embarrassment floods through you at the stark contrast behind the reasoning of why you’re up so early in the morning. overly sugary treats to begin your day served as your motivator. you just weren’t expecting to run into someone that started their day by exercising to the point that they looked like they belonged on the cover of calvin klein. it’s not one of your proudest moments.

slumping over in an attempt to conceal the pastry bag and sweet drink in your hand, you internally pray that this situation can pass quicker. save yourself from the embarrassment of it all. 

he seems to pick up on your uneasiness though because his brows raise in curiosity, “what’d you get?” 

and oh, calvin klein guy is talking to you.

“um, a latte and some breakfast pastry that the bakery sells. I go there pretty often,” you press your lips together before adding, “it’s the one right across the street. they open early.” 

you’re cringing as the words leave your lips because really– the words ‘pastry’ and ‘breakfast’ being together would never be in the male’s vocabulary. you assume that he’s judging you for your innate ability to overshare about your rather unhealthy eating habits. after all, he had just finished what you presumed was his daily workout. perhaps he’ll even dig low enough to make you feel terrible about it. educate you on the importance of having a balanced breakfast. you’ve been on enough dates with ‘gym bros’ to acknowledge that it’s a possibility and you don’t want to hear it. 

“oh really?” he ends up responding with a natural smile and it nearly blinds you, “I didn’t know! I might hafta check it out then. it looks really good!” 

“their strawberry cream cheese breakfast pastry is one of my favorites.” 

the suggestion tumbles out before you can think better of it but his smile only seems to brighten as he says in finality, “I’ll try that one then.” 

then, he whips out his phone to visibly take note of the specific pastry you told him only seconds ago. and, wow, this guy might just be a top contender for the world’s best apartment crush. you watch him out of the corner of your eye, captivated by his radiate energy. he pockets his phone once again, shoots you a grin of finality, and abruptly lifts the end of his shirt to wipe the remnants of sweat on his forehead. his eyes are wide, mortification expressed in his hurried actions and it takes some self-restraint to not giggle at his endearing expressions. 

“sorry I’m all gross, jus’ got done working out,” he explains like it wasn’t obvious, “promise I’m not normally this sweaty all the time.” 

you’re instantly drawn to him. he’s all sharp features but soft intentions. a phenomenon that you wish to unravel if he’d allow you to. he lets out a sheepish laugh, the melodic sound cutting through the awkward elevator silence, and you’re giggling in earnest soon after. 

“it wouldn’t be so bad if you were, though.”

you bite your lip. the statement is a tiny bit bolder than you were expecting but his bashful expression says it all. he’s keen on the attention. his brows raise in mild surprise but the tips of his ears tinge red. not one to actively go searching for it but finds pleasure in it if you’re willing to hand it out. 

the elevator dings and the doors slowly open to reveal your apartment floor’s hallway as he scrambles for words. though, you know you’ve made quite the impression when he follows behind your retreating figure. a flicker of warmth laps up at you, a sort of satisfaction sizzling within you at how he’s actively pursuing you and for the first time in a while you’re grateful for the good change in fortune. 

“well would you look at that,” the blushy haired male’s voice rings just as you move to unlock the door to your apartment, “we’re neighbors!” 

and your mouth drops. 

he’s your neighbor. the same one that’s been repeatedly keeping you awake during the night by dialing up the volume on every show he’s watching. or how you can audibly hear the thuds as he leaps around while playing some ear-splitting video game. or how, vaguely, you overhear the hissed scolding of another male’s voice from the opposite side of the wall that separates the two of you. it’s all been the calvin klein guy– not some heartbroken girl that’s stuck chasing after her crazy college years. 

“whatta crazy coincidence!” he adds, breaking your dawning realization, and grins as he sticks his own key into his apartment and turns it. 

but you find your voice before he can stroll through his entryway. you know that you should just say something and get it over with. voice your frustrations of ending up with the misfortune of having a rather boisterous next-door neighbor while you strived to achieve the most stress-free life. the desire to have a fresh start was unattainable at this rate. give him a piece of your mind for further ruining your– already– messed up sleep schedule. 

“wait! um,” you clear your throat and try to quell the anger that grabs hold of you, “the walls are super thin and I can hear whenever you’re blasting your music or watching tv, ya know. could you try to keep it down, please?” 

and why is your voice dying down at the end of it? the heated exchange you’ve been reciting in your mind is reduced to a polite inquiry. a sort of ‘hey it’d be really nice if you could do this for my well-being but it’s alright if you can’t!’ type of barter. inwardly, you kick at yourself because the whole point of this is to give your neighbor a piece of the irritation you experience daily. yet, you bite your lip when he gives you that sweeping glance of his that makes you weak. the one where his gaze lingers on you with a curiosity that begs at him to be sedated. his widened eyes sparkle, a shade of honey that reminds you of butterscotch candy, as he understands your displeasure. 

“ah, I’m super sorry ‘bout that! I wasn’t sure how soundproof my room was since I just moved in and the loud music kinda helps me focus. but I’ll try to be quieter,” the apology rushes out of him as he tilts his head to the side, “hope you didn’t lose any sleep ‘cause of me. it’d kill me if that happened.” 

this isn’t going in the direction you thought it would’ve. at most, you expected to perhaps throw some hands or at least anticipated an angry dispute to erupt based on your confrontation. yet, the blushy haired male treats this like it’s a mere misunderstanding that he’ll resolve if you just give him the word. he’ll listen. just tell him what to do and he’ll do it without any qualms. you’re left starstruck, lips agape, and utterly embarrassed by this whole ordeal. here you were attempting to make the most out of some noise when all he was doing was naively enjoying his free time. he stands unmovingly, attempting to decipher the endless range of emotions that you display throughout the whole ordeal. you feel the heat creeping up onto your neck, desperate to immediately flee from the situation, and push open the door to your apartment. 

“no, no, no, I sleep fine. just,”  you call out behind your shoulder and abruptly shut the door behind you, “try not to do it again, thanks!” 

— 

“oh!”

you were expecting the sight of bright eyes and blushy hair, with an instinctual grin that lifts like he’s looking forward to seeing you. what you weren’t anticipating, however, is the tuft of coal black hair and passive expression that greets you in the entryway of yuuji’s apartment. the stranger gives you a once over, not inappropriate by any means, but more along the lines of legitimate curiosity for your sudden visit. 

“sorry, I thought,” you pause to recheck the apartment again and stutter through your justification, “I must’ve had the wrong apartment. I thought someone else lived here.” 

he’s quiet at first, seemingly trying to gather the words he wishes to say before he can think better of it, “is it a guy that’s obnoxiously loud?” 

“um–”

“with pink hair?” 

“yes, exactly!” 

your eyes light up at your neighbor’s description, the image of him basically ingrained into your mind. with his considerate eyes and kind demeanor despite your one-sided bitterness towards the person that disturbed your peace. your encounter with the blushy haired male has been occupying your thoughts for the last couple of days so it’s no wonder you decided to show up and apologize. equipped with a box of takeout and a meek smile, this proved to be your attempt at atoning for your previous run in with him.

the pure delight in your voice causes the dark haired male to be taken aback. he doesn’t recently recall yuuji gushing about meeting some girl. rather, megumi wasn’t expecting him to withhold such information since he had the tendency to overshare about everything. the latest restaurants opening up, upcoming movies, or newly released comics– the blushy haired male was continuously spouting about it. but yuuji had that magnetism about him that attracted anyone and everyone. so who was he to infer the relationship between the two of you? it wasn’t his business. he knows someone that might’ve wished to know, though. 

it’s a bit awkward due to the silence that follows as you shift on your feet. it was a bit difficult to read the man in front of you. the contrast between him and his blushy haired friend was too great. his neutral expression gave you almost nothing to consider and you felt the nervousness creep up on you. this rendezvous proved to be more than you anticipated. heat trickles behind your neck as megumi pulls out his phone to type a quick text before pocketing it again and stepping aside. 

“you can wait inside,” he says with finality while angling his slim body so you can pass through the entryway, “he’ll be here soon. he’s just running some errands.” 

“thank you!” 

and the apartment is a lot cleaner than you imagined. there’s a couple of misplaced hoodies and comic books that are left out on the living room table but it’s fitting. then again, it’d been a while since you were invited into a guy’s place. especially one that occupies your mind so frequently.

before you can chicken out, you gesture to the bags in your hands, “oh! I brought over some food, by the way. a peace offering of some sort.” 

megumi’s dark eyes flick over to the contents in the bag and realize just how much you’ve been carrying this entire time. plastic containers are filled to the brim with an assortment of perfectly placed sushi. it looks delicious but the sheer amount would almost be comical if megumi wasn’t aware of how much his friend could consume. the bags’ handles you’re gripping onto are thoroughly stretched, as though the weight of the food was unexpectedly dense and he doesn’t bother masking how his eyes widen. you brought a lot. 

“you can help yourself too! I wasn’t sure if he was allergic to anything so I got a bunch. maybe too much,” your voice lowers during your rambling to hide your embarrassment. 

“thanks.”

it’s a seemingly simple word of gratitude yet it’s genuine. you note that his voice has considerably softened since he first spoke to you. like his tone is soothed from its typical bluntness and he’s putting in an effort to be considerate. he strikes you as the type to believe actions rather than words. it’s intriguing. he’s put a comfortable amount of distance between the two of you but now he strides towards you and despite your protests, he moves to take the bags from your grasp to place them on the counter in order to ease the burden. somewhere along the way introductions are shared and the two of you take part in lighthearted conversation. it’s initially clumsy with your habit of oversharing and megumi’s short responses but soon you both find a delicate balance that feels nice. 

it’s a start. 

and it’s the scene that yuuji doesn’t have the chance to see as he stumbles through the door of his apartment. he heaves, clearly a sign that he rushed here, and haphazardly closes the door with the back of his heel as he strolls in. he’s all swift energy and hectic movement– exactly like he always is. 

“brought in the newspaper! if you even wanna read that junk later,” he distractedly calls out while placing a grocery bag onto the counter and vaguely catches a glimpse of the food you brought, “wow look at all this food! I thought you didn’t get paid until the end of the week, fushiguro–”

“did you even read my text, idiot?” 

“what! you met my neighbor? why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

yuuji, now coming out of his room, has his phone clutched in his hand and he quickly unlocks it. a gasp leaves his lips once he reads his friend’s message. the way his eyes speedily trek along the screen is laughable and it causes megumi to click his tongue in annoyance. then, yuuji peers over at megumi to give him overly exaggerated, gaping eyes and a pout. it’s quite the spectacle, really. megumi’s already used to this, however, and he continues to relax on the living room couch. 

the dark haired male presses an exasperated hand against his face and mutters, “what’s the point of having a phone if you just forget it half the time.”

“so,” yuuji carries the conversation and prompts his friend to go on, “what did she say? did she ask about me? why’d she leave so quickly? don’t tell me you scared her off, fushiguro!” 

there’s a plate of unfinished sushi in front of megumi and he pokes at it as he ponders about his friend’s sudden interest in your departure. it’s unprecedented, new– how yuuji’s gaze immediately flicks over to the door like he’s debating on if he should see you. pay you a short visit. tell you how grateful he is that you visited and he’s sorry that he wasn’t home to greet you. he was so easy to read. 

“she said that she’s sorry for blowing up on you that one time,” megumi recalls as he brings a slab of ginger to his mouth, “said the food was to apologize.” 

“aw man, that was totally my fault though!” 

“I know but still, you should eat the food before it goes bad. she did bring it for you after all.” 

humming in agreement, yuuji grabs a pair of chopsticks, chooses a variety of different sushi pieces, and makes himself a plate. he takes a seat beside megumi, a tendency that was bound to be a custom at this point. the duo had a history of crashing at each other’s place ever since they were younger. it was an attempt to bring a sense of normalcy in their hectic lives. they engage in the usual small talk; with yuuji expressing his utter delight every time he shoves a piece of sushi in his mouth and megumi responding with stoic comments. all is well. though, the dark haired male perceives that there’s something off. there’s a light furrow in yuuji’s brow, an indication that he’s troubled and ruminating. 

so by the time yuuji’s done eating, megumi addresses the other male’s concerns with a terse frown, “well? are you going to see her or are you just gonna sit here wallowing in your own self-pity?” 

-

“jus’ noticed that I never got your name!” 

your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. not once were you expecting your neighbor to be at your door at eventide– especially since you were just at his place earlier in the day. in fact, you had rubbed off all the extra makeup and glitz after you finished delivering the takeout to megumi. he seemed trustworthy enough to relay your message so you didn’t think your neighbor would amble over to speak with you, much less with a pretty bouquet of flowers in his hand. 

he grins, anticipating your shock, and adds, “asked around the apartment complex for your name ‘cuz I wanted to write you a card but everyone just looked at me like I was crazy! like, I didn’t have much to go off of except what you look like!” 

and you consider the possibility that he looks even better in casual clothes. maybe it’s the way every article of clothing he owns fits him perfectly; broad and muscular shoulders tapering inward to emphasize his narrow waist. or, it’s a long stretch, but perhaps you’re just hyper vigilant of him whenever he’s close. wearing a plain shirt tucked into loose pants, he’s as breathtaking as you remember and you do your best to calm the wave of butterflies in your stomach. 

you instinctively bring a hand to cover your bareface as you give him your name. a smile tugs at his lips. shifting the bouquet of flowers underneath one arm, he pulls out a tiny, decorated card and a pen from his pocket. he rhetorically says your name, lets it marinate on his tongue, while writing it and slipping the card in the center of the bouquet. 

“awesome. this is for you,” he hands you the flowers before bashfully rubbing the back of his neck, “fushiguro told me you stopped by earlier and dropped off all that food. ‘m sorry I wasn’t there to see but thank you, really.” 

you press your lips together, aware that this is your chance to right your wrongs and stumble on your words, “oh! you didn’t need to. I was rude and complaining about something small so I just wanted to do that for you–” 

“and,” he meets your eyes as he confesses, “I wanted to see you again.”

his words go straight through your heart. distinctly, you feel the gentle caress of his long fingers against the back of your hand as he slips the bouquet into your arms and his touch is dizzying. you might just melt. liquify into a pile of mush due to his sweet actions. doesn’t help that he’s gazing at you like you string up each individual star in the times of twilight. his eyes roam the entirety of your face. memorizing every pretty freckle and curve now since he’s close. 

“guess it also helps that my neighbor is really pretty,” he whispers, like the compliment is punched out of him and laid out for you to delve in. 

from there on, his focus drops to the pink of your lips. then to the glimmer of your skin that peeks beneath your homey clothes. almost outwardly sighs at the sight before him. like he wants you–thoughtlessly, selfishly, and desperately. the only way he knows how to show he cares. lodges himself deep within the depths of your soul. lets himself in due to his benevolence and warmth. 

then, he pulls away and blinks himself out of the stupor that was induced by you. there’s a sheepish smile on his face like he’s aware he’d been caught. a dust of red splattering on the tips of his ears. but to which he was at fault for; staring too intently or letting his blossoming feelings show– who really knows? 

yuuji steps back to take his leave before it can get too dark out, “glad we both got what we wanted at the end. I'll see ya later!” 

and with that, he waves you a farewell while you’re gripping onto the bouquet of flowers he gifted you. you’re a hot, flustered mess from your encounter with your neighbor. heart racing and thrumming against your chest. but you guess your apology successfully worked. your next step is to find a nice vase. and as you mosey through your apartment with a little extra bounce in your step, you trim the stems and set the flowers to be displayed in your living room. it’s been a while since a man has ever given you flowers. it’s nice. brightens the place up. a huff of content passes your lips. and yes, you do manage to get his name because tucked at the bottom of the card is his full name– followed by a small, scrawled heart. 

-

the next couple days roll into weeks of giddy, mushy happiness that’s unparalleled to anything you’ve ever experienced. he makes an effort to see you almost every other day. stands in front of your door with a bright grin plastered on his face while the both of you catch up. and you share a little bit of your life and schedule so he’s informed on the most convenient time you’ll be home. and it stuns you that yuuji’s naturally this warmhearted. he’s characteristically a provider and giver. finds reason in being the one that lets you have peace of mind. he signs off on your packages when you’re not home, carries your heavy groceries if the elevators are broken, and keeps you company during your midnight snack runs. always inquisitive of your feelings and thoughts. and it’s not just you that he treats kindly (and sure what he does for you borders the invisible line of being more than neighbors). but he’s just inherently courteous. he helps stray animals cross the busy intersection in front of the apartment, moves the massive potted plants for the elderly tenants, and even goes out of his way to greet every individual person in the mornings. yuuji is too good to be true. 

so it’s no wonder you overhear him conversing with a girl. 

it was completely unintentional– initially. you were in the process of slipping on your shoes to go on your usual bakery run. the typical sweet treat that kept you motivated and energized for the rest of the week. that is, until an overly raucous giggle startles you. you freeze at the unusual noise. it’s feminine. not the usual scoff and chuckle you typically overhear from megumi when he visits. the walls are so thin, courtesy of the rent being low, hence catching onto your neighbors’ conversations was pretty easy. so who’s laughing that loud in the early morning and why was it coming from yuuji’s side of the wall? 

checking wasn’t necessarily a crime. and you know it’s wrong but your logic is swayed when yuuji’s own laughter follows. your eye twitches. the sound was bittersweet now. your hands tighten into fists as your breathing quickens and you realize that having the freedom of becoming attached to someone comes with some risks. 

letting your feet lead you closer, you’re perched next to the wall connecting your apartment with his and you hesitantly press your ear against the painted surface. 

“where to, miss?” 

that’s yuuji’s voice. you recognize it from anywhere because it’s perfect– honeyed and sincere– or at least, that’s what you were bewitched with. it wasn’t the exact emotion you conjured up now though. you stood there, dazed beyond comprehension. confused about the relationship you shared with him. you assumed it was mutual; well, a fondness that came in the form of watching him tip his head back in laughter as you artlessly sing your favorite song to him. or how, when the two of you lounge on your couch, you’re both sharing hopes about the future until the sun rises. most importantly, you were hurt. utterly devastated by the accidental secret you’ve uncovered. did it mean nothing to him? you feel your throat close up. can feel the beginnings of frustration arise and your hand moves to clutch at your heart. you needed an explanation; a clarification for the way he’s been treating you. you didn’t want your one chance of happiness to vanish. 

storming to his door, you give it a firm knock before impatiently shifting on your feet, “it’s me.”

you don’t expect him to answer, to be fair. he could choose to ignore your knock, shrug it off and give the run-of-the-mill excuse to the girl he was seeing. or there’d be a beat of silence as he desperately shoves the girl out of sight before he answers the door like those cliche rom-coms that boast high praise due to the drama. and a part of you knows that yuuji’s not like that– he’s sweet, charming, and undeniably considerate– but you don’t know what to believe. you’re a hot mess that’s destined to explode. 

so it catches you off-guard when the door immediately swings open. 

you stand steadfast, however, “yuuji, we need to talk–”

but the outburst dies on your lips. you’re gaping at the sight that you’re greeted with. megumi’s the one that opens the door for you. his dark eyes flick over to you once and he pulls the door back further to reveal where the commotion was coming from. almost like he understands why you’ve shown up. then, he clasps his hands over his ears to block out the deafening volume of the television and yuuji’s incessant reciting.

there’s a sneer plastered on megumi’s face as he turns to the pink-haired male, “I told you to knock it off before she got the wrong idea.” 

and at the mention of ‘she,’ yuuji freezes. he’s perched atop their rickety couch, teetering on the edge, and holding the end of a hairbrush to his mouth like it’s a microphone. there’s no other girl. he’s not flirting with anyone. the television’s on, playing an iconic movie scene as he passionately narrates the actor’s lines in time with the script. it’s entertaining. amusing. and under different circumstances you’d fall into a fit of laughter but once he meets your eyes, yuuji pauses. 

“crap,” he drops the hairbrush and hastily scrambles to the remote to flick the television off, “‘m sorry was I being too loud–” 

yuuji rushes to greet you. his feet steadily thump against the wooden floors as he hastens his steps. his subconscious leads him to you, always. like he can’t help but come to you despite everything. there’s an abashed grin on his face and the tips are his ears are tinged red from being caught. yet, he’s clearly delighted to see you at his door. 

and the guilt automatically hits you. 

“n-no! I mean, uh,” you focus your attention to the floor as you shake your head, “that’s not why I came here. I thought– oh my gosh– I feel horrible now.” 

tilting his head in confusion, yuuji patiently waits through your sputtering in an attempt to understand what you’re saying. you’re distraught. seeking a sound enough reason on your sudden arrival. you’re flustered, tongue-tied, because now that you’ve seen what you heard earlier, it all makes perfect sense. your ability to jump to conclusions was astounding and the bane of your existence. heat radiates from your cheeks as you clam up. 

there’s a heavy sigh. 

“I’ll be taking my leave now. I don’t feel like third-wheeling today,” megumi explains while stepping past you, “counting on you two to work it out.” 

before the dark haired male leaves he lifts his hand to good-naturedly pat your head. it’s foreign and as if he realizes this, megumi simply shrugs. then, he murmurs his own blunt, twisted encouragement and leaves the both of you alone. 

it’s silent. 

but then yuuji gently leads you inside his apartment. hums that it’ll be better to talk with no interruptions. you let him guide you into the place that you frequent rather often recently, welcoming the press of his fingers against your waist and how his touch instantly brings warmth. he sits you in the middle of the couch, chuckling when you inadvertently sink into the cushions. but he abruptly stops once he detects your regretful expression. the way the corners of your lips are downturned and how you refuse to look at him. an arrow pierces at his heart. 

leaning to place his hands on your shoulders, he carefully mentions, “you wanted to talk?” 

he keeps his voice light, mindful and it’s his gentleness that breaks you. his bright eyes are trained on your face to decipher what’s been bothering you. doesn’t like seeing you so distressed. he’s already grasping for a solution without even knowing the problem. he’s so good to you. 

and when his thumb soothingly caresses against the side of your neck, you wring your hands as you try to explain, “I know I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping but I overheard you speaking to someone. a girl. so I thought–”

you break off to press your lips together in embarrassment. there’s a flash of realization on his sharp features, like he finally acknowledges the misunderstanding. the issue that’s driven you to the point of showing up to his door and staring up at him with wistful eyes. causing his will to break into pieces that you’re destined to pick up and glue back together. then, before you can blink, he’s dropping to his knees and grasping onto your hands. his knitted brows relax as he exhales your name in hushed relief. and it’s a sight of pure reverence. reassurance to the very aspect of your being. you’ve appeased his worries so he’ll make it right; it’s a promise. 

“that was all my fault, I was being stupid and messing around. I’m sorry for making you worried,” yuuji clarifies in a single breath, “I want you to know one thing, though.” 

bringing your hand to his lips, he presses a tender kiss in the space between your knuckles and looks up at you, “I’m serious about this– about you.” 

the octave in his voice drops at the end of his confession, bordering a hoarse whisper meant only for you. a rawness to his sudden seriousness. a reason for his countless efforts. and there’s only so much he’s allowed you to be aware of with his growing feelings. like how he thinks of you right as the sun rises. right when the brilliant hues are flourishing as the day begins to take over. or how he imagines you as the love interest in every romance movie. or how the days become brighter when you’re around. you bring significance into his life.

and he admits that he’s new to these all-consuming feelings. his mind morphs into oblivion and his mouth turns into the equivalent of fuzz. simply due to your sweet smile. it takes all his willpower not to reach out for you when you’re near. his fingers tremble in need to hold and cherish you. he’s utterly whipped. so one thing is for certain– when he thinks of you, there’s a lightness that engulfs his world.

“yuu.”

yuuji’s broken out of his trance when you sweep a gentle hand through his blushy hair. the sentiment is unmistakable now. his act of kneeling in front of you proves his resolve and sincerity. uttering his name is the closest aspect of him being yours. your sweet neighbor. he lets out a content hum and your glossy lips curve into a smile at his reaction. forever fascinated by his undying need to adore you. he sees his whole world beaming back at him. and in that moment, yuuji was convinced that his sole purpose was to bring you happiness. this was the prospect of his adoration. a regard to his devotion towards you. pretty eyes half-lidded, he peers up at you and knowingly tilts his head.

“wanna go get that breakfast pastry you always get at the bakery? 'm pretty sure it was the strawberry cream cheese one,” he asks, his tone hopeful yet bashful as he adds, “you could think of it as a date.” 

[sickuma]

ORPHIC — A Simon Riley fic.

❱ This is a longer version of the au I posted on tiktok ^^ I do apologize for the repetitive use of some words. I'm working on expanding my vocabulary! Your kind word means a lot to me, especially the readers on tiktok, you guys mean a lot to me ! ꜝ？This fic may contain heavy topics such as death, depression and melt-downs, if any of those are not to your liking. Please do so exit the fic. Angst warning!

the fic is unedited, grammatical/spelling errors may be found!

➴ SYNOPSIS — On a particular mission, you and your lover finds each other fatally injured. With a promise to meet each other again on your next life, you held each other as the explosion erupted. Only for him to wake up the next day, without you.

part 2 (●'◡'●) | masterlist

ORPHIC — (n.) mysterious and entrancing; beyond ordinary understanding.

"[name]?!"

He frantically called, dropping the weapons he held to take a good look at your figure who collapsed on the floor. 

The mission had been awfully longer than they anticipated, by the time the third hour arrived, you and Ghost already had fatal wounds.

He hardly swallowed, feeling his throat dry. 

He would rarely call you by your actual name. Ghost always abide by the rules, lover or not, he called you by your callsign through the battles you fought with together,

This one, however, happens to be an exception.

Your panting chest, bloody body, and exhausted expressions stated so. 

He knew, you knew.

He was only grateful you were with him.

The physical pain had caught up to him, he sat beside you. Taking your dainty form close to his, holding you close to him. You could hear his heartbeat,

They were oddly calm.

"Lieutenant—"

"Simon. It's your Simon."

He mumbled, taking your hands in his. Clasping them together gently,

You gasped for air, though in his arms it felt as if you could still conquer ten groups of syndicate. He held you so gently, so protectively. You swallowed,

"Simon?"

"mm?"

"I hope I loved you enough in this lifetime."

You could hear his breathy chuckle, the rasp in his voice another proof of his exhaustion.

"You're rushing, doll, we are still at the part where we reminisce about the memories yea?"

You smiled at his words, disregarding the growing pain on your abdomen. You noticed his own body, the scars and blood covered your lovers figure, You knew it was inevitable.

Without mentioning anything about your wilting bodies, you smiled up at him.

"We haven't lived enough yet." You spoke.

"Indeed,"

"We'll just have to meet in our next one and make the most of what we missed in this one."

Your smile grew, "I didn't know you believed in reincarnation, Si."

"For you, I will. This life failed us," He spoke with weak determination, "This isn't our end, [name].

 I'll find you just as I did before."

With one final kiss, he held your body tighter to his. Covering your ears as protection for the upcoming explosion, as he whispered sweet nothings, 

"If I'm as grumpy in our next life, Please find it in you to be as patient as you are to me in this one. I love you, [name], see you there alright?"

It wasn't long until a blinding explosion defeaned both of your ears, the noise was much bearable for you as he covered your ears tightly. Pressing your body close to his, Well it is the last thing he did, love you and hold you til you both accepted the inevitable fate you've been bestowed.

At his very last moments, he held you tight.

﹑

﹑

﹑

"I'll find you in our next life."

﹑

﹑

﹑

"See you there, alright?"

﹑

﹑

﹑

"Love me just as much as you did on this one."

﹑

﹑

﹑

Soon after the final explosion, Price made sure to clear the place. The eerie silence of Ghost's nonexistent callouts haunted him, along with the walkie he found which belonged to you.

He knew there was one answer, but he had a tiny speck of hope. You and Ghost never failed them, it was this life that had failed you countless times.

"Captain, it's been hours, it's just—let's try to be realistic. There's no way Lieutenant would be so quiet unless he—"

"Have trust in them. They're both strong."

As the two discussed whatever conclusions were the most possible, Gaz had found himself in a particularly secluded room. It was wrecked, obvious that the explosion did not spare it,

"Cap.. captain, you might want to see this."

With hitched breaths, the three of them stared at what the room unfolds. 

His arms wrapped around you protectively, dried blood covered the two of you as you held each other. The sight pinched the soldiers heart, how could such a tragic sight depict so much love?

The two of you laid, almost showing no signs of life. Price had to drop his equipment, staring at the sight and taking in the vulnerability and acceptance you both showed,

"They held each other." Soap mumbled,

"Tightly." Gaz whispered, staring at the grip your cold hands had on ghosts arms that wrapped around you lovingly.

Price found himself approaching the two, with a heavy heart. He checked for a sign of life—anything—holding your pulse first,

Nothing.

"They're gone."

He whispered, the silence of the room almost suffocating the room. None of them had yet broken down, though they felt as if their knees would give out. Price reached for Ghost's after checking yours,

Eyes widening as he frantically double checked Ghost,

"There's—He's still breathing."

﹑

By the time evac had arrived, Price had known it was far too late to save both. He knew this was now their reality. As he sat outside the room where Ghost lay unconscious, completely unaware of the world he’ll wake up to, unaware that he’d live to see that his lover is now gone.

Price felt his stiff heart ache as the thought of them accepting the inevitable death whilst in the arms of each other. How could the two of you receive such a cruel end? Not only were you separated, you had passed thinking you remained in the arms of your love,

He also knew you would hold no grudge if you find out that Ghost had survived the tragic explosion, Price could imagine the gentle smile on your lips while saying ‘I know he will, he’s always been tough.’

He closed his eyes shut, holding his head as he rested his arms on his weak knees, “how the hell am i supposed to tell him.” standing up to return to his station, looking at the window to see Ghost’s resting figure.

As days went by, Price had to argue with people to push further the funeral. It can’t happen yet, not without ghost. He knew he could only delay it for a few more days. He had faith in his comrade, but at the same time that hope easily withers as days pass them by like a blur.

“Captain if we don’t proceed with the funeral, [name]’s body, it’ll—”

“We have to wait for him.” he interjected sternly, glaring at the soldier, “we have to.”

He knew his logic had given out in favour of his emotions, he can't bring himself to betray simon. Not when he's already been through so much, he'd already lost the person he cared for the most, He just can't do this to him.

“Captain the body, they're doing everything they can to help preserve [name]. But if this keeps on, the body will decay completely! Do you think the lieutenant would be delighted to see the person he loves rotting? He wouldn't—I'm sorry captain. This needs to be done, with or without him.”

Price grimaced, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he closed his eyes shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose, before nodding with a heavy heart.

“Very well.”

“Proceed with the funeral.”

﹑

“Si, have I told you how much I love your eyes?”

“‘Mm? Yeah, all the time, doll.”

You chuckled, ruffling his hair. You loved the way his eyes squint whenever he’d smile, even the slightest smile he shows, you loved it every single time.

“I love looking at them, they look really pretty.”

“You think so?” He asks, caressing your face.

“I know so. I want them to be the last things I admire before I pass away.”

His eyes weakly fluttered open, his breaths shallow but much more stable than before. He’d woken up certain that he’ll turn to see your peaceful face, away from the wars, away from the scars of the battles you both conquered, he knew and was certain he’ll turn to his side to see you peacefully resting with him after the turmoil you've both overcome, as proven of the light that blinded him when his eyes fluttered open,

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he sat up with a relieved sigh. Turning to his side, prepared to caress your soft skin.

His breath hitched.

You weren't there.

You weren't anywhere near his proximity. Where are you? He finds himself sitting on an empty hospital bed with nothing but his dumbfounded state. He looked around, observing the place with a tired frown. He felt rage. Why is a dextrose connected to him? That was where your hand rested before the explosion killed the both of you,

..right?

“[name]?”

He whispered, standing up, ignoring the piercing pain he felt all over his body. Pulling the dextrose and removing it from his arm roughly, 

Why is he breathing? Why is he alive?

“Hell, what is this?”

No. no no no no no no no.

He stormed out of the room, uncaring about the strange looks thrown towards him as he opened each and every room of the hospital. Panic surging through his body, he won't accept it, he won't. You've gotta be inside one of these god forsaken rooms,

Shocked screams and gasps were heard by every door he opened, abruptly interrupting the patients as he searched for those particular eyes. That particular person he needs. He was determined. In one of these rooms, you would be laying down on the bed, resting, waiting for him.

If he’d survived, you surely did, too.

He won't live otherwise, not without you. And so he continued barging inside rooms, panting and grumbling to himself everytime a different pair of eyes looks at him in terror, they weren't your eyes, you wouldn't have looked at him with a petrified expression, you would look at him with a smile,

Like you always do.

You open your arms and wait for him to close the distance and embrace you, pressing your bodies tightly against each other like he did the night of the explosion.

“Lieutenant!”

Price’s voice rang through the silent hallways, with workers of the hospital frantically following the two of them, “what are you doing simon—”

“Where are they?”

“Where is [name]?!”

He angrily snapped, voice strained with venom as he started to feel himself fall into a hysteria.

“Where’s my [name], john?” he repeats, this time weaker. Desperate for answers, desperate for your whereabouts, desperate for you.

“Simon, let's calm down. Let's go back to the room and talk.” Price tried to calm him, slowly making his way towards his friend, aiming to take him back and avoid him from causing another scene.

“No.” he shakes his head in disbelief, tears brimming on the verge of falling, “tell me where they are.”

Price felt his heart sunk, he'd never seen the hard-headed ghost look so vulnerable and desperate. “Simon, come on let's go.”

“Price. Where's my [name]?”

﹑

“They're gone.”

Price had managed to pull the hysteric Simon back into his room and sat him down on the bed despite his protest and cries. The sight crushed price’s heart,

“No.” ghost protests, “they're most certainly not.”

Price looked down, sitting himself down as well. Unable to take the lump suffocating on his throat. Ghost’s voice destroyed him, and he bet it would crush your soul to see your lover ask so desperately for you.

“When evac came, [name]’s already dead. It was too late, Simon, I'm sorry.”

“Then why!?”

Price looked up at Simon's sudden question, “why the hell did you think i wished to live if it was too late for [name]?!”

“Why did you have to save me, price?” he weakly stood up, looking down at price as tears fell down his eyes. They were tears of rage and grief—tears that he had rarely shown anyone but you.

“Saving me knowing I'll wake up without my [name], what did you— what did the lot of you think? Now tell me,

Tell me what ill do, tell me price, what the fuck should i do?”

He cried, weeping his unfeeling heart out. He can't feel anything, none worth mentioning—the hurt of losing you plagued his heart,

“I can't, price, I can't do this.”

“Send me out there, make me fight those syndicates, have me tortured for months but not this—not this, i beg you. Don't make me live without [name]. Don't do this to me.”

Price felt his own tears pool his eyes, he couldn't take it. Not when Ghost stared at him with contempt and helplessness.

“Take me back to [name].”

“Please.”

Without you, there was nothing else left for him. Without you, he wouldn't wake up looking forward to meeting those eyes that once looked at him with adoration. Without you, he wouldn't feel that extraordinary love you had saved only for him. Without you, he won't feel. Without you, he is nothing at all.

Nothing but a breathing piece of sorrow revived to a body which was once happy with you.

Without you he's simply nothing.

[ineffable-suffering]

The Jane Austen Ball and why it was never about Nina and Maggie

Otherwise known as (*takes a deep breath*): A completely inflated close-up look at various dialogues and events of Season 2 that prove that the Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Meeting Cotillion Ball was supposed to be Aziraphale's confession to Crowley

Look, the point's been made before but that's never kept me from making it myself again, still. In fact, even I made it before, at the end of one of my other metas. But I feel like it's absolutely worthy enough to get its own soppy, way-too-long post. And I do love it so very much to write ridiculously long essays on something that could easily be condensed into a short paragraph.

So, here we go! Snuggle up, get cozy, settle in and, most importantly:

(Word count: 3.177 | Reading time: ~13 minutes)

As I already said above, I laid out a similar case in my meta about why Aziraphale is somewhat of an unreliable narrator. I'll try and recycle it here briefly, so I can further make my point.

When Aziraphale arrives back in London from his Edinburgh journey, he seems oddly happy and giddy for the fact that he just had a rather odd and threatening encounter with Shax. I explain in my other meta that this is because he just spent the last hours of his drive reminiscing on the thrilling and romantic magic show adventure of 1941 and also the fact that he just found out that Crowley has been replaced by Shax and no longer works for Hell.

Ergo: We have a hopelessly lovesick Principality at our hands, who's practically swooning over his serpent who saved him, his books and his magic show all those years ago.

Ergo:

✨This✨

Realistically, Aziraphale should probably be a tad worried about the eery encounter with Shax, in which she definitely had the upper hand on him. But well, if you spend many-a hours driving across the serene countryside (Edinburgh is about an 8-hour drive from London), pondering on one of the craziest, sticky-sweet romantic adventures of your not-life life, well ... things tend to turn a little rosy around the edges. Head in the clouds and all that. Light shades of grey!

Alright, onwards: Once the angel, filled to the very brim with fond memories and butterflies, gets out of the Bentley, he's kindly met with a face full of verdant plants and a very in-character-grumpy Crowley.

Fhwack! Way to burst the rosy bubble.

Seriously, the absolute lightning speed with which Crowley storms out to vacate the bookshop the very second Aziraphale arrives makes me giggle every time.

Let's make a first small (who am I kidding) diversion into analysing the following conversation in unnecessary detail ...

... simply because I enjoy quoting dialogue as an accurate reference in my metas. I'll also highlight certain passages I want to comment on in individual colours so I can back up my thoughts with them below. Alright, their little chinwag goes as follows:

Crowley: "They you are! I was worried something might have happened to you." Aziraphale: "No, nothing happened to me. Very uneventful journey indeed. No strange things at all." Crowley: "Good. That's what we wanna hear." Aziraphale: "Um .. everything okay with- ah.." *nods to the bookshop* Crowley: "Oh, yeah, fine. He's singing to himself. I think he must have been asleep. I heard snoring coming from his bedroom–" Crowley, to the Bentley: "Did you miss me? I bet you did." Aziraphale: "... I'm sure it did." Crowley: "So, any more clues from the mystery of the missing archangel?" Aziraphale: "Not exactly. Or, if there are, I haven't yet cracked the case. But I'm certainly hot on the trail of something." Crowley: "I'm sure you are. Oh, by the way, the whole sudden rain and awning thing was a complete washout." Aziraphale: "Sorry?" Crowley: "You know, project making Nina fall in love with Maggie. I failed, it's your go." Aziraphale: "I see. Well then, Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Monthly Meeting, here we come!" Crowley: "You're really hosting the meeting?" Aziraphale: "Absolutely! And I can guarantee you, it will be a night to remember."

At first glance, this has little to do with the plot of this meta but actually, it folds into my point very nicely! However, it's not time for that yet, so we'll just state the facts as they are for now and then bring them back 'round later when we need them. That being said: For the love of Someone, will these two ever manage to simply tell each other the truth of what happened instead of thinking they can protect each other by lying about it all the time? Hrmpf. As a big fan of open communication myself, I'm close to developing a stomach ulcer with the amount of false truths being spewed here. (Then again – and yes, that is another, way larger meta I'm currently cooking up – it plays so very perfectly into the whole Jane-Austen-Pride-and-Prejudice tragic miscommunication theme that this entire Season has, so I understand the point of it.)

Very uneventful journey indeed, Aziraphale, except for the fact that you were ambushed by a demon who told you she was Crowley's successor, knows about the rumors of the two of you being an item as well as what went down in 1941 (that almost had both of you exposed) and also seems to have figured out where you and your demon boyfriend are hiding Gabriel, all in the span of about a minute. No strange things at all, nooo!

And Crowley's "Oh yeah, fine" is a total lie too. Again, we see him make an absolute run for it before Aziraphale can even enter the bookshop. After all, he just once again witnessed Jim have a Gabriel-flashback, speaking of the Second Coming, while Crowley was alone with him. As fumingly angry he is with the amnesiac archangel – he's also absolutely terrified of what might happen (to him and Aziraphale) should Jim regain his memories. So, no wonder he's quick to vacate the premises after witnessing Jim's rather eery memory flashback (and was, just like Aziraphale, threatened by Shax mere moments later, lol).

But no, nothing out of the ordinary happened to either of them. Tip-top. Absolutely tickety-fucking-boo.

Alright, let's get back on track with the actual topic of this meta. Certainly hot on the trail of something, hm? At first glance, it might seem like Aziraphale is talking about the fact that Gabriel was in company of someone whenever he went to the Resurrectionist Pub. (The clue!) However, I don't actually think he is talking about that. Why? Because, and this slipped my mind too at first, he never actually follows any of this information up, does he? Yes, sure, he went to Edinburgh, found the capital-c Clue and then returned to London. But what does he do with it? Nothing. He doesn't keep investigating this hot trail because that's not the important thing he realized during his journey. No, the more important clue Aziraphale found during his trip, is that Crowley no longer works for Hell and that he is also very much irrevocably in love with him and must confess this at the earliest given chance. (The latter part isn't necessarily a new discovery for Aziraphale, but it surely is fuelled by the fact that he just realized Crowley's out of a Hellish job and simply hasn't told him yet.)

This exchange just the perfect indicator for the fact that Aziraphale, at no point during his drive back, was thinking about the Maggie and Nina mission. He has no idea what Crowley is talking about once he mentions it and seems surprised, even, that he would. Even though they just talked about it on the phone when Aziraphale was still at the graveyard. Which is another important piece of evidence because it means that the last status update Aziraphale got of Mission Lovebirds, was that Crowley had sensed an opportunity to make them fall in love – and had then hung up on him. Why is this important? Because it means that until that very point of their conversation, Aziraphale did not know that Crowley's attempt had failed! There would have been just as much of a chance of Crowley's weather miracle actually working out and Maggie and Nina already having skipped into the sunset happily ever after.

So, riddle me this:

Why would Aziraphale spend the entire ride back from Edinburgh plotting "a night to remember" (because clearly, he already had the entire Ball planned out down to a T in his head since he goes into action right away after arriving) if he didn't even know yet that Crowley's attempt had failed?

To be very clear here: We're not talking about Aziraphale driving on the M1 to London, having a silly little idea for putting on some good music, miracle-ing Nina and Maggie to dance to it and watch them confess their love–

No.

He planned an entire actual Cotillion Ball with very particular location design that involves re-arranging the entire bookshop, specifically designed individual outfits for (almost) every single attendee, topped off with a live band, hors-d'œuvre, drinks and an actual choreographed group dance.

During one car ride.

Where's the party planner Aziraphale AU? I'm waiting!

Now, sure, we know that it's still quite important for Aziraphale to convince Heaven of the faux-reason they gave for their accidental ✨25-Lazarii miracle✨. But if we're all honest, this all seems to be a tad much just to make two random humans fall in love, even for that.

Glittery ball gowns and suits? Red and gold wall curtains? A modified language filter? Bloody vol-au-vents?

Talk about over the top ...

Once we start S2E5, Crowley is still surprised at the mere fact that Aziraphale is actually planning to organize the Monthly Meeting – and he doesn't even know yet that it's gonna be the most extravagant ball-boogaloo that the Whickber Street Community has ever seen! Aziraphale wanting to organize the meeting alone, is enough to render Crowley incredulous, because Aziraphale never mingles with the other shopkeepers. He usually actively avoids them and any sort of social encounters as much as he can because he doesn't care about the bloody Christmas lights, alright?

These things seem mundane and uninteresting to him, obviously, since all he really cares about is hoarding his book collection in peace like the little hedonist he is and drawing as little attention as possible to his none-business business.

Oh, right, speaking of books:

Let's take another unnecessarily detailed look at the whole Whickber Street invitation scene:

Aziraphale realizes very quickly that he's not the only one who's quite unenthusiastic about the blessed Chritsmas lights. And despite his very persuasive methods of temptation ...

... he has to take some more drastic measurements. And those are?

That's right: Giving away his books.

I'll repeat it again, slowly: Aziraphale is willingly (!) giving away or lending his books to pretty much complete strangers to, allegedly, make two other humans strangers fall in love.

Seriously, who is that angel and what has he done with our prim, fussy, hedonistic Aziraphale that protects his books with the vice grip of an eagle carrying his precious prey?

Believe in the importance of Mission Lovebirds as much as you will, but we're talking about Mr. A.Z. Fell here who, over the past millennia, has pretty much spent every day actively working out methods to stop people from purchasing as much as a single paperback from his holy shelves.

And yet: the 1965 September Dr. Who Annual? Given away. The first edition of Expert at the Card Table that was S. W. Erdnase's personal copy? Lent away to grubby human hands to fondle around with.

Let's do another coloured dialogue diversion (don't worry, it's not as extensive as the last one):

Crowley: "You just did what I think you did?" Aziraphale: "I'm not prepared to talk about it." Crowley: "You gave away a book." Aziraphale: "I had to! Maggie and Nina are depending on me. They just don't know it yet."

Crowley backs up my point: This is a huge deal. Aziraphale does not sell his books – let alone give them away for free. We're all shocked! Flabbergasted!

And the explanation Crowley and us get just ... doesn't satisfy. Something and someone sure is depending on this Ball and doesn't know it yet. But it's most definitely not Maggie and Nina, folks.

You know for whom Aziraphale would give away his books in the blink of an eye, though?

Mhm, that's right.

This pretty old serpent.

I want to take a minute to show you the reaction again that Aziraphale has upon entering the very same magic shop him and Crowley went to in 1941 to acquire the Bullet Catch:

You ... you need a minute there, angel? You're sure looking a little ... affected.

And I mean, well, no wonder. He reminisced about that very memory four hours last night. To him, this shop is where the most turbulent, ecstatic, adrenaline-fuelled and romantic night of his life began. And it shows.

I've made my point in my other meta series about how Aziraphale is an incredibly nostalgic character. He romanticizes so many things in his memories – especially the parts that feature Crowley. So, it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that he's once again willing to loosen the tight grip he has on his book collection to get the successor of Will Goldstone's Magic Shop, the shop that started it all for him, to come to his fancy Ball.

As we watch Aziraphale and his little lap dog demon pat around Soho, I'd like to take another second to point out that he goes to seven or more establishments before he even invites Nina.

... and he only does so because she starts talking to them on the street. Almost like he'd forgotten about it. Why not ask her at the very beginning? To establish whether or not he'd have to book-blackmail her too?

"Perfectly ordinary invitation with no hidden agenda of any kind", except that he's using you and Maggie as a pretence to resolve his own clusterfuck of a relationship-miscommunication Jane-Austen-style so that he can then hopefully confess his undying love to his demon not-boyfriend boyfriend.

Marvellous!

You'll forgive me another short diversion but my God, the whole exchange at the Marguerite's restaurant with Crowley literally cat-call-whistling Aziraphale over to him (and Aziraphale checking if he meant someone else first, I–)? I am weak. So, so weak and

However, this is also when we get a snippet of Crowley finally revealing the truth in place of his "Oh, he's fine"-lie earlier and telling Aziraphale that he's actually pretty scared Jim might turn back into Gabriel and smite him altogether. And Aziraphale's response is, in a cosmic sense, (remember the pink paragraph now) so hilarious:

"Have you thought of just talking to him?"

Yeah, have you? Have any of the two of you? Just thought about talking? To each other? About anything?

'pparently not. But hey, it's all good because remember what the ultimate remedy for star-crossed lovers simply misunderstanding each other is?

Bish, bash, bosh, problem solved!

Back at the ballroom bookshop, Aziraphale sends Crowley to invite Maggie in order to, in my opinion, not spoil the Ball-y surprise for him. (Inviting Maggie only now?! Wouldn't she be one of the only two guests who really should attend? Why the short notice? If she's really that important for the Ball you're planning, hm?)

On top of this, we see Nina almost not attending the Ball meeting after her partner broke up with her and Crowley being the one who coincidentally runs into her and ushers her into the bookshop before Shax and her "legion" of demons start creeping up on them. Again, if this hadn't happened by pure coincidence, Nina would have left to go home and this whole Ball would have taken place without her, rendering the apparent sole purpose of making her fall in love with Maggie useless.

Why doesn't Aziraphale care more for both of them to attend and be there? Why is he instead busy fussing over everything looking perfect and wonderful and doesn't even seem to notice that both Nina and Maggie are really late to the meeting?

Well. Well.

The answer's in the title, babes.

Alas, Crowley safely gets Maggie and Nina to join them, Mr. Brown is the only one who doesn't get a miracled outfit (fussy, petty angel, you just don't like him, do you?), Jimbriel stuns with glamour and flirt (and whatever sexually suggestive thing he does with his cheeks) and the Whickber Street Ball is a-go!

Sorry, I just had to chuck this in again because Crowley's face here absolutely kills me every time. He looks so confused, I am hollering.

And the heart eyes Aziraphale is making at Nina and Maggie now that they're actually here?

Oh, bless it, angel.

He's all like "Oh look, it's working! Jane was right! It's all going to be resolved, all the misunderstanding and quarrels! Crowley, where's Crowley–"

Ah yes, there he is.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is an angel who is not listening to a single word being said right now. No, in his head, Aziraphale is already down on one knee, pouring his heart out to Crowley after they just danced the night away.

Oh, yes, right. The dancing.

Parallel much?

But well, as marvellous and beautifully romantic as her stories tend to be, it turns out that Jane Austen isn't always right after all. Because before we know it, the perfect night shatters into many-a tiny pieces (literally).

And once again, fhwack:

... the rosy bubble bursts.

Let's take one more deep breath so I can make my final point:

In S2E2, Aziraphale explains to us very exactly what Jane's Balls (hrhr) used to be about: Solving miscommunication and confessing love to one another.

During his car journey back from Edinburgh, Aziraphale:

doesn't know Crowley's Mission Lovebirds had failed

remembers 1941 and just how badly he's in love with Crowley

and also realizes that they seem to have been wildly miscommunicating for quite some time now. (Crowley didn't even tell him he basically got let go!)

So, what does maddeningly strong love plus a want to resolve all the miscommunication equal? That's right: A night to remember! A Ball to change it all! A dance, a vol-au-vent, a confession. And, ideally, a happy ever after. Because:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man angel in possession of a good fortune Jane Austen collection, must be in want of a wife demon husband.”

The Ball was never for Nina and Maggie. As a byproduct, maybe, yes. But the whole rest of the glimmer and glamour, the careful, romantic planning and set up of it all, the book-bating the other shopkeepers– that was for Crowley and Crowley only.

And oh, if only it were as easy as in the books.

*whispers* I'm sorry, I had to.

***

Your honour, the tinfoil-hat crackpot defence rests. Feel free to share thoughts (and prayers) if you want to!

Au revoir! 💗

[stararch4ngelqueen]

YOU SAID SOFT!JASON AND I CAME RUNNING

soft!jason who just needs a fucking hug but its a stubborn bitch about it until reader basically forces him to hug her (its koala szn ok i dont make the rules) and his resolve is just GONE and he melts into her touch bc he really needed it

I follow the book of SZA for this season.

Personally ima imagine Gotham Knights Jason cause he gives off ugly bulldog vibes and I love that, but all Jason lives matter here 😊❤️

—

It’s been a while since you’ve witnessed a squash get butchered into many interesting pieces.

The tackling of the oddly tough spaghetti squash was always handled by your boyfriend, who made cutting it into its prepared state look incredibly easy. Cut it into multiple rings, season them, roast them, then fork out the perfectly cooked, sizable noodles with said utensil.

He was lost in thought, he had to have been, as said rock hard vegetable had been resorted to crooked, uneven cubes. His bowed head and dark expression after you quickly noticed, only signified the assumption to be true.

“Jason.” You tried his name again for a second time, concerned enough to settle a hand along his forearm. It was a miracle he hadn’t lost a finger yet, but knocking on wood in your mind would’ve been powerful enough to make it happen.

“Jason.”

The knife pauses, the man blinking once as if someone snapped in front of his face. He lifts his head a bit, coming back to his senses only to realize the state of what mess he’d created on the cutting board.

“Shit,” Jason mutters once, glancing over to see if the other half of the spaghetti squash was still intact.

“Shit.” The curse was further dragged out a little louder. Too lost in his dark cloud of remembrance to realize he butchered it all. Great. Just great.

“Hey,” you speak up, watching him catch your gaze for a split second before avoiding it, quickly setting the knife down.

“Hey.” He clears his throat, his hands piling together the fragments of their now ruined meal. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” You try to insist, watching him scoop up the pieces in his hands. “We can still roast it, make it into something still eatable.”

Jason didn’t respond.

This makes your worry meter spike just a little bit more.

“What’s with that frown handsome? You love Italian night.” You question, keeping your hand settled along his forearm.

There was nothing Italian about this dinner, except the homemade sauce and crumbled choice of sausage from an authentic butcher.

He groans but not out of irritance for your words. His hand shifts, making your hand etch back as he leans against the counter, his head bowing once more.

“Nothing.”

What’s going on in that kind mind of his? Was he involuntarily reminiscing of topics and experiences you don’t dare to mention? Was he beating himself up inside for his slip up, ruining a crucial part of your guys’ dinner?

“Come here,” you step closer, slightly extending your arm out a bit as an offering.

Jason nearly etched his head off to the side, nearly mumbling an ‘No. M’fine babe,’ but you weren’t having it.

“Come heeere,” you tried again, reaching your arm up along his opposite bicep, attempting to capture his broad build into your limited embrace.

You make the effort to squeeze in between the tall man of muscle and the kitchen counter, managing to fit both hands over hud shoulders, securing them being his neck.

“We can fix it.” You tell him before he can say otherwise, his brow either furrowing or raising in mixed surprise, and or denial, “We can ask Alfred for one of his secret recipes. If it doesn’t work, fuck it. We’ll make nutella sandwiches or something.”

His brow sharply quirks.

You return the expression with a smile.

You’re a bad influence on him. He adores that about you.

He huffs, an edge of his tone resembling a weak, throaty chuckle. A corner of his lip raised into a limp smile, which was all you needed to see.

“Long day?”

He merely has the strength in his social battery to respond as his head lowers to settle along your shoulder. With a single sigh, the weight of his body against yours nearly had you squished against the counter. A pleasant company along your sides were those ‘unrealistically’ large hands guarding your back from digging too deep against the marble countertop edges.

“Yeah.”

Your small hand cradles the back of his head, nearly soothing the pain from his tension headache. His eyes close, another small sigh leaving his nose. Not all of the palpable stress leaves his body, but your comfort nearly dulls it down into something much more manageable in seconds. Something much more bearable.

Your soft voice floods his aches and pains with a golden warmth of serenity. Your secret super power did wonders on his heart and mind. You didn’t even have to try.

“How’s Nutella sandwiches sound, actually?”

“We don’t have the marshmallow fluff.”

“No, but.. think we got strawberries.”

His brow slightly quirks again. Tonight sounds like it’s getting better already.

[theaawalker]

I Promise [Finnick Odair x Reader]

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Song Inspo: About You Now by Miranda Cosgrove Word Count: 829 Series: 1 | 2 | ? Summary: a day of fishing brings reminiscence for you and Finnick. District 4 never felt like home, but you've always had each other. Finnick has his soul mark, as do you, but that doesn't change anything. You know he'll find someone better, but nothing is promised in District 4. Warnings: none Masterlist: see fandoms (pc-friendly)

You loved fishing with Finnick. He was so good at it and you were very impressed. You also didn’t mind diving into the water as deep as you could to catch his eye.

It was like any other day, Finnick would cast out the nets and spear what he could and you would dive in to retrieve the nets. You had been doing this since you were kids and this was the first time Finnick wasn’t wearing a shirt. So let’s just say you were a little more distracted than usual.

As he pulled back his trident you watched his back muscles and noticed something. On his shoulder was a seashell tattoo. But this wasn’t any ordinary tattoo. It was a soul mark.

You looked down at your wrist and pulled your shell bracelets off to reveal a seashell soul mark identical to Finnick’s. He was your soul mate.

“What’s wrong?” He called to you. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” You said shaking your head. “I didn’t know you had a soul mark”

He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah. Do you have one?” You shook your head and he shrugged. “It’s too bad, I haven’t found her yet”

“Yeah, what a shame.” You sighed and turned to the setting sun. “Listen, we have to finish up.” You said, running and diving into the water.

You loved Finnick, but he deserved better. He was amazing and you were, well, you. He didn’t know you were his soul mate and it’s very possible for a soul mark to disappear when circumstances change. There had to be someone better to be his soul mate and that is what you would hold out for.

As you swam to the surface you were met by Finnick’s sea blue eyes staring back at you. His hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you close.

“My little fish was underwater for a very long time. Are you ok?” He asked concerned.

“Yeah” You nodded pushing yourself away from him. “I have to go” You said swimming to shore.

After the next few months despite your best efforts you fell more and more in love with Finnick everyday. You tried to stay away from him but it was almost impossible. Oddly enough you thought that maybe Finnick was in love with you too.

You were fishing one day again when Finnick spoke up. “You know I don’t think this soul mate stuff is true. I mean how can a mark on my body that matches someone else mean I love them. What if I already love someone else”

You couldn’t tell if you were upset or relieved so you nodded. “Well I don’t have to worry about it”

“I just wish I wasn’t carrying this on my back” He paused. “Get it?”

“Ha, ha” You said splashing him with water.

“Oh, you want to do that do you?” He said charging at you and knocking you backwards and into the water with him on top of you and your back against the sandy bottom.

When you both came to the surface you laughed but Finnick’s face turned serious.

“Are you nervous for the reaping next week?” He asked, breaking the happy moment.

“I don’t know.” You said shrugging. “I always wonder what are the odds.”

He nodded and looked off into the distance. “Yeah... I suppose.”

“Come on.” You said pulling him up. “It’s almost dark”

The next week went by and Finnick seemed distant. He was really worried about the reaping. You weren’t sure if he was right to be, but today would be the day to find out.

You dressed in your best blue dress and braided your hair back in a single fishtail braid. Sadly, you couldn’t meet up with Finnick before, but you would see him after. You hoped.

After you were all lined up in the square that’s when your nerves finally hit. You fidgeted with your dress and tried to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of Finnick. To your despair he was nowhere to be found.

As they drew the girl’s name you breathed a sign of relief when it wasn’t you. When they got to the boys you crossed your fingers it wasn’t Finnick.

“For the boys!" The woman called out. “Finnick Odair!”

“No...” You whispered. You watched in horror as Finnick walked up to the stage. “No!” You said running up after him the guards in quick pursuit. You grabbed his hand and gave him a hug. That was all you had time for before the guards were tearing you apart.

Finnick still had your arm and through all the grabbing and pulling your sleeve pulled up revealing your soul mark. Finnick saw it immediately. “I knew it was you. Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked desperately.

“I’m sorry.” You said as you were finally pulled away.

“I will come back to you!” He yelled as he was dragged into the justice building. “I promise!”

• ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ •

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[the-monkeies-girl]

Subway Systems - Five x Reader - Oneshot snippet.

No big deal whatever its just me writing stuff enjoy a snippet and if you like it idk maybe i post the whole thing lol

They were alive--- Just like you, the plants you tended to, part of a daily ritual you fell into with the Hargreeves. They were alive, breathing and… Half dead, holding on what seemed like a thread just like it felt you were doing for the past two-thousand five-hundred and fifty five days. Seven years, if your math was correct. Seven years since the soles of your feet threaded off the metallic base of the subway car, seven years since you last had seen the outside world you were so familiar with, teetering between worlds of destruction that offered no solace for either traveler once stepped off the car you were on that day.

There were some sunny days that beat against your skin, burning engraves of rays into you that reminded you of the slowness of the Summertime, the casted shift of a breeze against the trees and the subsequent rustling of the leaves. If you closed your eyes, you could see the suns shape against your eyelids, reminiscent of laying in a field of flowers as a child, face up towards the sky. If you were quiet enough now to use your imagination passed survival, you could hear it in the recesses of your mind... Crickets... Chirping out a solemn song as your fingertips brushed against grass. Bushes being shuffled through by rabbits on the hunt for succulent berries and the buzzing of insects too close to your ear, but you were too tired to move away from them so you let them be.

You wondered at times... If Five could hear it too... Or did his sound like the hustle and bustle of a city? The constant noise that is ultimately drowned up by sheer will power? The bickering of civilians in the street, the passing of a car too close to the curb and the honk of a car, angry at someone darting across the street nowhere near the cross-walk? You chose to never ask. It always sought as a bitter call towards the past. Those flickering waves of the way the world had been have not dulled out due to time like a faded newspaper and you had to recall that you were stuck in a loop, together apart, together falling inwards like a supernova with each day that was lived. Never admitting verbally to the graces of reality that escaped on the outside, but mentally accepting the way that things were playing out on the inside.

There were some gray days of rain that pounded against your skin, dull and saddened with each rain drop that casted shivers down your spine, noticed and eyes rolled at the human reaction as if he wouldn't react the same way to the elements. Five was fast to snidely comment that you needed to be more astute on your journey. 'Find yourself a goddamn jacket' was mumbled seven years ago as his envy colored irises sneered at the way that water hit against the bare skin of your arms and down to trickle off your fingertips. Like you were something special and magnetic it was being pulled to, he hated the sight and scoffed under his breath.

Those comments and jeers were aplenty the first two years together but you were quick on your feet and learned to never take offense to them. They were... Oddly reassuring now in the twisted way that Five only muttered them to give advice out of care and want to keep you alive. Least, in the last five years that since trailed by and gave way for the comments to begin their decent in bitingness and replaced with fond irritation, you convinced yourself that was the case.

And in return without giving it much thought, you gave him solace in silently bared knowledge that he wasn't traversing this alone, that he was not carrying all of this on his thinned shoulders; the overpowering burden of death that seemed to follow in his shadow. Another prolonged period of time without his family was at least bearable this round due to actual companionship even if it held notes of hostility at times from your dueling personalities that meshed only in certain frequencies.

[roanofarcc]

YOU NEVER LEFT ME

pairing. javi x fem!reader

summary. after the loss of three of your best friends, you found yourself pushing everyone away. it seemed easier that way. if there was no one around, no one could be taken from you. and while that mentality faded as time healed your wounds, you had no intention of seeking out kate nor javi. you thought it was better that way. until, one day fate brings you all back together, and you have to deal with some long unspoken feelings. 

warnings. PTSD, mentions of drinking/underage drinking, fluffy, "unrequited" feelings, mention of kate/javi, kate and tyler are idiots in love in the background.

word count. 2.1k || masterlist

The air was dry in Oklahoma that summer, the heat intense and reminiscent. You sat in the passenger seat, gaze focused out the window. 

“Did you review the application?” your coworker asked from the driver’s seat, making light small talk between the gaps of silence in the radio. 

“Courtney filled me in on their qualifications, and why she thinks they’re a good fit for the grant. I trust her judgment,” you replied. Work had been busy the past couple of weeks, and you’d been too swamped to sit down and read the top contender for a rather large grant that would help a team of lucky storm chasers fund their research. You had received a stack of applications, but the team you were traveling to meet was the top contender. 

Your coworker hummed and left it at that until your little road trip concluded at a barn in the middle of nowhere. “This is their lab?” he asked, parking the car. “I feel like we’re stepping into a horror film. There’s no one around for miles.” 

You smiled and shook your head. “That’s Oklahoma for you,” you said. “Come on.” You stepped out of the car, feeling the heat fit you with full force. It was oddly pleasant, a gentle reminder of your days spent traveling across Tornado Alley back in college, trying to get your and your friends' own research funded. It was odd being on the other side of things, but storm chasing was no longer something you dreamed of doing as a career. You had sworn it off since one deadly miscalculation and cruel fate took the lives of three of your friends. Since then, storms only brought you a cold sense of dread, which is why you pivoted paths, still playing into your curiosity in the dangerous weather, but never having to see it up close again. 

“Hey, y’all!” A chipper voice called from the barn before a group of people emerged, the storm-chasing team. You squinted in the sunlight, looking at each member for a moment before your gaze fell on the last two people. You faltered, a quick skip of your heart at the shock that toppled over you. You should have read over the application yourself. You should have known the methods sounded familiar, but time had made it seem unlikely. 

But in front of you, approaching across the dirt driveway, were your old team members, the only remaining ones alive, Kate and Javi. 

“Holy shit!” Javi said with a wide smile as he picked up his pace, practically jogging towards you. You blinked, a wave of emotions crashing over the top of you. He stopped directly in front of you, the same Javi you knew six years ago only this hair was much shorter, and he stood a little broader. But his smile was the same; the same one that used to make you clam up when you were crammed in the back of the truck together while traveling all across Tornado Alley. “I told you it was her!” he said, looking beside him at Kate. 

She looked different too, and her hair was shorter. But you couldn’t help but notice the little twinkle in her eye that had once been there but disappeared after the accident. You didn’t stick around the two of them long in the aftermath, deciding to transfer to a college close to home as you tried to recover, but you stayed long enough to see the toll it took on the two of them. Javi had lost three of his friends and Kate had lost two friends and someone who was once the love of her life. Despite that, the two of them were still working together, chasing. 

“I knew the last name, but I didn’t think…” Kate trailed off, her surprise melting into fondness as she took you in. “It's nice to see you.” 

You cleared your throat, ignoring the strange looks from your coworker. “Y-Yeah. It’s nice to see you guys too.” 

You and your coworker completed your rounds of questioning and inquiring about their research, but you were distracted. It was a strange feeling that pricked the back of your neck, somewhere between uncomfortable and drenched in nostalgia that you were watching from the outside. Javi and Kate almost acted like they’d never been apart. The way they finished each other sentences when explaining their research, with the addition of another member of their team jumping in too, was reminiscent of your college days. 

It wasn’t until standing in front of them, in the familiar space of Kate’s mother’s barn, that you realized just how much you missed them. It hit you like a gut punch, an unexpected blow. 

“Well, we’ll have to talk it over with the bossman, but I don’t see any reason why you guys shouldn’t get this grant,” your coworker said. The group was all smiles. “I think we’re good to go, yeah?” He turned to you, but before could nod in response, Javi jumped in. 

“We actually planned to either celebrate or wallow at a bar downtown, if you’d guys like to join?” Javi’s eyes were fixed on you, a light pleading gaze. 

You couldn’t say no. 

At the bar, you were sandwiched between Javi and Kate as you all sipped your drinks and talked about everything but your college days. It was something you had always tip-toed around, avoided, and by the way they spoke, you could tell it was something they hadn’t talked too much about either. 

The conversation was nice, light, but it still stung a little in your skin. It was odd, you thought, how you didn’t know just how much you missed someone until you were back in their presence. But it stuck to you like wet clothes. Yet, you tried to enjoy the moment and relish in your old friends' company for one night. 

You weren’t sure how long you spent talking until one of the other chasers from Kate and Javi’s team, the infamous Tyler Owens, appeared behind Kate and asked her to dance. She looked a little flustered, which confused you. Javi laughed and shooed her away, which also confused you. 

Maybe it wasn’t right to jump to conclusions, but by the closeness of Kate and Javi that you picked up on from the minute you arrived, you assumed they had fallen into more than old ways of friendship but moved into something more. Maybe you shouldn’t have assumed, but it made sense. Old friends reconnecting, chasing again despite everything. 

But when you say the way Tyler looked at Kate as he spun her around the crowded bar makeshift dance floor, you started to realize maybe you read things wrong. 

Javi noticed your quizzical looks at the two. He chuckled into his beer before leaning back on the bar chair. “All the Wranglers have a bet going,” he said. “How long until the two of ‘em buck up and admit their feelings for each other. It’s pretty obvious they're in love with each other, but Kate’s still…you know, she’s scared and Tyler’s too much of a gentleman to make a move until she’s ready,” he explained, putting the pieces together for you. 

“Oh,” you replied, surprised. “I thought you and Kate…” 

Javi smiled, shaking his head. “I love her, but not like that. Besides, she and Tyler are good for each other, and I…I have a somewhat pathetic love life.” 

You furrowed your brows. “I doubt it's pathetic. No more pathetic than mine, at least.” 

His gaze was heavy on the side of your face as you stared at your drink, thinking back to every failed date you managed to have since college. It wasn’t anyone's fault but your own. It was like you sabotaged your relationships, looking for something that was even a mystery to yourself. 

“I dunno about that,” he sighed. “I’ve had the same crush on a girl for years, an embarrassingly long time.” 

You met his eyes, curiosity peaked. Javi never talked much about his crushes in college, not to you at least. While Kate and Jeb seemed to have been a match made in heaven, you complained about not being able to find a love like that. Javi always listened to you complain but never mentioned his own feelings towards others around campus. You assumed it was because he was too focused on your research. You put his obviousness of the fact that you clearly had a crush on him on his focus on school. 

“How long is embarrassingly?” 

He tilted his head, a sheepish smile hung on his lips. “Since college.” 

You paused, holding your drink midway in the air, confused. “But you said you and Kate-” 

“I’m not talkin’ about Kate,” Javi said before he sighed lightly. “To be honest, I kind of lied to them about the grant and not knowing that it was your company administering it.” His admittance caught you off guard. You blinked, unsure of what to say, so you let him continue. 

“I knew it was a longshot and I had no idea if it’d actually get reviewed. But I thought it was a win-win if it did. We could win the grant and see you. The more I thought about it, though, the less it became about the money and more just about seeing you again. Probably not the smartest way or the easiest, but I wasn’t sure you’d come out if I just asked you out of the blue. And I worried, if you saw our names, you’d ignore it or something; we wouldn’t have blamed you for that, though. It’s hard; I know. Kate does too. But-” he cut himself off, a little out of breath from speaking quickly. “It’s not the same without you. And I’m not talkin’ about chasing. Having you in our lives, in my life, I miss it; I miss you…” 

It was a lot to take in, a lot to process in the loud, dusty bar. You felt warm, half a nice warmth and the other troubled, unsure. You pressed your lips into a thin line for a moment, taking in his words. 

“I-I…” The words were thick in your throat, but you swallowed them down and tried again. “I miss you guys too.” 

“Really?” 

You laughed sadly. “Of course I do. You guys were my best friends.” And it hurt that they weren’t anymore, but maybe it didn’t have to stay that way. Maybe that’s why you followed them to the bar because you weren’t ready to let them go again, despite the pain that accompanied their company as well. 

“Friends,” Javi parroted, glancing down at his beer, fingers tapping against the counter. “I’m gonna say somethin’ that might not be, uh, the right thing right now, but I don’t know when or if I’ll see you again.” You wanted to tell him that he would, but you couldn’t be certain of that; nothing was ever certain. “I liked you in college, a lot. I always have, and still do. Which, I know, is ridiculous. I haven’t seen or talked to you in years, but you never left me.” 

Your heart ached the same way it had when you two would get a little closer back in school, testing the waters of something beyond friends but you never got the chance to take the dive. 

You were quiet for a moment, eyes falling out the door onto the sky shifting colors as night neared. The smell of cheap whisky the person on the other side of you was drinking brought you back to sneaking bottles from your parent's house when your little team stopped by during chases. You and Javi sipped it in the back of the van, giggling to yourself until you fell asleep. Kate would help you two nurse a hangover with diner coffees she always poured too much sugar into. You missed that. You missed them. You missed him. 

“Maybe this won’t be the last time you see me,” you said, looking back at him. 

Javi looked surprised but it melted into excitement quickly. “Maybe you could stay, hang around a bit. You think your work would let you help us with the grant money?” 

It would be an odd ask, but possibly one they wouldn’t say no to. But the thought of chasing again sent shivers down your spine. He noticed, placing a warm hand over yours. “It’ll be different this time,” he said, voice laced with a convincing reassurance. 

You knew that wasn’t something he could promise, but the thought of jumping on a plane the next morning didn’t sit right with you either. You were stuck at a crossroads of sorts. 

It was a leap of faith, a fear-chasing endeavor you weren’t sure you were fully prepared for, but maybe it was where your life needed to go. 

“It couldn’t hurt to ask.” 

And he smiled even brighter.

[petpippin]

୨ৎ there she goes ─ takashi mits.

"you're being so mean to me."

he is. takashi, oddly enough, is being an asshole. he seems to realize it as well, chuckling as you kick up a fuss over something he deems so trivial.

"come on," he smiles, "my sisters like you."

head lay in your hands, you sob in objection. "you're such a liar."

"i'm not," mitsuya can't help but laugh, amused at the absurdity you just can't quite seem to fathom. "you're all they talk about."

you whine, hiding away from him. takashi is a meager comfort, only when he's unable to mask the hilarity of your suffering.

"not true," you cry even harder. "your sisters just stare at me."

"they're shy," he hums, petting over your hair. "you were a little girl once, too. put yourself in their shoes," he continues, kissing your cheek when you finally allow it, "didn't you stare sometimes, when you saw a pretty girl?"

"flattery won't get you anywhere," you huff, curled up into a tiny ball of self-pity. "they're scrutinizing me!"

giggling, takashi once again provides no consolation. "i used to stare at you the same way, don't you remember?"

when you refuse to speak, he goes on.

"the guys used to tease me for it all the time," nudging your foot, takashi reminisces. "the girls at the home-ec club, too. i just couldn't talk to you."

takashi laughs.

"i remember the first time we ever talked," he's closing up on you now, smudging your tears. "got so red in the face, i had to hide out in the bathroom to calm down."

hand cupping your cheek, you're suddenly brought face-to-face with takashi, his smile now serene.

"it's genetics, pretty. my girls think you're just as pretty as i did."

you seem to perk up a little at that, tears drooping from your lashes.

"did?" a whisper of disbelief from your lips, puffy and gnawed raw.

takashi decides it'd be too cruel to tease you now, as a tidal wave of tears washes over you.

"you're so mean to me, takashi-ii.."

there she goes again . . . ㅠ ㅠ

[bokutosmochi]

kinktober day 3: body worship!

MY WHOLE EXISTENCE IS FLAWED (YOU GET ME CLOSER TO GOD) ♡ GOJO SATORU

gojo satoru x fem!reader

ingredients? no plot. just gojo sucking tits.

what's it? smut

allergen warnings? established relationship, needy!gojo, gojo being obsessed with your tits, body worship

sugar level? 1.1k

regulars? @ventdavi154 @eussstasss @deobiforever @sugusshi @angelshub (send an ask if you wanna be a part/removed from the taglist)

parlor's note? the gojo brainrot is unbelievably strong.

bon appetit!

gojo is obsessed with your boobs.

satoru doesn't care whether you're not in the mood to fuck, so long as you give him the green light to suck your tits.

you're in your shared bed, watching your favorite movie when he walked into the room, shoulders uncharacteristically slumped and lips characteristically pouty.

he's had such a rough day -- getting chastised by yaga for being six minutes late to a meeting, ignored by nanami, and getting sassed by kugisaki and fushiguro. all he wants is some quality alone time with you to make it better.

you didn't notice it at first though, not when the movie's in its climax. instead, you're buzzing with excitement and leaning from side to side whenever satoru's figure blocks your view of the tv.

but it seems to be impossible to ignore him.

with the loud huff he always breathes out at times when your attention isn't on him, he plops right on top of you.

the warmth travels up as he scoots so his head would be on your chest where he buries his face. he can feel the heat you radiate through the thin, worn-out fabric of his your old shirt and it melts the stress off his shoulders. not entirely, though. he needs some more help from you for that.

thoughtlessly, you run a hand through his soft white hair. it's instinctual, just like the hum of acknowledgment you give him.

it doesn't seem to be enough for an ever insatiable satoru though.

"babyy," he whines, wrapping his arms around you and cuddling further.

much to his dismay, you only disinterestedly hum at him again.

if it was any other time, he probably would have kicked up a fuss about it. actually, he thinks, there wouldn't be a probably about it. he would have kicked up a fuss about it, after all, in his opinion, your attention and love should always be on your devoted, thoughtful, handsome boyfriend. that day of kicking up a fuss is not today though.

he's feeling way too needy for that, knowing it'd take way too long for you to pry your focus from the stupid movie and onto him.

so he just asks you for something instead.

"can i play with your tits, baby?" as dirty as the sentence is, he says it sweetly, reminiscent of a boy asking out a girl he's liked since forever to go on a date with him.

and your voice is just as soft when you answer in the affirmative, hand still in his hair, running your fingers through he snowy strands.

he starts off with grabbing them through he shirt, massaging them in his big hands. there's something he finds oddly relaxing in the action. he's able to turn his brain off for a while and simply let the part of him he always suppresses rise.

the part of him that always hungers for pleasure.

he gifts both of your already stiff nipples a chaste kiss through the shirt before pulling the fabric up and over your tits.

his eyes shine like diamonds when he gazes at your bare chest. no matter how many times he's already seen you naked, it's a sight he can never get sick of. he's moved his head a bit to the side now, longing to see your whole abdomen, to see and hear how your voice hitches at his ministrations or how you shakily inhale or exhale.

"pretty," he comments as he pinches a nipple and rolls it between his fingers. it's not for you though, he's thinking out loud, talking to himself.

when he's content with how hard it is, he moves on to your other tit. this time he gropes and squeezes at it. with all of his fingers except his index, he holds the bottom of your tit, keeping it in place as he rubs the nub with his pointer finger in circular motions.

you let out a content exhale as he does so, moving on to scratch at his scalp.

he shivers at the feeling, electricity running up and down his spine until it sparks in his brain.

it's almost too much to bear for him.

and so he does something about it.

he starts off by trailing wet kisses from your shoulder, to your collarbone, to the sides of your chest, all the while his hands caress your waist and tummy with a feather-like touch.

his movements are perfect. they make you squirm and slowly rub your thighs together, trying to satiate the slowly building ache between your legs. it's not enough to make you look away from the television though, just enough to make you moan his name softly, back arched off the mattress slightly.

you gasp when he puts his wet mouth on your tits.

the contrast of the coolness of the room and the warmth of his mouth is pleasurable. it makes everything he does feel so much better.

your brain short circuits when he sucks on your sensitive nipples, running his tongue up and down the tip until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, before sucking on it harshly again. it makes you moan louder now. his name leaves your lips like a prayer and he swears to never forget how you sound, to keep it ingrained in his brain for safe keeping, only to be used during long missions.

the sight of him moving from one breast to the other, the sight of the string of saliva that follows his mouth is unbelievably lewd. you can't bring yourself to look away from satoru now. the only thing that your mind processes is him. all of your senses are solely focused on him.

the way he smells, clean with a hint of after-shave, fresh out of the shower. the way the skin of his back feels under your fingertips, smooth, excluding the rough lines from past scars he's collected over time. the way he looks, utterly engrossed in the moment with his one track mind. the way he sounds as his mouth works over you, the tiniest moans slipping out of his glossy, spit covered lips. whether that's from the satisfaction he gets from pleasuring you or from the way his hips thrust against your legs, you are not sure, although knowing satoru, you think it's both. and you swear, you can taste him on your tongue.

satoru doesn't care whether you're not in the mood to fuck, so long as you give him the green light to suck your tits. both of the time though, if you do give him the green light, it ends with you giving in either way.

i get: reblog

you get: gojo satoru noodle stopper