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playing board games w/ gojo on his day off!
cw sfw <3
"you're cheating."
"how fuckin' dare you?"
gojo's just scoffing, lounging back against that fine leather couch as though he hadn't stuffed half the cards under his ass, "i would never, baby. i respect you too much for that."
you stare at the jumbled boards, then back into bright blue eyes gleaming with conviction, "you're literally sitting on them."
"you can't prove that," gojo fires back, before raising a thin, pale brow, wiggling it lucratively, "unless you wanna have a feel."
you huff, reaching over to flick his smooth forehead and he does not even flinch, but gojo just grins, sweet and innocent as a spring day — that villain...
still, it's so rare that your two schedules align, with gojo being constantly swamped by classes to teach and missions for the dastardly higher ups. you'd be lying if you claimed that you hadn't missed the lazy back-and-forth repartee, the sight of gojo sitting crossed legged under an open window with sunlight streaming through and the occasional bullshit excuse he came up with when he forgot the game's rules.
"you're terrible at this," you mutter, reaching for the dice again as gojo stifles a yawn.
"and yet, i'm winning, sweets."
"because, you're cheating —"
and before you can finish your soapbox stand, gojo just rolls his eyes and leans forward, pressing his lips gently to yours. ah, the closest experience you'll ever get to unlimited void, that feeling of your mind blanking as you try to remember what number you literally just rolled on the dice.
gojo's white lashes fluttering against his creamy skin as he leans in again. large, warm hands forgoing his plastic game pieces to cup your face but your eyes quickly flutter open as he shifts.
catching on a pile of squashed cards that had been right under his posterior, and you squawk, "oh, hell, nah."
still thinking abt selkie hiori… you married young, too blinded by the fires of young love to see the many, many shortcomings of your now-husband.
a fisherman by trade, he spends most of his days at sea, or so he claims. lately, he returns in the evenings smelling less of the sea and more of alcohol, with an undertone of something floral that makes your heart sink.
and so, you’ve taken to walking the beach. you make sure to leave his dinner out on the table, another drink poured and ready at its side, but it’s getting harder for your wandering eyes to avoid the lipstick stains on the collars of his shirts. and so you go, wandering the shoreline as the sun sets and the stars come out to dance.
you stumble across hiori on one of these evening walks. his eyes are wide and frightened, and he scrambles away from you as you approach. his hand is bloody and held close to his chest, you note with alarm, and you hold your own palms up in the air in an attempt to signify you mean no harm as you get closer.
(you don’t catch the gleam in those eyes when you crouch down and ask to see his hand. nor do you understand his quiet, pleased clicks as you wrap your handkerchief around the injury.)
his voice is soft as he explains his predicament: a fisherman mistook him for a woman of his kind and stole his sealskin, forcing him to remain on land while he searches for it. you assure him you’ll help him look, and are rewarded with a tight embrace that makes you flush - you hadn’t realized how big he was, or how strong. he assures you he’ll be waiting around here for when you find it - you’ll know it when you see it, he claims, and sends you on your way.
(he knows you’ll be back soon enough. you’ll be oh-so angry when you find his skin draped carefully amidst that man’s coats on the rack. you’ll run back to him with tears in your eyes and his precious coat clutched tight in your fists, and he’ll embrace you with open arms.)
(after all, a good husband is loving, and he has so much love to give.)
ask game for fanfic writers! 18+ / nsfw questions below the cut.
feel free to tag others to join and participate! if you're mentioning anyone in your responses, make sure to check their dni / byf criteria first.
thanks to @/dotcie and their ask game for inspiring this one!
__φ(．．) : do you have any writing goals this year? for instance, is there anything you want to try out or experiment with?
(´｡• ᵕ •｡`) : talk about the fic that you enjoyed writing the most! and don't forget to link it in your response if it's published!
o( ❛ᴗ❛ )o : is there a trope / au you'd like to write more for?
(☆ω☆) : what's the word count of your longest fic to date? how long did it take to write that fic, and would you write another piece of that length (or longer)?
(*¯︶¯*) : is there an author that you wish would receive more attention? tell us their url, and rave about them!
(๑˘︶˘๑) : do you write with or without music playing in the background? if you do, which artists / songs do you recommend?
o(≧▽≦)o : which fandom(s) are you most involved in? which character(s) have you written the most for?
(ノ*°▽°*) : how do you go about characterization? any advice on how you go about character analysis and interpretation is appreciated!
(☆_@) : have you experienced imposter syndrome? if so, write down 3-5 things you enjoy and admire in your own writing!
Σ(°△°|||) : what's the sweetest inbox message you've received from a reader?
(ノωヽ) : what do you use to write – paper and pen? in your notes app? gdocs or ellipsus? directly in your tumblr drafts?
(っ˘ω˘ς ) : go through the reblogs on this ask game, find a new author that you haven't come across before (make sure to check their dni / byf criteria!), and read one of their fics – highly encouraged to leave comments, tags, and reblog their fic!
(°ロ°) ! : how do you get in the mood for writing? do you intentionally set time aside on your calendar or rely on sheer bursts of motivation and hyperfixation? do you have any pre-writing rituals?
(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ : what makes you immediately fall in love with a fic?
〜(＞＜)〜 : share one of your nsfw fics, and explain the inspiration behind it!
(＃￣ω￣) : what's your biggest struggle when it comes to writing smut?
☆⌒(>。) : what are you like when you're writing smut? are you turned on or contemplating very seriously? do you have a pokerface, or are you a flustered mess?
┐(￣∀￣)┌ : what are 1-3 kinks that never fail to arouse you? what are some that you wish were used more in fics?
ヾ(。＞＜)シ : have you ever written smut in front of others? if not, would you write smut in public for $10? assume that if someone paid attention, they would be able to catch glimpses of your screen / notebook / etc.
(□_□) : any advice on how to describe sex positions without explicitly using terms / names?
(◎ ◎)ゞ : have you ever masturbated to a fic before? and if you have... share the goods... if you'd like...
(づ◡﹏◡)づ : can you write porn without plot, or is plot a necessity? and more generally, if you do write porn with plot, how do you balance the two?
(_ _)> : what do you think are characteristics of a great smut scene / fic? conversely, what might ruin a smut scene / fic for you?
(=`ω´=) : drop a nsfw fic that you read recently. make sure to include any relevant warnings!
it’s not often you have him like this - all soft and warm, tangled in your sheets. frankly, you think he looks right like he belongs, like he’s where he’s meant to be - within the sanctuary of your room, looking utterly peaceful in his sleep.
the early morning sun of fontaine is still gentle as it filters into your room in glittering beams. wriothesley’s face, usually all stern and domineering, now looks relaxed, free of worries. this is not a sight that many see on the duke of the fortress, a sight not all are privileged to. you revel in the fact that only you get to have him like this - he’s all yours.
you watch him carefully, eyes trailing his features that you’ve memorised over and over again on mornings such as this one. your fingers follow the ghost of your gaze, touch feather-light as you caress the slope of his nose, the apple of his cheeks, the curve of his jaw and the plush of his lips.
his hand shoots to grab your wrist, and you’re startled. you pout, your tranquil admiration of beauty being disrupted.
“enjoying yourself, darling?” his voice is deeper than normal, sleep laced in his words.
you allow yourself a mirthful smile as wrio leads your confined hand to his lips. he presses the softest of kisses to the inside of your wrist, then your palm. “i was,”you say,”before i was rudely interrupted.”
wrio’s eyes sparkle up, amusement flickering to life. “ah, how blasphemous of me to interrupt your staring.”
“truly,” you continue. “i think you should grovel and beg for my forgiveness, it is only fair.”
“of course, of course,” he dons a solemn expression. “i must make up for my errs.”
“you must.”
wrio grins wolfishly and your heart stutters within your ribs. he untangles the sheets from his legs, pushes at your waist gently to have you on your back as he hovers over you. his wide palm finds a rhythm, brushing up and down the plush sides of your waist while he holds up his weight with the other.
“though you're not completely out of fault.”
you hum inquisitively, hands looping behind his neck, fingers quickly finding their way to the hair at his nape. “what'd i do, duke?”
“waking me up like that, so early…on my day off,” he leans down, nose trailing the curve of your neck. “quite incriminating don't you think?”
his soft touch and huffs of breath alike leave yours a little stuttering. like a puppy, you think to yourself as he noses around and the vision of this idea brings a giggle out of you.
“and now you're laughing at me,” he complains. “you're not helping your case.”
that makes you laugh brighter. wrio feels warmth bloom within his chest at the sight. having you under him, hair splayed out on the pillow cover, the clement sunlight barely illuminating the room through the curtains, your laugh - that sweet, sweet sound - reaching his ears; the whole scene feels a little fuzzy around the edges, as if it's right out of a dream.
“what will you do, duke? are you going to arrest me?”
he smiles, one of his hands coming down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers rest at your chin. “i couldn't possibly do that to my beloved. perhaps, we can just call it even.”
“perhaps,” you smile back. you pull him down to meet your lips. the kiss is slow and languid, needy in the heat of your touches. your fingernails brush against his scalp while your other hand trails down his chest. his grip is back at your waist squeezing, as the weight of his hips settle against you.
a keening whine escapes your lips and he eagerly laps up the sound. when you break apart, your lips are wet and a little swollen. wrio’s gaze seems entirely fixated on this.
“let's stay in bed for some more hours,” his voice is gravelly with desire yet…yet his eyes are still soft. and how could you deny him.
a small giggle accompanies the push of your hand. “do you think i could convince monsieur neuvillette to let me have you home more often like this?”
home. right here, with you. that's where he belongs.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who was the son of your duke father’s friend, a well renowned knight.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who trained in your gardens for hours when he and his father visited. You know because you would watch from your bedroom windows, mesmerized by the effortless way he moved.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who caught you staring and called you over with a smile. medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who taught you the basics of swordsmanship, laughing when the weight of the sword toppled you over.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who would train as you talked mindlessly about the gossip going on with the nobles. medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who would listen to every word you would say, even if it didn’t seem like it.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who started bringing you your favorite flower every time you met, oblivious to your violent blushing.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who would run off into the nearby woods with you, so you could play amongst the trees, pet the rabbits you saw on your paths and cool yourselves in a small lake you both deemed yours.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who was forced to spend more time training as he got older. medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who would sneak letters into your room to compensate for lost time.
medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who’s heart beat much faster whenever you two found yourselves in close proximity. medieval knight-in-training!kunigami who couldn’t understand why.
medieval knight!kunigami who was obligated to serve his kingdom in war, despite all your pleas for him to stay. medieval knight!kunigami who knew he had no choice, so he kissed you on the cheek before leaving.
medieval knight!kunigami who was at war for 10 years, you know because you waited for him all this time. You rejected every suitor in hopes of him coming back.
medieval knight!kunigami who finally returned.
medieval knight!kunigami who had changed from the horrors of war.
medieval knight!kunigami who couldn’t remember your favorite flower anymore, nor your special lake. medieval knight!kunigami who was no longer you sweet and loving boy.
medieval knight!kunigami who had forgotten all your letters. who had forgotten all your precious moments. who had forgotten you.
medieval knight!kunigami who you could not recognize anymore.
medieval knight!kunigami who couldn’t be yours, in any universe.
feat. chigiri, reo || cw: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, reader wears a dress/heels/jewelry, dollification, suggestive at the end
chigiri and reo take you out shopping on some weekends as a casual hangout.
they’re the best duo for it—chigiri is knowledgeable on bodycare and hygiene whilst reo is well-rounded with fashion so having them at your side makes shopping a lot more fun.
you find that chigiri often demonstrates products on your own skin, hands rubbing up and down your arm as he rubs in an oil into it or perhaps leaning into the crook of your neck as you sample a perfume. he does so with no shame in public, and you can’t quite get over your fluster about it, especially when his ruby eyes bore into you as he massages a lotion in your hands.
it also helps that reo has access to the best luxury department stores in the area, meaning you often get to see the latest collections before the general public does, even if you can’t afford it.
but reo is always quick to pull out his card even though you scramble to let him know it’s okay and that you were just simply admiring a dress, though often your strength holds no avail to a footballer as he passes over the card to the cashier and teases you that they don’t accept refunds, so now you’re forced to wear it!
as you’re busy sulking, he and chigiri push you into a dressing room, telling you to see how it fits. you find the zipper to be a little tight, so you open the door and ask one of them to help you zip-up. chigiri gets there first to reo’s disdain, and he’s trying not to notice the laced pattern of your bra as he helps you into the dress.
reo manages to find some heels and jewelry that he think will match, with his deft fingers go to put them on you himself. chigiri goes to bend down and help you with your shoes, ankle atop his thigh. at the same time, you shiver when you feel reo’s fingers brush against the nape of your neck when he clasps a necklace that matches with the earrings.
and when you stand up and show off yourself to them in full, there’s something about their cute little doll presenting herself so prettily that makes their eyes darken. you turn around from looking at yourself in the mirror to go to ask them what they think, but you see them heading towards you, hands suddenly pushing you back into the dressing room as reo locks the door behind him.
they know because sugawara talks about you all the time. he tries not to, really, but sometimes it slips out when he’s explaining fractions or handing out worksheets. my wife says this is the best way to remember your times tables. or my wife packed these cookies—they’re pretty good, right?
still, knowing he’s married is one thing. seeing his wife drop by his classroom in the middle of the day is another.
it’s a mercy, he thinks, that the kids are out in the playground for recess.
“you forgot this,” you say, leaning against the doorframe with a fond smile. his lunchbox dangles from your hand.
sugawara blinks. “did i?”
“you did.”
“that’s weird,” he says, though it’s not weird. he’d been running late this morning after you’d kissed him goodbye a little too long. “you sure you didn’t just want an excuse to see me?”
you step into the classroom, walking over to his desk. “would that be so bad?”
he hums. “not at all.”
you set the lunchbox down in front of him. sugawara watches you quietly—the soft curve of your smile, the way the sunlight catches in your hair. he’s a little obsessed with you, but he figures that’s allowed.
“you’re lucky i caught you before you starved to death,” you tell him.
“would’ve been a tragic way to go,” sugawara agrees solemnly. his hands ghosts over yours on the desk, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“but then again, maybe i’d be doing the school a favour.”
“harsh.” sugawara brushes the pad of his thumb lazily over the back of your palm. his hand slides up to your wrist, fingers curling lightly. “thanks for bringing me my lunch. very thoughtful of you.”
“mm,” you hum, leaning in slightly. “i’m a very thoughtful person.”
he tilts his head, eyes crinkling in the corner when he smiles. he has crow’s feet, but he doesn’t mind, because the reason behind them, more often than not, is you. “you’re perfect, is what you are.”
“flatterer,” you say, but you don’t pull away.
sugawara’s gaze flickers towards the door. the hallway is still empty. the sounds of recess carry through the open window—kids laughing, a distant whistle. he doesn’t think about it too hard. he never really does when it comes to you. he leans in, his hand sliding from your wrist to your waist as he lifts his head. his mouth brushes over yours, soft and sure. it’s just a press of his lips against yours, but you lean into him like you’ve been waiting for it all day.
it’s quick—it has to be, with recess almost over—but sugawara can’t help the dopey grin that spreads across his face. he’s lovesick, and terribly so. you leave his classroom with a smile and a promise to see him at home, and sugawara’s hands and heart are warm when he unwraps the bento you’d packed for him.
the kids pour in later, loud and messy, with sweat dripping off their foreheads and grass stains on their knees. one little boy with a slightly runny nose stops in front of his desk, peering at him suspiciously.
“sensei?” he asks. “why are you smiling like that?”
sugawara shakes his head, fighting back a grin. “do i need a reason to smile?’
“sensei,” another girl, with her hair tied in two pigtails, groans. “do we have to do math again?”
“yep,” he says, “but after that, i’ll read out a really sweet poem that my wife showed me the other day. how does that sound?”
#12. sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss.
he's a magnificent warrior, untouchable upon his dragon. but he yields to you, and only you.
dragon rider!Cyno x reader ✧ fluff ✧ 0.3k
he's a sight to behold, sitting astride his dragon. the rising sun illuminates him from behind, his spider-silk hair glimmering in the light, a tapestry of silver threads dancing in the wind.
sunset-orange eyes gaze into the distance, looking down upon rolling hills and emerald forests, all land he has flown over and seen from a dragon's eye view. he seems to be deep in thought but the expression on his face is unchanging.
his skin glows bronze under the golden rays of light. the highlights and shadows cast upon his muscles only emphasize the broadness of his shoulders and the strength in his arms. though the morning wind is chilly, he shows no sign of feeling the cold—a statue whose humanity is betrayed only by the motion of his hair and clothes.
eventually, he shifts the helmet that was tucked under his arm into his hands. it's midnight black, made of scales from the dragon underneath him that shine a deep indigo when the light hits both beast and helmet at a certain angle.
in one swift motion, he dons the helmet. the jackal ears stand tall and proud as the gold embellishments glint in the light.
he's a warrior. fierce, magnificent, unyielding.
and yet—
as you move from where you've been watching him, climbing up the slope of the hill toward him, his eyes immediately shift, an unrelenting heat that follows your form.
when you crest that hill, coming to a stop beside his dragon, you look up at him. the faraway, detached expression has melted off his face. he gazes upon you with soft eyes, a fire that warms you from the inside out.
he leans down, arm outstretched toward you. a gentle smile curls at his lips.
denki kaminari is the kind of boyfriend who touches you when you're nervous. not necessarily an all-over-you, overwhelming sort of touch, but the gentle circles he draws on your forearms and your back, the gentle braiding of your hair to gently massage the scalp, the sketches he draws on your skin... the little things to emotionally regulate you. "you'll be okay!" he'd say, his bright smile spreading from cheek to cheek like the cheshire cat. hands entwined with yours, fingers linked. "no need to worry when i'm here!"
denki is the kind of man who would call you when you're out with your girlfriends, not to tell you to come home or to accuse you of anything, but to ask if you want any more money to get your nails done or for some sweet treats for you and the girls. if they're lucky, he'd send money for a box of doughnuts for you all to share, or tell you to stay out longer, for he's making the best meal he can for you back at home.
denki is the kind of lover who would think about you non stop, even if you were in the same room. "oh, how i wish you were here with me!"
"i'm right here..?"
"i mean in this seat! on me! right now!"
and when you are inevitably forced to sit on his lap or lie with him, he'd bury his face into your neck, chest, back or stomach. snuggling you brings a warmth that sends him to sleep. a rarity for the insomniac.
denki is the kind of gentleman to let you do as you please, completely within reason of course! seeing the delight on your face, regardless of where you are or what you're doing, is the biggest joy in his life, even if it means you're on holiday with the girls! he waits patiently for you, and will shower you in DIY gifts, jewellery, hand-written songs/poems, and baked goods! his favourite date night idea is a skate in the park late in the evening, only to take you home at the end of it all and snuggle up watching movies.
prompt: 1 - “are you asking me out?”
characters: hoshina soshiro (kn8) x f!reader
contents: fluff, established rs, officer!reader (not specified which dep.), dunno if i should tag this too but reader drinks coffee lol
wc ~ 1k (no beta !!)
a/n: @purpleqilinwrites hewwoo kaija my beloved tysm for participating !! my apologies for taking so long to get to your orders but i hope they are to your liking (lmk if there's anything you'd like me to change!) <3 andd here’s your slice two !
piles of rubble and cracked buildings surround him, the kaiju corpses littered around now huddled by a throng of workers from the monster sweeper inc. hoshina barely spares a glance over the dead monsters as he flicks both of his swords in a quick swipe in the air, splashes of blood splattering onto the concrete below as he cleans his blades as efficiently as he could.
grabbing his coat from the vehicle he’d taken to get to his post, he takes a peek over his shoulder when a series of faint footsteps approaches from behind. “vice-captain hoshina! i’m here to report–” kafka starts, but hoshina brushes him off with a wave of his hand. “direct all reports to any of your platoon leaders. i have somewhere else to be.”
with no further clarification, hoshina immediately sets off, leaving behind a jaw-slacked kafka and a confused reno tottering behind him. they throw a simultaneous glance at each other, wordlessly questioning each other about their superior’s behavior.
“and there he goes,” nakanoshima’s voice catches their attention. when she’s asked for the reason, all kafka and reno received is a shrug of her shoulders and a muse of “he’s a man in love. what else do you expect?” as if it’s an explanation enough.
and hoshina is, indeed, a man in love and a man on a mission. one that doesn’t include taking out dangerous beasts, but instead facing all his exhaustion head on just so he could go to you. combat suit still in operation, he makes good use of its power to hop over the buildings to the next, heading straight to that quaint little place he knew where you’d be.
the corner of his lips quirk up when he remembers the text you’d sent him prior to the mission. ‘heard your mission is in xx city. if things go haywire, i’ll be nearby to clock in asap just lmk :)’. always ready to help even when you’re off duty; one of the many things hoshina loved about you. he amusedly shakes his head at the thought.
as the mission retains minimal damage, the surrounding towns are thankfully unaffected by the destruction. the smooth cobblestone path thuds softly underneath his feet when hoshina lands in the alley, glad that your location isn’t that far from his. he pulls on the coat over his form, shoulders flexing from the movement as he rounds the corner.
even from the outside of the shop, he could already smell the roasted beans and sweet pastries. hoshina inhales deep, taking in the delightful scent before he cranes his head here and there, eyes roving over the bustling crowd until his amaranthine hues finally settle on what he’d been searching for.
and much like a heartfelt homecoming, a wholesome reunion, or like how the sand meets the shore, how the sun touches the horizon, how the morning light kisses the sheer curtains, how the coffee swirls in warm frothy milk; the familiarity of it all overwhelms him.
you stand there, all beauty and wonder, stealing hoshina’s breath and rendering him speechless as he stops in his tracks for a moment. before you can draw in a puff of breath, he is already marching towards you, closing the distance with purposeful steps.
“hi,” eyes widening slightly in surprise, you breathe out a small chuckle as you look up at him. hoshina mirrors your smile, soft and affectionate as he digs his hands into the pockets of his uniform. “hi.”
you absently lick your bottom lip, though you do notice the way his gaze flickers down to the action for a split second. taking a few glances around, you wonder if any of his officers might somehow emerge from thin air. “aren’t you supposed to be…” forehead creasing, you shrug lightheartedly, “i don’t know. slaying kaiju or something?”
“the operation just ended, sweetheart.” he beams, and his adorable little fangs make their appearance. your eyebrows raise high at his answer. “... but you’re here.” you state, trying to decipher why he’s standing in front of your very eyes, still in his combat uniform (which has people glancing ever so often) rather than reporting to his captain back at base, or freshening up at home.
“but i’m here,” he parrots, watching in interest at the way your expression unfolds. hoshina’s grin grows at your confusion, so wide and cheery that your hands itch to reach up and pinch his cheeks from endearment. instead, you wring your hands behind your back to fidget on them secretly.
the swordsman notices the lack of a plastic cup in your grasp. he takes a quick look at the coffee shop the two of you had been standing in front of before turning back to you, “ya had lunch yet?”
“nope.” you simply reply.
he shifts on the balls of his feet, directing a thumb towards the shop, “... wanna grab somethin’ together?”
a second of silence goes by. and then a laugh breaks out, bubbling from the very back of your throat as you let the mirth freely flow out of you. “soshiro, are you really asking me out right now?”
hoshina bites down on his own smile and lifts a shoulder, “well, is it working on ya?” you shake your head in response, still coming down from your giggles, “i can’t believe you.”
“you love me anyway,” he tilts his head, violet strands softly swaying from the movement. you let out a contented hum, a hand stretching out to brush his hair away from his eyes.
the afternoon sun gleams down on the two of you, but the heat from your little touch burns brighter than anything hoshina has ever felt. he thrives on it, craves it. his skin tingles where it made contact with yours, and his heart races when the sunlight catches on the metal band surrounding your ring finger.
“i do love you,” you agree with a dreamy sigh. “in fact, i’ll love you even more if you make good on your words and buy me a coffee right now, husband.”
oh don’t he love the sound of that label coming out of your lips. perhaps he should call you his wife more often now…
taglist open. and yes they’re married your honour !!!
feels like i’m writing about spiderman!hoshina for a sec there (ᵕ—v—)
[𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈]; helping him with his workout. female reader. suggestive (comments), sfw. reader gets called ‘doll, girl’. drabble. not proofread.
“you sure?”
“jus’ get on my back, doll.”
toji and you have been going back and forth about this for five minutes now. he was working out in the living room while you were watching your favorite show. well, sometimes your eyes lingered far too long on your lover’s physique than on the television.
you can’t help it when he’s only wearing those grey sweatpants. his exposed, sweaty muscular chest and biceps combined with those grunts he lets out every now and then are an intoxicating combination.
toji noticed your gaze on him and suggested you’d help him with his workout. though not before smirking haughtily at your blatant staring, his ego boosted once more.
“ugh, fine. don’t blame me if i break your back,” you mutter under your breath before slowly lowering yourself on his muscular back. you sit down and fold your legs, holding onto his sides for stability.
toji hums in satisfaction when you finally give in. he doesn’t understand your initial hesitation—he can handle even the most impossible of weights and you should know that by now.
“you breaking my back?” toji lets out a breathy chuckle before starting his set of pushups, “keheh. wasn’t it the opposite just this morning?”
that gains him a smack to the back of his head. you huff and roll your eyes at your dirty minded partner. your focus turns to his pushups once more, noticing how he doesn’t seem to be struggling at all, even with extra weight on his back.
down, up, down, up—toji’s body moves in a steady rhythm and his chiseled chest barely touches the floor before he surges back up again. his arms don’t tremble at all, his form steady.
“is this really helping? doesn’t seem like much of a challenge for you,” you murmur after a while and decide to switch positions. you lay your chest against his back, blanketing his prone form with your own body. your arms wrap around his neck and your legs around his waist.
toji grunts in both surprise and satisfaction. your breath tickles his ear and he tries his best to focus on his workout, though it’s hard. extremely so. even more when your hands start to explore the sides of his body, making him shiver.
“well, are you tryin’ to make it a challenge for me by doing… that?” he scoffs.
you grin to yourself, knowing toji couldn’t see your smug face. your hands rub up and down his abs now. your smirk widens when you hear him hiss as a warning. “doing ‘what’, babe?” you act innocent, even as your fingers trail up towards his hard pecs.
the dark-haired man loses control of his arms for a good second, the focus and strength lost after feeling your playful yet intimate touch on his chest. he mumbles something under his breath before reaching one arm back to pinch your sides.
“ah! no!” you squeal a little, immediately moving around on his back to avoid his ‘revenge’. toji’s other arm is balancing both your bodies, but you soon come crashing down with a soft thud after your squirming causes him to lose said balance.
toji rolls onto his back and hauls your body against his chest instead to trap you there. you wilfully rest your head in the crook of his neck and tap his pecs. “hey, you need to finish your workout, silly,” you tease, “can’t be slackin’ off like this.”
toji snorts and gently pinches your nose, earning another small giggle from you. he can’t help but grin as he tilts his head to whisper in your ear;
“i can think of a couple other ways y’ can help me work out. so y’know, there’s this set of hip thrusts—“
orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding.
─── 002. the assignment.
-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith?
-> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader.
-> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance.
-> wc: 1.9k
-> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.
-> a/n: chapter twooooo oh my god im so excited for this chapter AUGH IT FELT SO GOOD writing this !! this is when things get GOOOODDDD and im ao HUHUHUHUHU to hear yalls thoughts!! hehe. i hope you like it! <3
-> prev. || next.
-> orphic; the masterlist.
You don’t expect to see him here.
The planetarium is dimly lit, the soft glow of projected constellations swirling lazily across the domed ceiling. You hadn’t planned on coming—it was a last-minute decision. Yet, the vastness of space, even simulated, has always steadied you.
But then—
"Of course."
The voice, low and wry, edged with dry amusement, is unmistakable.
You turn.
Anaxagoras is standing just a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes reflecting the cosmic sprawl above. He isn’t wearing his usual academic robes—just a simple, well-fitted dark tunic beneath a long coat, the fabric settling neatly against his frame. He looks different like this. Less like a scholar. More like—
Well. More like a man.
"I didn’t take you for a stargazer," he says, voice measured, gaze still fixed on the cosmos above.
You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you, professor."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I do prefer the certainties of physics over the whims of celestial bodies."
"Ah," you hum. "So no fate, no destiny. Just equations and probability."
"Precisely." His gaze flickers up, tracking the slow rotation of the star map. "Though I will admit, there’s a certain poetry to the illusion of it all."
You glance up as well. Orion looms overhead, his belt gleaming sharp and clear. "Illusion?"
"These constellations," Anaxagoras murmurs. "They don't exist as we see them. Stars scattered across thousands of light-years, their arrangement nothing but a trick of perspective. We only think they belong together because of our vantage point." He says, after a pause, “The human mind imposes meaning where there is none.”
Your lips curl. "That’s kind of sad."
He tilts his head. "Is it?"
"Yeah," you say, watching the artificial night swirl overhead. "Thinking you're part of something greater, only to realize it's all a trick of perspective."
For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches you, thoughtful. Then—
"Perhaps," he concedes. "But perspective is all we have."
You glance at him again, but his expression is unreadable.
There’s always been a distance to him that he maintains… almost religiously.
The hush of the planetarium stretches between you, the weight of his regard heavy. You’re not sure what it is that makes your skin feel so warm, your breath so shallow.
So you do what you do best. You challenge him.
"If constellations are an illusion," you say, "then what of all the truths we believe to perceive?"
His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.
You don’t look away.
"We only think things are connected because of our vantage point," you continue, your voice quieter now. "So how do we know if any of it actually means anything?"
Another beat of silence. Then, slow and deliberate, he says—
"We don’t."
Your chest tightens, though you don’t know why.
For a moment, it feels like that’s the end of it. Like you’ll both turn away and let the conversation dissolve into the simulated cosmos above.
But then—
Anaxagoras steps closer.
Not much. Barely enough to notice. But enough that when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Measured.
"We don’t," he repeats, as if the weight of it matters. "But sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."
You don’t know what to say to that.
You’re early to class.
Not by much, but enough to claim your usual seat and settle in before the lecture hall fills. Enough to shake off the strange tension that’s been humming beneath your skin since the planetarium.
You tell yourself it was nothing. A conversation wrapped in stardust and metaphor, just another verbal sparring match. Anaxagoras challenged you. That’s all.
But it lingers.
It lingers in the way your heartbeat picked up when he stepped closer. In the way his words—so measured, so precise—felt heavier than they should have. In the way his gaze held yours just a fraction too long, as if entertaining the illusion wasn’t just about the stars.
You exhale, flipping open your notebook. Focus.
The room fills, a murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs against stone. Then, just as the hour strikes, he enters.
Anaxagoras walks with the same deliberate grace he always does, his robes sweeping behind him. But today, as his eyes scan the lecture hall, they pause. Just briefly.
On you.
Something flickers across his expression—gone before you can name it. Then he looks away, moving towards the podium.
"Good morning," he says, voice smooth, effortlessly commanding. "Let’s begin."
You should be taking notes. You should be focused on the equations he’s sketching onto the board, the elegant arc of chalk gliding across the surface. Instead, you remember his voice in the dark, low and certain—
"Sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."
Damn him.
You press your pen to the paper, forcing your attention forward.
"Consider the nature of causality," Anaxagoras continues, turning back to face the class. "An event—any event—can be traced backward through a series of causes. But the perception of these events is often subject to our vantage point."
A pause. Then his gaze flickers to you, deliberate.
"One might argue that meaning is an emergent property. That cause and effect are simply the mind’s way of drawing constellations between unrelated points."
Your fingers tighten around your pen.
Is he—?
No. No, you’re imagining things. He’s lecturing. That’s all.
And yet.
His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away, continuing as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just lace the entire moment with subtext so thick it might as well be its own theorem.
Your pulse is ridiculous. You need to get a grip.
The lecture moves on, but now you’re watching him differently. Not just listening, but observing. The way he gestures, the way his mind moves faster than his words, the way his lips quirk slightly when a student offers an answer that surprises him.
You’ve spent weeks admiring Anaxagoras for his intellect. Respecting him as a professor. Arguing with him for the sake of curiosity.
And...
Well, there'a no point dwelling on it, is there?
By the time the lecture is nearing its end, you’ve barely written anything coherent.
Your notes are a scattered mess—half physics, half what the hell is going on? The worst part? Anaxagoras knows. He hasn’t called on you once today, which is unusual. He always prods, always challenges. But today, he’s let you stew in your thoughts, like he’s letting you chase your own tail.
Infuriating man.
"Before we conclude," he says, dusting chalk from his fingertips, "your next individual assignment."
The room collectively stiffens.
Anaxagoras turns from the board, his gaze sweeping over the lecture hall. Ilias straightens immediately, feigning deep intellectual engagement. You suppress a smile.
"As we’ve explored, physics attempts to model reality through observable forces," Anaxagoras continues. "But what of the forces we cannot measure? What of the unseen variables?"
Ilias perks up at that, intrigued. "Is he finally acknowledging my suffering?"
You elbow him. "Shut up, he’s setting up the assignment."
"Your task," he continues, "is to examine a concept often deemed metaphysical—fate, intuition, divine intervention—" He lifts his gaze, letting the weight of his words settle. "And construct a framework to explain its existence. Or—" his voice sharpens— "prove its impossibility."
A murmur ripples through the students. Anaxagoras doesn’t tolerate pseudo-science in his lectures, so the fact that he’s even entertaining this angle is unexpected.
It’s a trap, and everyone knows it. He’s handing you something abstract, intangible, and expecting you to apply cold logic to it. A thought experiment designed to test whether you’ll break under paradox or force the universe to make sense.
You listen, absorbed—until Ilias leans in again, whispering, "If I were to quantify the force that compels me to sleep in class instead of studying, do you think he’d accept it?"
You stifle a laugh. "I think he’d call it laziness and fail you on principle."
"Damn. Guess I’ll have to go with my second option."
"Which is?"
He grins. "Manifesting an equation that proves I am, in fact, always right."
You shake your head, biting back a laugh. "I’d pay to see you argue that with him."
As if on cue, Anaxagoras glances your way, sharp-eyed.
"Would either of you care to share your insights with the class?"
Ilias, ever the survivalist, doesn’t miss a beat. "We are discussing emergent properties of intelligence, professor."
Anaxagoras arches a brow, unimpressed. "A phenomenon you’ve yet to personally demonstrate."
The class chuckles. You shoot Ilias a look.
"Walked right into that one," you murmur.
Ilias sighs. "Yeah. That’s on me."
His gaze sweeps the class. "You may choose any concept, but your reasoning must be sound. Sentimentality will not be rewarded."
A collective groan. Someone mutters something about dropping the course.
You, however, are too focused on the way he’s looking at you.
He knows you’ll take this further than anyone else. He wants you to.
Then—
"Stay after class," he says smoothly, as if it’s nothing. "I need a word."
You feel the shift immediately. A few students glance between you and him, intrigued. You school your expression, pretending it doesn’t affect you.
"Yes, professor." you say.
He nods, then dismisses the class.
Chairs scrape against the floor. Students file out, some grumbling about the assignment, others already debating what concept they’ll choose. Someone lingers near the door for a second too long, clearly hoping to eavesdrop, before sighing and leaving.
Then it’s just you and him.
Anaxagoras exhales softly, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders before turning to face you fully.
"I’m altering your assignment," he says.
You blink. "What? Why?"
His lips quirk slightly, but there’s something intent in his eyes. "Because the standard prompt is beneath your abilities."
You swallow. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s been paying attention.
"Your mind doesn’t just follow logic," he continues. "It challenges it. So I’m giving you something worthy of that."
You exhale, half-exasperated. "Fine. What’s the twist?"
Instead of answering right away, he steps past you, picks up a book from his desk, and flips it open. When he finds the page he’s looking for, he turns it toward you.
It’s a diagram. A branching structure of choices, converging and diverging like neural pathways.
"Your peers will be arguing for or against metaphysical forces." His voice is measured. "You, however, will go one step further."
He closes the book, meeting your gaze.
"Instead of proving or disproving their existence, I want you to model one."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
His smirk is subtle, but there. "You heard me."
"You want me to… what, exactly? Build a mathematical model for something physics doesn’t even acknowledge?"
"Why not?" he challenges. "If intuition exists, quantify its mechanism. If destiny is real, define its parameters. If the soul endures, find the equation that governs it."
Your fingers twitch at that.
That’s—
That’s significantly more difficult than the original prompt. You’d have to rethink everything from the ground up.
The soul?
You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You really don’t like making my life easy, do you?"
His smirk deepens. "Where’s the fun in easy?"
You hate that he’s right.
And worse—you hate that you like that he knows you well enough to give you something harder. Something that will actually make you think.
Your pulse is an uneven rhythm as you meet his gaze. "Alright," you say.
He nods once, satisfied. "Good."
For a moment, neither of you move.
"You’re dismissed," he says, voice softer.
You hesitate. Then turn, heading toward the door.
Just as you step through the threshold, his voice reaches you, quiet but deliberate.
a little bit of you ꒱ mydei 'n fem reader ᰔ fluff ⊹ word count 0.3k
MODERN!AU in which BOXER!MYDEIMOS was blessed with an adorable baby girl—however, there’s one thing you’re still lovingly sulking over: you carried this sweet girl for nine months, only for her to come out as her father’s perfect mini-me. Not that you’re upset, it’s just so obvious whose genes took the lead.
From your spot on the couch, you watch Mydei sitting cross-legged on the rug, your 7-month-old baby in his arms. He gently tickles her, drawing out a cascade of giggles. The resemblance between them is almost unfair. The same blond hair (which you’re sure will deepen to strawberry blond), those sunlit honey eyes, squishy cheeks, and pouty lips that make her endlessly kissable. Even the little pink ribbon headband she’s wearing matches the one Mydei has perched on his own head.
Your heart swells as you take in the sight of them. “She’s the cutest baby,” you muse to yourself, though it’s hardly surprising. Of course, she is—how could she not be, with the two of you as her parents?
Mydei notices your soft pout and chuckles, his gaze never leaving your daughter. “Are you upset again?” he asks teasingly, as he helps your daughter stay on her legs, well, she mostly bounces in the air. Her tiny fingers curl tightly around his, making his soft expression melt further. For a man whose career revolves around throwing punches, he’s rather gentle with his family.
You fold your arms and sigh, more dramatically than necessary. “I’m not upset. I’m very happy, actually. It’s just… she’s such a Daddy’s girl.” He looks up at you then, his face softening even more, if that’s possible. His messy hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Daddy’s girl, huh?” he murmurs, then, he smiles at the baby, tilting his head toward her and her laughter echoes in the room again.
Gently, he adds, “She’s got the shape of your eyes, though. And the shape of your eyebrows. Your nose too.” He trails off, planting a soft kiss on the baby’s forehead. “But most importantly, she’s got your smile.”
And just like that, you’re falling in love with him all over again.
“is that the birthday girl I see?” atsumu drawls, voice still thick with sleep. he leans against the doorway, lazy grin spreading across his face as he watches you shuffle into the kitchen. his hair is an absolute mess, sticking up in every direction, and he’s wrapped in the blanket he clearly dragged from the bed.
before you can respond, he pushes off the wall and makes his way over — arms looping around your waist as he buries his face in your shoulder. “g’morning,” he murmurs into a kiss, softer now, raspy from misuse.
“did ya sleep okay? I was gonna wake ya up with breakfast, but..” he pulls back enough to smile at you. “figured you’d probably rather not eat burnt toast on your special day.”
his warmth lingers even after he steps away, rubbing at his eyes. “go sit down, I’ll try and make somethin’ decent,” he laughs, reaching for the coffee maker. “don’t you dare even think of lifting a finger.”
you sit down at the table, watching him while he dances around the kitchen, warmth of the sun hitting his back, casting a gentle glow over his tousled hair, and you feel an overwhelming sense of affection.
he glances over his shoulder, gaze caught on yours, the crinkle by his eyes softening like he can’t help but melt under the weight of your attention. “what?” he asks, tilting his head as he braces his arms on the counter. “something on my face?”
you shake your head, getting up and walking over, slipping your arms around him and up to rub at his chest, cheek to his back. his body tenses for a second, surprised, then he relaxes into you.
“I love you,” you muffle, breath hot against his shirt. he turns around to kiss you again, clingy as always — “love you too.”
his hand covers yours and he gently kisses your palm. “whole day. just us. your wish is my command.” he laughs, “and my wallet, too. I guess.”
his voice is barely above a whisper now, as he sways with you, kissing down your collarbone. “happy birthday, baby. I’ll make sure it’s a good one.”
✦ PAIRING: satan x g!n reader
✦ SUMMARY: writing this because i didnt get that damn satan card where he was wearing glasses; satan & reader are NOT in an relationship, but there’s pining <3 also fluff!
✦ WC: 1.6K
| MASTERLIST
══════════════════
“You’re not wearing your contacts today?”
Manicured fingers dig into the sides of his cheek as Asmo peers closely at the frame covering his eyes. Satan begrudgingly lets the fifth brother tilt his face sideways as he does mental inner meditation to not slap the offending hands off.
For good measure, he shakes Satan’s head a few more times before letting go.
“Why the sudden change?” Asmo questioned, as Satan brought up a hand to touch his jaw.
There were slight indentations along his jawline from where Asmo’s manicured fingers had touched; Satan crossed his arms across his chest and huffed.
Patience.
“Just felt like it.”
Asmo snorted.
“No other reason?” He looked knowingly at Satan, a sly smile playing on his lip.
“Look, those frames are too big on your face.” Asmo pauses and turns back to his vanity to pry open one of his various drawers. He digs through it, looking for something.
“Use this. They complement your face shape better.”
Satan barely catches the pair of glasses flying towards him. If Asmo had put his mind to channel his athleticism, Satan reckons that he would be almost on par with Beel. Asmo closes his drawer, turns to the mirror, and grabs a lipstick from the table to continue his routine. He gestures for Satan to put the pair on.
“Do these even have a degree?” He puts the glasses on, taken by surprise when his vision remains as clear as ever.
Asmo laughs, the sound tinkling pleasantly through his ears even as he continues to rummage through his vanity for something else.
“Those are in your degree. I had them made for you.”
The question, “Why did you have them in my degree?” flashes briefly in his mind but he swallows it back down.
“Thanks.”
Asmo waves him off, still looking at himself in the mirror. Understanding he was dismissed, Satan turns to leave the room.
“Wait! Before you go, which shade matches better?” The Avatar of Lust holds up two lipsticks close to his face. Staring at them, Satan wonders what even is the difference.
“The one on the right.” He took a wild guess, the chosen lipstick seemed to pull more pink against the fifth brother’s face. Also, you had once mentioned to him that pink looks the best on Asmo.
Asmo’s face breaks out into a wide grin, unscrewing the cap of the lipstick. This time, Satan quietly sneaks out of the room.
.
A hand on his shoulder jolts Satan out of his daydreaming.
“Hey, little brother--“ The voice started. “Wait, are yer wearing glasses?” A tuft of white hair blocks his vision as the culprit grabs him by the shoulder to shout in his ear.
It was deafeningly loud and noisy as expected.
Satan rolls up the newspaper he is holding and smacks the demon.
“Ow! Why didya do that for?” The secondborn’s lip twisted into a pout. “Seems like you’re fine. Can ya lend me money?” The newspaper in his hand came down for a second beating.
“Okay, okay! I won’t ask you for money!” Mammon tries to dodge the subsequent beatings but fails in doing so.
“Geez, why are you so violent?” He grouches, rubbing at the top of his head. Satan brings up the offending object threateningly again. Mammon squawked loudly and raised both hands up in defense.
“That wasn’t me! Uh… That was the floor talking!” Satan looks pointedly at the carpeted floor before trailing his eyes back up to his older brother. He wonders if there is a brain inside that empty vessel called his head.
“Anyways, why do you need money? Again.” His eyes twitch as he tries to unroll the newspaper so that he can pretend to read and simultaneously disregard his brother's existence in the room.
Mammon’s mouth opens to explain.
“Actually, scratch that. I don’t need to know.” He brings the newspaper up, covering the second eldest brother’s face from his vision. He watches Mammon’s leg bounce up and down from beside him.
“Yo.” The couch dips beside him, the furniture sinking under the weight of the secondborn.
Satan ignores him.
“Hey.” This time, Mammon pokes him on the cheek. Repeatedly.
Satan continues to ignore him.
“Are ya really ignoring your older brother?” Mammon huffed out in disbelief. He proceeded to curl his fist into a ball and punch Satan.
“Ow! What the hell, Mammon?” Satan rubs his shoulder once before turning to punch Mammon back.
“We’re already in hell, my dear younger brother.” Mammon simpers before his expression turns pained from the assault.
“Now that I finally got your attention.” He pauses dramatically. “Are ya’ like copying Lucifer or something? What’s up with the glasses?”
Satan exhales once through his nose, then twice sharply. The mental meditation exercises that you had taught him were failing today.
“I’m giving you five seconds to run.” He says politely.
“Wha- Oh shit!” Mammon protested but he was already getting up from the couch to turn into his demon form as he ran away.
Ah, sweet silence.
He counts to ten seconds, enjoying the moment of peace. Satan then picks up the fallen object again and curls it up. When he finds Mammon, he will stuff his mouth with the newspaper and ensure he cannot open his mouth in the foreseeable future.
.
Satan slowly opens the door to your bedroom, padding in softly when he hears no sounds of protest. He hasn’t seen you even once today – your presence was needed at the Demon Lord Castle for an event which meant you had an early start to the day.
He wasn’t even sure if you had even eaten breakfast before you left. The silence left in your absence was largely felt and his heart squeezes at the thought of it.
“Hey.” The gentle shaking woke you up and the second thing you notice is the delicious aroma of food wafting from the tray he carries.
You had collapsed on the floor, too tired to even change out from your outfit before knocking out. Now, you were facing the consequences of it. Your back was hurting and you could feel the dried saliva on the side of your mouth.
Timidly, you bring up a hand to wipe at it.
For a few seconds, Satan watches as you blink bearily at him.
“Satan?”
He thinks you resemble a kitten when you stretch and yawn. It could partly be because he thinks they’re the cutest animals in the three realms, and you are the cutest in his eyes. He ran his thumb over your cheek as you leaned in closer to his touch. The sight was so heart-wrenchingly adorable, that it made him twitch in anger.
He slides the tray of food in front of you, watching as your face lit up in excitement.
“Soup?” The bowl was at your eye level as you inspected it closely. “Where did you learn this recipe?” You questioned, barely able to hold back your curiosity.
Satan pauses. He had gone over to Purgatory Hall, bothering Solomon for a human-world comfort soup recipe. Looking on the net was an option he had considered but ultimately, he decided that asking another human would be better. Solomon wasn’t the best in cooking — Satan had done further research into the recipe to perfect it. There were a few trials and errors but finally, he has found the opportunity to show it off to you.
“Online.” He bluffed, slightly miffed when you pulled away from his touch to reach for the cutleries. There was no way he was telling you the efforts he went through just to learn the recipe.
“Really? It must have been hard.” You said warmly, a smile tugging on the sides of your lips. A red tint stained his cheek and Satan wishes that he could just swoop in to give you a kiss.
“Thank you.” You muttered, blowing the steam from the soup into his face playfully.
He continues to watch you fondly, as you continue on with your meal. Absentmindedly, he pushed the glasses on his nose up higher as it slid down his nose bridge.
The clattering of your spoon scares him, but before he could check in on you, you had already closed the distance and were now looking earnestly at his face.
“Glasses!” You said delightedly, face much too close to him. He could feel the blood rushing to his face even though he was pleased with this development.
He nods slowly, cheeks burning.
“But I thought you hated wearing glasses because it reminds you of Lucifer?” He was disappointed that you had moved back but at least, he was sure his heart wasn’t going to go into cardiac arrest anytime soon.
“This pair is different.” He pointed at the frames adorning his face, peevish that you had mentioned the oldest brother in his presence.
You nod, agreeing with him.
“I’m glad you’re wearing glasses more often now.” You smile, the corners of your eyes crinkling upwards. “Like I said, I do think you look really handsome in them.”
His heart skipped a beat again.
The truth was that he had only dug out his only working pair of glasses because you had made a passing comment that you liked how he looked in them.
“Thanks.”
He coughed awkwardly, gesturing to the tray.
“Are you done with the bowl? I’ll bring them to the kitchen.” You gave him that smile again, the one that makes his heart clench.
“No worries, I’ll bring it down myself.”
The distinct aroma of your perfume fills his nose as you lean into his space with your arms open for a hug.
“Thank you.”
Satan could feel his mind running overtime and stopping in its tracks. He lost. He was utterly disarmed by your charms.
══════════════════
a/n ▸ satan is a walking fashion disaster, theres no way that asmo didnt switch out his pair for a nicer one. also im sorry for the influx of satan fics lately, been having the worst brainrot about this man suddenly </33333 (not true, the brainrot is always there) also this fic was born from this reblog i saw ;; it appeared again on my dash and i wrote this in one sitting LOL
Pairing: Changeling! Reader x Fae Lord! Zhongli
Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence
Additional Tags: Fae!AU, Implied Reincarnated Lovers!AU
AO3 link
Notes: Thank you to @sgri-sgri for beta-ing this!
Summary:
Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.
You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank.
Imagine a lifetime of secrets: your first memories are of a spring that does not belong to the mortal realm. You dream of golden eyes gleaming at you from the darkness as your mother picked you up and carried you away.
Imagine keeping these things to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. Secrets that are half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.
And you hope that one day, they will find you again.
Story:
Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.
It is a life of hollow hunger and a longing for something you cannot quite name.
You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank. She has told you this story many times before. Sometimes in fond reminiscence, more often in hushed whispers, her eyes fearful and haunted as she recalled your unnatural stillness, the way the snowflakes that landed on your skin did not melt.
You don’t answer whenever she tells these stories; she is already frightened enough. You do not tell her that while you had been found during winter, your first memories were of spring.
Except it is not the spring of Snezhnaya, where you had been raised. It is not the cold sun, finally rising after months of not showing its face. Nor is it the first tentative buds of snowdrops, pushing their way up from the melting snow.
The spring you remember is brilliant, bursting with vivid color. You remember walking underneath trees whose leaves were the color of fire; you remember the taste of wine against your tongue.
And sometimes, in those odd moments between dreaming and waking, you would remember seeing the gold of someone’s eyes and the curve of black, gleaming bone.
You do not mention this to your mother, who is already half-afraid of you. Nor to your father, who gazes at you with a resigned sort of acceptance.
Instead, you keep it to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. A secret that is half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.
Imagine arriving in Liyue during winter, a season of cold and gnawing hunger. The trees that dot the landscape are now bare, their branches the color of bleached bone. Whatever flowers that once bloomed in its fields are now gone, their colorless stems now covered by frost.
It is also a time when ice forms in the harbor, icicles as thick as spears, cresting with each wave. No ship dares to land on the Liyue Harbor during winter. During winter, food, paper, and cloth grow scarce. The shrines you pass by on the road show only a few, meager offerings: a single piece of fruit, the skin shriveled and mottled with mold. A carved wooden statue of a carriage, half-burnt, for fire does not survive long in this cold. You wonder what the Good Folk make of such meager offerings, whether they are as quick to anger as your Tsaritsa.
Something gleams at the bottom of the bowl, wet and dark. You come closer to inspect it and feel a shiver of disgust when you realize what it is.
Teeth, still bloody and steaming in the cold air. You step away, stomach twisting, and you think: the Tsaritsa would approve.
Perhaps Liyue and Snezhnaya have more in common than you thought.
You reach your destination, some remote village on the outskirts of Liyue, and feel a sudden shock of fear at what you find there. The woman who greets you stumbling at the gates is already half a stranger. The Aunt Baiji you knew had been both vivid and beautiful, with dark hair that gleamed like oil even in the dim sunlight of Sneznahya’s endless winter.
She had been strong, too. As a child, you remember how her voice shook the walls of your small household, as she shouted down both of your parents. You remember looking down at your burned hands, still steaming from holding iron cutlery, and wondering if you are worthy of such rage.
She had handed you a pair of chopsticks before she left, carved from bamboo and coated in dark lacquer.
“They’ll see sense soon, little Dragonfly,” she had said. “In the meantime, use these instead.”
You had carried the chopsticks with you on the long journey to Liyue, wrapped in wool like a shroud. You find that they give you courage for what you are planning to do.
They give you the courage to lie now, and it tastes like iron against your teeth.
“It’s good to see you, Auntie.”
But it isn’t. The woman who throws her trembling arms around you looks nothing like the one who had defended you all her life. To hold her is like holding a skeleton, you can feel the individual knobs in her spine, the skin hanging loose over her flesh.
You feel it then, like the flitting of a bird against your chest: fury, bright and pure. And with it, the determination to see this through.
“You came,” she whispers, and her voice is as insubstantial as a ghost. “Oh, my love, when I got your letter, I didn’t believe…You know I would never ask you to do this. You don’t have to do this.”
Yet, in her eyes, you can see her raw, desperate grief and the way she swallows down her tears as if they are poison in her throat.
“Yes.” You say it as gently as you can, and even then, she flinches. “I do. Show it to me.”
She sucks in her breath as if struck, and you hasten to add, “It’s not him, Auntie. You know this.”
She gives you a shaky smile, one that makes the wrinkles on her face as deep as mountain crags. “I know, Dragonfly, I know. But it–”
Her smile shakes, then cracks like porcelain, and with it comes her tears. First a trickle, then a flood. And you watch as the woman who had never shed a tear in your memory cries as if she will never stop.
“I’m sorry, Dragonfly, it just looks so much like him…I can’t…He’s still lying there.”
Her head is bowed, her thin shoulders shaking, as if the weight of her grief is enough to split her in two. Watching her, you feel a knot forming in your throat, and you wonder if grief can be contagious.
You take her hand in both of yours, guiding her. She has grown so thin that you can feel the bones of her wrists pushing up against her skin, the way the current of rivers curve over stones.
“Let me show you, Auntie,” you say. “There is nothing underneath.”
She lets you lead her, childlike, through the doors of her own house and it is as bare as you have ever seen it. Gone are the oil paintings from Mondstadt, the tiny figurines carved from noctilus jade bartered from night market stalls at the Harbor, the bolts of embroidered cloth you had sent over from Snezhnaya. Apart from the small cot lying in the corner of the room, the small room is almost obscene in its nakedness.
You say nothing, but an image unfurls over your mind: that of your aunt selling her belongings, piecemeals, making offering after offering to appease the ones who have taken her son.
You remember the teeth on the shrine, still steaming from the heat of someone’s mouth, and you shiver.
“He’s in my room.” She pauses to inhale, as if she has to force the next words out. “I can’t bear to leave him. Or look at him. I’ve been sleeping here instead.”
The crib is made out of woven horsetail; you can see the pink cotton of their seeds curling around its base like flowers. A mobile of figurines carved out of sandalwood hung above it, circling slowly, providing toys for a child that neither saw nor cared about them.
Behind you, you can feel Aunt Baiji shaking.
“We don’t have to do this,” she whispers through bloodless lips. “Perhaps we are wrong. There is still time to call the funeral parlor. Burn offerings for him in the afterlife.”
Her hand is cold and shaking as she puts it on your shoulder; it is like being touched by a corpse. And for just a moment, you feel a shimmer of dread, the world splitting as if into fractals.
Aunt Baiji’s son’s had been declared dead for nearly a month, the time it took you to prepare and travel to Liyue. It had been long enough that the hell gates that welcome the souls to the afterlife are about to close.
During this time, the proper offerings should have been burned to accompany him to the afterlife: joss money to line his pockets for bribes, delicate wooden carvings of servants to serve him, a pagoda carefully painted on rice paper so that he may have a place to stay in the afterlife.
And perhaps, most importantly, food. So he did not spend his afterlife with an endless hunger gnawing at his belly.
And just for a moment, you are scared to look into that crib. Nausea pulses in your gut like an open wound as you take one step, and another, then another. Your fingers curl around the woven horsetails, and your eyes seek the mobiles gently swaying in the wind.
And you look down.
You had been there to witness every moment of Aunt Baiji’s pregnancy, written in careful hand in her many, many letters to you. You had been the first person she told about when she felt the flutter of quickening in her belly, when she first felt her son kick inside her.
I have not seen him yet, but he already owns half my heart. She had written once, the letter feeling soft and sun-warmed against your shaking hands.
I have decided to name him Sevastyan. After his father. I cannot wait until the two of you meet each other. You will love him like a brother.
Brother.
In Snezhnaya, where nearly everyone knows your story, you had nothing to keep you warm. There is only your mother’s wintery stares and your father’s endless silence. But now, in a remote village on the outskirts of Liyue, the word beats against your throat like a swallowed star.
But when you look down, the child inside the crib does not look like a brother.
After he was born, Aunt Baiji sent you letter after letter, describing the dark mess of curls on his head and the fat of his cheeks that resembled fried dumplings. She described the shape of his mouth that resembled his grandmother’s and the curve of his nose that was like his father’s.
He is perfect, my Sevastyan, she had written. He is beautiful.
And he is. But the child in the crib has all the cold beauty of a carved statue, perfectly still and silent. No dreams chased behind his closed eyes and his chest did not flutter with each breath.
He does not look dead like the doctor had said. Instead, he looks like he had never been alive.
This is how you know, all those months ago. You have read enough stories and listened to enough legends about your kind not to know. The child in the crib is not Sevas, as your Aunt Baiji had feared.
Your hand hovers over his face, and on your fingers you can see the numerous cuts and bruises from your long hours of labor.
You’re shaking.
Perhaps from the cold, perhaps from fear.
As your hands close over the child’s face, you can feel it, magic pulsing against your fingers like the threads in a loom. All it takes is a slight tug and the weaving collapses. Aunt Baiji lets out a wail as the child’s face warps and twists, then it finally collapses into a pile of twigs and dried leaves.
“Oh, oh Archons. My son is alive. But they–they’ve…”
Her lips tremble, unable to form the next words.
“The Fae have taken him,” you say. “And I mean to get him back.”
And then your legs are collapsing from underneath you, shaking so hard that you are afraid that they will never stop.
And then your heart is pounding against the cage of your ribs like a frantic, dying bird.
You can feel your bones creaking, pinned under the enormity of what you must do. It is a surprise that the weight of it doesn’t crush you.
For the Fae have taken your aunt’s son, and you mean to get him back.
Imagine wintertime in Liyue and all of its quiet menace. It is a time when the trees shed their golden foliage, leaving their branches bare and skeletal. No birdsong echoes through the woods during the winter, and no crystalflies light the way with their glowing wings.
It is only the light of the moon that guides you as you deliberately stray away from the beaten path. It is something children learn, even in Snezhnaya, never to do.
Do not go too deep into the forest. Do not stray off the path. Do not catch the attention of those who dwell in the dark.
You have caught glimpses of them as a child: the glint of the moonlight reflecting off their eyes as they peer at you through the foliage, the curl of fingers with too many joints as they grasp onto your windowsill.
You had always wanted to stumble after them, wanted to follow them down into the dark.
Take me with you, you had wanted to say. Tell me why you left me here.
But they never did.
This time, however, this time you mean to give them no choice.
You stand there, at the heart of the forest, shivering violently, for the robes you are wearing are not made for the cold. Instead, the robes you are wearing are reminiscent of spring. For the first warm day in Snezhnaya, when the sun’s rays finally split the frozen river in two, signaling the end of the cold months.
The silk is the blue color of rushing water, bursting free from underneath the ice. You had used silver thread to embroider the slow dance of the last of the snowflakes, doomed to melt before they ever touched the ground.
Your fingers still ache with the effort of embroidering them into the fabric. And yet, you consider the effort well worth it. The Good Folk are a hungry lot, and they were known to covet things they don’t have: love, music, and things of great beauty. They are often known to take the most well-cared-for children, the best dancers, the singers whose voices could wring tears from a stone.
If you are going to draw their attention, you need to bring your best creations.
Hours pass or perhaps only minutes–past a certain point, it doesn’t matter. Your fingers feel frozen, your face raw and frostbitten from the wind.
And finally, you see them.
Your breath stutters in your throat as they slowly form into existence, like the hazy figures in a dream. First came the light of their bonfire, only a faint glow in the beginning, then brighter and higher until you can feel its warmth spreading across your fingertips.
Then their music, the sound of lyre and war drums. It is something ancient and wild and speaks to the very core of you. You can feel your muscles tensing as if your body wishes to join in the laughter and the revelry. Or perhaps it longs to run free in the forest, and sink your teeth into the throat of some small, living creature, to feel the wild beat of its heart as it dies in your hands.
And then, you can see them. The Fae.
They are known to have as many forms: as many as there are types of fish in the ocean or birds in the sky. The ones who came to you this time are unfamiliar: the curves of a naked woman combined with flowers you have seen in the field. Their hair flows into petals, and their skin is as smooth and unblemished as the inside of a tulip.
There are three of them, dancing around the bonfire, their feet so light that they barely touch the earth. And yet, in the shadows, you can see the twisted forms of creatures, their clawed hands plucking the strings on a lyre, their palms beating a frantic beat on the drums. You can feel your pulse leap to the sound of it.
But you do not move to join them, even as your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, even as you down on your lip so hard that you taste blood.
It is they who must approach you.
And finally, finally, one of them breaks free from the circle to approach you. You can hear the other two, giggling and making jokes, their laughter resembling the chittering of insects.
The one who approaches you has the pale blue skin of a mint flower. Leaves sprout from the top of her head, flowing down to her shoulders like hair. But the eyes that behold you are the eyes of a reptile: cold and calculating and nothing human in them at all.
Her hand is cold as she grasps the sleeve of your robes.
“This is beautiful,” she declares, and her breath sends a gust of cold wind against your cheeks. “Almost like a river before it is frozen over. Please, may I wear it?”
“You may wear it.” You speak through gritted teeth so that she can’t see you chatter. “For a price.”
The smile that unfurls across her face is slow and fluid, the slow trickle of water before the flood.
The hand that was once on your sleeve slides down your skin, until they are resting on your near-frozen fingertips. She looks at you, eyes half-lidded, and you see that her eyelashes are rimmed with frost.
In her presence, you find that the wind does not howl so loud and that you can no longer feel the cold. In fact, you begin to feel warm, as if there is a fire burning at the center of you.
“Name it.” Her voice comes as if from very far away. “I will pay a great number of things to wear a robe of such beauty.”
A price?
Your thoughts are muddled, like the hazy silhouette of people in a snowstorm. Your skin is burning.
You remember feeling the same way, in the snowbank where your mother found you, so many years ago. The same heat at the center of you. The same exhaustion.
And you remember a hand reaching out to you, a flash of gold through the trees.
The memory sears through your thoughts like a bolt of lightning splitting open the sky. You know this creature, and you know her story. Of the travelers she leaves on snowy mountaintops, naked, except for the frost that grows on their skin like moss. You step back from her, your voice almost cracking from the cold.
“My Aunt’s son. Your kind have taken him.”
The smile she gives you is nothing human, and when she reaches for you again, this time, you know enough to avoid her.
“Ah, the child. We left another in his place so she doesn’t miss him.”
“Wood and dried leaves make for a poor son,” you snap. “Give him back and you may wear the robe for the night.”
She grins at you, and you can see bits of gristle stuck between her teeth. Behind her, the fire roars, and her two companions dance faster. The creatures playing the instruments stamp their feet and lift their voices, their howls feral and inhuman. You can feel the pull of their magic as if your skin means to rip free from your body and, still streaking blood, join their dance across the snow.
“Of course. But first, you must join us around the fire.”
And this, you know from the countless stories. Of young men and women, joining the Fae on moonless nights, dancing to the beat of their wild, dark songs until daybreak.
And if the Fae end up liking you, they may grant you a favor. A good harvest. A fated marriage.
A son.
This time, when the snow-woman reaches for your hand, you do not flinch as frost forms where your skin meets hers. Your shoes barely skim the earth as she leads you to the fire, where the music thrums in your ears as frantic as a pulse. You grit your teeth even as the fire burns high enough to blot out the stars.
You remind yourself that you must be brave.
But perhaps, you have not read enough stories.
Or perhaps the snow-woman wishes only to trick you.
Because before you start to dance with them, you make the mistake of glancing at one of the musicians’ faces.
You wake under sunlight and with the taste of blood in your mouth.
You do not have the boy.
What happened?
You try to sit up, only to gasp and curl around yourself like a newborn. Your entire face is pulsing with pain. When you touch it, your hands come away stained with blood.
And then, you remember.
Not the musician’s face, but what you had done after you had seen it. You had raked your fingers across your face and dug deep furrows into your cheeks. You had taken your thumbs to your eyes and pushed until they popped like overripe fruit.
You had taken out your eyes.
Yet, you can still see.
Carefully, with the gentleness of one afraid of what they might find, you explore your face. No scars meet your questing fingers, and your eyes are still intact in their sockets.
And yet, you remember: lying in the snow, blinded and sobbing, hot blood trickling from your eyes like tears. You remember, too, listening to the three beautiful creatures arguing about who got to wear the robes first. Their voices growing higher and angrier until they resembled the chittering of insects.
You remember they had come at you with teeth and claws, grabbing at whatever bit of fabric they could reach. Pulling at the silver thread so that they unraveled from their patterns, curved claws slashing away at the sleeves, cutting the soft skin underneath.
You remember screaming for them to stop.
What had happened?
By all rights, you should be dead. Blinded, and dead.
The robes you had worked so hard to make are shredded. You flush, realizing that you are almost naked, but the skin that peeks through is whole and unblemished.
“How–”
Your voice is cracked and hoarse. You can taste blood on your lips.
How are you alive?
You scour your memory for the answer but you do not know the answer. You only remember one other thing. Your hand is shaking as you raise it to your eyes so that it blocks your view of the forest.
Your skin is cold. You can feel the calluses formed from your many hours of sewing over the years.
But it is not the hand that rested over your eyes last night.
It is not the hand that healed you.
Someone had saved you last night. Someone who could heal the many cuts the Fae have left on your skin, someone who could restore your sight and your face, after you had taken your fingers to them.
And yet, you cannot remember who.
You remember only one other thing, seen only in the fleeting edges of your restored vision: a great curve of bone, rising over you, gleaming as dark as obsidian.
Imagine Liyue in wintertime, when the rivers grow black and treacherous. No man or animal dares cross them, lest they come out blue and frozen on the other side. Underneath the wild torrents, you can see the twisting images of the creatures you’ve come to seek.
The image of a child, face bloated and black with rot, rises briefly to the surface. You remember, three years past, about a fisherman’s son who had drowned in this river. His playmates had claimed that they had seen him playing with a nobleman’s horse near the water. A scream rises in your throat like vomit when you realize that his eyes are boiling with maggots.
You stumble, water lapping at your ankles, making the hem of your robes heavy. You remember your own eyes, the sensation of them popping underneath your thumbs.
Perhaps you couldn’t do this.
Aunt Baiji will not blame you if you come back empty-handed. You know the truth of this with a heaviness in your bones. Perhaps this would have been easier if you knew that she would rage, that she would point an accusing finger at you and demand her child back.
But she wouldn’t. In fact, in her letters, she had begged you not to try. She would live if she lost her son, she wrote.
But she could not lose you both.
For her, you think as you step back into the river. For her.
And, perhaps selfishly, for something else. For the person who had placed their hand over your eyes and healed you.
For answers.
This time, you do not have to wait as long. The Fae do not come with the beating of drums or the sweet lilt of plucked lyres. Instead, they arrive in silence, rising from the churning waves, their forms still streaming water. Water-creatures that look like herons flap their wings, droplets of water flinging from them like feathers.
A trio of mallards circle the river, their bodies rising from the river, their feathers gleaming with barely-formed frost.
The boy who had drowned in the river grins at you from the banks. You can smell the stink of him: rot and the congealed blood of gutted fish, left to soak the deck of a fisherman’s boat.
And finally, it arrives. Faceless, its body formed from the river’s black torrents, it floats through the air as if cutting through water. This creature is old, old enough that no one alive remembers its name. All that is left are the stories: of the creature who lived in the rivers near Qingce Village, and who drowned any mortal who dared approach.
Its flippers glow like the wings of crystalflies as it approaches, beholding you with one gleaming eye.
“Your clothes are beautiful.” Its voice echoes through your head. You can feel it thumping against the walls of your skull.
You are struck with the sudden realization that this thing, just with its voice, can shatter you apart. Make its voice loud enough that your bones splinter into a thousand tiny pieces, like rocks of a cliffside crumbled away by the ceaseless waves.
You struggle to form an answer. Your thoughts are muddled as if your head is underwater.
As a child, you had spent hours upon hours in tea shops, sipping fragrant osmanthus tea and listening to the storytellers on the stage, their voices heavy with emotion and tragedy. Liyue is an old land, rife with legends, and you collected them like a magpie collected treasure for its nest.
You wear one of their stories now.
This time, your robes are the color of the skies over Liyue. And in its fabric, you have embroidered thousands of crystalflies, their wings glowing with the color of starlight.
It is one of Liyue’s most famous legends and one of its most tragic.
“Take them off and leave them here, so that they can decorate my riverbed,” the Oceanid demands.
The glow of its single eye is endless, and you find it nearly impossible to look away.
But still, you manage to shake your head.
“You can have my robes. But only if you are willing to trade.”
You can feel its disappointment and roiling anger like a sudden weight on your chest. You feel a sudden, fleeting panic that your cribs might crack in two, but it is all swept away by Oceanid’s rage. For thousands of years, it has been worshiped, fishermen and kings alike leaving offerings at its banks.
And yet you, stinking of your mortality, come to its waters and demand a trade?
Your skull thumps with the weight of its emotions, and for a second, you are sure that you will collapse. Your skin will split open, your bones will splinter, and blood will explode out of your screaming lips as thousands of gallons of pressure bear down upon you. You imagine your organs floating to the surface of the river, to be feasted upon by the mallards and the smiling child sitting on the banks.
But then, a word rises through your thoughts like an oncoming wave: Rhodeia.
And you are sure that you have found the creature’s name.
“Rhodeia.” Your word comes as if from underwater. “I have a story.”
You shake your sleeves so that the pale threads glint in the dim moonlight. You direct its attention to the crystalflies you have sewn into the fabric, so detailed it seems as if they are taking flight. On your back, the crystaflies form a bridge, cutting straight through the heavens, so that two lovers can walk across the sky.
You had embroidered their entwined figures just below your neck, at the curve of your spine. The star-crossed lovers of Liyue, cursed only to meet once a year for a single day.
And then you can breathe again, falling to your hands and knees on the soft, sucking mud of Rhodeia’s riverbanks. It floats in the air in silence, heedless of your strangled coughs. Somehow, you are sure that it is staring at the embroidery on your back. At the two entwined figures.
“Fine,” it says. “Name your price.”
Your lungs burn as you struggle for words. “I have a cousin who has been taken away by your people. Give him back to me, and my robes may decorate your riverbed until the end of time.”
“Done.”
Its tone is clipped and precise. Impatient. It holds out a limb to you, like the way a human would hold out a hand. It could have been a wing of a flightless bird or the fins of a leaping trout. Or it could have been nothing at all, as shapeless as water.
You grit your teeth. The Oceanid had agreed too easily.
“Show him to me, so I know that you’re not lying. Show him to me, so I know that I am not trading my work for bones.”
It beholds you, silent. And then, the churning waters of the river change, turning smooth as glass. In them, you can see him. Sevastyan.
And you think to yourself: he really is beautiful. This is not the carved statue that lay still in its crib. This is an actual boy, whose fat little fists wave in the air as he screws his face up to cry. He is still swaddled in the blankets you had sent for him, and you feel a painful twist in your chest as you remember your aunt writing that he adored the one decorated with sea turtles.
When he opens his eyes, you realize with a start that they are the same color as your Aunt Baiji’s. Black like the wings of beetles that crawled on your hand like a child.
These are the eyes of someone who had loved and defended you your whole life. Strange as you are, half-human as you are.
Your breath catches in your throat as Aunt Baiji’s words rise in your memory, as relentless as an oncoming tide: I have not seen him yet, but he already owns half my heart.
I cannot wait until the two of you meet each other.
The image dissolves into foam and the river begins to flow once more. You let out a startled cry, reaching out a shaking hand towards the current.
“Do we have a deal?”
In your head, you can feel the Oceanid’s biting impatience. You stand on shaking feet, the mud still thick on your open palms, between your toes.
And you let Rhodeia lead you into the river.
You wake to the feeling of silt and mud curving underneath your spine. Your clothes are sodden, making your movements slow and your limbs heavy. The fabric is heavy, swollen beyond repair, the rich dye bleeding off of it like molten silver.
The dress is ruined.
And you do not have Sevastyan back.
You place a shaking hand over your eyes and curse softly.
“Fuck.”
Disappointment churns your gut like acid, and you are gripped with the sudden urge to vomit. There is a reason why people had spent centuries leaving offerings at the Oceanid’s banks: unlike the Fae in the woods, it is known to keep its bargains.
Then what happened?
The child. At the banks.
You remember his shadow, darting underneath the waters as the Oceanid guided you. A hand, webbed and pale and bloated with rot, reaching out to grab and pull you under. The rich fabric of your clothes had immediately become heavy and sodden, making you unable to swim.
Unable to move.
Perhaps the creature in the river had been a child once, but he is certainly more–or less–than that now. He had darted through your flailing limbs as nimbly as a fish. You remember seeing its twisting shape.
And you remember–
Its teeth.
Not sharp. Flat, like that of a horse. Ripping out a chunk of your arm. Then your leg. The muscles in your neck. Over and over until your vision ran red. And when you had broken the surface of the river to scream, you remember–
It had been so cold that you felt frost form in your lungs. Your scream frozen like hoarfrost inside your throat.
And the child had pulled you under again.
Like the first time, you should have died. Drowned and bitten to pieces, your bloodied entrails floating to the surface of the river for the mallards to feast on.
Then what had happened?
You are cold, yes. Your limbs feel stiff and frozen from your time in the river. But you are not dead. You pull up the skirts of your robes to examine your legs.
You remember, with a shudder, the child-thing’s flat teeth tearing into the soft flesh of your thighs, ripping apart at the fat and strands of muscle. Crunching through bone. The water going oily from your exposed marrow.
You touch your thigh, shaking. The skin there is smooth and unblemished.
And that is when you notice the river. You scramble back onto the banks with a small scream, slipping on the mud and your sodden clothes.
The river is no longer a river.
What was once a raging current is now nothing but dark earth. It is less like it had been filled in like there had never been a river at all. You can even see the small buds of something new and green beginning to push up from the soil.
“How…”
A curve of bone. Gleaming black as obsidian.
Whoever–or whatever–had done this, it had been done as an act of rage. Perhaps for the child. Or perhaps of the Oceanid. Perhaps both.
You’re shaking, feeling your arms about to give way underneath you. Hot tears flow down your face, from eyes that should not have even been there in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” you cry, the words forming gusts of clouds into the cold air. “I’m sorry.”
Your shoulders shake, and you gasp clouds of frost in the cold winter air. “I have to get him back. I have to keep trying.”
Someone’s hand. Warm over your burning, bleeding eyes. You cannot remember the last time you had been touched so tenderly.
You try to stand but slip down onto the earth. You have to grit your teeth and try again, and even then you’re afraid you’d fall.
“If you—” Your teeth are chattering with enough force that you can barely get the words out. “If whatever you are…if you keep trying to save me. From the Fae. The Good Folk. From these monsters, why did you leave me in the first place?”
A child swaddled in a blanket decorated with sea turtles. His eyes are the color of the wings of beetles.
“I have to get him back,” you say and you hope that whoever saved you is listening. “I’m not you. I’m not going to leave him to some…some stranger to be his family. I have to get him back.”
And as you make your way up the river that is no longer a river, a memory rises in your mind again. Not from the forest, and not from the river.
But from the snowbank, all those years ago.
That of golden eyes, peering at you from the snowbank as your mother picked you up and carried you away.
Imagine Liyue in wintertime, when the land is at its most treacherous and barren. During summer, the trees are laden with fruit, so heavy that their branches bow from the weight. The skin would still glisten with morning dew as one plucks them, their juices bursting against a hungry traveler’s teeth.
But in winter the trees are empty, their branches bare and skeletal. No game wanders in the woods, and all of the animals are warm and asleep in their burrows until spring. Liyue in wintertime is a time of silence, and if one is not careful, it is also a time of death.
By the time you reach your destination, you are weak with hunger, nearly maddened by thirst. It is a live thing that twists and claws at the hollow place in your belly; it pulses like heat against your parched throat.
You find that you can barely stand as you gaze at the entrance.
Imagine a place in Liyue, one you have only heard of once or twice, in those strange, dreamlike hours before dawn. When all of the lanterns have been snuffed out, when all the tea has been drunk and all that remains is their scent, hanging heavy in the air like a ghost. When all the storytellers have closed their paper fans and set aside their gavels, ready to turn in for the night.
Perhaps, one of them–always, always someone ancient, so old that their skin slides over their bones like a river over stones–will have one more story in them.
About a cave, somewhere deep in the mountains. And a tree, large enough that its trunk towered over mountains and its leaves can cast entire towns in its shadow. Here, they say, lies the oldest and most powerful of the Fae.
Here, no human should ever disturb the earth with the sound of their footsteps.
Here, there are stories: of mortals transformed, their screaming faces turned into the bark of trees, their fingers dissolving into blades of grass, their tears becoming the spray of water from a rushing creek.
Here you stand, shivering and afraid.
The robes you have brought with you no longer fit you right, but it does not matter. It does not matter that there is a new hollowness to your cheeks or you can feel a fever burning behind your eyes.
Because you know that the Fae will come, to this most sacred of all places.
Because this robe is the most beautiful of your creations, and perhaps your last. It is the rich dark color of a patch of earth that used to be a river. The color of a tree bark in summer, when it decorates the forest with leaves the color of fire. The color of a farmer’s field, freshly tilled and awaiting to be sown with new seed.
In Liyue, it is the color of life.
Once upon a time, this color could only be worn by those of royal blood.
Once upon a time, wearing something like this would have gotten you executed.
Perhaps it still might.
You had used gold thread to embroider images of crystalflies, glowing with the color of Geo. You had embroidered the ginkgo trees in full bloom during summer. You had embroidered the tiny jade slimes you would see at the Harbor, carved with a chisel the size of your fingernail. You had embroidered delicate golden corals from across the sea in Inazuma. You had embroidered every little thing you think Sevastyan will miss if he is not returned to the human world.
And on your back, its scales glinting with gold, is the great Dragon of Liyue. The one who had shaped the mountains with his hands. The one who had driven the sea back so that his people could thrive on land. Across your shoulders, in the darkest thread you could find, sits his crown: a great rack of antlers, as black as obsidian.
You do not know how long you will last in this cold. A feathering of snow settles across your shoulders. Against your cool skin, they do not melt. This time, you do not have the luxury of waiting.
Instead, you unsheathe a knife from your belt. Even in the gloom, you can see its wicked edge. The curve of its blade. The scent of cold iron.
You swallow down your fear, beating against your throat like a heart.
The first cut burns like the cold, blood welling up from your palm as you slice into the meat of it. Your skin smokes, your fat bubbles, the oil of it running down your wrist.
You have not touched iron since you were a child. Since your Aunt had stood up for you, all those years ago. You think of the chopsticks she had given you, carved from bamboo and coated in lacquer. Just one of the many ways in which she loved you when you feared no one else did.
You let your blood drip down onto the snow, gleaming like rubies, the color so vivid that it makes your head spin.
Quickly, quickly. You do not know how long you will last. Hunger and thirst have taken much of your strength, while fear and exhaustion have taken the rest.
You call out to them, out to the shifting shadows you can see at the center of the cave.
“I am…” You can smell your burning skin. “I am one of you. Who you have left to die so many years ago. You have taken something precious from me. You have taken my brother. By heart, if not by blood.”
You sway, standing on shaking legs. The knife drops from your hand.
You bleed.
You burn.
You continue.
“Return him and you may have…”
Eyes, golden and glinting, stare at you from the darkness. You grit your teeth. You can feel yourself falter. Twice now, you have done this. Twice now, you have failed. And here, inside a cave forbidden to mortals, you know that you might fail. For you will never make anything more beautiful than the robes you are wearing now. If you fail this time, you might never have a chance.
Your voice cracks like porcelain, your words die in your throat.
You try again.
“Return him and you may have…”
The robes, the robes. Tell them they can have the robes. Tell them they can have anything.
Perhaps it is hunger that gnaws at you endlessly like a starving beast, or perhaps it is the sight of your blood, running down your wrist and staining your robes. Perhaps it is grief, or all three; you cannot tell.
But before you can finish your speech, your great and final offering to the Fae, your vision goes black and you collapse, unfeeling, onto the snow.
This time, you gain consciousness slowly, like someone waking from a pleasant dream. For the first time since you started your journey, you do not feel the cold. Quite the opposite, it feels as if you have been basking underneath a summer sun: your skin feels as warm as honey, your muscles loose and relaxed, as if your body no longer remembers all of its suffering.
Someone is stroking your hair. A hand is resting over your eyes.
You shift and whoever is stroking your hair stops. Somehow you feel a keen sense of loss at that, so sharp that tears prick your eyes. It is something like craving, something like hunger. You find that you do not wish for them to stop.
You cannot remember the last time you had been touched so tenderly.
“You’re awake.”
You can feel his voice echoing inside of your head, like you did with the Oceanid. Except this time, it is a call returned from a great chasm, the feeling of the earth shifting underneath one’s feet, the roar of a river now rendered silent.
Whoever is speaking to you isn’t human.
You rest your trembling fingertips on the hand resting across your eyes. There are legends, the way there often are, of Fae who are so beautiful or terrible that to gaze upon them would cause madness. Your mind would spiral into insanity as it tried to make sense of something inhuman and unknowable.
You are too afraid to look. So instead, you speak to them blindly and pray that you do not offend.
“Who are you?”
When he speaks, you can hear a note of amusement in their rich voice, and you wonder if this is another trick devised by the Fae. “Do you not know?”
“I don’t–”
You fall silent as you explore the hand resting over your eyes with trembling fingertips. And though there is only the slightest bit of pressure, the gesture feels sharp with memory. You remember blood streaming down your ruined eyes like tears and a gasp flutters against your throat like a caged bird.
“Were you…” Your voice cracks before you can continue your sentence, snapping under the weight of both terror and wonder. “Were you the one who healed my eyes? After I tore them out with my thumbs?”
“Yes.”
You realize with a start that the hand over your eyes did not feel like flesh. It is too smooth, too hard. Like a skilled sculptor had carved a perfect likeness of a human hand, entirely out of jade. You think of what you had seen, glittering at the edges of your restored vision: a great curve of bone, rising over you, gleaming as dark as obsidian.
You think of the image you had embroidered onto your robes, the crown of antlers unfurling across your shoulders.
And you swallow down your rising fear.
“And the river?” you whisper. “Were you the one who pulled me from it?”
“Yes.”
“And…” You think of the river that is no longer a river. The small buds of something green and new pushing themselves up from the earth. “You are the one who…you are the one who destroyed it.”
You feel a sudden stillness in whoever is holding you, the coiled tension of an animal just before the strike. When he speaks, you can feel a new anger in his voice, and a shiver runs through you. You can hear the creak of dried branches, the flutter of a bird’s wings.
Birds?
You think of the silence you had found in the woods. The absolute lack of birdsong. Most of them travel to warmer places for winter. And yet, for a second, you can hear their panicked chirping.
“Rhodiea was unable to control one of her subjects and ended up breaking her contract with you. She knew the consequences.”
In your head, his voice is magnified a thousandfold, and it is the Oceanid all over again. His anger is palpable, the slow grind of stone against stone, the feeling of the earth shifting underneath your feet, the sound of entire mountains crumbling overnight. You clap your hands over your ears, hoping to block out the way his voice echoes in your skull.
All of a sudden, it stops, and you are left gasping for air. You can feel blood welling up from between your clenched fingers, there is a new, endless ringing in your ears.
“Forgive me. I forget that you are now half-mortal.”
A Fae who asks for forgiveness?
You cannot remember if there are stories of that.
Will it anger him for you to accept his apology? Will he think that you consider him beneath you to do so? Will it anger him even more for you to remain silent? You tremble, and you remember: Sevastyan’s life hinges on your answer.
It is the Fae-Lord who decides for you, those strange hands lying on top of your bloodied fingers. You recall the forest. And the way he had held you, blinded and dying, before he restored your sight.
The ringing stops.
“Than–” You stop yourself, biting your lip so hard that you feel it split underneath your teeth.
You had nearly thanked him. A mistake that would have cost you a lifetime of servitude.
“If you wish to thank me, I give you my word that I will not use it to bind you to me. That is not what I wish to do.”
His word. You do not know if what he said is binding or if he is simply luring you into a trap. With a start, you realize that you can no longer rely on old legends or stories to guide your decisions. You are treading through the path of your own tale, and there are no old roads to follow.
Briefly, you wonder if the heroes of all the stories you’ve loved have ever felt so afraid. If they’ve ever felt at such a loss what to do.
You think of the Oceanid and her lost river. The consequences of a broken contract. You decide to take a chance.
“Then…then, thank you, Great Lord. For healing me. For saving me. I owe you my sight, my hearing...”
You think of sinking underneath the churning waters of the Oceanid’s river. Of both the current and the child dragging you under. You think of your scream freezing in your throat, of frost forming in your water-logged lungs.
You had drowned in that river, you are sure. And yet somehow, you are still here.
“...and my life,” you finish quietly.
He does not answer. The silence stretches out between you, and this time, you are sure that you can hear the faint snatches of birdsong, the carefree chittering of insects, and the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves in the trees.
The land you had passed through to get here had been covered with frost. The cave you entered had been as solemn as a tomb. You suck in a shaky breath, and you could have sworn you can smell the scent of flowers in full bloom.
“Lord?” you call softly.
“Yes?”
“May I see your face? Will it not…” You pause. Your throat feels dry with fear.
You think of your eyes popping underneath your thumbs like overripe fruit. You think of the musician, whose face you do not remember. And you think about how that might be a mercy.
“Will it not drive me mad?”
He does not answer for several long seconds, and then, you hear a slight exhalation of air. It could have been a sigh, it could have been his quiet laughter, or it could have been nothing at all.
“Mad? No. It will not.”
You remember the glimpse of him you had seen: the curve of bone, rising over you. The golden eyes glinting from the darkness. The shadow of a figure from across a snowbank, all those years ago. The knowledge suddenly comes to you with an almost painful clarity, it twists like a knife between your ribs: you had seen his face before.
He makes no move to remove his hand, still resting over your eyes. And you realize that he is waiting for you. Gently, you push his hand away so that you may rise to your knees in front of him.
What hits you first is the cave. Gone is the swallowing dark and creeping hoarfrost. Golden leaves blanket the ground you are kneeling on, and trees, gnarled and ancient, rise over your head. Birds of every color sit on their thick branches, snatches of their song filling the air. The fat buds of flowers sprout from the ground, in full bloom and so heavy that their stems almost bow to touch the earth.
The cave is now in the full flush of summer.
Or perhaps, it is something else. For the birds that stare at you from atop their branches are not ones you have ever seen. Their feathers are too bright, their colors too vivid. From inside a knot in a tree trunk, an owl with a human face blinks at you.
Even the flowers glow with their own strange light, summoning crystaflies as if from thin air. A few of them alight on you, touching their embroidered counterparts in the sleeves of your robes.
Perhaps, it is not summer that has visited this place, then. But something else. Something wild and ancient and free. Perhaps this is what the cave had been thousands and thousands of years ago before the first humans had even existed.
And yet, when you glance outside the mouth of the cave, you can still see the lands in the grip of winter. The trees, their branches bare of leaves, like skeletal hands reaching out towards the sky. Even inside, you can hear the howling of the wind, see the way the snow falls in sheets like rain.
You wonder what power the Fae Lord beholds, to be able to bring life wherever his feet touch the earth.
Finally, you turn to your savior. The Fae Lord that you owed your sight, your hearing, and your life.
Your first thought is that perhaps it is worth it to go mad, to feel your thoughts spiral away from you like a bird taking flight, just to be able to behold this man for a few fleeting seconds. Gleaming hair, the color of the bark of the oldest trees, long enough that it spreads across the forest floor where he sits. His face is smooth, unblemished, inhuman in its perfect symmetry, as if someone who has only ever heard of humans from legends had to carve one from jade. But it is his eyes that disturb you: it is the same shade of gold that you had seen glinting from the trees, the same eyes that had beheld you as you sliced your palm to offer your blood.
They are strange and reptilian, and they gaze at you with such fervor that you find it hard to look away. And on his head, like a crown, sat a gleaming rack of antlers, as black as obsidian. With a choked gasp, you realize that they match the embroidered ones on your robe perfectly.
And suddenly, your forehead is touching the earth before him, your vision spinning from the speed at which you had thrown yourself into a deep bow.
“Lord,” You force the words out like you are choking on them. “Please, forgive me. I did not mean to offend.”
In any other Fae, this show of subservience would have spelled your doom. The Good Folk are capricious and cruel, quick to try and humble humans with tricks and glamour. But the being before you is the great great Dragon Lord. The one whose legends tell of how he shaped the land with his hands, who had driven back the sea so that his people could thrive on land, whose spears had created mountain ranges. It would have been child’s play for him to destroy the river of an Oceanid.
It would have cost him nothing to save your life.
You feel him placing his hand on the back of your head, as if in reassurance, and you shiver at the contact. You think of legends of ancient kings, whose royal blood meant that they must not touch the skin of ones who are of lower status than them, lest they debase themselves at the contact.
You think about how, in ancient times, this gesture might have gotten you executed. You bite back a whimper of fear, trying not to cower like a frightened dog.
You feel his hand touching the back of your head, as if in reassurance.
“Forgiveness,” he repeats. “For what?”
For your insolence. For being in his presence. For a thousand other things you cannot hope to name.
Even with your wealth of knowledge in stories and legends, even with your endless hunger for contact with the Fae your entire life, even if you have started this journey with the knowledge that you may not survive, you find yourself at a loss for words. You grit your teeth, unable to come up with a satisfactory answer.
“I don’t know,” you whisper, still bowed so low that your lips nearly touch the earth.
“If you do not know, then perhaps you have done nothing that requires my forgiveness. Rise. I wish to see your face when you speak.”
You rise, still terrified. You realize that there is dirt stuck to your forehead and your cheeks, and you scrub away at them, feeling your face burn in shame. In the face of the Fae Lord’s beauty, every flaw you had seems magnified.
“Tell me, then,” the Fae Lord begins. “Why did you call me?”
“Call you…?”
You lift your hand to continue scrubbing at your face, and then you remember: your blood gleaming in the snow, the knife slicing through your flesh. The cut has now been healed, all that is left is a scar, stretched across your palm. And you wonder if you had the Fae Lord to thank for that once again.
He notices you staring at your scar and says, almost reproachfully, “The knife was made of iron. You would have died if you had cut yourself any deeper with it.”
“I did cut myself deeply with it.” You remember the stink of your own burning skin, the sound of your bubbling fat.
You remember, as a child, trying to feed yourself with iron cutlery. The burns you had suffered after. The way the skin around your fingers had gone tight and resisted movement. It had taken weeks before you could hold something again.
“I should have died,” you found yourself saying. “Why didn’t I die?”
The Fae Lord’s shrug is easy, almost careless, as he looks away from you. But you catch a glimmer of blood on his lip, gleaming like a precious stone. An image flashes before your eyes, a memory hazy with pain and exhaustion: that of the Fae Lord with his lips on your bleeding palm, sucking the poison out as one would a snakebite. You feel a sudden flush of heat at the thought of his mouth against your skin. You find yourself tracing the scar with your fingers as if to recall the feel of his kiss on it.
“You saved me again.” You bow your head. “Thank you.”
“It was a foolish business with the knife. I would have come even without your offering of blood.”
“Foolish, perhaps,” you say quietly. “Or desperate.”
He closes his eyes. “Desperate, then. Why?”
You think of your Aunt Baijin, who had greeted you at the gates of her village, already half a stranger. You think of her belongings, sold piece by piece, so she can buy offerings for the Fae. You think of her many, many letters, begging you not to try and get him back.
You think of chopsticks wrapped in wool, carved just for you so that you will not burn your hands when you eat.
You think of a boy, swaddled in blankets decorated with sea turtles, with dark curls and eyes the color of beetles. You think about how Aunt Baiji had hoped that the two of you would grow to be as close as siblings.
“For love,” you answer. “And the promise of it.”
When the Fae Lord opens his eyes to look straight at you, they do not look quite so reptilian. Instead, you see something human in them: sorrow, perhaps, or the memory of it. Once upon a time, maybe he had lost someone, too. He stares at you with something like grief.
“For love,” He speaks slowly, carefully. You can feel the weight of his power in each word. “For love, then, you may ask of me a single boon.”
Somehow, you do not think that he is thinking of Sevastyan.
“A boon?” you repeat, your pulse pounding.
This is, after all, what you have been searching for this entire time. You sigh the long, bone-deep sigh of a traveler who sees home. Here, at last, is the possible end to your journey. But before you can speak, another memory resurfaces: that of the river, of your breath turning to ice inside your throat. You think of frost forming inside your water-logged lungs.
You had drowned in that river, you are sure. And yet you are still here. When your lungs have turned black and rotted from the water, you remember that he had pressed his lips to yours and given you his breath.
“Why?” The word comes out harsh and labored. You speak as though your throat is filled with broken glass. “Why go through so much trouble for me? Why save me, over and over again?”
He looks at you, but he does not answer. But your anger has turned your words into a raging flood, you find it impossible to stop.
“Why did the Fae take my brother?”
“Why did you…” Your breath is sharp. The question is like a knife pulled clean from the curve of your ribs, it leaves you bleeding on the way out. “Lord, why did you leave me?”
You can feel something hot on your face. You do not remember crying. But the Fae Lord’s face is devoid of expression. He is so still that he could have been carved from stone. You wanted to scream, you wanted to reach out and shake him.
“Please,” you whisper softly. “Please, answer me.”
“Is that your boon?” His voice is sharp and clipped. “Answers?”
You can feel your breath stutter. The way he spoke, as if in warning. If he gives you this, his tone said, you cannot have Sevastyan. If he gives you this, he cannot give you anything else. You look at him, and you can feel something split into pieces inside you. Here, at the edge of the thing you have longed for your entire life, you find that you must turn away.
“I have spent years searching for answers,” you say through gritted teeth. “For my brother, I can wait a while longer. This is not my boon.”
The Fae Lord speaks almost gently, as if he knows what it must have cost you to choke out those words. “Then what do you wish to ask of me?”
“My Aunt’s son,” you say quickly. “My brother, by heart if not by blood. Your people have taken him, and I wish to have him back.”
After a few seconds of silence, you add, “Please.”
He speaks, still in that same gentle tone, “Even a boon from the Fae will require an exchange.”
“An exchange…?”
Horror churns like acid in your belly as you glance down at your ruined robes. The silk is damp with tears and melted snow, the sleeves are stained dark with your blood. The greatest and most beautiful of all your creations, ruined. You have nothing left to offer. And yet, you have come so far.
The Fae Lord is still waiting for your answer.
You think of the words that had beat against your thoughts like a drum when you had sliced open your palm with an iron knife.
Tell them they can have anything.
You think of the Fae Lord: his hand over your eyes as he restored your ruined sight, his lips over your bleeding palm, sucking iron out like poison from a snakebite. You think about how he had kissed and given you his breath when you were drowning.
You think of the snowbank, and golden eyes glinting at you from the darkness.
“Lord. If you let me take my brother home. Then you may have…”
You pause. You can feel your bones creaking, pinned under the enormity of what you must do. It is a surprise that the weight of it doesn’t crush you.
For the Fae have taken your Aunt’s son, and this is what it means to get him back.
“You may have me,” you say resolutely. “I will give you my life and my name. And I swear on both of these things to live for you and serve you and stay with you for the rest of my days.”
Finally, the Fae Lord’s calm veneer cracks, like ice splitting over a frozen lake. He exhales, and for a second, you feel as if the sun in that small cave glows just a little bit brighter. You think you can feel the earth moving underneath your feet.
This. This is what he wants. Not the clothes that you have rendered with painful detail, now stained and useless. Not your skill, or your sanity, or your blood.
You.
“I accept.”
The words roll over you like thunder, and you sway in your place. The air is thick with his magic, and crystalflies manifest out of thin air, bursting into golden life around him. It is done, you think, raising a shaking hand over your eyes. Your life is no longer your own.
“What do you require of me?” you ask.
“Only your name, as you have promised.”
You look at him. Even sitting, he towers over you. The crystalflies that he has brought to life flutter about him as if drawn to his presence. A few rest on the horns on his head, and they look like they belong there. You are reminded that he is not human, that this is a creature who has seen hundreds of lifetimes. Perhaps, in that knowledge, lies your answer.
“I think,” you whisper quietly. “You already know it.”
The corners of his lips twitch as if he is pleased.
“I do,” he confirms.
Your skin jolts at this newfound knowledge. You feel as if you have been struck by lightning. In every story you have heard, every legend you have read on ancient, yellowed scrolls, you have always been warned of one thing: never to give your name to the Fae. To give your name may mean a lifetime of servitude, it may mean never leaving their realm again. It may mean your death.
But this no longer resembles a tale you have heard in a teahouse or something you have read in a book. You are treading through your own story, and there are no old roads to guide you.
“Then it is yours,” you say. “As am I. To use as you see fit. For…for the rest of my days.”
As a child, you remember walking down the darkened roads of Snezhnaya, hoping to catch fleeting glimpses of the Fae. Hoping that they would remember you and take you home. To think that all of your choices will lead you here.
“Thank you,” the Fae Lord says, and he sounds like he means it.
Again, this Lord breaks all conventions. You lick your lips and feel the split in them left by your teeth.
“If I am–” You have to pause, frozen perhaps, by your fear. Or perhaps it is something else. Frozen by the knowledge of hundreds of legends telling you not to do. But you have already given everything to him in exchange for Sevastyan. You find that you have nothing left to lose.
He waits, as still as the mountainsides. You find that his patience gives you the strength to continue.
“If I am to serve you, to be your companion, then may I at least know your name?”
His gaze is gold of the summer sun, peeking through the leaves of trees, it is the color of honeycomb, the skin of sunsettias as they burst between your teeth. It feels like you have known it all your life. And when he speaks next, you find that there is truth in his words.
“You already know it.”
“I do,” you realize.
Even the oldest, most ancient of storytellers had dared not mention his name in their stories. To speak the name of a Fae draws their attention to you, and they dare not do so, for fear that they will not wake the next morning, their flesh split open by a thousand glittering gems.
And yet, you are sure of it: you know this Fae Lord’s name.
“Then speak it,” he says.
This time, it is a command. You can feel the pull of it, tugging at the space behind your ribs. And you wonder if this is what it means to give your name to one of the Fae. Your lips move as if they are on strings.
“Morax.”
You feel it again, the sensation of power rolling over you like gathering storm clouds. Except this time, it is yours. Morax closes his eyes and you think you can hear his breath start to shake, his shoulders shudder at the way you say his name.
You wonder: if giving him your name meant a lifetime at his side, then what would it mean for you to know his?
“It is done,” he declares with an air of finality. “You may bring the child back to its mother.”
Sevastyan winks into existence, with a suddenness that makes you jump. First, there is nothing, and then there is a child, lying on a bed of golden leaves. He is still wrapped in a blanket decorated with sea turtles, and when he opens his eyes to look at you, you can see the shape of your aunt’s eyes in them. You find yourself scrambling on your hands and knees to reach him.
You do not know how to hold a child, how to keep him safe against the cold that you know is waiting for the two of you outside the cave. His skin feels warm, and when you lift him in your arms, he still smells of milk and sandalwood. The blanket that he is covered in feels too thin. After all, you had sewn it for him to wear in fall, not winter. It will not protect him against the cold.
And so you do the only thing you can think of: you strip yourself of your robes, the most beautiful of your creations, stained with your blood and your tears, and you wrap it around him. Underneath, you are only wearing a thin shift, meant to protect the rich silk from your sweat.
You stand on shaking legs, cradling the child to your chest. Morax stands with you, and in his presence, you feel small. His eyes are fixed on Sevastyan, at the clothes you had wrapped around him.
“And you?” he asks.
You blink, “What about me?”
“The journey is long. And you will be cold.”
You shake your head. Despite his words, you find yourself unafraid. After all, you had already gone so far and survived so much. You are confident that you can survive this, as well. But before you can answer, he does the same thing you did only seconds prior: he removes his cloak. Unlike your frantic movements, he does it slowly, languidly and there is an intimacy in it that makes your throat run dry. You find that you can’t look away. You see the expanse of his chest, the glitter of scales on his skin. You can see his hands and his arms, and you realize that you had guessed correctly earlier: they do not appear as if they are made from flesh. Instead, like his antlers, they look as if they have been carved from obsidian. Glimmers of gold run through his skin like the glint of veins in an ore.
You think that this is not the first time you have seen him like this.
When he finishes, he wraps his cloak around you. It is the color of the leaves underneath your feet, as light as air. As if someone had grasped threads of sunlight and used them to weave the cloth. You think of the forest, of lying almost naked in the snow, your clothes shredded from thousands of cuts. You think of the river, of the water-logged fabric, dragging you down to the riverbed. After you have faced only suffering and humiliation for your work, Morax chooses to clothe you in finery.
Gratitude keeps you silent, you do not know how to voice the enormity of what you feel. Perhaps he reads it on your face, on the tears that burn at the corners of your eyes, for he places a cool finger on your lips. You remember the cut there, and you wonder if he will kiss this one new as well.
“Wear my cloak. Go with my protection and return the child to its mother. Then return to me to fulfill your end of our contract.”
You nod and turn to leave. But something holds you back. You glance back at him, the question burning in your throat.
“Was I…always meant to come back here? This place?”
Was I always meant to come back to you?
But you had already asked for your boon, for the child shifting sleepily in your arms, and as you expected, he does not answer. You find that you do not mind. You will get your own answers, in time.
After all, you had promised him a lifetime.
“I will come back,” you say resolutely.
“Yes,” he says. “You will.”
“Not for contract,” you say. “For you, Morax.”
He looks surprised, staring at you with reptilian eyes that for just the briefest of seconds, look almost human. And then, he smiles. Something tugs like quicksilver at the edges of your memory.
This is not the first time you have seen him smile.
“Good.”
It is all he says.
It is enough.
Hugging your brother to your chest, you walk out of the cave.
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