#aidemint's recs

[aidemint]

BIRBS OH MY GODKSJERJNKSJGNHKSEURHJAWRKHJKAEGNKJNAKEJ

i’m screaming so hard right now you don’t even know oh my god

the worldbuilding, the interactions, the way you describe everything is just so???? wow????? the whispers, the way some text fades into the background so our attention is drawn to the main scene, sweet JESUS

you really make the undercity feel like home and it’s so immersive i can’t wrap my head around it rn i need a moment to process this because holy SHIT

not even getting into the warmth of the supposed “scum of piltover,” i need to address how zaun is presented in the fic because WOW

assumptions and stereotypes made even in zaun is really a slap to the face (perhaps it’s not all that distant from piltover in terms of being a society) when reading and ALSO??? SILCO SUPPORTING THE INDUSTRY??? SHIT OK

and the sex work business being an actual business that has actual people that depend on it for food and income and shelter, not just some place to fuck around and “have fun” is a really realistic notion that hits deep, honestly—i don’t see that idea around as much as i should, so i wanna thank you for including it :)

AND THE. THIS SLOWBURN OH MY GOD.

the push and pull of the relationship and all the pressure that comes with it... it’s not just some cheeky love story between powerful people, it’s realistic, it’s alive, and it’s oh-so human. they have flaws, they have insecurities, they have their own opinions and thoughts about things but at the end of the day it’s about communication and understanding, and TAKING ACTION to learn about each other more.

madame and silco are both so precise with their methods of communication and it really translates into their stories like how they’ve been hanging around the underworld crowd their entire lives, and now are shifting into positions of power —places where they have to be careful

and just watching everything unveil in madame’s office oh lord

like??? silco doesn’t give a shit if madame is late in her payments?!?!?!?! HE LIKES HER GODDAMMIT HE LIKES HER AS A PERSON oh my god

and the fact that he’s not even willing to admit his affection straight up like “i think i like you” IS JUST? SO IN CHARACTER and it’s everything i’ve ever wanted and more (and the same thing goes for madame oh my god this inarticulation of feelings has me absolutely gassed)

god, i could go on about this for days but i’ll cap it at here

but seriously, nobody writes like you do and i legitimately cannot get enough of your works. thank you so much for writing, and please be well!!!!!

girl PLEASE do another part of ‘hobbyist & finer things’!! it is in the top 3 of the best silco fics i swear.

part two ; HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS ; silco / reader

summary: you're late on payment. silco pays you a visit. your courtesans are curious. it's rather romantic. read part one here.

word count: 3.8k

pairing: silco / reader

a/n: you all really enjoyed the first part of this little work of mine! thank you all for leaving such kind little notes and reblogs. i'll probably by using a mastertag to track this series - so if you want to check my blog for any updates, check the hobbyists & finer things tag! yet again, this pretty gif is by @aestheticsicrushon from this set here!

You're three days late on payment.

Sevika makes a point of letting him know.

Set in the center of the bazaar, The Lilac Lounge is a ten minute ride down the Lane. It's tucked neatly between shops nearly adjacent to Babette's own establishment. It creates a stream of pink and lilac light creeping into the streets, carried by the open doors and open arms of eager workers. The Lilac Lounge is a teetering two stories — the first is a sprawling maze of velvet-walled rooms for services and the like; up a winding staircase in the back sits the second floor where workers were boarded.

Once upon a time, the brothel would have been considered fashionable, but as time crept on, Yeleni was hesitant to change her ways.

Seems as though you've ushered in the new era, however — the previous sign has been removed in favor for one that glows bright in the inky black evening air. The lilac florescent bleeds into the fog. Below the sign, curling clouds of shimmer waft towards the street’s lamplight.

There's a rag-tag gaggle outside, men and women gathered to leer and look through the windows, to consider the services — a few girls hang off their arms, goading them to come inside, to warm up, to get comfortable...

He ambles down from the carriage and shrugs his overcoat closer. It's nearly winter now. The days, as dim as they are, have grown shorter. He can see his breath now, mingling with smoke from his cigarette. He flicks the dying ember to the ground.

Silco's gold-tipped shoes meet the cobblestone. In one move, he leans and smothers the light with his heel. His leather gloves, as soft as silk, pass along the carriage door as he snaps it shut.

His men flank him as the carriage peels away.

The sea of bodies — watching owlishly at the appearence of the Undercity’s reigning Kingpin — parts with ease.

His good eye slips across a few of the faces — he meets them with level disinterest.

Silco, tall and lean, ducks through the open door of the brothel.

He's visited one brothel in this life of his. Babette's. He was young, then. Not a boy, but still half the man he is now. Vander, then, was tied to his hip. Now, older and wiser, he's settled that this sort of work perplexes him. More than anything, he respects it. Deeply so. It's the price of the truest vulnerability. Physically exhausting. Mentally draining. The list is long.

Immediately, heat greets him. The snap and crackle of a well-maintained fire burns in the corner. There's a girl behind the main desk — but she's far off in a book. The walls are a pale purple, rimmed with intricate, merlot top and bottom trim.

Silco inhales and moves to peel his gloves off.

You've touched up the wallpaper. Added a few new pieces of furniture.

He drops them on the counter. Still, no stir. He continues to take in the establishment, to look at the faces of workers and patrons alike. Then, for good measure, he reaches to ring the bell by the stack of pamphlets detailing services.

Suddenly, he realizes lobby of The Lilac Lounge has gone silent. Packed to the brim with pretty faces. The phonograph in the corner drones on some low tune.

The girl behind the desk — she's young, maybe a few years older than his Jinx — is looking at him with eyes wider than a mile when he finally finishes his lackadaisical inspection of the lobby.

His head lolls to her, attention torn from the piece in the corner. It’s new, he thinks. He can’t remember. Yeleni never had an appreciation for art. You are different.

"H-How may I help you, sir?" comes a timid question.

Silco speaks as warm as ever; he leans with one arm on the counter. His face softens. The girl is young.

"I'm here to see the Madame, sweet dear."

Her posture is straight as an arrow. Silco watches as she swallows. Her eyes seems to seek comfort in the sea of workers around her. They seem just as unsure as her.

"Th-The Madame is very busy," she explains in a rehearsed manner; Silco is left to wonder then how many visitors have come asking for you by name, "She is only to be seen by appointment."

Hm. Curious, he tuts.

Suddenly, Silco can hear your voice.

While this room has gone still, the winding river of workers and patrons has not slowed in the hallway beyond the lobby. The calls of chatter are equally comfortable as they are poised. Flirtations and jeers, music and sex. All of it blends together in the electric atmosphere of the brothel on this busy weeknight.

"Take them straight home to your mother," you call as the figure of man rounds the corner. Silco sees that you're pushing him by the shoulders out the door; there's a box in his arms, and he's laughing, and you've got a warm smile on your face, "Get these damn creams out of my brothel—"

The corners of his eyes crinkle, painted with lilac shadow and shimmer. He stills, however, at the sight of Silco.

You do, as well.

Oh.

Immediately, you’re assessing the situation in the room with a matrenly concern. In a flash, you’re looking at Gwenievere — the young girl behind the main desk. She looks apologetic; guilt washes over you in a flash. Clearly, she’d  heeded your instructions to beat back visitors by insisting on appointments. And... Well. You pride her in her dedication for insisting the Kingpin of Zaun needed a damn appointment.

"Silco."

Your voice is warm. A rush of relief, almost. Silco wonders if perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

"Hello, Madame."

The smile he offers is lopsided, but warm.

His voice is warm. Cordial. Very bit the gentleman.

But, why is he here? To pay a visit? Or —

“To what do I—?”

Suddenly, you snap rigid.

Silco, at first, isn't sure how to read the expression — in truth, he's a bit preoccupied by the rather Edwardian state of your attire. Your blouse is tucked into trimmed trousers, and the sleeves billow around your elbows in a mismatched roll. It's a very different appearance than the one you'd manicured when you'd visited him for business. This one, loose and easy, seems to speak more to your nature.

Rather charming, really. Horrifically so.

You've clearly been busy. There's a quill behind your ear. A smear of ink is dashed across your chin.

You round the counter in a few long strides as your hand reaches up to your lips, hoping to smother a look of sudden remembrance. As easy as breathing, you touch the sleeve of his overcoat.

Silco settles his weight on one long leg as he leans against the desk and tries to reign in his look of appreciation.

The whole room hangs on the interaction.

The whispers are starting. Faces peering in windows, courteseans hanging from the doorframes. Eyes watching.

The Madame touched Silco.

"I knew I'd forgotten something," there's a squeeze then, and an apologetic exhale that tells him enough about your current state of affairs. Your eyes are heavy with a genuine sort of look that makes Silco feel as if he's been completely disarmed, "How many days?"

"Three," he replies easily, almost bored. His gaze is rooted on you.

More whispers as more heads duck back into their rooms. Since when does Silco go easy on debts owed? Will there be trouble? He doesn't seem angry—

"—Shit," you curse in a whisper as you press your fingers to your brow.

Suddenly, you're painfully aware of your less than impressive appearance.

If you had known he was coming, perhaps you'd have worn something a little nicer. At the very least, maybe fixed the mess of your hair.

God, you have ink all over you.

And here he is — oozing power, as magnanimous as it is. He's prim. Not a hair out of place. His aftershave is sharp. Masculine. Handsome. The whole of him is entirely so.

You've not gone a day without think of him, not with that beautiful painting hanging in your office.

"I understand you've been quite busy, Madame," Silco explains slowly as he inhales and pulls himself up from this lean, "And I had yet to see The Lilac Lounge under it's new management. I chose not pass up the opportunity."

Ah.

You note the tone. Cooler now. Like you're back in his office, dancing politely around business dealings. The danger lay in the implications.

So, this is one of those moments — the ones Babette mentioned.

He will show he holds the leash. Be ready for it.

But, this seems different.

"I'd offer a tour," you say lightly, testing the waters, "Though I have a feeling some of my courtesans would be eager to volunteer first."

A compliment. The corner of his lip quirks. You notice.

"Kindly, I'll have to decline. Perhaps, though, a tour of your office? Or, would I need an appointment, miss?”

His smile is inclined Gwen’s way. It’s kind. Fatherly. The girl bites her cheek shyly.

“I think we can pencil you in. What do you think, Gwen?”

“Yes, Madame.”

With that, Silco nods to his men behind him. They ease up, reminding you that despite Silco’s calmness there are others who are keen to act. You give him a thankful look. He gathers his folded gloves in his hands and gestures for you to lead the way.

More chatter passing between lips and ears now. And did you hear about the painting? He's going to her office alone, now—

Silco doesn't mind the narrow hall you lead him down. He does feel a bit like a piece of meat, in all honesty, when eyes follow the both of you to the office at the far end of the long hall. His shoes pad along quietly, long strides following your lighter, more graceful ones.

Masked and painted faces stare back at him with every colorful, bright room passed. Giggles and whispers crescendo at your passing, silenced by the older courtesans clearly encouraging the younger ones to mind their business — all while their own eyes narrow in critically on their Madame and the Kingpin.

Finally, your office.

It's rather...

Cute.

Silco looms behind you, his hands tucked neatly into his overcoats pockets, as you lead him through the open door.

Your voice is quiet. "I apologize of the mess. Admittedly, it’s been quite the week.”

“Appointments...?” Silco asks quietly as you move to nudge the door to your office closed. He watches you over his shoulder as you flick your eyes down the hall one last time; you’re aware of the curiousity this little visit has drawn. They’ll talk. You decide to let them.

Your exhale is tired as you move across the room, clearing off a plush little armchair for him adjacent to Yeleni’s — no, your desk.

"I’m sure you know how it is. Transitions in power always garner attention,” you explain as you struggle with a stack of paper. You plop it down on the long table in the middle of the room, set between two loveseats. It’s cluttered with various boxes and stacks of paper you’ve procured from God knows where. You rub your cheek as you turn back to him, “Some of the Chem Barons were hoping I’d forgo Yeleni’s previous contracts and seek new, exciting, profitable opportunities.”

You waggle your fingers. Your tone indicates your lack of interest.

Silco scoffs.

You laugh a little at his reaction, then move to the fireplace against the far wall. It’s dying — and you prod it lightly with one of the glimmering pokers Yeleni had kept over the years. The crackle is satisfying.

Then, his attention turns to the painting you’ve ceremoniously hung behind your desk.

Hm.

It fit nicely. Just as he’d hoped.

You take a few steps closer, padding gently on the carpet, and extend a hand. “Let me take your coat?”

Silco’s attention is torn back to you. He obliges. For a moment, the tension between you is thicker than smog. You blame the proximity.

So, you take the heavy, wool overcoat from his shoulders and hang it neatly on the back of the tall chair across from your desk. You smooth it down. It’s warm. Smells like his cologne. Smoke clings to the collar.

When you turn back to him, he’s adjusting his golden cufflinks. His eyes are still on the painting.

“Missing it?” you ask playfully.

Silco’s good eye squints a bit in jest. “I believe it’s better suited with you.” Then, a pause. His voice falters. It’s quiet. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?” You sidle up beside him. “I love it. Thank you. Truly, Silco.”

He hangs onto that. It settles neatly in his heart. If he had a locket, perhaps he’d write the words down. Tuck them away.

“I’m... I’m glad.”

“Yes, well, I really went and showed my appreciation, didn’t I?” you sigh and move across the room to your desk, “Three days... I’m sorry, Silco—”

“I figured you were busy,” he chirps, bending at the waist to pluck up a stack of... budgeting expenses? From... god, from seventeen years ago? “With... this?”

The keys in your hand jingle. You close the top drawer of your desk. The eyeroll is as exasperated as the expression on his face.

“Welcome to my new life.”

“She kept...” he wets his thumb and flips a stack of pages; his eyes flick across the parchment, “All of this?”

You roughly unlock the bottom drawer to your desk. In it sits a neat silken satchel of coin currency. The gold tinkers as you set the heavy little purse down on the desk. You wag the key at him. “With no organizational system. I’ve been finding laundry notes mixed in with things like that.”

Silco sneers. “Why not just burn it all?”

You lean back in the large chair, head dropped back against the lilac leather.

You sag a bit.

“Because,” comes the tender reply, “Suddenly, I’m... Suddenly, I’m mother to forty people who... w-who rely on me to make sure they eat, that they have somewhere to sleep. And I have no idea how Yeleni did it.”

The Kingpin’s expression softens.

“You’re overwhelmed.”

Less of a question. More an assessment.

Your gaze connects with his. You’re quiet for a while. “Babette told me not to let you in on to that little secret.”

Silco’s laugh is more like a little puff of air. His eye closes briefly. He places the stack of papers down, and tucks his hands in his pockets. His voice is gravelly and low. “Yes, well, Babette and Yeleni both adored me—”

It’s your turn to snicker. You stand and move towards the small cart in the corner by the sonograph. “Babette seems rather proud to claim you visited her brothel—”

Silco stiffens. He almost snarls. “Please. She’s still spinning that tale? It was decades ago."

With a smooth pop, you uncork a bottle of wine. It’s by no means the sort you’d ever dream of offering Silco, but he seems to beat your preemptive warning as he nears the cart. You pour some for yourself in a shallow little glass, and the Kingpin moves to take the bottle from your hand.

He’s had plenty of bad wine in his life.

It’s humbling.

“Is that not what happened, then?” you raise a brow and lean back against the table as Silco pours himself a glass, “She warned me — that Silco, she said, quite the charmer...”

Ah.

So this is what we’re doing.

He pauses, stream stopped, and flicks his eyes up to you. “Do I seem the type to indulge in...”

He waves a hand around him, gesturing to the office. To the brothel as a whole. Then, he finishes pouring his glass.

“...All this?”

“No, you’re far too busy,” you say quickly as you swallow a mouthful of wine, “But, you did gift the Madame of The Lilac Lounge an authentic Friedlingmer — to which she is incredibly thankful, had I said that yet?”

“You did,” he clinks his glass to yours. There’s a glimmer of something in his eye. Mischief, maybe?

“Yes, well. You're a smart man. Surely you’re aware of how that looks?”

“Painfully so,” comes the rough swallow; Silco’s mouth is red from the wine. It’s by no means the worst he’d had. He takes another sip and straightens his posture. He places the glass down on the cart and easily recorks the bottle with the heel of his palm; he considers his next words carefully, “And pray tell, perhaps that is what I intended? What then, Madame?”

Oh.

You’re suddenly aware of how close the two of your are standing. The room is warm. Your skin is hot. Your cross your arm across your chest, holding your wine delicately as you tilt your head and hold his gaze.

“I’d be flattered.”

“But...?”

It’s quiet. He asks as if he’s anticipating it.

For whatever reason, that stings. Your brows twitch. Silco can see it. He breaks from your gaze to eye his wine. He swirls it absently and exhales.

“There’s no disqualifier. I — I am flattered,” you step away, moving towards your desk, “Though I have to be completely clear that I’m the Madame of this house. If you’re expecting trade for gifts, I regret to inform you I no longer offer those services.”

Suddenly, you hear him choke over your shoulder. Silco slams his fist into his chest, coughing roughly. Lights alive.

“You misunderstand—”

Your brow rises sharply. Silco pushes a hand through his hair, moving a flash of greying strands back.

"Do I?” you ask, confused.

“Yes,” he urges, then snaps his good eye shut, “No, not entirely — that sounded horrible. I apologize. I hadn’t meant to insinuate that... this...”

His hand falls. His words die. He pinches his brow.

“You thought I was propositioning sex?” he asks then as he looks up at you with a pained expression, plain as day and dry as the wine.

You roll your eyes and your posture sags; you kick the edge of your desk and lean against it. “No, no. I — not at first. I thought the gift was lovely — but, then I had plenty of chattering little courtesans making me think I was giving it more weight than it truly held.”

“I intended for it to... be heavy. To have some meaning.”

Your gaze catches his. He looks utterly distraught. Almost embarassed. There’s something charming about the erosion of his usual icy composure. You find you like it quite a bit — his concern about your respect.

You tug the inside of your cheek between your teeth.

Fuck it.

Then, Silco watches you move quickly towards the second drawer to the top on your desk. You’re focused, gently procuring a small wooden box. When you stand, Silco catches a glimpse of a gilded little seal running along the front.

You set it down.

He watches you.

“These are for you.”

His attention bounces between you and the box. As he nears, you sets his wine down gently on the desk. You can see the flash of suprise in his face.

Cigars.

Expensive, Piltover-finest cigars. Cigars wrapped in gilded labels, sealed tightly in a cedar box. There’s a gauge on the side, reading out the humidity of the inside. Clean, dark paint. Clearly well-minded. Imported.

His face softens.

He clears his throat.

“Do... Do these have weight, then, Madame?”

Your heart catches a bit. You exhale, ignoring the dreamy flicker of his lashes when he scans your face. There’s hope on his face, you realize. Silco tries to smother it before you see it, but it’s too late.

“They do, Silco,” you answer honestly.

His fingertips run along the seam. The action is... Well. You file that away.

“These were expensive.”

“Perhaps you can forgive me for being three days late on payment, then?” you jest, trying to lighten the tension. It’s wrapped itself around your heart.

Silco’s lip quirks. He pulls back from the box, swigging his wine. He sets the empty glass down and wets his lips. When he looks back up at you, you have to try not to squirm.

His voice is low. Honest. Warm. Tender.

“You were forgiven the moment I saw you again, my dear Madame.”

You swear then that your heart is his hearth. His words are wood, and your affections are the flames lapping eagerly up at them.

He's rather proud of himself.

He feels a rush of boyish pride at your parted lips, at your soft look — in the chaos of your office, he's made you slow down. He is the center of your attention. You, the beautiful Madame of The Lilac Lounge.

Suddenly, the grey in his hair and the ache in his knees and the lines on his face aren't so apparent.

Silco straightens his tie.

"Is this the payment in full?" he asks, gesturing to the velvet purse.

You nod, still holding your wine. You watch him.

With ease, he sweeps his overcoat on. The collar, high and crimson, kisses his cheek as he snaps the front down. He gathers his gloves, sliding them on, and begins the arduous task of snapping each button. He makes the task look near poetic. Pretty.

He pushes a hand through his hair and bends to gather the gold.

Then, Silco extends a hand.

You graciously give your own.

This time, there's no glove to keep his lips from your skin. The kiss he presses to your knuckles is chaste. The look he slides up at you amidst it is dangerous. You know yourself well enough to steal your breath, to bide your beating heart. Your fingers twitch. Silco straightens himself and lets them slip from his grasp.

It's all... very romantic.

He gathers the cigar box and gingerly tucks it beneath his arm.

"I thank you for your time, Madame."

When he pulls the door open, you hear the scatter of footsteps. His head drops, and his laugh is quiet. You both know well enough that privacy is a rare enough gift in a place like this. You worry your lip and take one more sip of your wine.

Your face is hot.

"Silco?" you call as he steps into the hall.

He turns, inky black eye casting you a forlorn look over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Do tell me how the cigars are."

...He will.

He smiles at you — toothy and sharp — and begins down the hall.

You watch and watch and watch until... he's gone. And the brothel sighs with ease and the halls flood with expectant faces and eager looks and gossiping little smiles.

But, lights alive, what do you have to say for yourself?

After all, you were three days late on payment.

And that's all the courtesans get out of you for now.

[aidemint]

i’m reading it again and it’s hurting me just as much

JUST KISS ALREADY GODDAMMIT ON THE LIPS OH MY GOD

January Embers (Part 4)

The Sun Also Rises Series (ao3), Momentous Beginnings, A Study In Pink, January Embers (1), (2), (3), (4)

I can't be stopped, I won't be stopped, please enjoy more unbearable tension- bon appetit *chefs kiss*

(there are some more suggestive thoughts in this part, although no all out smut- warnings will be issued for part 5 tho)

Length: 4k

Summary: You and Viktor finally have a reckoning with what you mean to each other.

Chapter 4: Gravitation Is Not Responsible For People Falling in Love

It’d been some time since you and Viktor had actually spent the entire day apart, and he decided it was quite unpleasant.

The boys were attending to some important tests in the lab, his meeting with Heimerdinger had jumpstarted several new theories that were proving to be very fruitful. It had been a week of long hours filled with numerous breakthroughs. But thrilling as that may be- it began to wear on him, exhaustion settling heavy in his bones.

Viktor couldn’t help glancing every so often towards your table- expecting to see you nose deep in a text or furiously scribbling down test calculations. Each time he saw it unoccupied, a small twinge of disappointment nipped at his chest.

Your usual early morning shift had become an all day and perhaps into the night shift. The bakery was at peak activity, a flurry of families rushing to get their fill of pastries before Piltover’s winter shut-down- an entire week where laboratories and businesses alike closed their doors to rest and celebrate the solstice.

Not only were you scrambling to fill orders, you also had to contend with seasonal inventory. Then, to add insult to injury, at some point in the night an entire cooler had malfunctioned, thus remaking a bulk order of saffron buns was added to your growing mountain of tasks.

You’d popped in midmorning, wielding cranberry scones and turkey salad sandwiches. Letting the boys know they wouldn’t be seeing you in the lab today, not wanting them to worry when you didn’t show up. With a slump in your shoulders, you’d told Viktor not to wait up too late for you, that it would probably be well past sunset before you’d get home.

You had always been a reliably lively individual, but lately- you were positively glowing. In a constant state of grins and laughter, an extra bounce in your step and sway in your hips everywhere you went. Perhaps you enjoyed staying with him as much as he enjoyed having you there.

A few days of cohabitation did wonders to break down any lingering timidity or nerves. The both you quickly dropping the tentative shyness in favor of relaxed comfortability.

It seemed like each time he came home there was something new to be discovered.

The first time- he walked through the door to see your shared bed piled high with downy pillows, a thick and plush quilt spread across the top in a matching brown hue- embossed with a delicate swirling pattern.

That may have been the most comfortable night of rest he’d ever had.

Then there were the slippers you casually left by his side of the bed one evening, They’re for you, the floors are cold in the morning, you’d said. Or the evening you brought him home a lovely maroon sweater made of soft knitted wool, I saw it in the stalls and thought it would look nice on you.

Don’t even get him started on the food- he began forcing you to bring him along to the market, after the night you’d brought home an entire ham leg. Trying to temper the overzealous excitement you had towards feeding him was more challenging than wrangling a herd of cats.

Each time he merely arched a single brow, giving you an affectionate smile. You would always respond along the lines of What? This is what you get- I’m nesting.

Viktor had the unfortunate realization that you actually got up for work much earlier than him, at some godforsaken hour when total darkness still blacked out the horizon. He much preferred waking up with you still in his arms.

Like clockwork, each morning he would stumble from the soft sheets to clumsily make his cup of coffee, finding a carefully covered plate of breakfast waiting for him.

It was enough to make him cry, this was more stability and care than he’d experienced in his entire life combined- all in the span of a week.

The best part wasn’t the food, or the comfort- or even the pillows that made him want to stay in bed forever. It was all the little things he got to learn about you along the way, things he hadn’t know before.

You loved spicy food, and cinnamon tea. And despite being constantly smudged with jam or sugar, you didn’t actually have much of a sweet tooth.

You did however, have quite the filthy mouth. He figured this out after you burnt yourself frying mushrooms one evening, hearing you yelling expletives from the other side of the apartment. Viktor made the completely unrelated decision to pick up a medkit for the kitchen the very next evening.

You hummed to yourself so often it became a constant background noise, Viktor was so accustomed to it that when you weren’t in the room the quiet felt oppressive and strange.

Even in his loneliest moments he’d never really imagined sharing a life with someone, never really understood what it would entail, or how beautiful it could be. But gods, for all your stubbornness and quirks- he couldn't help but think you were the most perfect thing ever created.

Now as afternoon rounded into evening, he was growing increasingly distracted. Unhappy with what he’d seen earlier, the tenseness of your shoulders, the stress that carried through in your tone.

“Okay that’s it,” Jayce snapped his fingers in front of Viktor’s glassy eyes.

“Apologies, I was just-,” Jayce cut him off with a raised palm.

“Yeah, yeah- I know exactly what you were doing, lets go,” he put on his coat, quickly fastening the buttons.

“Excuse me?” Viktor questioned in confusion.

“We’re at a good stopping point, lets go see how she’s doing. You’re pretty useless right now anyways.”

“I am not,” he huffed in an undignified tone. “But perhaps you’re right, it is a good point to end things before the break.”

“Alright- come on loverboy, it’s getting dark.”

*******

Your feet hurt, Screw sanitation, why can’t I be barefoot in here? It’s not like I knead the dough with my toes?

It was past closing time but your work was nowhere near finished, you still had to inventory the flour varieties and all the spices before you could go home and collapse in a puddle on the floor.

At least you’d get to see Viktor when you were done here, that gave you the energy to power though. It was a long day without him, you missed his warm smiles and dry humor.

It was astonishing- how easily your life slid into his, how perfectly suited you were for each other. When you’d accepted his offer, there was a bit of apprehension still churning in your gut. A small seed of doubt that maybe this wasn’t a good idea, that Viktor would tire of you or maybe your quirks would be too much for him.

You were used to living alone, having spent a fair amount of time alone in your life. Sure, at times you wished for company and companionship, but maybe it helped you become exactly who you were meant to be. You’d learned to enjoy your own company, and that had always been enough. Knowing what you liked and what you didn’t- what you wanted, who you wanted to be.

At the beginning it was daunting, the idea of sharing your entire existence with another person. But the more time you spent together the more you felt that being with Viktor was just- right. And all your reservations gave way to an enduring admiration.

Being with him made you feel more like yourself, it was as easy as breathing.

A jingle from the bell on the front door pulled you from your contemplation. Wiping your hands off, you made your way from the kitchen, calling out to whoever had entered after hours.

“Hello there, sorry we’re closed for the night, I must’ve forgotten to lock-” you trailed off, met by the familiar sight of Viktor and Jayce

“Oh- did you guys finish up early?” you asked, surprised to see them.

“Well, Vik’s useless without you- so we came to help,” Jayce teased, jovially nudging Viktor.

“I will not be dignifying that with a response,” he sniffed, looking rather put-out.

“Help would actually be great, I’ve still got a lot of inventory left and I need to knead out another batch of saffron buns soon.”

You looked nice like this, Viktor thought. Slightly disheveled, a bit out of breath from moving sacks of flour. Hair kept back by a little blue bandana adorned with delicate white flowers. Your loose top was tucked into snugly fitted pants, all of it dusted over with flecks of sugar and dough.

“Although I cannot promise any kneading skills, I am familiar with the concept of inventory,” he offered.

You were quite efficient in delegating tasks, and it was pleasing to see the different air of authority you carried here. Jayce was behind a large row of shelves taking stock of the giant sacks of various flours, and Viktor was sat in the corner, instructed to measure the plethora of spices laid out before him. It didn’t hurt that he was perfectly seated to watch you work.

The rhythmic movements were mesmerizing. Strong hands pushed and pulled, transforming a craggy yellowed mound into a smooth and glossy ball.

You left the kneaded dough to rise, grabbing an earlier batch that was puffed with air and ready for forming. Deft fingers plucked precise amounts from the mass, your practiced hands rolling and twisting the shapes with ease.

It was too easy- imagining what those hand might feel like trailing along his bare skin, pulling on fistfuls of his hair, pumping him in teasingly slow strokes-

This is getting out of hand, I’m going to lose my mind.

Willing his unruly body to calm down, he tried to focus on the task at hand- however his pants remained uncomfortably tight for the remainder of the evening.

*******

With the extra help you finished up much earlier than expected, and were feeling a second-wind of energy at the prospect of your entire week off with Viktor.

“Jayce when are you seeing Cait next?” you asked.

“Later tonight actually, why?”

You went to the cooler in the back, returning with a neat white box containing thirteen perfectly filled cream horns.

“Giver her these, and let her know there’s more where that came from.”

After hearing about the fire she’d insisted on bringing over an unnecessary amount of clothes for you to go through, adamant that they were just collecting dust in some corner of her families estate.

“Will do- see you guys later, maybe we can do something tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” you grinned. “I’ll make beef stew, and we can go watch them light up the pier!”

“In that case I’m bringing drinks, we haven’t had a proper night drinking yet,” Jayce said with mischievous enthusiasm.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Viktor warned.

The two of you walked home in amicable silence, your hand seeking out his in the dark- easily lacing your fingers together.

Viktor unlocked the door, holding it open for you before following behind. You went straight for the kitchen, no doubt to warm up some dinner for the both of you. He caught your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

Tilting your head, you looked at him in confusion.

“I will take care of dinner, perhaps you would like to have a bath and relax,” he suggested warmly.

“I guess I probably to need to get cleaned up,” you glanced down at the flour caked under your fingernails.

“You look as though you’ve been rolled in sugar,” he chuckled, reaching forward to swipe a few granules from your nose.

You looked up at him in that special way that never ceased to make his knees weak. Viktor matched your gaze, slowly raising the sugar coated finger to his lips- pink tongue flicking out to swipe the sweetness away.

Your pupils widened, hype focused on those plush rosy lips- that little flicker of his tongue. Those lips curled into a wicked smirk, watching a steady flush spread across your cheeks.

“Go on, the food will be ready when you get out,” he nudged you towards the bathroom.

It wasn’t the most involved process, reheating soup and tearing a few chunks from the garlic rosemary loaf you’d made a few days ago. He was in the midst of setting the table when the bathroom door opened. Turning around, he saw you- wrapped in a small cotton towel, smooth skin glistening with fresh droplets.

“Forgot my pajamas,” you explained casually, making your way across the room to get changed in your closet. Maybe Viktor was imagining things, but he’d thought there was an extra little sway in your hips as you brushed past him.

You must have been lost in thought. There was a soft and dreamy brilliance to your features as he looked at you from across the dinner table.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked curiously.

“You know Mrs. Volkov, in the foreign imports sector? I get those sausages from her.”

“Yes, the spicy ones- I remember,” he nodded.

“Well, she has an accent similar to yours..” you said, watching his reaction intently.

“She does?” His interest was piqued, putting down the spoon altogether to give you his full attention.

“Yes, and I asked her if she knew what that word meant, the one you call me sometimes,” you looked much too smug for his liking.

“Solnishko? his face heated at your nod. “What did she tell you?”

“She got all sappy and said it was very sweet of my lover to call me that, then went on about how her husband hasn’t said something half as romantic in many moons.”

Viktor's pale complexion had now steadily turned to a bright shade similar to strawberry jam.

“She taught me some things to call you,” a secretive smile tugged at the corner of your lips, your spoon absentmindedly swirling around in the bowl of soup.

“Did she now?” he was dying to know what the woman had told you to call him. “Let’s hear it,” he insisted.

“No, I’m going to save them- for when you’re not expecting it.”

“I suppose I will have to wait then,” he sighed. Your teasing was borderline cruel- he couldn’t help but revel in it.

You were both exhausted, picking up dinner before unceremoniously falling asleep in tangled pile of limbs.

*******

Viktor woke up curled around your frame, legs slotted together- your back pressed against his chest. Knowing you wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, he found himself relishing in your presence even more so than usual. I’ve missed watching her sleep.

He wanted to surprise you, after waking up so many mornings to find a perfectly cooked breakfast waiting for him, he was determined to do the same for you. Today would be the perfect day to start your week of right.

He crept out of bed before the sun had begun to peak through the curtains, glancing back at your peaceful face before making his way toward the kitchen.

Not one for halfhearted efforts, Viktor made sure he was confident in making a breakfast you would actually enjoy, instead of just appreciating the sentiment behind it. After carefully cataloging information on your preferences, he practiced a few times as well.

Softly scrambled eggs, hot sausage, and a cup of coffee.

Waking up to the telltale sizzles coming from the kitchen, you noticed Viktor wasn’t next to you, even though it was much too early for him to be awake.

Sneaking quietly out of bed you tip-toed to the kitchen.

“You know- you’re really not particularly quiet, especially before your morning coffee.” he teased from over the stove, back still turned to you.

“What’re you doing,” you asked sleepily. Am I dreaming? Is this the one where he strips all my clothes off and pins me against the icebox?

“Go back to bed, I am making us breakfast.” Ignoring his instructions you crept closer, peering around him to see what he was making.

Something about the early hours of the morning waned your inhibitions. Still drowsy, it was hard to moderate your affections. Especially when he was standing there looking effortlessly sexy, pajama clad with a spatula in his hand.

So you didn’t think anything of it- sliding your arms around Viktor’s thin waist from behind, stretching up to rest your chin on his shoulder.

“When did you learn to soft scramble eggs?” you asked, surprised to see him gently swirling the fluffy and golden delicacy over a low heat. “I thought you found them- what was it you said, texturally off-putting.”

He rolled his eyes, still focused on the pan. “I may have practiced- I noticed they are your favorite.”

Oh. He learned how to make them- because they were your favorite. Then he’d gotten up early to make them for you… in bed.

Feeling something indescribable bubble in your chest, you let instinct take over. Surging forward to smoosh a giddy kiss to the side of an unsuspecting Viktor’s neck.

When you pulled back he was a lovely and deep shade of pink, it trailed all the way down to the delicious sharpness of his clavicle.

I love him. It couldn't be denied, you were hopelessly in love with him.

It was exhilarating, admitting to yourself that nothing in the world could be more important than Viktor, that you wanted to build a life with him, that you wanted to cross those last barriers separating you from becoming more.

You didn’t know how yet, but you would find a way.

*******

Jayce was due any minute, and Viktor paced the entryway waiting for you to finish getting ready.

“We are going to be late, and I will not be held responsible if they run out of Jayce’s favorite peppermint sticks before we get there,” he called to you in the bathroom.

“I know- I know,” you grumbled, slipping on a small pair of silver earrings before checking your reflection.

He watched you scurry from the bathroom to your closet, tapping his toe impatiently.

“Viktor, I can’t find any of my socks- are they in your drawer?” Your voice carried from the other room.

“Why would they be in my drawer?” he asked, slender fingers fiddling with the hem of his sweater.

“You did the laundry last time,” you padded out into the living room. “Besides, I know you like to wear them,” hand on your hip, you gave him a playfully accusing look.

“They’re softer than mine,” he admitted. “And besides, you don’t even like wearing socks.” He rummaged through one of the dresser drawers, finding a pair that was indeed yours.

“I know but I have to wear them, otherwise my shoes will smell like feet- and after bringing that noxian cheese home I know how sensitive you are to smells.”

Not this again, would he never live that incident down?

“That vile cheese smelt so terrible- for gods sake it’s been banned aboard international travel!” he exclaimed, chest puffing.

The wind left his sails upon seeing a sly smirk stretched across your lips, one that meant you’d succeeded in riling him up. You let out an unrestrained cackle at the ruffled look on his face.

It was in this silly little moment Viktor realized- he was hopelessly in love with you.

Is this what he could have if you stayed? A lifetime of smiles and laughter so sweet he could taste it on his tongue.

He handed you a pair of clean socks, silently wondering if you loved him too.

*******

[aidemint]

SCREAMING AND CRYING SO HARD??????? DUDE THIS IS ABSOLUTELY INSANE WOW OH MY GOD

me rn^^

like dude ok first of all let’s talk about your diction and prose??? because that shit SLAPS and i know it. like, the way you describe things is so eloquent and seemingly effortless and so like??? god, what even

and the EMOTION lord the emotion this brought up shit that i didn’t even know i had inside of me dude this was so ??? freaking good i don’t even know why this only has 30 notes what the actual hell

ldr relationships are always so fucking tight idk why it’s just the longing and the pining and YOU JUST. DESCRIBED IT SO WELL. AND???? god you got all the damn feelings in there i’m so fhckingbjadnnanndbajdbwd wow i’m baffled and amazed and just

jesus christ 😭😭😭

AND. HES HOME?? YOU CANT DESTROY ME LIKE THAT AND EXPECT FOR ME NOT TO FUCKING CRY ABOUT IT IN HERE

AND THE SETTING IM GONNA ENBDNANDNNANDNJSNDNAKXNSNN THE WAY YOU DESCRIBE THE SETTING AND IT ALSO MATCHES WITH YOUR GRAPHIC AT THE TOP ITS FUCKING INSANE

and your characterizations and the fucking worldbuilding you have it all holy shit thank you for writing and i hope you’re well ❤️❤️❤️❤️

part iii: 蝴蝶 (butterfly)

☁︎ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ushijima w. x f!reader

☁︎ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: themes of war, mentioning of death and things of that nature

☁︎ ᴡᴄ: 4.8k

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When the training yard contains nothing other than splinters of broken wood and dust, Ushijima sits by his lonesome on the steps leading to the palace’s outer halls, watching the sun not yet fully risen over the horizon. The winter morning chills his fingertips, his joints hardening the longer he remains there, but he stays seated still, breathing in the biting, crisp air.

He has only just been there an hour, silent and watchful, yet to him it feels like an eternity within each second. A flock of cranes fly past, the fog leaving them nothing more than a couple of shadowy figures in the distance, and the beating of their wings sync with the thrum of his subdued blood. His fingers curl around nothing, clenching in and out as it reminisces the presence of something that hasn’t been there for years.

In the midst of a border dispute with Karasuno to the south, Emperor Washijo had fallen fatally ill. With no biological son to inherit the throne, succession automatically fell to the former royal advisor, newly adopted prince, Saito Akira. Washijo had only held few close to him, after all, and his untimely illness left the rest of the royals scrambling to find a proper way for a rightful heir to become the next emperor. The tolling of the bells the morning of Emperor Washijo’s passing was one met with silent relief, the wishes of a new era finally coming to fruition.

After his ascendance to the throne, Emperor Saito proceeded to pull back his troops from foreign lands, sending emissaries to conquered territories and signing treaties to return land that was never his to claim. Sensing a new era, the emperor’s troops slowly began trickling down to a scarce few after the regime change, resignations handed in as they chose to return home to their families instead.

Quietly, traces of what Shiratorizawa once was disappearing into only faint memories and blown dust, a new morning began, its sun never quite reaching where Ushijima had been planted standing.

Foreign things had never lent themselves well in his favor, not during that festival in the port town to the east, nor your repeated encounters which seemed less like coincidence and more like cruelty splayed in a hopeless future. It draws his breath tight, his skin crawling with the uncertainty of a path not yet inlaid with stone; there is too much uncertainty in the yearning.

And yet, despite everything, this is where he’s ended his journey—a boundless plain stretching to the horizon, the last ridges of stone from his built road, his feet too afraid to take his first step into the beyond.

The birds in the sky caw once more, their call echoing into the horizon, clouds shifting in the silent aftermath. The sun has fully risen.

A new day, a new dawn; Ushijima is simply just tired of it all.

Truthfully, Ushijima has been holding on to a realization ever since the new emperor came into power, ever since the wars had stopped and he was sent back to the palace to be nothing but a common captain of the guard. It’s something he’s pushed to the back of his mind, burying it with routines to train and other acts of familiarity, but the truth can only be hidden for so long before becoming self-evident.

He's lonely, here in this place.

And perhaps he always was, even from the beginning. From the practiced motions and orders and everything in between, maybe he was always trying to make his purpose what he has been told it should be, a repeated mantra until it formed a thin film of truth from one day to the next. But the new era of peace brought a new sense of normalcy to the lives of the country’s subjects, and with normalcy, it gave the opportunity for them to return home.

The first to leave was Semi, his head bowed as he said his farewells to the remaining soldiers, then Shirabu, returning home to take up his ailing father’s mantle as the village physician, then Reon, and slowly, all that remained of his former first battalion trickled down to just Goshiki and Tendou. Though, he supposes not even that could last forever either.

“I’m leaving,” Tendou had announced one evening, crouched and drawing mindless shapes into the dirt.

Ushijima blinked, letting the silence fall as the words sunk in. Tendou’s scraping into the ground filled the silence, a quiet scritch, scritch, scritch, as he waited for his response.

“For how long?” he tried. “I will take up some of your duties while you’re gone, so you can take your time before coming back—”

“Wakatoshi.” No honorific. The rest of the words lodged in Ushijima’s throat. “I’m leaving.”

I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back.

“I”m sorry, Wakatoshi-kun,” Tendou had sighed, standing and brushing the dirt off from his hands and knees. “My time here ended quite a while ago. It’s time for me to go back home.”

Perhaps it was what little naivety Ushijima had allowed himself, but he had hoped that at least Tendou would have stayed with him until the end,. The older, wiser part of him knew that Tendou had stayed for longer than he should have, perhaps as a twisted form of familiarity, but Ushijima knew it was mostly just for him. To not leave him alone, to keep him company for just a little longer while everyone left to return to where they once were. It would be selfish to ask him to stay, Ushijima knew this—it would be almost cruel for him to do so.

Foolish as he might have been, Ushijima was never one to be cruel.

“Okay,” is all he said, the distant shouting of fellow soldiers buzzing in his ears. “Have a safe trip back.”

Tendou had looked at him then, his gaze apologetic in the way his eyes seemed to ingrain the image of Ushijima into his mind, training clothes permanently stained with dirt and dust, shoulders heavy even without the armor tied to his frame.

“I really am sorry,” Tendou said again, parting words as he took a step backwards.

Ushijima shook his head, waving a hand at him. “No need to apologize.”

Backs to the distance, footprints in the ground signaling farewell, Ushijima had simply stood there and watched as Tendou walked away and never looked back.

War is the only language Ushijima has ever spoken, from his youth to his adolescence to who he was in the present. Peace isn’t suited for someone like him, not like it is for the rest of the world. A part of him whispers that maybe that’s what his life truly means, for him to be a weapon for a broken cause, to suffer in silence while everyone else returns to their own meaning of happiness. Alone—even in his suffering, even till the end.

And yet, he stops himself.

Your words echo in his head, what remains of your voice and your laughter and your smile ringing as he shudders out a breath, blinking away the lingering traces of his mother’s cold gaze, silk lanterns haunting, dark rooms yawning in the silence.

It’s not too late. You can choose…choose your own happiness.

Ushijima remembers the bustling of the marketplace, the steamed bun warming his hands as you showed him the sun, the fragrance of your incense as the stone pillar pressed against your back, his lips on yours as you reinvented the moon.

He wonders if this was what you were trying to show him all along, the freedom of an existence meant solely for himself. Perhaps this was the selfishness he had sworn off for so long—perhaps this was happiness you told him he deserved.

Ushijima looks through his window to the night sky. A cloudless night, stars twinkling in the midnight, an owl hooting in the distance. His mind is strikingly clear as he absorbs the sight in, the countless shining specks of white, a moon so full it gleams onto the world below. Ushijima shuffles through the agenda for the next day—training he needs to lead, documents regarding equipment sent in that require signing, sparring practice with a few of his fellow high-ranked officers.

He mulls over the activities once, twice, and then nods to himself. It’s nothing he can’t afford missing.

There is a far more important matter that Ushijima needs to attend to.

Of all things he would have expected, a woman carrying a baby was most definitely not one of the sights Ushijima was preparing himself for when he reached the front yard of Tendou’s home.

“Is this…the Tendou residence?” he asks, slowly. “My apologies if I was mistaken, if you could lead me to the right address that would be greatly appreciated.”

The woman blinks at him, adjusting the baby slipping down her hip before waving her free hand as she interjects. “Oh, no you’re correct! This is the Tendou residence.” She gives him a quick once over before continuing. Her words have a subtle accent underlying each syllable. “You must be looking for Satori, right? I’ll go get him for you, come on in!”

Before he can even fit in another word, the woman has already swiveled around, the baby’s gurgles at her side growing distant as she walks further into the house.

Ushijima closes his open mouth, what was meant to be said dying on the tip of his tongue at the sight of her turned back and the abandoned doorway. The summer cicadas continue their chirping under the heat of the sun.

“Thank you,” he says, anyway, to the empty front yard. The chicken strutting along the tufts of grass between the slabs of the stone walkway stops to look at him, tilting its head once, before clucking and continuing on its way.

It wasn’t anything extravagant, not like the yards Ushijima was used to seeing in both the palace and in his own family compound, but there was a quaint fondness to it—the worn surface of the veranda, plants placed in etched clay pots and thoughtfully displayed at the front of the house. It didn’t need any extravagant decorations, no elaborate structures or intricate details in the garden; what the yard contained was just enough for it to be considered ‘home.’

Ushijima looks again at the flowers, bursts of color peeking through the leaves, and he wonders if something so delicate as a bud can only survive to its full vibrancy in times of peace like these. A brief memory of wilted petals flashes through his mind, air heavy with ashes and cinders. He blinks, then looks away.

Gravel beneath his feet crunching with each step, Ushijima enters from the yard onto the wooden veranda, shoes slipping off when he steps through the door the woman had left open for him. He closes it gently, wood creaking before the bronze lock snaps shut with a quiet click.

Muffled voices sound from the other side of the wooden walls, interspersed with the padding of his feet on the floor. A part of him wonders if it was a mistake to come here, if all he serves is a reminder of a memory Tendou wishes to leave behind, but a head pokes out from one of the rooms before Ushijima can think too heavily on it.

“Wakatoshi-kun!” Tendou’s call comes with a pair of wide eyes and raised brows, a grin slowly surfacing as Ushijima bows his head in another greeting.

“Lieute…” The rest dies on his lips, lost between memories of bloody battlegrounds and abandoned battlefields, and this: the midst of summer, scent of the sun and heat heavy in the afternoon air. Birds tweet in the trees outside, the loud hum of cicadas an eternal ephemerality beneath.

“Tendou,” he says instead.

The name still feels odd coming out of his mouth, like the ghost of the past still clinging onto his frame and demanding the emptiness before the name be filled with a title. For status, for propriety, for the habits nailed into his bones and the whispers hissing in his mind. The brightness that enters Tendou’s features silences his thoughts completely, even if the repressed rigidity that makes its way to Ushijima’s face gives away his unfamiliarity with this type of setting.

“It’s good to see you again,” Ushijima continues. The smile, stiff as it may be, is warmer than he’s ever allowed it to be before. “How have you been?”

“Well,” Tendou grins, patting him on the arm, leading him to the small table in the middle of the living room. He gestures for Ushiima to sit down first, before pulling out a chair and sitting down himself. “I can’t say there was anything eventful that’s happened since we saw each other last. It’s just been the peaceful same-old, same-old here.”

Ushijima blinks at him. The woman who had greeted him at the door slips by behind Tendou’s back, settling a tea set platter gently on the table. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

She bows her head slightly in goodbye, and Tendou thanks her with a slight touch to her shoulder and a smile before she leaves the room. Placing one cup in front of Ushijima and the another cup in front of himself, Tendou picks up the teapot and starts pouring into Ushijima’s cup.

“You didn’t tell me you got married,” Ushijima comments.

Tendou pauses, tea trickling out of the spout coming to a halt. “With who? Shiori?”

He supposes that’s the woman’s name. Tendou waves a hand, shaking his head. “Oh, we’re not married.”

Oh.

The baby’s babbles can be heard from the other room. Though he can sense his mother’s dramatics from just the thought, Ushijima was never one to judge. Well, he tries not to. “So the child is from wedlock then?”

The silence is deafening.

Tendou knits his eyebrows together, looking at Ushijima, then to the doorway which Shiori had exited from, then back to Ushijima, then back to the door. And starts laughing.

Flustered from the unexpected response, Ushijima’s mouth gapes open then closes, unsure of what he would rebuke with even under the fumbling of his words. “I, well I—” Ushijima flounders for words. “There is a woman and child in your house.”

Tendou wipes a tear from his eye, letting out a long ‘hooew’ as he tries to compose himself. “I’m sorry I…” He breaks into chortles again. Ushijima thinks in a moment of humiliation-brought clarity that maybe it was a mistake coming here.

“Shiori and her son are just people we’re helping out,” Tendou manages, finally calm enough to take a sip of tea. “Remember that conflict near the northern border a couple of months ago?”

Ushijima nods, reaching for his own cup. Another one of Washijo’s power-hungry advances, the northern conflict had decimated the border between Shiratorizawa and Itachiyama, resulting in more casualties than Washijo could afford to continue ignoring. At the insistence of his highest ranking officials, Shiratorizawa’s troops had retreated three years after the first battle, irreparable damage to both their numbers and morale.

“Shiori’s husband was sent out to fight during the peak of the conflict.” His smile is solemn. “He didn’t make it.”

No matter how many years Ushijima had spent fighting, the dull ache at those words never fades.

“We found her wandering around the village, not long after I came back home,” Tendou tells him. “A newly widowed mother with a newborn baby to take care of and nowhere else to go. Funnily enough, I actually chased after her.”

“Because you wanted to help?”

“Nope, she stole my coin pouch.” Ushijima stares at him. “Don’t give me that look, I was distracted! The candied fruit the grannies were selling at the stall were very captivating.”

Ushijima pours himself another cup, nodding slowly. “I’m sure.”

“In any case, ever since then she’s been living with us,” Tendou finishes. “I think my mother’s happy to have another baby she can spoil—kept saying that it was about time she was made into a grandmother.” He pauses, then jokes, “Actually, I think at this point Shiori is her new favorite child.”

A lull drapes over the room after brief smiles, sunlight streaming gently through open windows, the scent of summer carried by the breeze. It seems almost like a perfect painting, the life of a civilian inked prettily in attempts to hide the spilled and stained mess of their past. Ushijima hesitates, before speaking once more.

“Do you ever miss it…the war?”

Some days it feels like it’s all he has left, fading frayed threads of the past he tries to grasp onto again, if only just to remember what it was like to have a purpose, a duty, no matter how much he bled trying to fulfill it. Some days he feels like all he is made up of are scars, open wounds and scabs picked open until they became a second skin.

“What was that war, in the end?” Tendou asks. Ushijima lifts his head, nothing but burdens in the shadows of his eyes. “Fighting, bloodshed, killing?” He shakes his head, laughing mirthlessly. “I don’t think I could miss it, even if I wanted to. That war…that massacre…all it did was cause suffering.”

Ushijima tries not to flinch. And if he’s known nothing but the blade, the war ingrained into his bones, was that who he was? Someone who could only cause suffering?

He doesn’t want that. Ushijima wants…he wants, he wants—

A clunk sounds from behind, and when Ushijima turns around, he’s met with Shiori’s son, the toddler waddling over clumsily until he reaches the table. Small hands grasp the wooden leg for balance as he babbles nonsense all the while, and Tendou coos at him teasingly before picking him up and setting him on his lap.

“We have a new beginning, Wakatoshi.” The toddler makes a small noise, reaching for Tendou’s empty tea cup and grasping it in between his pudgy fingers, before Tendou gently pries it away from him and sets it back down on the table, farther from his reach. The toddler makes a noise of dissatisfaction, lip trembling in the beginning signs of a cry, but Tendou quickly distracts him, pointing towards Ushijima. “Look, it’s Uncle Wakatoshi! Do you want to say hi?”

Glancing at Ushijima, he asks in a softer tone. “Do you want to hold him?”

“No, I—” Ushijima stops, biting his tongue. Everything he’s touched has just ended up breaking, cracks forming at his fingertips no matter where he’s turned. If this was offered to him a few months ago, even a few days ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to refuse. It’s for the best, Ushijima would have told himself, to accept things that can’t be changed. But under Tendou’s steady gaze, his careful yet firm hold on the boy, Ushijima finds himself faltering.

Tendou takes his response as a hesitant acceptance, and walks over to his side of the table, holding him out for Ushijima to take.

“Whatever happened back then,” he tells him, guiding Ushijima’s arms and hands to hold the boy properly, “we can’t forget it.” Finished with maneuvering Ushijima’s arms, Tendou takes his hands off Ushijima’s, allowing him to hold the toddler on his own. “We shouldn’t forget it,” he rescinds, stepping back.

“But it’s okay to forgive yourself for what once was,” Tendou continues, gently. “And it’s okay to move on. It’s okay to want to live.”

Ushijima looks down at the boy in his callused hands: round face practically bursting at the cheeks, eyes that know nothing but the goodness of the world. Soft, fragile, and despite everything he’s told himself, everything that has been told to him—unbroken.

“I see,” Ushijima breathes, like a curse released. “Thank you, Tendou.”

The name still feels strange coming off his tongue, but more than anything, it feels like something he’s allowed himself to do. To allow himself to change, to take a step forward off the stone path, to yearn for a better tomorrow.

And, somewhere in the distance, a newly emerged butterfly flutters its wings for the very first time.

A torn piece of mantou falls onto the surface of the pond, water rippling outwards with a quiet ‘plop.’ A koi comes to the surface almost immediately, gulping down the bun with a fervor unbecoming of a fish so spoiled as those living in the Imperial Garden’s pond.

“Goshiki,” Ushijima starts carefully, watching as the boy tears off another piece to feed the fish. “May I ask you something?”

Goshiki turns to him, eyes wide—even still, even now, after all this time—and nods almost immediately. Ushijima admires that about him, to still be the same Goshiki that joined all those years ago. “Of course, sir, what is it?”

Ushijima frowns, just slightly. “We’re the same rank now, you do not have to keep calling me ‘sir’ as if I am still your superior,” he reminds him, as lightly as he can sound. Even in times of peace, Goshiki had found a way to earn merit in his own way, working his way up the chain of command until he had grown to be a fellow general alongside Ushijima. He still thinks of the memory fondly, Goshiki near rushing through the gardens and narrowly avoiding crashing into the shrubbery to tell Ushijima the news of his promotion.

“Oh no,” Goshiki shakes his head, smiling. The refusal comes automatically now, practiced and repeated until said with ease. “You’ll always be admirable to me, sir, I couldn’t even if I tried. It wouldn’t feel right.”

Ushijima nods in acceptance, like he has every other time, and the water ripples again.

“What did you want to ask me?” Goshiki asks, as a reminder.

Ah, Ushijima had almost forgotten. Perhaps it was his own way of trying to avoid it for as long as possible, maybe in fear of hearing the answer he knows will be said. His silence, his avoidance, is a repeated cycle, as prevalent as Goshiki’s insistence on formalities, or the way each ripple in the water follows one after the other in a seemingly infinite loop.

But a water’s ripple is bound to fade at some point, and Ushijima has long since sworn off the notion that he is but a lilypad on the surface to move as the water wills him to.

“All those years ago,” Ushijima starts, “that war we fought in.” The wars we fought in, he corrects internally. He forms each word carefully, as cautious as when he had posed the question to Tendou weeks ago. “Do you ever miss it—that time?”

He braces himself, preparing for Goshiki’s immediate denial, but instead he’s met with silence. Goshiki scrunches his brows, pondering as he picks at the leftover mantou in his hands.

“Sometimes,” he says finally. Ushijima’s gaze jerks towards him.

“I don’t miss the fighting,” Goshiki clarifies, voice soft. “Not the death that seemed inescapable the moment you would step onto the battleground, but I do miss the feeling of proving myself. To serve Shiratorizawa and feel at the end of the day that no matter what happened, I would always have my comrades beside me.” He shrugs, his smile a little forlorn. “But I like it better now than how it was back then; now I simply prove myself in different ways, training others to protect instead of hurt. Peace isn’t an end, it’s just a new beginning.”

Tendou’s words echo in his mind, sunbeams falling soft on wooden floors, steam curling gently from ceramic teacups, the feeling of a life unbroken in his hands.

This was who he was supposed to be, Ushijima realizes. The words his father had said to him—to serve, to sacrifice—what he had meant wasn’t some distorted vision of a path forcefully set for him, but rather it was everything that Goshiki was, that he had learned to become. Resolute, loyal, strong in ways that meant more than the weight of armor and the heaviness of a blade, and over everything—kind. Goshiki was too kind, the kindest of them all, and Ushijima knows it is why he will be better than Ushijima would ever be.

“I’ll leave it to you then,” Ushijima tells him, looking to the horizon. The orange bleeds into blue between the clouds; it’s the first time he has ever thought of it as beautiful.

Goshiki tilts his head. “What do you mean? Leave what to me?”

“Everything.”

“What…” Goshiki trails off, his eyes widening. “Oh.”

For a moment Ushijima thinks he sees something change in Goshiki’s gaze, as if the reverence he had held so fast in his eyes had been let go all at once, a dimming he initially mistakes as disappointment. As if the iron pedestal he had been held on for so long had cracked, its entire back rusted away beyond repair.

But as Ushijima holds his gaze for longer, closer, the disappointment he thought was held in Goshiki’s gaze reveals itself to be clarity instead, the pedestal set down, instead of ruined. In front of Goshiki is not the awe-inspiring figure he had held Ushijima so highly to be, but just a mere person; and perhaps, it’s because Ushijima has finally begun to see himself as a person, too.

“I see,” Goshiki utters finally, bittersweetness tinged in the farewell. “Leave it to me, Ushijima-san.”

Ushijima has been tired for his entire life; it was time for him to finally rest.

Despite everything, from traveling from one place to another and helping whoever was on his path, Ushijima finds himself back in the port town where he had first met you. He can still smell remnants of what once was, the smoke from newly sparked fireworks still in the air, pork skewers from stalls wafting through the streets, clouds dust that never seemed to settle, even after all this time.

He stays a little longer in town than he usually does. It’s the comforting atmosphere of the town that lulls him to paying for just that extra night, to paying the night after that, and before he knows it, he’s stayed for months in a place that he wants to call his.

The warmth of the town almost has him forget the darkness of the walls of his family compound, the coldness of what he realizes was never his home. Not since the days of riding his father’s shoulders in childhood innocence or the assured comfort of larger hands around his own helping him hold a blade. But he doesn’t forget—he mustn’t, not if he is to remember why he has to hold this town precious.

After constantly helping them carry the heavy items needed to set up their stall every day, the grannies running the street markets know him by name. He politely declines any marriage offers from them for their granddaughters, but even he knows that nothing will halt the determination of women on a mission.

“The offer still stands,” one granny presses, sliding a platter of lamb skewers his way. The woman at the stall next to him sniffs, grumbling under her breath, “Bribery is unbecoming of you.” The granny in front him pointedly ignores her friend, looking back at him expectantly.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to say no,” he repeats, not unkindly, for what seems like the hundredth time this month. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

She opens her mouth to retort, perhaps even to try a new tactic, but before she can say another word, she’s interrupted by the commotion down the street.

“She’s back!” he hears a man say, tapping his friend on his shoulder before they both go running towards the crowd.

The news travels quickly and the air buzzes with excitement, but Ushijima stays seated even as everyone makes their way towards the fuss.

“I wonder who it is,” the granny ponders, hand to her cheek. Ushijima hums in agreement, shifting back in his seat until the clamor dies down for a second—just a brief second—where a voice peeks through.

“Wakatoshi?” he hears, and his heart stops.

Turning to face the voice, the billowing dust settles, and still a jewel that lies within, you’re somehow more beautiful than he remembered. His eyes meet yours, and a million words fly through his head in an instant.

You’re here, I have so much to tell you, I missed you, I—I love—

Ah.

You smile at him, and he knows you can tell how he’s changed. You had told him once that you would wait not for him if he left, but he knows better now than to expect you to. Ushijima takes a step forward, dirt underneath his feet as he embraces the yearning that pumps the blood through his veins.

A butterfly lands on a bloomed flower; an eagle spreads its wings as the unlocked cage rattles, soaring into the sky.

He’s home.

[aidemint]

BIRBS.

BIRBS.

YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE DEATH OF ME OH MY GOD>??? THIS CHAPTER WAS- OH MY GOD

RAMBLING AND FREAKING OUT UNDERNEATH THE CUT BECAUSE HOLY SHIT

just- ok i haven’t ENOUGH to say about the wording and how accessible emotion is in the presence of them??? like as a writer and a reader i’ve been looking for a way to create tension, to, like, put the right amount of feeling and space so that the experience is just THERE and you’ve done it. so well, might i add?? the scene with the hairpin flows and it delivers everything it needs to and just a little bit more

the way you can just imagine the pacing and the timing, how lightning fast and dangerous and chaotic madam is jesus christ??? from that one scene alone (not to even touch upon the previous chapters because i could do this all fucking day) and, like, not to mention the worldbuilding of the group of madams and how organized the entire operation is??? legitimately so fucking good.

the transition from yeleni to madam is just so realistic. the newness of it all, the rawness of the emotions in regards to the switch, the lasting impact of yeleni that still remains in the lilac lounge there are literal tears in my eyes can you see the tears in my eyes birbs

also i just... love how you kept silco in character and STILL touched upon his sentimental side. the privacy and the gossip and just every aspect of this “Lanes” society is so well done.

I JUST.... LOVE SILCO??? IN THIS FIC???? LIKE. KINGPIN OF THE UNDERCITY. JUST. SO. ??? i legit laughed out loud during the call because there’s literal murder in the background and he’s just “yes dear, sorry dear” LMAO???? 

ALSO????????????????? THEY’RE PLAYING FOOTSIES UNDERNEATH THE TABLE???? HELP??!??!?!?!?? HIS GILDED SHOE TOUCHES YOUR BOOT???? HELP????????????????????????/

and i’ve never seen a sex scene described more beautifully... just the juxtaposition of working as part of a brothel compared to actual love and adoration and sharing that special moment with someone you care about is just- wow. and i like how realistic sex is in this fic! the scene where madam asks “paid or unpaid” is half-joking, half-serious because it’s said in the moment and it’s not treated as an unfamiliar topic--it’s just life for them and i really appreciate how you integrated that line of thought into the fic!!!

honestly.... i have... so much more to say about the diction and flow and just... the wholeness and the detail and the specialness of this fic and frankly every other work you do????? but i’m gonna keep it short to spare both my fingers and your eyes

thank you for writing! i adore your works so, so much and i look forwards to seeing more of it in the near future! please be well, birbs! <3

Birbs I ate that Silco shit up like it was my last meal on earth. Licked the plate clean and waiting for seconds mmmmmmmmm DELICIOUS

4/4  |  HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS.   ;   SILCO / READER

summary: dinner is planned, then cancelled. you’re angry with silco, but business is business. as it turns out, distance does makes the heart grow fonder.

rating: 18+ / this chapter includes a mention of physical violence against a sex worker and features canon typical violence when rectifying said instance. this work contains smut.

word count: 9k teehee

pairing: silco / f!reader

a/n: with permission, the header from this chapter is art done by the lovely @/harlot_of_zaun over on twitter! i really encourage you to head on over and show them some love. their silco art is stunning. this piece made me go WOOOO. a special shoutout to them for being kind enough to lend me their art as a chapter header! 

but, here we are! end of the road. there may always be more, but for now, i hope you enjoy a nice little ending to this small story — the reception was really wonderful and thank you so much to everyone who’s read, commented, liked, breathed in its direction... you know how it goes. i love you all!

<  previous chapter  |  read me on ao3

You’ve been trying to ignore the buzz of anxiety in your chest for the last three days.

On the fourth day, you’d finally let the electric storm get the better of you. It’s late, nearly two in the morning, and Lizbeth is with you in your office; she’s crouched by the hearth, feeding in pieces of useless requisition receipts Yeleni left behind. The paper makes good kindling, and the stack beside her is tall.

The work has slowed for the night. Only three rooms are open; they see a slow trickle. By three, most of Zaun will be asleep. Four in the morning herald’s the end of the day for the workers of the Lilac Lounge.

Lizbeth finished her shift an hour ago. She’s fresh from the bath, with rose oil still clinging to her skin.

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