This is a side-blog to aunclassynerd, my personal blog. That is where you can find me post and reblog content I like. I also have an Ao3 that I post more regularly on.
This blog is my writing blog, but I also casually roleplay here, too. You can find my roleplay rules below.
I will write sfw and nsfw pieces. The latter I am still currently working on getting better with, so bare with me, please.
I do not take requests. Asks upon this subject will be deleted.
I may not take requests, but I do, however, accept requests in the form of asks given from prompts and/or memes I’ve recently reblogged. I will let you know who I am willing to write for with those either beneath the original post or in the tags.
I will not write yandere, rape/dubcon, or incest for the sheer fact they make me uncomfortable. There is no negotiating with these.
An obvious rule, but don’t plagiarize my writing. I’m writing mainly for myself and posting the stuff I like, this isn’t at all professional. So please, just don’t.
Currently, I will write for: canon!Akira/Ren/Joker, dragon!Akira, dragon!Ren, and any of my OCs. Please do not pester me to write a character that is not in my roster, no matter how good you think I will be at portraying them. If I’m not writing them, there’s probably a reason for that. You may ask me why if you’d like and I’ll be more than happy to give my reasoning, just please do not continue to pester me after I give my reasoning. If you do, you will be blocked.
Reblogs are more than okay for my one-shots/drabbles/regular writing. I actually encourage them. So are reblogs with comments, too.
Roleplay
Please keep in mind this is a casual roleplay blog. I’m rolepaying to roleplay, I’m not interested in making things look pretty. You are more than free to keep your formatting and replies with icons, though!
I only roleplay with mutuals. All my follows come from my main blog, so please don’t be confused should you see a personal blog following you.
Please do not reply to a thread if you are not a participant. I’m sorry, but this will earn you an automatic block if you do this. I’ve had this happen far too many times in the past. My casual writing is okay to reblog, my roleplays with other people are not.
I will also roleplay sfw and nsfw. Smut, however, will only be done if our muses are well acquainted with one another or if we’ve discussed a history between them in detail.
Please at least try to match the length of my reply. I don’t mind if you’re a little short, but it gets a little frustrating when I’m replying with two or more paragraphs and you’re only replying with a sentence or two. I won’t be upset if you simply just can’t write that much, though.
I will roleplay my canon characters, AU characters, and OCs here, but know that I am much more comfortable writing the latter two and replies will come much quicker with them.
Discord is another place I will roleplay, but if you’d like to keep in touch with me, too, send me an IM and we can add one another there. I promise I don’t bite!
Don’t feel stressed over taking time to reply! We’re doing this for fun, so take all the time you need to work on your amazing reply~.
The agony of flame tearing through starlight. The sickening lurch of magic snapping, your essence torn from the sky. And then — the weight. A terrible, suffocating heaviness as the world pulled you down. As the sky, your home, let you go.
You hit the earth hard enough to shatter bone.
Shatter this newness that you feel physically.
Now, you lie in the smoldering crater — naked, heaving, trembling. Earth clings to your skin. There is a taste in your mouth that you do not recognise.
The air smells strange: rich and green and full of life.
Loud with it. And it presses too close.
Everything touches.
Touches you.
And you do not know how to move.
Your limbs — foreign. Your breath — ragged.
Your heart — loud.
Then footsteps. Crashing through the undergrowth, fast and sure.
A deep voice curses in shock, followed by the skid of boots against stone. Then warmth — presence — fills the air beside you.
“Gods,” the male breathes. “Are you—are you alive?”
You can’t answer. Your throat works, but no sound comes.
The scent of wind and steel and something like spice rushes over you. Then—fabric. Something heavy and warm is draped over your body, covering the shivering, shaking shell of you.
You flinch.
The feeling is strange. Everything is strange.
You struggle, as something creeps over your spine, fear.
“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” the voice says, gentler now. “You’re safe.”
You manage to blink. His face is shadowed, but you see the concern in it. Golden-brown eyes, framed by dark hair. Big. Broad. His presence fills the space.
“I’m Cassian,” he says slowly, kneeling beside you. “Can you speak?”
Cassian.
You try, your lips move over the name.
It slides into you, anchors itself in your mind. You can’t form a reply, but you cling to the name like a star clings to sky.
He watches you for a moment longer, then shifts closer, easing his arms beneath you. You stiffen — your body too new, too sensitive — but he doesn’t hesitate. He lifts you with the ease of someone used to protecting things smaller than himself.
And you—
No longer in your familiar form, a foreign body.
And then you make a sound, a little gasp as though you are taking your first breath.
“You’re alright,” he murmurs again. “I’ve got you.”
You don’t understand the words fully, not yet. But the meaning bleeds through his voice.
You let yourself lean into him.
There is nothing else for you to do.
Cassian carries you through the trees, up a ridge where stars once again peek through the canopy. The wind touches your face, and you ache with homesickness for it. You ache with everything.
You sense the others before you see them — power rippling through the forest like a heartbeat.
A soft voice speaks first, laced with caution. “What is that?”
Cassian huffs. “Not what. Who. She fell from the sky.”
Then there are figures — stepping into view like ghosts:
A tall male whose voice commands the world around him.
A silver-eyed female, ancient and unreadable.
A golden-haired woman, radiant and warm.
Another female with paint-streaked hands and eyes like quiet water.
And something else. Something behind them. Watching. Cloaked in shadow and silence.
Azriel.
You don’t know that name yet, but you feel him. Like a brush of wind you can’t place.
Cassian kneels, still holding you, and speaks low to the commanding male. “She’s…different. She’s not from here.”
“She’s fae,” the silver-eyed woman says sharply. “But she’s not—”
She cuts herself off, tilting her head. Staring at you like she’s trying to solve a riddle written in the stars.
The male steps forward. His eyes — violet — meet yours with such gentleness it nearly undoes you. He crouches. Doesn’t touch you. Just watches.
Then a quiet pressure enters your mind. Not forceful. Not cruel. Just…present.
You try to jerk away, but your body doesn’t obey.
Arms tighten as they hold onto you, keeping you steady.
“I won’t hurt you,” the voice says within your head. Warm. Steady. A little sad. “Let me show you who we are.”
And with that, the floodgates open.
Rhysand.
His name settles into you like nightfall.
High Lord.
Then —
Feyre. Soft, steady. A painter’s soul.
Mor. Laughter and sunshine.
Amren. A blade too bright to touch.
Cassian. Your anchor, your first name.
And—
A flicker in the corner of your awareness. A shadow. Silent, watchful. Azriel.
You flinch again. Rhysand withdraws, giving you space.
“You’re safe now,” his voice whispers in your thoughts. “You’re among friends.”
You don’t understand all of this. Not yet. But something in you starts to breathe again.
The others speak softly, but their voices are too quick, too clipped for your scattered mind to track.
Only one voice cuts clearly through the haze.
“She’s not just fae,” the silver-eyed woman — Amren, your mind supplies — says with sharp certainty. “She’s ancient. And she’s not from this realm.”
Cassian’s arms tighten protectively around you.
It’s strange, being held like this.
You’ve never felt another being physically, it was never possible but now…
Rhysand’s tone shifts, curious and cool. “What are you saying?”
Amren stares down at you like she’s reading starlight from your skin. “She’s a fallen star.”
The words mean nothing.
And everything.
You feel them strike some half-buried part of yourself.
“Impossible,” Mor says, but even she sounds unsure.
“No.” Amren’s voice is low. Reverent. “I felt her magic before we arrived. She fell out of the sky. I’d stake my life on it — she’s celestial.”
A fallen star.
The term hums inside you. You don’t know what it means. You only know that the sky is gone, and you are here, and everything hurts.
You shift in Cassian’s arms. The cloak slips slightly, and your body floods with fresh confusion.
Embarrassment. Exposure.
You don’t know why you feel that way, only that you do.
Cassian notices instantly. “Let’s get her inside,” he says, rising again with you in his arms. “She’s freezing.”
“She won’t be safe in the city,” Amren warns. “There are too many who would notice what she is.”
Rhysand’s eyes flick to you, calculating. Protective. “Then we take her to the House of Wind.”
Your senses stretch, weary and raw, and—
There it is again.
The presence.
A darkness tucked behind the others. Still. Quiet. But aware. Watching you not like a predator, not like prey—but like someone who sees you clearly.
You can’t name it yet.
But something in you pulls toward him. Not in fear. Not in pain.
Just… recognition.
The sky in you remembers shadow.
And you search for it, you will everything in this new body to move, your eyes searching for something, anything.
There is a tug and you are not sure what it means.
The wind rushes past as you’re flown—flown—across the skies of this strange, bright place. You bury your face in Cassian’s shoulder, overwhelmed by the height, the speed, the weight of being carried.
He holds you steady. Offers you quiet reassurance as the others soar nearby.
When you land, you don’t even lift your head to look. Your limbs feel like they’ve been carved from stone.
Mor is already inside, preparing a bath. Feyre brings clothes — soft and light — things you don’t understand.
Cassian lays you gently in a cushioned chair beside a roaring hearth, and only then do you open your eyes again.
You are in a room full of firelight and warmth.
A place that smells of cedar and lavender and something baked with cinnamon.
These are scents that’s are familiar, you’ve travelled across this realm and been to every nook in the sky, it’s always home.
You’ve experienced the world but not like this, never like this.
Still draped in his cloak, you blink at the space around you. There is too much to see. Too many sensations. Too much you.
“You’re alright,” Cassian says again, kneeling in front of you. His hands are gentle where they adjust the cloak. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
You don’t know how to thank him. So you just stare.
Wrap the cloak tighter around your body.
Rhysand approaches, giving you time to notice him this time — how regal he is, and yet how careful he moves.
“We’ll give you time,” he says, voice warm. “We’re not here to demand anything from you.”
Why? you want to ask. Why are you helping me?
As if he hears the question behind your silence, Rhysand offers a faint smile. “Because once, we were all lost, too.”
And somehow, that undoes you more than anything else.
You can hear yourself waver, how your breath shakes and tears, droplets of water spill as everything becomes too much.
When they finally leave you in peace, you sit beside the fire, unmoving.
The cloak around you still smells like Cassian — wind and steel and smoke. It grounds you.
You watch the flames flicker and try to remember what it felt like to burn like that.
Not with heat. But with light.
You try to remember what it felt like to shine.
But the truth is, you are cold. You are lost.
And somewhere in this house, in the quiet shadows of the hall, someone is still watching you.
Not with judgment.
With knowing.
You’re not sure how long you sit curled by the fire, listening to its low crackle.
Long enough that the cloak begins to warm.
Long enough that the strange ache in your limbs grows heavier, almost unbearable.
You don’t know how to move. Not well. Not yet. Every motion is stiff, like you’re inside a shell too small for your spirit. Or too large. Or wrong altogether.
You’re not used to being seen.
And yet now, here you are — draped in borrowed fabric, skin too alive, sitting in a palace carved into the sky.
Eventually, a quiet knock taps against the door.
You stiffen.
The sound feels like a blade against your nerves.
You don’t answer.
But the door opens anyway.
It’s her — Feyre.
Soft in her steps, gentle in her gaze. She holds a bundle of fabric and a wooden tray with warm food and drink.
“I brought you clothes,” she says kindly, setting them on the low table beside you. “And something to eat. No one expects you to come out. Take your time.”
You say nothing. Not because you don’t want to, but because you still don’t know how.
She nods, as if understanding that silence. “I didn’t speak much when I first came here,” she says gently. “It took me time to feel like my voice mattered again.”
You blink at her, startled.
Feyre smiles. “It’s a lot. The body. The weight of it. The air here is thick, isn’t it?”
You nod — once — and your throat burns.
“I’m not going to crowd you,” she says gently. “But I wanted you to know… you’re not alone.”
She leaves the tray and the clothes, and just like that, she’s gone.
And still —
The shadow remains.
You sense it at the edge of your awareness. Always in the background. A presence that doesn’t move or press or intrude. Just watches.
You don’t know it’s him. Not yet.
But you feel him.
The quiet tether. The silent weight.
You do not know how to eat.
You try.
But your fingers — these hands — feel too fragile for the task. You spill broth down your chin. You flinch at the temperature. You gag on the texture of bread.
It humiliates you.
You curl in tighter around yourself. It wasn’t like this before. You didn’t have to chew or swallow.
You just… were.
Now everything is a task. A failing. A reminder of what you’ve lost.
You are no longer light. No longer untouchable.
Now, you are bound to flesh and bone—tethered to a body that aches and stumbles.
And someone saw you like this.
Cassian. Rhysand. Mor. Amren. Feyre.
You think again of the one in the shadows. The one who said nothing but looked with quiet gravity.
You don’t know who this presence is.
But something in you wants to.
Later, Rhysand appears again. Not with power this time, not with ceremony — just being,
“I’d like you to stay here,” he says, voice low and sincere. “At least for a while.”
You open your mouth. Then shut it. Then try again.
“…Why?”
The sound is hoarse. Like air dragged over broken stars.
Rhys’s violet eyes warm. “Because you’re not safe out there. And because someone needs to help you learn how to live in this body. How to exist here.”
You hesitate.
He waits.
“…I want to go home,” you whisper, not quite knowing what home is now.
“I know,” he says softly. “We’ll try to help you find a way back. But until then — you’re not alone.”
That seems to be his promise.
You nod slowly.
He smiles, and a glimmer of something ancient and powerful shines in his eyes. “Good. Tomorrow, Cassian will take you to the training ring. Just to stretch. See how the body moves.”
You blink. “…Training?”
His grin turns slightly wicked. “You’ll see.”
Then he nods once and leaves you again in the firelight.
And that’s when you feel it.
That presence — the one that’s lingered on the edge of your consciousness since the crater — draws closer. Just a step. Just enough.
He doesn’t enter. Doesn’t speak.
But you feel him standing there.
Like moonlight beneath a door.
Like shadow curled around your ankles.
And despite everything — the pain, the confusion, the foreignness of this body —
You are not afraid.
A note from me!
Hey, so it’s been a while since I wrote in second person and the first time on this blog… so I hope this tickles you in all the right places!
I have adapted my style to fit in with the fantasy, the scene setting, the overall story I want to tell so apologies if it’s a little rocky.
I’m trying!
(I’m also in a deep ACOTAR hyper fixation so I’m going to try and get this story out of my brain and on to my notes app as quickly and as consistently as possible! I have also only read the first three books in the series so far so if there is anything that verges from canon, again my apologies!)
Having read all available Maas books now, I've got some major thoughts and theories that I'm gonna share here. Some of these, when I write for these three series, will make an appearance.
The first one isn't a spoiler, it's more of an annoyance of mine that is very small. When Maas describes Drakon for the first time, its said he has tan skin, but the second time she says he has honey-brown skin? For me, I'm assuming this is just a mistake that wasn't edited out and he was being confused with Miryam. Personally, I see him and the other Seraphim being based off Middle Eastern ethnicity/race, so I see him having tanned, olive skin. This will change in the future whenever Maas decides to describe him more in detail.
Spoilers for all series under the cut!
First, for CC, the parasite the Asteri put in the water has to be Valg they experimented on and/or are working with. The Valg drain the people they inhabit in TOG, and if the fae of that world came to Midgard long ago, it can be assumed the Asteri learned of the Valg that way. I'm not sure the specifics of it all, but it would be an awesome callback to the TOG series. I truly do not think we've seen the last of the Valg.
The Seraphim and Illyrians were made by the Daglan. It's heavily implied in HOSAB then referenced quite obviously in HOFAS for the Illyrians. I also hold a firm belief that if the Seraphim helped rebel against the Daglan 15,000 years ago, they also Made a weapon (the one on Cretea that Drakon used to revive Miryam) to fight them like how Gwydion and Truth-Teller were Made. If it was not Made by them, they found and used it to help overthrow them. Either way, after the Daglan were killed, they brought it to Cretea for safe-keeping.
The fourth CC book will absolutely tie more into the Mer and that underwater city-highway that is mentioned in HOSAB, along with Parthos being re-made. The latter is a long shot, but it's been mentioned far too many times for me not to be sus that it's going to happen. I also think the books from Parthos will have a key to helping Midgard find a power source that isn't firstlight and secondlight. They may not have the power Apollion says they do, but that doesn't mean the books do not contain knowledge to help with that.
Nesta is going to revive the Dusk Court. Her bargain with Cassian puts the eight-pointed star on her back is clue number one. Number two is that the pegasi seem to be central to the Dusk Court with them appearing in Avallen after Bryce revives it, and Nesta is the one to revive the Valkyries in ACOSF. She's never felt like she belongs in the Night Court, so what if she finds where she belongs by reviving the Dusk Court?
Speaking of the above, clearly Avallen fae are those from the Dusk Court while Valbaran fae are those from the Autumn Court. It's already mentioned Rhysand, Bryce, and Ruhn are distantly related due to their Dusk Court ancestors, with all three having similar abilities. However, why does Azriel have shadowsinger abilities like Ruhn and Cormac? I'm of firm belief his unnamed mother is distantly related to them, too. Unless daemati and shadowsinger abilities are just a prominent thing of those with Dusk Court ancestry, like fire magic with a lot of the High Fae from the Autumn Court (read: Lucien's mother).
Something something the dragons are mostly gone from ACOTAR because they all migrated to Midgard something something. Them being lowers and why that is, is something I have yet to have full thoughts on. I'm also not too sure why they can't transform like the shape-shifters/TOG fae. Still puzzling it all out but I know we haven't seen the last of Ariadne. Hopefully we'll get more information in the fourth book, maybe even POV chapters from her. I'm dying to learn more.
Ithan will become the Prime of the Valbaran wolves. After the shit-show that was Sigrid and Sabine being killed, I can absolutely see the Prime making Ithan the Prime Apparent.
The witches in CC are related to the Crochans. A bit of a stretch, and I don't have any concrete proof for it, but I could see it.
Now, before I start this next theory, I just want to make it clear these are my thoughts, and I am not looking to have any drama on this post due to a shipping war just because I've voiced what I've noticed. You will be blocked if you do this. Back onto the things I noticed and my theories because of them!
It has been established that Lucien is Helion's son and not Beron's. He is his only heir, and this more than likely alludes to this being found out and Helion taking him in to become the eventual High Lord of Day. Elain's whole thing is flowers, and what keeps them alive? Sunlight. I can see them eventually getting together all because of that parallel, while Gwyn is Azriel's mate. His shadows are aware of them being mates, while Azriel himself has not yet learned this. I haven't read any of the bonus chapters fully, but from the little I've seen it seems like a very possible route. Now, of course there's going to be drama between Lucien, Elain, and Azriel, maybe even a Blood Duel, but if I was writing this series, I could see it leading this way. I could very well be wrong about this, however. It's just a theory and my thoughts.
This is a stretch, but as a writer myself, if Maas sticks with this universe, I can absolutely see this happening---there are more Asteri out there, and they will be contacted in some way. They'll invade either all of the worlds that have been central to these series so far, or pose a threat to one world in particular (maybe Pyrthian's world, since Rigelus holds such a grudge against it). The characters from TOG, ACOTAR, and CC will all team up against them to rid the universe from them once and for all. Cheesy, I know, but with the way things have been set up and teased, I could see Maas doing this. Maybe.
Though! If this does happen, I feel we're going to go right back to the mention of Rhysand and Feyre becoming High King and High Queen of Pyrthian. Personally, I don't think they'll do it or allow anyone else to, but I can't see this only being mentioned once in ACOSF. Amren will def mention it more if the Daglan/Asteri invade again or they fight them in another world.
We haven't seen the last of Miryam and Drakon, that's for sure. As a simp for these two, I'm hoping a small book like ACOFAS will be written of their past/future. I mean, Feyre did say she wanted to hear their story in full someday. It would be a perfect way to retell that story to her in the form of a novella. Not only that, but now that the Cauldron is in Cretea, they're going to appear again whenever it's needed. I really want to visit Cretea in other books, is that too much to ask? Lol
After a wedding and reception in the Dreamscape, Sunday enjoys the first waking moments with his new wife.
Sunday/Female Reader. Established relationship. Loving smut. Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI.
On AO3 here.
As beautiful as the Dreamscape and all of its Moments were, nothing beat the way your heart swelled when you woke up and stared at the ceiling, your hand clasped in another. The sedative tried to hold you fast but Sunday’s fingers in yours grounded you, the gentlest squeezing giving you another anchor for your will.
Your dress was soaked, as expected, the layers clinging to your legs and irritating your skin. When you looked over at Sunday, he was already awake and attentive; he was adept at navigating the borderlands between reality and dreams, even after years away, and therefore more familiar with the initial haze.
The tips of his wings were still wet, feathers shimmering in the dim light coming through the nearby window. You’d woken up next to him countless times already but you couldn’t help but grin and give a little laugh as you took in the sight of him next to you.
“Good morning,” you whispered.
You caught Sunday’s signature smile before he leaned over and kissed you, soft lips molding to yours, warm and steady.
The realization that, although your wedding had been within the Dreamscape, the man before you and the promises made were real danced in your head as you captured his mouth again. The sedative made your limbs slow and clumsy but you reached for him all the same, resting your hand on his cheek and reaching to brush your fingers along his wing joint, feeling him flutter beneath your touch.
No longer just a long-term lover, a partner, and a friend. Husband felt like such a fitting title to attach to all of those.
Sunlight did not stream through the windows of the bedroom, its long fingers no longer touching corners of the room you noticed the morning you first stepped into the dream pool. Time worked differently in the dream but the day was absolutely packed; you hardly noticed that the equivalent of an entire weekend passed by in a single day.
You’d have gotten married anywhere, you emphasized to Sunday, over and over again. He could have given you a ring made out of the stray threads he plucked after reattaching shirt buttons. The ceremony could have been in some administrative office. It didn’t matter to you, all of the pomp and glitz and glamor.
Especially if it spared him running himself ragged. Sunday was more than practiced in event planning and coordination but he spent enough of his life doing for others. There was nothing wrong with simple.
“I want to share my homeworld with you,” was all he said. “It would mean a great deal to me.”
And now, staring at the man in front of you and having experienced dreams as reality, you understood why Sunday had been so insistent. The Eventide was elegance beyond known words and reciting your vows amid the Sea of Dreams was more than one ever hoped for in a single lifetime. Perhaps even ten lifetimes.
“We should get out, my love,” Sunday murmured. “Lest you slip back into the dream, darling wife.”
“Reality’s enough for me right now,” you said, smiling into another deep kiss.
Sunday broke the kiss and brought you to your feet. The sedative, although it felt similar to water within the tub, was quick to dry. In fact, your dress hardly looked any different than it had when it came back from the tailor, neatly pressed and pristine. With another kiss, you felt yourself being scooped up and out of the pool, Sunday cradling you a moment longer before putting your feet back on solid ground.
“Not quite the same as a threshold,” he said. “But it’ll do for now.”
You couldn’t seem to keep your hands anywhere that wasn’t near Sunday and rested your palms against his chest, fingers tracing the fine embroidery of his wedding suit. Even now, with your feet sinking into plush carpeting and feeling his heart beneath your touch, it didn’t feel quite real.
Married.
The rest of your life with the man you considered to be your best friend, a companion you never expected to find.
He seemed to be just as struck as you, if not more so. His eyes lingered on your face, seemingly tracing every inch of you, lips parted and wings shifting softly with minds of their own. He removed his gloves and tucked them away before running the pads of his fingers along your upper arm, feeling your skin properly for the first time in what felt like days.
You felt the tickle of Sunday’s empathy at the back of your head, his subtle way of approaching you and igniting a need that went deeper than mere carnality. Your own exuberance was doubled, heart seeming to swell, for the smallest moment before arms wrapped around you.
As a human, it was next to impossible to convey the depth of what, exactly, you were expressing gratitude for without rambling. He was steadfast in his dedication to both you and what he wanted to give you. Sunday endured being recognized by average dreamers who only knew the sensationalized broadcasts and the Family members were not without their own grievances. You only hoped that his Halovian abilities allowed him to recognize that you understood what it meant to have these moments together.
Sunday didn’t speak, and instead burrowed in the crook of your exposed neck and pulled in his wings a little, relaxing against you. Every part of you sang as you felt heat radiate from him, his tall form pressed against you, curled around you.
“I want to savor this moment. Savor you,” he admitted, his tone gentle as he pressed his lips to the curve of your neck.
Buried between his words, you heard the sentiments unspoken that rang through you, ones that words failed to encompass. Undeserving of you and yet every willingness and desire to cherish you, to know you as well as he knew himself, a warmth like a fire on a frigid day. He would lay himself at your feet without you ever asking and if he tried, you would pull him up and hold him until he believed he needn’t do so.
You held him close, carding your fingers through his hair, mindful of his halo as you kept your other hand over his heart.
“We have the rest of our lives, Sunday. There’s no rush.”
He melted a little more, eased by your willingness to be patient, and continued to trail kisses up your neck and along your jaw. One breath against a sensitive spot left you shivering and his hold on you tightened as he did it again, this time kissing the spot for good measure.
By the time his lips met yours again, your very essence seemed to tremble deep inside. You poured little bits of yourself into every brush of your tongue, every movement of your lips, cup after cup, because otherwise you threatened to run over. It was not just a need for the man before you but a desire to convey what felt too much for language itself to encompass.
You’d tried, after all. Your vows were promises, tangible and otherwise, but when you wove the words together, it all felt so weak . Tears burned the backs of your eyes as you felt a wave of warmth rush over you that started at your head and ran down to cradle your heart.
All the while, you stroked the base of his neck, skimming Sunday’s exposed skin beneath his collar, hot to the touch. Searing, even. You couldn’t stop kissing him, less an addiction and more like your souls were already too tangled to do so, and your head spun as both of you traced the familiar planes of each other. A wandering hand skimmed over your collarbone and the swell of your breasts, edging the line of your dress before cupping you, thumb finding your nipple despite the silken fabric. You swallowed, panting slightly into the next kiss, excitement sitting at the base of your spine when Sunday reached behind you and began the pain-staking process of undoing each button.
He was a patient man, your Sunday, and so meticulous that it made every second worthwhile when his fingers finally found your bare back. The dress stayed only due to the swags of fabric on your arms but you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you at the sensation of his touch.
You made it to the bed with halted, fractured movements, never wanting the other to be far from reach. Your dress rustled as you crawled backwards, making room for Sunday as you went. It was easy for you to kick off your heels, the shoe dangling from your toes before you flung the thing to the far side of the room. Before you could do the same on the other foot, Sunday caught your leg and plucked the shoe from your toe, setting it down safely and seeing to his own attire.
It caused him distress to rush when he did not want to mark up his shoes and take them off incorrectly or ruin his appearance, even in front of you. Many nights were initially fumbled from such moments and recovered with soft grace that left you so dazed, you wondered if the man you loved was even real.
“We can pause,” you whispered, pushing yourself up onto your elbows.
But when he stood again tonight, fingers gliding over your foot and bare ankle as he raised your leg, it was impossible to miss that he was overwhelmed with a need for you to the point that he would swallow his anxiety over the creases his suit would bear.
“No,” he replied, looking at you through his lashes with every hot kiss to your ankle and calf. “I want this moment with you.”
His wings grazed the insides of your calves and your thighs as he worked his way up. You hiked up your skirts to watch him, his expression flitting between serenely loving and ravenous, as though you might disappear if he looked away for too long. The cooler air grazed over you, making you all the more aware of how wet you already were. You felt a jolt run through your swollen core.
Talented fingers found the garter on your left leg, a frilly fun thing you’d blushed at when the shopkeeper presented it to you. Normally, it would have been removed at the reception but Sunday balked at the idea of sharing such an intimate moment among a crowd of friends and acquaintances.
You didn’t blame him. Not when you couldn’t keep your skin from heating every time he was between your legs.
Sunday brushed his nose against the soft flesh of your thigh as he ran his finger along your skin beneath the elastic. He slid it down, guiding the silken band past your knee and off you entirely; you were going to try and toss the garter in the same direction as your stray shoe but Sunday took it, running it between his fingers before tucking it into his pocket.
Whatever quip you had at the tip of your tongue died as he returned to kiss your legs, angling his head so the long feathers of his wings tickled and teased your sensitive skin. Sunday had no intention of stopping this time, hands trailing further up to brush over the soaked lace between your legs. He sighed audibly as he rubbed a finger along the edge of the fabric and then slipped it aside, finding you eager and more than ready. The sound of your slick heat echoed throughout the room, obscene and yet divine.
You lifted your hips as Sunday reached for the thin material and pulled it down, revealing yourself to him. His tongue, so used to offering tempered thoughts and graces, found your slit and slowly trailed upwards, ending in a flick at your clit. You gave a choking gasp at the sensation and when Sunday repeated the action, all you could do was reach down and tangle your fingers in his face, pressing his face to your heat. His tongue worked alongside his fingers, stroking you and teasing you, but never allowing you release.
When he finally raised his head, face glistening with your essence and eyes alight with a devotion you had no name for, you could only bring yourself to say, “Please.”
You shifted, both of you freeing each other of the layers between you; your dress became a heap somewhere off the bed, and Sunday’s consideration for his own clothing was, in truth, made his bare form all the more enticing to you. He was beyond beautiful, especially with hooded eyes and swollen lips, his member already dripping.
He returned to you with a swift, smooth motion, meeting your lips instantly as he pressed his length against you, nestling himself for a moment. His tip brushed your clit as he bucked, shallow and preparatory; your hands didn’t know where to rest, every touch seemingly never enough. He gave a stilted moan that curled into nothing more than an exhale as he met your entrance, closing his eyes and bowing his head, wings flexing to cover his pink cheeks and eyes.
You were already on the brink, as was he, if the twitching tickle in your head was anything to go by, his arousal intensified by his emotions. His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, breaths coming in slow calculated waves as he slid into you, inch by inch. Your body parted to accommodate him, molding around him as if you were made for one another.
When he was finally buried as deep as he could go, his forehead pressed against yours, he sighed but remained unmoving.
“Sunday,” you reached up, stroking his wings softly before you slipped your hand beneath one, cupping his cheek. “Look at me, darling husband.”
When he did, adjusting himself on his elbows as he twitched inside you, all you could do was marvel for a moment. Earnestness made a home in the depths of his violet-and-molten-gold eyes, the smile on his lips like none you’d ever seen before.
This act between you was nothing new but that didn’t make it any less sacred or important. The universe did not shift nor did time stop; it meant as much to you then as it did now, being one with him, experiencing an expression of emotion that was as necessary as breathing and as nourishing as rains after a drought.
Sunday set a slow, deep pace, paying special attention to the way you gasped with every stroke when he brushed past a particular spot. Your arms wrapped around him beneath his and you clung to his shoulders when he angled your hips, his movements fluid yet steady. Neither of you was going to last long but it didn’t need to. You pressed your forehead to his again and locked your ankles together around his waist, tension coiling in your belly and sinking downwards.
“I never thought I’d have this chance, not after…” he whispered. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Fingers dug into your thigh, snaked upwards to hold your waist, cup your breast, and brush your cheek, as if seeking purchase in a storm.
Sunday settled on reaching underneath you, holding your behind to keep you close while brushing away the beginnings of tears when the sensations became too much and the tension deep inside replaced your vision with nothing but a sea of stars. Your cries unfurled into moans, the sensations deep inside intensified both by the shuddering groan of your name with Sunday’s own release and the fuzzy feeling in your head that you could only attribute to his empathy trying to make emotional sense of the moment. Warmth spread all over, his essence filling you, lips on your with every intention of giving you his very soul.
You couldn’t bring yourself to untangle from him, not yet. Your walls squeezed his member as he twitched inside you, filling you up further. Holding you tight, Sunday managed to roll you both onto your sides, bodies still connected.
You pushed stray locks of hair away from his forehead before giving him a gentle kiss. Neither of you were tired, no doubt a byproduct of the sedative’s effect on your sleep cycle and your own desire for one another.
It was not moonlight that passed through the room but the reflection of light from the Reverie Hotel bouncing off the dusty sky of the Alderson disc you were residing on. Regardless, you stared at Sunday, painted in light that almost made him glow beside you. The thought was bittersweet and you nestled into him, wriggling your hips a little to accommodate him inside you better.
Even if the people of the Planet of Festivities cared little for him, he would have a home in your arms, and in your heart.
A Halovian's halo is made up of energy, causing it to be incorporeal and intangible in the real world. However, in the dream world of Penacony, the energy forms into a physical object.
If there was one universal taboo, it would be touching a Halovian's halo. Yet...
Your fingers caress the lower sides of his halo. Running your fingers up and down, it's smooth and a bit too soft to be metal. It's edges are rounded but there's little ridges that dip in between.
You can't help but admire the craft. Halovian halos form based on personal experience. What type of life allows it to become so intricate, you wonder.
When your fingers glide up the points of his halo, it flickers in and out.
"S-sorry," Sunday speaks from below you, he decided to sit to allow you to touch freely, however, "I've never had my halo touched before..."
Pausing your touching, you look down at him. His face is a vibrant shade of red. His wings cover his face in a poor attempt to hide his blush.
"Are you okay? Want me to keep going?"
"Yes, to both of those questions. It's just an intimate gesture among Halovians," he mumbles into his glove.
The points among his halo stand sharp like thorns. Any touch would prick your finger. It suits him, you think. Sunday's status is a thorn that keeps people from approaching him. It serves as his protection.
But he's also soft around the edges, your lips curl up in a grin as you trace the circular arch to the next point. You fondle the halo's eye between two of your fingers.
"Just how intimate?"
Sunday gives you a glare. As best he can anyway. It's not very intimidating with cheeks all red and his wings pressed up against his face.
"Wouldn't you like to know," he shifts his face closer to yours in a challenge.
You would.
a/n: I read the "halovian special issue" for the info btw. probably not reliable but I'm desperate for Sunday and this is all I got, okay 😔
Y'know, I see a lot of posts urging people to comment on fics, so I just want to say, to all the people who do comment, and especially the long commenters:
thank you.
Long comments can be time-consuming. They can be difficult to write, but you leave them anyway!
Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who comments.
You are the highlight of fanfiction writers' days.
Just so y’all know: I can’t speak for every other fic author but I can say that I remember when people leave me kind comments. I recognize your urls and/or usernames on AO3. I remember you and sometimes in writing my fics I think to myself, “Oh, I hope this person sees this because they liked x in this other fic I did.”
Not only that—I go back and reread comments when I’m feeling low. I look at tags and reblogs and asks and wish I could hold them in my hand like a note from a friend on an old, torn piece of notebook paper.
Your comments have so much more impact than you know. So thanks to those who use the comment section to spread love and encouragement. We appreciate you.
Description: the untold stories of On Fire’s Wind, featuring small snippets of stories untold in the main series’ work. This takes place after Smoke.
Words: 1,020
On Fire's Wind series: side-stories
Note: this is the final installment of On Fire's Wind. With the addition of this chapter, this series is now deemed complete.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | Side-stories
His hands are warm, ever so warm, as they always will be. Akira smiles serenely, the corners of his eyes crinkling, showing the same warmth as his crimson irises. Boldly, he brings them upwards, eyes never leaving your own as he kisses them both.
“You’re beautiful—more beautiful than anything on this plane or the next.”
“I could say the same for you,” you breathe, heart fluttering restlessly. Akira enjoys dressing elegantly, but today he has donned his finest attire, a dark outfit inlaid with gold embellishing, red patterns, and bright rings on his fingers, glittering as prettily as his freshly polished horns. They, too, glimmer in the iridescence of a thousand colored lights, his left capped with gold on its end with a small ruby dangling from it, reflecting all the colors surrounding you both.
Akira chuckles, eyes sparkling. “Best be careful, lest our restless audience get a show they’ll never stop singing about.”
You join his little laugh, but then grow serious. “My love, the light of my life, do you promise to uphold your vows as my consort—to love me and bring light to my darkest nights? To hold me during fraught and war? To provide for me, in sickness and in health?”
“I do.”
You drop his hands and turn, and Ryuji steps forward, holding out a bright, golden ring on a silk pillow. Smiling at him, which he returns with much exuberance, you take the ring delicately. When you turn back, you can’t stifle a little gasp as Akira gets down on his knees and bows his head. You knew this was coming, but you simply can’t help it. It’s a blatant show of trust you never expected from anyone in this kingdom but Akechi.
The warmth within you turns hotter, making your cheeks flush. Steadying your breaths, you carefully bring the ring downwards, lining it up with his right horn. It slides on with nary a sound, stopping snugly just a few inches onto it. It’s intricately crafted with filigree, woven with threads of golds and darker metal you cannot identify, small rubies and garnets laid throughout the band at perfect intervals.
Akira raises his head after it’s on, and you can’t help it. You reach downwards and put your hands on his cheeks, holding his face lightly. His eyes close, an inaudible purr rumbling through him. He is a living fire in your hands, caressing your very being with his flames.
“You may rise, my love.”
When he does, you let your hands drop from his face, but his are faster, snatching one of yours before it can fall at your side. He turns a wicked grin your way that makes you laugh.
“Not so fast, my queen, everyone must know you are mine, too.”
“Of course.”
Small laughter sounds from your audience, most of it coming from the band of thieves on either side of you both. It silences quickly, but the light seems brighter for a moment because of it.
Akira opens his free hand, and you gasp at what you see. A gold ring matching his own sits in his palm, though this has a white metal instead of the darkness in Akira’s. It, however, bellies a large ruby unlike any other you’ve seen, even in your treasury, flashing with rainbows of iridescence and sparkling as brilliant as a star. It’s been cut into the shape of an unfurling flower, its petals soft despite being a hard material.
You look at him with wide eyes, mouth agape. All he does is smile at you.
“It is the tradition of the dragons to gift their kin with an uncut gemstone from their hoard when they come of age, to use for a ring they will give their mate. My mother, Cassandra Kurusu, gifted this to me centuries ago. It is now yours, my treasure.” Carefully, he slips it onto your ring finger. A perfect fit. “The flower it was carved into—masterfully crafted by dwarven hands—is a Dragon Fire Rose. They are the only roses in existence that can withstand any flame. With it, may the fire of our love burn long after we have turned to ash."
Tears well in your eyes. You look from the ring to your lover, giving him a warbling smile. He returns it, taking both your hands again. He gives them a comforting squeeze, eyes bellying everything he, too, feels.
For a moment longer, you stare at one another, then your shoulders raise. Not minding the tears that are threatening to fall, you grasp one of his hands then turn to the crowd of gathered nobility and commoners alike, the garden that you both cherish packed to the brim. Clearing your throat, you speak, voice strong despite your emotions.
“My people, this nation has seen much hardship over the years of my father’s rule. Many have suffered. Many have been lost. Shido tried to crush our spirit and resolve, including my own, but no longer. This kingdom from here onwards will be one of hope and renewal, where all beings are accepted, including those of magic, non-human nature, and everything between. It shall be a safe haven for all to flock to and call home.” Akira and you exchange a look, his expression full of pride and love. “Our love is an inferno that has burned this nation anew—let it bring about the winds of renewal as we enter this new era."
Cheers erupt, crescendoing into the air and lifting to the skies. You smile, light entering your being and exploding brighter than any firework, rejoicing with your people. Beside you, the thieves rejoice too, cheering more loudly than anyone else, their raucous cries deafening.
Suddenly, you're grabbed, arms encircling your body. You have a second to gasp, then searing, soft lips are upon you. Bawdy cries erupt, lots of them from the Phantom Thieves, yet you pay them no attention. Instead, you throw your arms around your husband’s shoulders, a hand entangling in his messy hair, kissing him back passionately.
Through the fire and through the smoke, love conquers all, as it shall and forever be.
It's wild, the thought of being someplace so far from home, but you can't deny at all that this isn't anything like what you know. Flowers aren't the size of trees, and the dew doesn't glow with starlight. To be honest with yourself, you're still not sure this isn't an extremely lucid dream caused by you getting sick and your fever half-drugging you here in your sleep.
But then, you have to ask who the man leading you on is based on, because you are certain if you'd seen a guy this handsome it would have earned a solid look on your part. He's definitely not background actor material, that's for sure. Except if this isn't a dream, then, how much wilder is the world that you could slip into a place like this? It isn't like you wandered far off, and it was a normal park you've visited to time and time again, especially when your mood was as cracked as it was earlier.
It's not until you accidentally run into your guide that you realize he's stopped at all, and that shakes you right out of your head. "Oh shit, sorry!" you blurt out, taking two steps back to try and regain a polite sense of distance, only to realize he'd turned to face you.
All he does is chuckle, waving a hand to dismiss your concerns. "No fret. I was simply concerned that you had stopped answering, and worried you were harmed. Is something remiss?"
"Well..." What do you say to that? You're not sure things are okay at all. But the man, who's name you remember now is Raoul, is patient, clearly hoping you'll provide some answer but not going to pressure you. Still, something in you feels like that's a dangerous thing to do. "Not really? I'm just still lost as to how all this happened, I suppose. It's not like you wake up somewhere you've never seen before on the daily, you know?"
Description: a chase is what he wanted, and a chase is what he got. However, it's clear he had one other thing in mind, too...
Words: 772
Note: part of an ongoing series I periodically update on Ao3 called Spooktober, which features the characters I write for as either "monsters" or beings with "spooky" powers.
Vaulting over a younger fallen tree, you grin as you see the creek coming into focus through the foliage, its water a silvered knife against the darkness of this full moon night. You kick your legs into high gear, aiming straight for the daggered water.
Just as you crash through a snarling rosebush, its thorns scratching your skin and tearing lightly at your clothes, a loud, animalistic growl cries through the night to your right. You only just hear it before a large, furred body slams into you, sending you tumbling to the ground.
Large hands trap your hips and push you into the ground while the sharp points of fangs make themselves known over your jugular. The growling never stops, but it does quiet somewhat; a deep rumble within the confines of a chest.
Gasping, you tense all over, rubbing your thighs together, holding back a full body squirm. The growl pitches upwards as the fangs apply more pressure briefly, then disappear entirely as a head is raised.
"Having fun?" You rasp, meeting bright and shining marigold eyes with a grin in your eyes and on your lips. "You're a little slow, RenRen~."
Bright white teeth flash in the moonlight, fangs bared in a beastly snarl. It makes you giggle until lips suddenly descend upon yours, silencing your amusement. The kiss is fierce, more tongue and teeth than anything proper, but it does its work to quiet you and set a further spark through your body.
The hands on your hip squeeze your flesh, then Ren pulls away from the liplock, looking down at you as you pant, catching your breath. The gold in his eyes has not died in the slightest, in fact, they seem to brighten as he quickly looks you over, satisfaction swimming clearly through him as a tiny smirk lifts his lips. Then, once it’s gone, he buries his face into your neck, beginning to pepper it with featherlight kisses.
Slowly, you catch up to steady breaths, feeling as his hands slowly caress your sides and he kisses your neck. As you come to awareness, you also notice another thing, too. It has you pausing, then looking down.
What little you can see of his body so closely pressed to your’s, all you see is skin. You suck in a sharp breath.
He chuckles into your neck—seemingly guessing what you’ve now noticed—pressing his hips closer to your body, allowing you to feel it now, too. Your face heats further.
"When did—when did you take off your clothes?!" You stutter out, incredulous. Is that why he took so long to catch up to you?!
Ren hums, nuzzling his nose into your neck, seemingly innocent, until his teeth nip it, causing you to make a small noise at the sharp sensation. "Now you notice, huh? A while ago, just before I started chasing you." You can practically feel the small smirk on his lips now due to the next words he speaks. "Would you have preferred to stay and watch the show instead of the head start I gave you by stripping down?"
“Bastard,” you hiss. For revenge, you reach up and grab a fistful of his hair, yanking him upwards. Ren’s marigold eyes widen briefly, slipping shut the moment you yank him up into another kiss. The softest of groans bubbles in his chest, vibrating through you, too, and making you grin through the kisses. Even when he nips your lip in farewell and pulls away, you both panting at each other, your grin never wavers.
He studies you, expression neutral. Neither of you say a word, merely staring at one another.
A slow grin spreads across Ren’s face, revealing lengthened fangs and brighter marigold eyes that glow in the night. Ice wedges itself in your spine at the grin and makes your own fall, but you don’t back down, boldly keeping eye contact even when he rolls his hips experimentally. You do, however, bite your lip to hold back a noise, biting harder as he does it again, letting you feel him better.
Ren leans down to your ear, his warm breath fanning over it and causing goosebumps to rise on your body. His hips now move in a steady rhythm, and now you’re not so sure how long you’re going to last this night.
“Hm, if this is what I get when I chase you, I should do this more often. Would you like that, sweetheart?” All you can do is moan in response, earning a nip to your ear in reward. “Good girl. Maybe I’ll reward you, but for now, let me take my prize…”
sure, he knows what love is. he's read all about the emotion, thumbing through book after book in an effort to further understand one of the most complex human emotions that exist. but even though he's gone through the entire library, he still finds himself confused.
as the chief justice, he's also seen some of the worst that fontaine has to offer, and that includes crimes that have been driven by love. he thinks it's interesting, seeing how people let themselves get so overwhelmingly consumed by their emotions that they are driven to take such drastic actions. and all in the name of those they revere.
as a citizen of fontaine, neuvillette has also seen the brightness that love brings to people's lives. although he doesn't fully understand human emotions, observing it in his daily life does help.
he has seen a young mother pull her child onto her lap, a fond smile on her face as she gently wipes the crumbs from his mouth. he has seen the bashful looks exchanged by two teenagers as their pinkies interlock, blushes staining their cheeks as they stroll along the streets of the city. he has also seen the way a woman's face lights up as her husband approaches her, holding out a single marcotte and receiving a kiss in return as she plucks it from his hand.
most recently, neuvillette has seen it in you.
he sees it in the way you take the time to greet each melusine individually when you arrive at work each morning, occasionally bringing in treats you think they'd enjoy. he sees it in the way you come in early on heavier days, making sure that neuvillette's court records are neatly organized just the way he likes it before he even steps into his office. another thing that catches his attention is how you always go out of your way to help others in the office, oftentimes sacrificing your break or lunchtime in order to make someone else's day easier.
he thinks he feels his heart warm when he sees you lift a melusine to reach something on a high shelf.
neuvillette also wonders if some of your love is directed at him. he can't help but notice the way your eyes soften when you see him every morning, eyes following after him as he makes sure to greet all the melusine. he pretends not to notice the way you duck your head bashfully when he approaches your desk, wishing you a merry morning before asking how your day has been so far. he averts his eyes from your trembling hands every time you set his teacup on his desk, choosing to take a sip and murmur his appreciation before you slip out of his office with a soft smile. the tea is always brewed to perfection, and he wonders if your attention to detail is just another way you show your affection. (It is.)
he finds himself noticing that the irregularities in his heartbeat only occur whenever you do any of the aforementioned things, and he wonders if he's finally feeling the emotion that has evaded him for so long. the next time you bring in his tea, neuvillette is quick to grab your wrist, gently preventing you from leaving as he asks you to join him for his afternoon break.
and as you take the seat across from him, sending him a shy grin as you grab a teacup for himself, he starts to believe that he might be falling in love for the first time in his life.
reblogs are appreciated <3 thank you for reading!!
Archon!Ren is surprisingly easy to unravel, if you know what buttons to push. They include but aren’t limited to:
• Small displays of affection. Holding hands, kisses to the cheek, nipping his jaw. No matter how long you and he are together, he won’t be used to being given care.
• Compliments. Seriously. Compliment him. Be it on his cooking or his finesse in battle, you’ll earn the teeniest, tiniest sign of a blush colouring his cheeks something that he’ll deny is there until the end of time.
• Behind closed doors, it would surprise many to learn that the Cryo God isn’t one for taking charge or initiating anything; his partner must take the first action(s).
Seeing the Lord of Ice unravelling is like nothing else. The way his groans turn to pants, which then turn into soft moans is sweeter than any drink to ever touch your lips. Of course, you’ll be good and drink all he has to give you if it means he gets to see that blazing affection simmering in your eyes, so intense he could burn in it. And burn he does. Chilly fingers on heated skin, his frosty breath in your ear, dancing across your skin, your lips as he whispers how enchanting you are.
No matter how long you and Ren have been together, he’ll never get used to the chaste signs of endearment that you show him. Whether it’s you pressing a kiss to his knuckles or praising him for you, and your allies, having full and satisfied bellies, such little things are all that you need to do to rile him up.
If you point out that he’s more quiet than usual, you’ll not earn a reply as he tugs the gloves he’s wearing closer to his fingers.
Ren isn’t one to become jealous easily, but if anybody can achieve this without having to do or say much, it is without a doubt the Lord of Fire, Akira. Anything is possible in the Pyro Archon’s presence and rarely anything good, especially if it ends with Ren’s exasperation.
“Enjoying the view? I certainly am.” Akira will quip, a playful tease uplifting his voice as he catches Ren’s eyes locked onto your retreating backside. “I don’t know how you got them before me, but I can appreciate the sight of-”
“Enough.” The Cryo God’s voice will be like a frozen wasteland, crisp and dry, as he spares Akira a chilling askance. “I haven’t the time for your childish games, Akira. Don’t you have some skirts to chase?”
“I’d much rather chase theirs, if you’ll let me.”
The frigid glare that comment earns him speaks volumes, but even when Akira is leaving, it doesn’t stop the Fire Lord’s hand from caressing your thigh, fingers tracing a whisper of heat across your skin even through the clothing that protects your flesh from his touch. “If you ever tire of my brother, do let me know, hm?”
It’s not surprising to see that Ren has had his eyes on only two people the whole night: you and his mischievous sibling, Akira. Your eyes follow the Fire Lord as he departs. The shattering of glass yanks your attention from the door that Akira just exited, to the Cryo God standing immobile, leaning against the flickering hearth. Frozen shards of glass fall from his hand, glittering as they rain down to the floor.
“Are you okay?”
You’re quick to go to his side, eyes flicking to the deity’s hand; he’s practically crushed the frozen glass in his grip.
“No.”
At least he doesn’t lie and assure you that he’s fine, when he clearly isn’t. He no doubt saw what Akira just did and was insulted by the display. Recognizing his sour mood, you lead him away from the bustling scene after cleaning up the mess, out the door and into the cool twilight. He doesn’t object when you lace your fingers through his, having been given his silent permission to do so.
Ren will be silent for the remainder of the evening, only speaking with an affirmation or a denial depending on what you say to him.
When you turn a corner and heading in the direction of an inn, is when you find yourself pushed against the stone exterior. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” What little he says lights a fire in you; ironic, given the element he holds dominion over. His voice is low, so quiet that if anyone else were around, you would have missed it.
You begin to reply, but it’s cut off by a kiss that takes your breath away, like you’ve just taken a kiss of winter into your lungs. He kisses you like he’s a dying man, and this is the last time that he’ll ever get to press his mouth against yours.
“Don’t,” he seethes against your lips, “ever,” he blesses your jaw with a nip, “let,” he sucks on your neck, “Akira,” he pulls away, “speak to you or touch you like that again; I won’t be so forgiving if you allow that to happen a second time. Understood?”
Love how Hoyo saw my interest in the game waning and decided to finally bring up more about the dragons in the game after a long lull of hearing nothing about them since Dvalin. Like the dragons ruling the world before all Hell broke loose is such a fun thing to think of, especially when you have dragon OCs. My head is running with ideas for my characters in Teyvat, now.
How about 15 for any P5 character (including au versions of them!) of your choice? Divulge those secrets~.
Secrets huh? I got a few I could toss out that'd be your sorts of flavors. I know your husbands, after all, and which one to use today.
Dragon!Satanael has a thing for gardening. He keeps it hidden in his territory, tucked away to where it's easiest to reach via flight. There's a couple magical plants there but most of them are simple flowers and some fruit trees.
A fact he'll never admit is he has set three forest fires while sneezing in his dragon form.
For all his intelligence and wisdom, over the years he's lost track of his hoard. While he has a good idea of how much he has, and he most certainly keeps his favorites under a solid lock and key, Satanael doesn't know the exact details of his draconic wealth any more.
note. ridiculously self-indulgent. i just wanted to write some sexual tension between an assassin and their commissioned target, man.
“A great blade you have.”
Sharp, stretching to a curved edge. It gleams ominously in the moonlight, draped in cold silver. Gloved fingers wrap around the hilt, tracing the carved patterns, curiously smoothing over embedded diamonds. A twinkle of interest rests in his eyes, but the scimitar doesn’t hold his attention for long—his gaze shifts to your figure, pinned beneath his grip.
“Unfortunate you never got to use it.”
Contempt blemishes your otherwise fair face, twisting to a scornful expression directed solely at his irritable attitude. Ayato feels a flash of sadistic joy at that, but dissatisfaction rolls off him in waves at the way you worry your lip with your teeth.
“Not very keen on responding?” A thumb presses down on your mouth, brushing the swell of your lip. The snarky reply at the tip of your tongue dies the moment he applies more pressure to the blade ghosting over your neck, a firm weight that threatens to cut you open.
You try your best to suppress a shudder when it digs further to your skin, one stroke away from drawing blood. He revels in your panic, your pride crumbling to dust and burnt to ashes; glows in delight knowing you’re pliant at his mercy, rippling in every delicate touch.
(More than he should, probably.)
“You know, I was quite flattered,” Ayato begins, eyes darkening when you squirm in futile attempts to escape. “You kept approaching me, bright-eyed and eager just to exchange pleasantries. I was under the assumption you were interested.”
He sighs in solemn contemplation, dismayed by the turn of events. “Though it seems you were only after my neck. I'd say I have far more attractive qualities than that.”
His voice takes on a cheery lilt as he moves closer, the tips of his hair tickling your cheek. Stiffening, you turn away, but that only prompts him to tilt your face in his direction, the edge of the blade beneath your chin.
“No need to play coy with me,” he reassures, a kind smile gracing his features. “You were so bold to invite yourself to my room tonight, after all.”
You twitch.
“Pardon the intrusion, my lord,” your words come out firm, less shaky than you expected them to be, “but with the way your door was left wide open, I presumed visitors were welcome.”
“Mhm. I figured it would spare you the time to sneak inside,” Ayato answers, all too merry for someone who anticipated an assassination. “It did save you the trouble, didn’t it?”
You smother the urge to grimace and take on a wry simper, “Truthfully, it wasn’t much of help. I would’ve preferred if you remained obedient and slept the night away like you were supposed to.”
“Oh? I didn’t take you for the kind to go for defenseless men.”
“You don't have to worry about that.” Too smug for someone held at knifepoint, you drawl, “Scheming men aren’t my type.”
“That’s a shame then.” He has the gall to look disappointed. “You were mine.”
Unconvinced, a chuckle bubbles out of your throat. “So you’re saying you treat people you like this way?”
“Do you have a problem with it?” Ayato cocks his head to the side questioningly.
“Even for someone like you, I thought you would be a little nicer.”
He laughs at that, breathy and quiet, the faint gust of air tickling your ear when he leans further down to stroke your cheek tenderly. “Thoma always did say I have a bad personality.”
His hand travels south, pressing on the column of your throat. “I want to be kind to the person I like,” he whispers softly, like a confession you aren’t supposed to hear. “But you’re so cute I want to bully you some more.”
Psychotic bastard, you think as the scimitar hovers above your skin. This is beyond bullying.
“You thought something rude about me just now, didn’t you?”
You avert your eyes. “I didn’t.”
He laughs again, dubious. “I’m not sure if you’re aware,” Ayato comments, tracing the line of your chin, “but you’re so awful at lying it's almost impressive.”
Before you can retort back, he cuts in, “It makes me want to believe you weren’t deceiving me the entire time.”
You dig your nails into the rumpled sheets, the mattress sinking with his weight. Swallowing, you measure the remaining distance placed between you and the sharp edge, pondering his reluctance to end this farce.
“Don’t you remember?” He hums, a chipper tone lacing his words. Like reminiscing a fond memory. “You gave me muffins before. You made them yourself. You said you wanted to know what I thought of them.”
To your bewilderment, he sets aside the scimitar, gently laying it down the bed. It sits a safe distance away.
You can try to run. Your hands are free, and the only threat that kept you immobilized was the sword. Ayato would probably let you, even though you doubted the credibility of his self-proclaimed affections earlier.
You don’t.
You stay right where he wants you.
“We were alone. Nobody would’ve known you came by. I ate those muffins, knowing the risk.” His free hand settles on your waist, but you hardly notice when you’re too immersed in the intensity of his gaze. “But you didn’t poison them at all.”
He leans down. Closer.
“You should know best why it's advised to keep smaller weapons. You conceal them until the target is vulnerable. Yet you brought a scimitar.”
Closer.
“Like you were trying to get me to notice you.”
Until your nose brushes against his, your lips separated by a hair’s breadth.
“Even now, you don’t push me away. Like you want to be caught.”
His eyes burn like embers, a smoldering flame that sears your very being.
premise. snippets of daily life between a humble servant and an increasingly clingy master.
word count. 5.2k
note. reader full of snark + dumbass in love ayato = gratuitous amount of banter. i have to say that ayato never goes out of line though, and you're not actually bothered by his advances; you're just a massive tsundere.
“With all due respect, I don't believe being your headrest is part of my duty, my lord.”
“Is that so?”
The noncommittal response pointedly marks the end of his acknowledgement as Ayato makes no effort to sit up, remaining slumped against your frame. His head rests upon your shoulder, a ticklish sensation blooming where your neck and chin meet. Light blue hair trail prickling heat where it grazes your skin, an itch you can't quite scratch away.
Even so, the discomfort doesn't reflect on your face, frigid expression carefully layered with blankness. His sinking weight fails to impede your immaculate posture, refined poise a great disparity from his leisurely disposition. It paints an odd picture, the ordinarily faultless heir lacking decorum—though granted the freedom to do as he wishes in the private confines of his room, it is a mystery why a servant such as you is... graciously permitted to bask in his exclusive company. In the private confines of his room. You feel the need to emphasize that detail.
In his hands lay a scroll concerning governmental affairs, urgent matters that demand his attention, so you can't begin to comprehend why he insists on using this time to harass reward a lowly servant with his valuable presence when there is business to attend to.
He leans more of his weight to your side, and he—you nearly sputter indignantly—mimics an action that can almost be described as nuzzling. “Mhm. This is convenient for me, since I've hardly found the time to rest today. Do you find it intolerable?”
Ignoring the last bit, you advise, “Perhaps it would be more effective if you were to rest in your chambers. I will come call when the Kanjou Commission asks for you.”
He pretends to consider it for a moment, the silence filled with the quiet jingle of wind chimes. But predictably, the corners of his mouth hook up to an impish smile. “I would prefer to stay, if you don't mind?”
Resigned to your fate, you can only say, “Of course not, my lord.”
For reasons you cannot fathom, the head of the Kamisato household harbors a strong attachment to you.
In normal circumstances, this fact would be taken as great news; presently, you are little more than puzzled and unfeeling. Rather than delight, dread stirs in your stomach whenever he calls your name in a volume louder than necessary—a conscious decision, you presume, since he seems to interact with other servants just fine. Curt and polite, keeping his words concise, preventing further delay from addressing his responsibilities.
Had you not known better, you wouldn't be able to identify him as the same man who indulges in trivialities when he invites you to share snacks, engaging in frivolous chatter over tea and pastries. With increasing frequency nonetheless, and with varying refreshments each time to boot, an assortment of wagashi exquisitely produced only by the best. Strawberry daifuku on one tea break, mizu-yokan on the next, sakura mochi on the day after that... You've been serving him for a considerable amount of time, but he's never been much of a sweet tooth until as of late.
Ayato hums thoughtfully, savoring the sweet taste on his tongue. “The mild flavor is pleasant. I believe it might be to your liking.”
He offers you a cup, steam curling above the warm brew. The pink beverage glistens beneath the sunlight, rippling with movement when you take it into your hands. It doesn't require much thinking to conclude the tea leaves must've cost a fortune, but it leaves you plenty of questions just as well. Why would a benefactor give you a taste of luxury?
But you would be a fool not to appreciate it while it lasts, so you lift the cup for a sip.
The flavor of spring bursts in your mouth, fragrant and tasting of sweet nectar. Your frosty guise wavers under the bribery, bliss crossing your face before your lips quirk up to a small, almost imperceptible smile.
Deeming your elated reaction satisfactory, Ayato nudges the plate of confections towards your side of the table. “Eat. They pair well with the tea.”
Who are you to say no to your lord? Therefore, the correct choice must be to accept his gifts with gratitude!
(Distracted by desserts, you fail to see his amusement in the way you stuff your cheeks full adorably like a chipmunk.
But he's aware it's not the right time yet, so he suppresses the urge to pinch your face.)
Kamisato Ayato is often praised for his intellect and cunning mind, but sometimes you wonder if he'd finally gone stupid. It was only a matter of time.
“My hand feels cold,” he laments, as if he hadn't chucked away his gloves ten seconds prior. “Can I hold yours for a moment?”
Ayaka, for her part, looks ashamed on her brother's behalf. With a graceful flick of her wrist, her fan snaps open and obscures the mortified expression on her face. Thoma's bottom lip quivers, valiantly repressing his bubbling laughter though he turns quite ugly in the process.
Sending a prayer to the heavens, you hope your face looks as unreadable as you think it to be. “...I'll fetch you a pair of gloves,” you say, side-stepping the pair he just abandoned on the floor.
“Mhm. That won't be necessary,” he counters, tugging on the edge of your sleeve. “You see, I heard those granted Pyro Visions have warmer body temperature...”
That is undoubtedly a lie he conjures up on the spot.
“...So I was hoping to sate my curiosity today,” he finishes, looking far too pleased with himself. Ayaka avoids your gaze when your eyes sweep past her (she absolutely knows it's an idiotic idea because going by that logic, she should have a colder temperature... but that is obviously not the case), and Thoma is blatantly ignoring your requests for assistance, whistling an awkward tune.
You have half a mind to shift the duty to another retainer similarly bearing a Pyro Vision, who is currently trying his hardest to stifle his pained grunts when you pinch his forearm admonishingly, but there's really no way out of this. Ayato would certainly craft another bullshit reason to coax you anyway. (A part of you thinks it might be fun to keep up the charade just to hear what he'd say next.)
“Right.” You hold up your hand, and Ayato's eyes flicker with mischief. His slender fingers wrap around your wrist, brushing over the jut of your bone. He marvels at the size of it, dwarfed by his large hands, and he curls his fingers tighter.
...He doesn't seem to be assessing your temperature.
But you are mindful of his, a searing heat devouring your senses. His light touches settle heavily on your skin, a prominent warmth amidst the cold gale. Where his fingers rest leave imprints of fire, trails of scorched ash in his wake.
Experimentally, his thumb rubs circles on your palm, tracing over the lines. He rolls the soft flesh, staring at the small cuts and calluses with an attentive eye. Burning the image into his mind. Fiddling with the shape of your fingers. Then, following a brief hitch of his breath, he fits his own in the spaces between yours.
His hand is soft, you think to yourself. Without the presence of leather, it is fully bare, pale and dusted with pink. His knuckles are pronounced, palm surprisingly unscarred in spite of vigorous sword practice, but a writer's callus lays on his ring finger. It is easy to imagine his frame hunched over his desk, pen between his fingers, ink running dry from writing back to missives and signing endless contracts.
(And responding to engagement offers. You would know. They clutter his workspace, scented letters branded by wax seals of a distinguished family's emblem.
He barely throws a cursory glance at them before giving his never changing answer.)
When he gives your hand a squeeze, you finally ask, “Is it warm?”
“Yes.” He sounds somewhat strangled, there, less confident than he was before he took your hand. “Very warm.”
He reluctantly parts with it, stepping back to reduce your close proximity. Ayaka fans herself as she scrutinizes his reddening complexion, and Thoma—partial to the lord, you see, even though he wasn't very eager to lend you a hand before—makes some excuse about a meeting he has to attend to (some beetle fight with Itto, most likely) and if you'd kindly excuse their presence.
“...Please pardon my brother's strange behavior,” Ayaka murmurs when only the both of you remain in the room. “He could be quite straightforward when his curiosity is piqued. He doesn't have weird intentions, really.”
She doesn't appear to believe it herself, but you appreciate her attempts to clean up Ayato's mess.
“It's no trouble, milady.” You flash a placating smile for good measure, reaching down to collect the discarded gloves Thoma nearly tripped on in his way out. “But I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave now as well...”
“Yes, of course! You may go.”
Following her affirmation, you scramble to take a duster and retreat to clean the library.
At least she doesn't comment on your flushed cheeks and colored ears. Small mercies. (There's only so much composure you can exhaust within one day.)
For all that you (privately) complain about the extensive list of chores to tackle in the Kamisato Estate, you find tending to the garden fairly enjoyable. Alas, you can't exactly spend the whole day pruning the shrubbery; the smile on your face drops when you're sent to go on a shopping trip. Worse still, with no one to assist you in carrying the groceries. Thoma has already promised to accompany Ayaka for a mission, and everyone else is busy preparing for the Kamisato head's upcoming business trip.
Said Kamisato head is apparently “free” and “has the spare time to help” despite being the one who should be busy holing himself up in his office.
Regardless of your protests, Ayato insists on tagging along to the market. Which brings you to your current situation, your employer dutifully carrying bundles of cloth and a basket of radishes and carrots with an easygoing smile, while your hands remain empty. He is... considerate, if you were to speak in flowery words. He is stubborn, if you were to be blunt.
However, he is relatively obedient, save for the handful of times he rushes off to chase something that caught his eye. As a result, he keeps purchasing cheap trinkets he'll probably have no use for and his pocket is brimming of candy he sometimes stuffs your mouth with when you have something to scold him for. (To be fair, it's very effective for shutting you up.)
“Please don't interrupt me from speaking,” your words are partly muffled, mouth still chewing on the confection. Ayato smiles innocently, pressing another piece of sugar to your lips.
“Where are we headed next?” He questions, looking around the bustling streets as he tucks the jar of konpeito candy in his sleeve. “Do you still have vegetables you need to buy?”
You shake your head. “No, the cook said he's only missing radishes and carrots in particular. I've also gotten the materials needed to mend clothes Thoma asked for.”
He deflates at that, disappointment painting his expression. “I suppose we're returning, then?”
You purse your lips, considering your options. It isn't like you were told to come back an appointed time, and you could always blame Ayato for your tardiness... “Does my lord wish to visit anywhere specifically?”
The river of stars in his eyes twinkle ever so slightly, flashing a thinly-veiled childish gleam. “Not anything I could think of at the top of my head. Do you have any recommendations in mind?”
“Recommendations?”
“Places you like to visit.”
During your free time, you usually look around to shop for clothing or accessories... but they're nowhere near the quality befitting of nobles. The yukata isn't tailored to your size, made from cheaper cloth of cotton, and aren't as decorative to what your lord is used to; it's what makes it affordable. Whereas Ayato is often dressed in luxurious silks, embellished with golden thread and customized to his liking.
“It's no harm to bring you there... I guess.” You scratch your cheek. “Though I can't guarantee you'll like it.”
“Nonsense.” He smiles amicably. He reaches for the basket before you can grab it, gesturing for you to start walking. “I'm sure I'll have a good time regardless where it is.”
And... he does. He marvels at the extravagant brocades displayed at boutiques, wondering how one could possibly wear so many heavy layers. Though he doesn't buy clothes for himself, he decides to buy a cute purse he thinks his sister would appreciate.
Ayato expresses interest in ornaments and cosmetics as well, to which the shop owner proceeds to happily introduce her entire catalogue for a man she knows has deep pockets. He doesn't disappoint.
“You don't want anything?” He asks when you only answer his questions pertaining to Ayaka's preferences, two steps behind, never taking the opportunity to roam and search for potential additions in your wardrobe.
It's not that you haven't seen anything you'd like to take home, per se. More like everything is too expensive for your pocket money in this high-end portion of town. “No,” you say instead, because it's easier to explain that way.
He tilts his head inquisitively, but doesn't push the topic. “Help me choose a hair pin then. You know what fits Ayaka best.”
He leads you to the display case housing rows of hair ornaments, each one more remarkable than the next. The last one, undoubtedly the most costly whose price would make you weep, teeters on the edge of gaudy. Adorned with silver butterflies, tear drop sapphires, gems delicately shaped like dewy petals and white pearls sitting atop carved gold, they almost blind your eyes.
“...She'd look beautiful in everything,” is the conclusion you come to, because you speak nothing but the truth. “But please don't buy everything. She will get mad at you.”
“I know,” he sighs. “That's why I needed your help picking one.”
You almost drill holes to the items with how hard you're staring at them, but you eventually point at the pin with pink blossoms. “This would contrast nicely with her hair.”
“Mhm. If you say so,” he hums approvingly, tracing the sculpted leaves.
“Then if that's all, I'll go pay...”
“Ah, which reminds me.” He spins on his heel to face you, lips shaped into an apologetic smile. “I'm nearly running out of parchment paper. Could you stop by the stationery store up front? I'll handle things from here and meet you by the entrance.”
“Of course, my lord.”
On your way outside, you resolutely do not allow your curious gaze to steer towards the tables of sparkling jewelry.
--
The trip back to the estate is uneventful, and the rest of the afternoon passes like any other.
Perhaps the only inconsistency in your repetitive days is the accidental nap you fall into, blanketed in warm rays of sunshine and caressed by the refreshing breeze slipping past ajar doors, your cheek resting on the surface of the table you were supposed to be cleaning. How uncouth of me, you think as you wipe your mouth to check for signs of drool. Your only respite is not having anyone witness you in such a state, otherwise you would've long been rudely awakened and received an earful of chastising.
...Is what you think, until you spot a foreign ring you definitely do not recall putting on.
It curls around your finger, dotted with crystals in a hue of blue you're all too familiar with. You see it everyday, gleaming in mischief, darkening with intrigue. Framed by long, long lashes, crinkling at the corners when filled with mirth. Crashing torrents that freeze in displeasure yet inexplicably gentle the moment they meet your eyes, akin to gentle sea waves that pad to your feet.
(You wonder if this is why he insisted on touching your hands so much, just to roughly measure your ring size.)
“I hope you fare well during my absence. Fear not, I will do my best not to prolong my leave.”
The way his words sound so self-assured and full of conviction doesn't sit well with you, and the genuine pity reflected in his irises almost makes your eyebrow twitch. You haven't even spoken a word before he began his theatrics.
“Take as long as you need,” you reassure him. “My lord mustn't rush his work.”
He wilts, but he perks right back up, “No need to put up a front. I'll come back for you.”
Incorrigible.
“Then I await your safe return.” You bow deeply as you swallow back a sigh of defeat, the other servants lined up on either side of the street moving accordingly.
“Please be careful,” Ayaka bids when she walks in front of him. “I've heard of bandits intercepting carriages to steal... I don't mean to undermine your abilities, but you should still be vigilant of trouble.”
Ayato laughs at that. “You don't have to worry, Ayaka. They'll sooner surrender before they lay a single scratch on me.” Glancing at the supplies being loaded on his carriage, he grimaces slightly. “I better get going. I'll see you all in three weeks.”
He climbs to the interior, giving you a final smile before closing the door. You stare at the carriage until it fully disappears, the trotting of horses out of earshot. When Thoma begins to walk back to the estate, you fall into step with him, matching his strides.
“The lord hasn't left for this long in a while,” he comments, to which you hum in agreement. “Think you'll miss him?”
“Three weeks is hardly a long time,” you retort back, complacent for the rare period of peace to follow the next month. “He'll return in no time, as if he'd never been gone in the first place.”
Thoma eyes you strangely at that, but says no more. “If you say so.”
--
The first day is bliss. No disruptions in your work, no unwanted conversation partner as a distraction, no midnight snacks needed to be prepared for the clan head a weird mix between workaholic and slacker.
The second day proves to be the same. No incessant chatter in your ear as you sweep the floor, no complaints for a stack of paperwork to be done within the day, no sudden requests of a shoulder massage for a job well done deserving of a reward.
The third day, you feel like your schedule is lacking, blank spots of free time sprinkled in between.
Ah, right. The tea breaks.
You tell yourself you only miss the fragrant tea, the selection of treats given to you by the young master's generosity. Not his thoughtful commentary for the taste, the chuckles spilling from his lips when you respond to his quips, the brief moments of eye contact before you resume your respective duties.
The fourth day, you're sent to hang the laundry. You tell yourself you don't miss a certain someone's abrupt appearance, poking a head through the sheets to startle you, huffing bright peals of laughter when he attains his desired reaction.
The fifth day, the cook requests your help to prep dinner. My lord doesn't like this dish, the sentence almost leaves your tongue as your eyes track down the recipe when you remember right, he's not here, and milady likes this dish, so it's one of the few chances she gets to eat it.
The sixth day, you clean his office. You organize the account books, restock his collection of pens and paper, and shuffle through his mail to sort them by category (definitely not noting down the number of letters asking for his hand in marriage). Your face flushes slightly when an unassuming bookmark falls out of a book you pick up from the floor, familiar flowers pressed thinly to fit between the pages. (You have only given those flowers on a whim, plucking fresh blossoms from plants you grew outside the Kamisato's garden. You didn't think he'd keep it around; they're not nearly as fancy as what his family owns.)
By the seventh day, you check the calendar and determine time is a social construct. There is no way it's only been seven days.
--
“How do I look?”
“Positively charming,” you say dryly.
“You're not looking.”
Your eyes flit to Thoma's attire. “I am.”
He shakes his head, taking off the robes he'd been trying on. “You're always daydreaming nowadays. What are you thinking about?”
Reminiscing the last time you visited this clothing store, which is when you brought the young master in your shopping trip. But he doesn't need to know that. “It's nothing. Are you buying it?”
“Since you kindly gave an approving opinion, sure.” His tone drips with sarcasm as he takes out his money pouch, paying for the clothes. “I think I don't need the answer from you, actually. I'm confident I have an accurate guess.”
Your eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean by that?”
“Who else would linger in your mind?” Thoma sighs in dramatic fashion, stepping out of the premises with you not far behind. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder, after all.”
Bristling, you vehemently refute, “I'm not thinking inappropriately of the lord, if that's what you're implying.”
“I didn't mention any names.”
“But you clearly meant him.”
He holds up his hands. “If that's what you want to believe, suit yourself.”
His gaze drops to the ring wrapped around your finger. The ring has been a topic of interest for the gossip mongers within the estate, wondering who you could've received it from; what other implications can wearing a ring have? Your cold exterior is no secret, your heart guarded with thorns, so who was able to sweep you off your feet in the end?
Thoma only needed one look at the shade of blue to make a correct guess.
“...I'm sure at this point, you know of his intentions,” Thoma says slowly. “And I have plenty of reasons to believe his affections aren't entirely unrequited.”
If they were, you would have brushed off Ayato already, just like you always do with the others. He may be persistent, but he knows how to back off. Yet the most you do is sigh and spoil him, albeit in (fond) exasperation.
“Even if they aren't...” you fidget with the hem of your shirt, averting your gaze from his blazing eyes, “...it doesn't mean we'll work. I'm certain he has better prospects for a spouse, anyway.”
“You mean those daughters from noble families?” He snorts. “He'd barely give them the time of day before running back to you. You should know that by now. Don't you remember when he faked being sick in that lunch meeting so you could take care of him?”
Of course you do. He had pretended to be in a dizzy spell, collapsing on your shoulder and making furtive hand signals asking for your help to get the lovesick maiden off his back. There really is no way to reject people like her without offending his business associate, so he tended to evade confrontations in roundabout ways.
You could excuse his clingy behavior out of necessity; it would be disgraceful to collapse on the floor, after all. The problem lies with the aftermath where you had already steered clear of the trouble but he insists on requiring treatment, body calculatively feeble as he gives you woeful pleas.
In another world, perhaps this would've been a heart-rending experience: a cold man who didn't share his burdens with others asking help from you specifically, because you were special and he trusted you the most.
In this world though, the act is only deserving of a derisive snort. He pulled off this plot for who knows how many times. How would holding your hand help with his throbbing headache anyway?
(You ignore the fact you indulge him each time regardless.)
“In any case, the lord is returning in a week. Not much time left for you to mope,” he laughs, even as you elbow his side.
A week.
(That is one week too long.)
--
When Ayato returns five days short of three weeks, you aren't there to greet him.
Instead, you are sick in bed, bundled in a pile of blankets, and suffering from a stuffy nose.
Ah, and delirious from fever. Very much so.
So when Ayato miraculously appears in your bedroom earlier than scheduled, you only sniff in response and brush him off as a hallucination.
But of course, your dismissive attitude isn't enough to discourage him from pestering you and running his mouth. He hovers by your bedside, noting with glee that you keep his ring on a nightstand close by. “This is rare. I don't think I've ever seen you ill.”
But you've seen him plenty, frail and weak after days straight of sleepless nights. He doesn't look too pretty in such a mood, quick-tempered and sharp-tongued at the slightest annoyance. He only ever softens when your expression flits to dismay for a fraction of a second before dutifully offering him prescribed medicine from the family's physician, the saddened expression gone like a mirage.
“How are you this annoying even in my dreams...”
As it turns out, you're even more of a worse case than he is.
“Mhm. Your filter is completely shut down when you're sick, huh.” Ayato laughs, amused at the surprising revelation. He doesn't get to be the receiving end of your blunt words very often. “Alright. How bad do you feel right now?”
“Terrible, since it's the ass crack of dawn.”
It is not the ass crack of dawn, but you wouldn't know any better with the folding screens obscuring the orange glow of the evening. “Do you have an appetite? I'll have a servant bring a meal.” Then, he slyly adds, “I can feed you, if you want me to.”
He doesn't know which part of that statement appeals to you the most but you sit up straight, attentive.
Interesting.
Though Ayato meant it in jest, he has no complaints scooping spoonfuls of porridge to bring to your lips. He patiently coaxes you into drinking the bitter medicine after, quickly soothing you with bite-sized cut fruit to wash away the acrid taste.
“Good job,” he compliments, chuckling when you glow at the praise. Your lips are shiny with juice, trickling from the corner of your mouth.
Absent-mindedly, his hand lifts to caress your cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping it away. You jolt, a startled sound escaping you, and you hasten to clamp a hand over his mouth.
He blinks at you owlishly, dumbfounded.
“Don't,” you speak, your face decorated with a lovely pink. “You'll... you'll get sick.”
Ayato takes an embarrassing amount of time to process what that means. However, when he does, you can feel him grin beneath your fingers. He takes your hand, his huff of laughter tickling your palm.
“I thought we were in a dream? You don't get sick from kisses in dreams,” he teases, pressing a light kiss to your wrist. Your heart stutters in bewilderment but you make no move to pull away, only twitching when he kisses your fingertips.
“It's better to be careful...” your brows knit together, and he kisses the crease away too.
“Okay. Let's do it next time then, when you're truly awake.” He gently pushes you to your back, fluffing up the pillows for your comfort and tucking you in the blankets. Then, indulgently, he presses a final kiss to the crown of your head. “Rest well so I can get that kiss sooner, hm?”
“That's a stupid reason to recover...” you murmur defiantly, stubbornly blinking your drooping eyes open.
In the end, you fall asleep to the sound of his laughter, the fingers combing through your hair, and the rhythmic beat in his chest.
--
When you wake up, you admonish yourself for having such a shameless subconscious, but you acknowledge that you had a good dream.
Then your eyes land on a pair of discarded gloves on your nightstand, one that you remember Ayato putting away before he began to spoonfeed you your meal.
...Fuck.
“With all due respect, I don't believe being your headrest is part of my duty, my lord.”
A thoughtful hum answers you, preceded by a curious glance at your expression. Your legs are folded underneath you, back straight and eyes overlooking the garden instead of the weight resting on your lap. You can feel him shift, turning over where he faces against the porch, his robes wrinkling where they lay below.
“Are you suddenly becoming shy because a maidservant passed by?” He places down the novel in his hands on the wooden floorboards, watching your face burn in embarrassment. “I doubt this is the first time she's seen us, though.”
“My apologies. I'm not as thick-skinned as you are.”
“I'd prefer the term 'proud,'” he pokes the sash around your waist, smiling cheekily. “Who wouldn't want to show off their lover?”
He feels you stiffen, sees the flush of pink crawling outwards to the tips of your ears. “It's inappropriate. We're in a public setting.”
“That's only because you refuse to enter my chambers.” Ayato sighs and you look positively mortified. “I wouldn't ravage you, if that's what you're worried about?”
“My lord, please be reasonable. Whether you do or not, I will still be seen as your bed warmer. Did milady not advise us to be discreet? Inazuma would be in an uproar if they learned you were... you were...” you purse your lips, unable to spit the last word.
“Wedded.”
“I'm afraid we haven't gone that far, my lord,” you deadpan.
“So will you consider it?”
“My lord.”
“What?”
You give him a look, and he sighs in acquiescence. But he turns to face the opposite direction, expression hidden fron view. You can practically hear the pout in his voice, “I see. [Name] only sees me as a fling. My heart breaks to know this bliss is short-lived, but I will cherish our remaining time together.”
He's begun his theatrics again, you think tiredly, accustomed to his stunts. “In any case, we must be careful. We never know who has loose lips around here...”
He's still not facing you, resolutely looking away.
...Is he sulking for real? Was that a genuine marriage proposal?
“My lord?” You call out softly, in a lover's tender voice. He doesn't respond. Quieter, you whisper to his ear, “Ayato?” yet that doesn't earn a reaction either.
You start to panic, wondering if you were acting too indifferently. The change in your relationship had been a recent one, and you're still settling in a period of adjustment; even if you wanted to properly flirt with him like normal lovers do, bickering came more naturally to you.
You reach for his shoulder, hoping to turn him over and see his face. But then he catches your wrist, and you only have a second to catch a glimpse of his triumphant smirk before he captures your lips in a chaste kiss.
“Mhm, I see. So you're more considerate towards me when we're dating,” he cheerfully notes, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear as if he can't see the way your shocked gaze morphs into a cold glare. “I truly am privileged.”
“Incorrigible.” The word drips with poison, but he laughs and kisses you again, thumbing at the ring around your finger.
Here, y'all can have a special sneak peek for the next chapter of my William/Reader fic~.
...
Will speaks so softly, so genuinely about them both, your heart is fluttering. "It sounds like Alexis likes to cause trouble and Vincent learned to behave like his mentor." You say the last part with a smile, holding back a laugh. William, however, does laugh.
"On the contrary," you don't see it, only a blur, but William sets down his cup, suddenly sitting so close to you your legs are nearly touching. Your heart jumps in your throat, its tempo quickening to beat like a hummingbird's wings when your hand is grabbed and lifted. "Where do you think he learned it from, ma belle étoile?"
Your shoulders rise and you feel your cheeks sear. William's eyes lower, almost looking at you through his lashes until his lips meet the back of your hand, then they fall closed. The kiss lingers, letting you feel that his lips are just as soft as they look, which that revelation only causes the heat searing your cheeks to grow hotter and spread further, expanding its horizon to the rest of your face and the tips of your ears. He pulls away only by a breath, baring a smile at you that makes your heart skip a rapid beat.
"But I am nothing, if not a gentleman." He lets go of your hand and resumes back to his spot, grabbing his tea along the way.
